𓏵 ┊ play fighting with pope cody leads to primal play . 18+
it starts off as a game, the innocent kind of game where he softens his strength to let you win the rough-housing match. playfully throwing you around whenever he gets a full grasp on your body — even dragging you by the ankle, down to the foot of the bed causing your thin top to ride up and panties bunch between your ass.
you’re lying against the bed giggling, flipping onto your stomach with pope’s fingers still wrapping around your ankle before you’re crawling away from him. knees digging to the mattress with your palms giving you speed, helping you make it towards to the top of the bed.
“where’d you think you’re goin’, sweetheart.” and suddenly your can hear him right behind you, his monotone voice right against the shell of your ear whispering softly. “i’m running away,” you reply out of breath, still panting from all the wrestling as pope looms over your body, boxing you in.
“yeah?” he replies short, tilting his head — his eyes darting below him, tracing over your body like he’s studying you to see what you’d do next before he’s releasing your ankle, and your instantly attempting to flip backside against the mattress — but the moment you try, you fail because pope’s immediately pinning your wrists above your head.
you let out an exasperated laugh, unable to move. currently stuck in what seems to favor a doggy fashion. “c’mon, andiee.” you playfully drag his name, “you know this is unfair, you’re way stronger than me.” you testify, attempting to free your wrists from out of his grasp but he’s not budging.
instead, he’s lowering himself onto you. pressing his weight against you the moment he feels your wrists wiggling in between his palm.
“andy?” you call his name a little suspiciously only to receive silence as he ducks his head down, causing your spine to arch deeper as his pelvis nudges into your ass making you feel the bulge in his pants.
“you don’t wanna play no more?” pope asks, mouth nipping at any area of exposed skin he can see. “thought you wanted to play.” he adds before giving you the chance to answer. and you can feel the slight increase of your pulse quicken, and breathing stagger from more than just the game.
he grinds ever so slightly against the entrance of your pussy clothed by the fabric of your panties, as you let out a noise that makes him groan in response. “an—”
“shhh— all you need to do is find a way to get free.” he cuts you off, tightening his grip around your wrists as he mummers.
and this is was the moment where you knew that the once innocent game you two were just playing, wasn’t so innocent anymore.
manipulative pope cody + ‘just the tip?’ + breeding kink drabble :3
this is for my moots who inspired me to blurb! i luv you~ @valleyanimalz @dirtygir1 @bbuuunnyyy @groovyangelkisses
*nasty smut below the cut teehee* ! mdni !
pope cody hates that you make him wear a condom, that you have been making him wrap it up for the entire two month relationship. he feels it’s an unnecessary barrier keeping him from feeling all of you and filling you up properly. but, he agreed the first time because he was so desperate to be inside you. always has been. always will be.
now, even after you’ve fucked more times than he can count while protected. he’s fed up. he knows that you’ll like it bare. that you’ll need it. that you’ll never make him wear a stupid condom again when you learn how good it feels when he sinks into you raw. you just need his help. need your strong, heroic boyfriend to take that step that you cant take yourself. god, he’s so good to you. that’s what he tells himself when he formulates his plan.
he made sure you came on his face at least three times. until your legs were jelly, brain mush, voice hoarse from begging him to stop. ‘i-i can’t’ you had whined, ‘ ‘s too much andy!’. he did it to get you into that floaty head space where you’re babbling mindlessly and lax for him.
and you’re exactly that as pope crawls up your body and settles where he belongs, above you and inbetween your legs. still, you breathlessly slur the question that he despises. “condom?”
he feigns frustration even though this is exactly what he planned. “shit— i left my wallet in craig’s car… i don’t have one.”
your response is a needy whine that morphs into a gasp when he rests his cock against your drenched folds and slowly slides back and forth. “can i just have you like this sweetheart?” pope rubs his thick length upwards, angry pink tip catching your clit with every pressing glide. you whimper through your desperate nods, nails clawing at his shoulders, fusing your knees to his ribs to stay spread for him. such a good girl, he thinks to himself.
he keeps his ruttings short. almost playfully light in order to not get you anywhere besides out of your mind from teasing. just how he wants it. when you start to wriggle beneath him, whimpering a few mindless “please please please”s, he looks down at your aching pussy to see her clench around nothing. poor baby, she needs me so bad, he tells himself.
his dick is so coated in your slick releases that pope ‘accidentally’ notches at your opening. staying in motion, he pushes in ever so slightly. your eyes shoot open in surprise “ohh- andy!” you squeal. frustration bubbles in his chest, but he doesn’t give up. because your panic simmers to pleasure and your mouth forms an ‘o’ as you moan at just his bare tip breaching your wet heat.
he buries his face into your neck to hide his satisfied grin, licking and suckling the skin how he knows you like. “jus the tip sweetheart? please?” he emphasizes his wimpy whines with an inching forward of his hips. your nails tear at the flesh on his back as you shudder. “p-promise?” you croak out in hazy compliance. his reply is strained. “ ‘course honey.”
popes promise — to him at least— goes up in flames when he slips a tiny bit further inside and is met with warm, silky tightness. fuckkk. he groans, muscles tensing and you cry out, eyes rolling back. his thrusts are shallow and unsatisfactory. after a only a few, he’s twitching in need, pathetically trying to inch deeper.
you notice, starting to whine and pant. “you cant andy! i’m not on the pill!” the words almost make pope start to piston in and out of you. the thought of coming in you until you’re swollen with his baby infiltrating his mind. that you’ll be tied to him forever and— oh yeah. that’s happening, he decides.
pope leans down to kiss you languidly. trying to tongue fuck you into submission. your pussy is rapidly fluttering around the first inch of his cock, telling him that you want this just as bad as he does. he uses his words. “you just feel so good sweetheart. need you so bad. need all of you.” a breathy moan slips from you at his praise as you return his kiss greedily.
you pull back and blink up at him with your glossy eyes and kiss bitten lips. when your legs start to wrap around him, crossing tightly at his back, he knows he’s almost home free. “okay... i- i need you too andy.”
you barely get the words out before he hastily pushes all the way inside of you. guttural noises of pleasure are ripped from you both as you clench around him so prettily and he stretches you out so perfectly. it’s searing, intimate and raw. so fucking raw.
as pope starts to thrust in and out of you eagerly, obscene slapping sounds echo throughout the room. he whimpers loudly at the warm, wet feeling of you and the noises your body makes for him.
when you shakily tell him between moans “you h-have to pull out.. okay?”
it takes all of his dwindling restraint to not laugh in your face.
content <𝟑 .ᐟ 18+, delusional!pope, unrealistic portrayal of the porn industry / filming, rough sex scene, mentions of m. masturbation, obsession, stalking.
you can take the man out of crime, but you sure as hell can’t take any criminal tendencies out of him. when andrew got out of prison, he had two options. stay with his family and continue to risk his freedom, or make a path of his own. preferably one that made more money than working down by the docks or washing dishes. launching a career in porn was easier than he thought after a few calls and auditions with agencies that needed some new faces.
when he found an agency he liked, the contract was clear. no breaking the agency’s NDA about shoots, no dating within the agency, no special treatment for any co-stars. simple enough. it was all so easy leading up to the day he filmed with you. you were— you are— a daydream to him, undoubtedly the next breakout star in the entire industry. he can see why your agency coddles you.
he found himself hanging off of every word that fell from your glossy lips, scripted or not. he couldn’t possibly feel enough of you under his rough palms. not even while he had you folded up on that cheap leather sofa while you were begging him to be gentle, scratching at his lower abdomen with perfectly manicured nails as he drove his cock into you like he wanted to both break and keep you. that’s what you were directed to do, but he swears it was painfully real for a moment.
you meant it, he knows you did— as you peered up at him through your lashes and put on your best pout. the memory haunts him in the most lustful and shiver inducing ways. it drives him to wrap a hand around his fat cock more often than he cares to admit. he’s made a mess on himself to your shared scenes just from memory alone over and over.
that’s how it started. and then he found himself asking his agent to set up more scenes and shoots with you, then he managed to find where you live … which was a bust, by the way. there’s not much he can see when you’re up top in a penthouse fit for a princess.
thankfully there’s always a loophole, like parking outside the pilates studio you frequent almost every time you have a morning class. it’s wrong. it reminds him of his camp out days a little too much, it reminds him of the way he would watch his old flames through their windows until they had to say “andrew, you can’t keep doing this.” he doesn’t want to hear you say those words, unless they’re being sighed out while you’re dumb on the pleasure he can give you.
so he sticks to being your shadow in any way he can and figures it will all fall into place eventually, regardless of what your contracts say.
It was a joke. A letter to a criminal—UK's most wanted. You told him he was hot. Told him you were a virgin. Left your address, because it’s not like he’d ever get out, right?
✉ 2K FOLLOWER SPECIAL .ᐟ | AO3 . MLIST
18+ AU, DUBCON, fem!reader, takes place in the UK, porn with plot, pathetic!reader, harddom!simon, asshole!simon, implied stalking, (morally irredeemable) pining, oral (f receiving), shit-ton of degradation, praise if you use a magnifying glass, virginity kink, pussy pronouns, pussy & face slapping, dacryphilia, unprotected sex [ 10.2k words ]
Who knew working at Tesco would be such a fucking nightmare?
It’s almost absurd how people can forget how to use their brains the second they step through the automatic doors. It’s a massive store, but you’ve come to believe that its sheer scale only amplifies some customers’ overwhelming stupidity.
You find yourself watching, day in and day out, as people stumble over the easiest parts of shopping, like scanning a barcode or finding the right aisle despite the sign above their heads. It’d be laughable if it wasn’t so damn frustrating. You can’t even afford the luxury of venting because you're stuck behind the register, forced to plaster on a fake smile, nodding while they hold up the line, your eye twitching as you answer the same question for the umpteenth time in 30 minutes.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity of gritted teeth and hollow patience, your shift comes to an end. The relief is brief, but it’s there, at least. You drag yourself out of the store, shoulders slumped under the weight of the day. The commute home isn’t any prettier, but it’s a kind of mindless ritual that’s grown familiar over time—20 minutes on the train, crammed between strangers who are just as exhausted, just as done with the grind. The train lurches and hums beneath you, a rhythmic noise that almost lets you forget the stress. But you’re too far gone for that kind of escape, your mind still whirling with all the things you’ve had to swallow throughout the day.
The train empties as the sun sinks below the horizon, each stop peeling away another layer of the late afternoon crowd. You finally step off the train at the final stop, the air crisper than when you left for work nearly 11 hours ago. The walk home is short, but it’s long enough for your legs to remind you that you’ve been standing for hours. Ten long minutes to your flat, a familiar route that feels both comforting and suffocating in its monotony.
After walking down some quiet streets, past some sketchy alleyways, you finally reach your tiny one-bedroom flat. It’s tucked just outside Bromley, and it’s small, not much at all, but it’s enough. It’s the kind of space that suffocates you some days and feels like a sanctuary on others. You push your key into the lock and push the door open. You kick your shoes off and they thud as they hit the floor, echoing through your small flat. You hang your keys on the singular hook you stuck on the wall, barely noticing the clink of them settling into place.
This is what most days look like for you: wake up, subject yourself to a long, draining shift, then return home to an empty flat and an even emptier fridge. It's a routine that feels as hollow as the flat itself. The days fly by in a boring cycle of work, silence, and the echo of things you thought you’d left behind when you took the leap and moved out.
After college, you made it a point to leave your parents’ house. You couldn’t stay in the nest anymore, not when you so strongly believed there was something better waiting out there. You had to prove you could stand on your own, that you didn’t need the constant supervision or the suffocating presence of a family that just didn’t get it.
Honestly, who could? Who could stay locked in a house that felt less like a home and more like a cage? College had been the escape you’d craved, the independence you had always wanted. You dove in headfirst, joining club after club, meeting all kinds of people, each one with their own story, a sort of authenticity that people in high school never had.
In college, one of the many things you got involved in was Vets Club, which wrote letters to veterans, thanking them for their service. It was a simple thing, but there was something about it that felt right. You’d write a few lines of gratitude, nothing big, just a small act of kindness. And sometimes, you’d get a letter back. The responses were always the same—surprised and grateful that someone even bothered to take the time. It never felt like much, but it always made you feel good, knowing you could brighten someone's day just by saying thank you.
But now, when you’re standing in your tiny flat, staring at a barren fridge that only houses a bottle of wine and some leftover takeaway containers, you wonder if wasting your time on asinine things like that were worth it.
You’re having a… Well, a hard time, to put it kindly. The kind of time where nothing seems to go your way, and you can't quite shake the feeling that maybe you made some wrong choices. All of your college friends? They're out there, living it up, traveling the world, landing glamorous careers, posting photos of sunsets in Bali and dinners at places with names you can’t pronounce. They’re thriving, but you’re stuck here, watching their highlight reels on social media while your own life feels like it’s paused on a loop of dead-end shifts and lonely nights.
You had big dreams once. You convinced yourself that an art history degree was going to be the key to something meaningful, something that would set you apart. Now, though? Now, you can barely find work, and the opportunities that do pop up feel like they’re beyond you in all shapes and forms.
Rent and bills are manageable, but manageable doesn’t mean easy. To you, it means scraping by, choosing between a decent meal or keeping the lights on for another month.
Your parents help sometimes, covering the electricity bill here and there, but you’d rather die than let them know how bad it really is. You don’t need their pity, their unsolicited advice, or the smug ‘I told you so’ about picking a more practical degree. No matter how deep you’re sinking, you’ll claw your way up alone. It’s not pride, it’s survival. You’ve always done it yourself, it’s just easier that way.
And the real kicker? The cherry on top of this already pathetic sundae? You’re a fucking virgin. No one to warm your bed, keep you company. Mid-twenties and untouched, while your friends from high school are already posting pictures of shiny rings and baby-bumps. Like struggling to stay afloat wasn’t humiliating enough, you’re also trailing behind in the one thing that’s supposed to have happened already.
You’ve had chances—plenty of chances—but every time, you freeze. The pressure, the vulnerability, and the fear of not measuring up always make you bail.
Not that you’re a prude. You’ve done everything but. Had shitty oral a few times, given it even more. And if the guy’s screaming was anything to go by, you were either naturally good at it or he was just being dramatic. Either way, it was a fleeting moment of triumph in an otherwise awkward, unremarkable sex life, not quite the high point you’d imagined, but in your world of half-hearted hookups and ‘almosts,’ it was something. Proof you weren’t completely out of your depth.
Not that it really mattered.
You shut the fridge and turn to open the cabinet with the same lack of enthusiasm that’s come to define your evenings alone. Peanut butter and jelly, quick, mindless, barely even a choice. You spread the peanut butter, then the jelly, the motion mechanical, just something to fill the silence. The takeout leftovers can last till tomorrow.
You pad over to and collapse on your second-hand couch, the cushions sighing under your weight, and pull your legs beneath you. You grab your phone out of your pocket, thumb idly swiping up to unlock it. The screen lights up, and for a moment, you just stare at it. An infant-sized handful of notifications blink back at you—an automated bill reminder, a news alert you’ll ignore, a lone text from your mom checking in. That’s it. No stream of messages, no flood of tagged posts or party invites. Just a near-empty notification bar, silent in its own damning way.
With a sigh, you lock your phone and toss it aside, letting it land somewhere on the cushion beside you. No one’s waiting for you to reply anyway. Instead, you grab the remote and flick on the TV. The screen blinks to life and you skim through a few channels, the lowest-tier cable offering not much more than black-and-white novellas and the news. You settle for the latter, knowing it won’t add much to your day, but it’ll at least fill the space with noise.
The pretty woman on the screen drones on about politics and stocks, things you don’t have the capacity to care for. You nibble at your sandwich, half-listening as the segment shifts. The soft murmur of the newscaster is background noise until something catches your ear, an undercurrent of excitement creeping into her voice as she announces a breaking story. Your attention sharpens as she mentions a supposed notorious figure, someone whose name apparently carries weight in the world of crime.
A man known only as Ghost. No full name, no history, just a shadow stitched together by word of mouth and grainy security footage. The anchor’s voice is steady as she rattles off his crimes. High-profile armed robberies that bled banks dry, embezzlement schemes that unraveled entire corporations, and a trail of bodies left in the wake of meticulously executed mob hits.
It’s the kind of name you’d expect to hear on the news, or in the underbelly of the city where crime festers unchecked. A name spoken with a mix of fear and reverence, as if he was more myth than man.
And yet, despite knowing nothing about him beyond what you've learned in the last 5 minutes of the broadcast, the sight of him on your TV—towering, masked,—hits you in a way you hadn’t anticipated. Intrigue coils in your stomach, but you can’t fight the way he unsettles you.
He’s been arrested. The news anchor’s voice carries the weight of the revelation, the story intensifying with every word. After years on the run, the law has finally caught up with him. Ghost—a ghost no longer—is now locked away in the High-Security Unit of Belmarsh, one of southeast London’s most formidable prisons, home to terrorists, murderers, and just the worst of the worst.
You stare at the screen, the words sinking in as you take another slow bite of your PB&J. There’s a strange sort of chill that runs through you, not from familiarity but from the sheer presence of the large man on the screen, as if he’s in the very room you’re sitting in. The news anchor’s voice drones on, but you’re already lost in thought.
You think back to Vets Club, remembering how the club would sometimes send letters to other people—petty criminals who were locked up for minor counts of drug possession, vandalism, or shoplifting. Stupid shit. At first, it seemed odd, but the more you thought about it, the more it made sense. Why not offer a little kindness to anyone that needs a pick-me-up? They didn’t have to be war heroes.
As long as they didn’t kill anyone—or anything.
So just like the veterans, you guys would send letters. And just like the veterans, you'd sometimes get a reply, a genuine thank you, as if the fact that someone cared enough to reach out made a difference. It was just about being human, about showing some kindness when so much of the world felt cold.
You never wrote to someone like Ghost before. Not someone so... bad. Not someone whose reputation is so undeniably, explicitly rotten. Someone who, many would argue, is explicitly undeserving of such kindness.
You snap back to reality, and his figure dominates the screen—broad shoulders, large muscles even under the clothing, the kind of man who demands attention. The CCTV footage is grainy, a mere screen capture from a longer video plastered on the TV for your viewing pleasure
His face is masked with a skull-patterned balaclava, the fabric stretched taut over his facial features, distorting the skeletal design just enough to make it seem like the grinning visage is shifting with every movement, angular lines that give him an almost inhuman quality—like a wraith lurking in the dark.
He’s swathed in black from head to toe, the fabric of his dark jacket and and even darker pants absorbing the dim light, making him one with the shadows that cling to every surface around him. Each step is silent, calculated, his presence more of a feeling than a sight—an omen in the periphery, waiting.
It’s strangely captivating, the way he looms, the way the static buzz of the television makes it feel like he could crawl through the screen at any second, like that stupid Ring movie. You sort of wish he would.
His image lingers, burned into the LEDs of your TV, burned into your mind. You’re not sure why it catches you the way it does, but you can’t look away. Something about him—his sheer presence, even through a screen—snags at your curiosity like a loose thread begging to be pulled, a sweater unfurled into a heap of yarn. God you’re so lonely.
Your mind drifts as your fingers move almost instinctively. A few quick Google searches lead you down a steep rabbit hole, a litany of news reports covering crimes that stretch back years. No one has seemed to figure out his real name, no verifiable background. Alleged military ties, some say, possibly ex-special forces. Others insist he was born into the criminal underworld, raised by it, shaped by it, an enforcer forged in violence.
Though nothing could be determined for sure, most of the reports agree on one thing for certain: he was methodical, precise, and had an undeniable dedication and passion for his craft. You presumed that’s what made him a terrorist-level threat.
Then you stumble upon another fact—and you pause. Belmarsh Prison, his current home, isn’t even that far. Just a thirty-minute drive from your flat.
That should be alarming, but the thought sinks in your mind like a stone dropped into a well. For a second, the dull, predictable rhythm of your life feels disrupted—a ripple in reality, as if you've slipped into some parallel version of your life, one that isn’t just last night’s leftovers and tomorrow's 10-hour shift.
For the first time in a long while, you feel a flicker of excitement. It makes your life feel a little less dull, like something unexpected, something outside the ordinary routine, has just entered your world. Maybe you could write him a letter—
—No. What the fuck? That’s insane. He’s killed people, and you want to send him a letter?
…
You decide to send him a letter.
It’s not like you’re his number one fan—or a fan at all, for that matter. Plus, the chances of him even reading it are slim to none, he’s probably buried under piles of letters that sound just like the ones you used to write, if not worse.
It’s just a letter. You’re not looking for anything in return. You’ll write to him, then move on, because why not? It’s not about trying to change him or sympathizing with him, it’s just... kindness.
Your half-eaten sandwich is abandoned on the coffee table, forgotten the moment the thought takes root. You push yourself up from the couch. The floor is cold beneath your feet as you move down the narrow hall and toward your bedroom, each step fueled by something you don’t care to name—excitement, recklessness, boredom, maybe all three twisted together.
Your bedroom is dim and poorly lit by your bedside lamp. The air feels alive, the window cracked open, allowing the evening breeze to slip through and blow through the room. The curtains sway with it, shifting shadows across the walls, fleeting and fluid, much like the thoughts in mind.
You reach for an old journal tucked away in your bedside table, its spine softened by years of thumbing through its pages. The cover, once smooth, is now rough with wear, smudged with time and old ink stains. As you flip through, the pages crackle—thin, fragile things filled with half-formed ideas and late-night ramblings from high school.
You find a blank page and grab a pen from the bedside table, its weight familiar, and grounding, and shift into a cross-legged seat on your bed. The mattress dips beneath you, the duvet stretching with the movement.
For a moment, you hesitate. What do you even say to someone like him?
You reason with yourself that if he’s unlikely to even read the letter, then it doesn’t matter. You don’t expect anything to come of it, but the thought of sending a message feels like the most fun you’ve had in years.
You press the pen to the paper.
‘Dear Big Bad Ghost,’
A quiet giggle escapes you at that, the kind that bubbles up when you know you’re doing something absolutely stupid. But really, what’s the harm? You have nothing to lose, no reputation at stake, and no consequences beyond a letter that will likely end up thrown in a trashcan. You might as well have some fun with it. A little tongue-in-cheek humor never hurt anyone.
Your pen glides across the paper, words spilling faster than you can second-guess them. You tell him how you found out about him, how you saw his face flash across your TV screen, how his name is spoken like an urban legend on the news channels. And—because there’s no point in pretending otherwise—you admit the truth outright: you thought he was hot, because—let’s be honest—you wouldn’t be doing something this rash if he wasn’t (you make sure to write that, too).
You just keep going. You tell him you’re 24, impossibly lonely and still a virgin, stuck working at Tesco with the worst coworkers possible, with little excitement in your life. You’re sure you’ve painted yourself as painfully average, definitely the most boring woman on the planet, though you wonder if that in itself might intrigue him. Or maybe he won’t care at all. Either way, the words are already there, ink drying on the page.
You tell him that if this were happening back in the States, they’d have slapped him with a RICO charge so fast he’d get whiplash—but lucky for him, he’s dealing with the UK’s legal system instead. A small mercy, though not much of one.
Your pen barely lifts from the paper as you continue. If he ever gets out, you tell him, your door is open for a ‘good time’. You underline it for emphasis, like a wink through the page, though you’re quick to add that, realistically, you’re sure he’ll be locked up for life.
Still, you suppose, even the worst criminals must get bored. Maybe he’ll want a pen pal to entertain him for the rest of his days.
You sit back, tapping the pen against your chin as you reread the letter. It’s ridiculous, a tad insane, but the thrill of it makes your stomach buzz. Some prison guard will probably skim it, roll their eyes, and toss it straight into the bin.
But still…
You scrawl your name at the bottom and the moment the ink dries, you tear the page from your journal, fold it neatly, and slide it into an envelope. You write your address in the return section. Just in case. Your fingers hesitate at the edge, but before second thoughts can creep in, you lick the edges, the bitter taste making you wince and seal it shut.
Next thing you know, you’re sliding on some slippers, unlocking the front door, and stepping into the cool night air. The mailbox is just a few paces from your front door. The world has gone to sleep for tonight.
You reach the rusted blue box, heart hammering as you pull open the slot. The envelope feels heavier now like it carries more weight than it should. You hover there for a second longer than necessary, gripping the paper between your fingers.
And then you let it go. It’s chilling how easy it is.
The past two weeks have passed in a blur of work, exhaustion, and the crushing weight of an uninspired routine. You’ve long since moved on from the letter. You’ve nearly forgotten about it entirely. Life doesn’t give you much room to dwell on dumb things like that—not when you spend your days dodging entitled customers and biting back the urge to commit minor acts of violence in the break room.
Today was particularly brutal. Some guy spent ten minutes arguing with you over a 5 quid price difference like it was a matter of life and death. A toddler managed to knock over an entire display of crisps while her mom scrolled through Instagram, blissfully unaware. By the time your shift ended, you felt like you’d been put through a meat grinder and then asked to clock out with a smile.
Rush hour on the train only adds insult to injury. Someone sneezes directly onto the back of your neck. Another person else eats an offensively pungent egg sandwich within arm’s reach. You spend the entire ride back gripping the overhead rail and wondering why you ever thought adulthood would be anything more than a slow, soul-draining trudge toward the grave.
By the time you finally get home, your body aches with exhaustion that seeps into your bones. You kick off your shoes, chuck your bag onto the floor, and drag yourself toward the kitchen. There’s no energy left in you for cooking, so you grab some leftover takeout from the fridge and toss it into the microwave, staring blankly at the rotating container as it whirs to life. No, it’s not the same takeout from two weeks ago.
You settle onto the couch with your dinner, flicking through the limited selection of channels. With an eye roll, you settle on the news once more, just as a reporter’s voice cuts in, crisp and professional.
At first, you’re barely paying attention, too focused on shoveling lukewarm noodles into your mouth. But then—
BREAKING NEWS: MASS PRISON RIOT ENSUES AT BELMARSH – GHOST AT LARGE
The bold red banner streaks across the screen, sharp and urgent. Your fork stalls midway to your mouth, noodles slipping off the prongs and back into the container as your brain struggles to catch up.
The news anchor doesn’t miss a beat, her voice steady, polished, and edged with just the right amount of alarm:
“Authorities have confirmed a large-scale riot at Belmarsh Prison earlier this evening, resulting in multiple casualties and the escape of several high-profile inmates—including ‘Ghost’, who was awaiting trial for dozens of indictable offenses.”
Your stomach tightens.
Ghost might be on your doorstep and London might look like Gotham, all before dawn even breaks tomorrow.
For a moment, you simply sit there, absorbing the weight of it. You should probably be more concerned. Probably get up, lock the doors, check your windows, and maybe even send a half-hearted text to your parents that, no, you haven’t been stabbed or kidnapped yet.
After a few more seconds you wisen up, mentally slapping yourself. Super-Mega-Criminal-Ghost has bigger problems than tracking down a random girl who sent him one dumb letter out of the hundreds you’re sure he’s gotten. You’re not special. You’re not even remotely relevant in this situation.
Your eyes lock onto the screen as aerial footage of Belmarsh fills the frame. The prison looks like something out of a videogame—thick plumes of smoke curling into the night sky, roaring flames illuminating figures in riot gear as they swarm the perimeter, floodlights sweeping across the wreckage of what was, until hours ago, one of the most secure facilities in the country. Sirens wail in the background.
Somewhere in that chaos, a man you sent a letter to—that more closely resembled a dating profile— has vanished into thin air.
You exhale, exhausted and too tired to brood on it further. Even if he did show up and break down your door, you’re sure your life couldn’t get worse, so you decide to ignore the news and reach for the remote. With a press of a button, the world of reports and fear-mongering headlines is cut off and replaced by the manufactured warmth of a sitcom.
The studio audience laughs on cue.
You force yourself to eat, to go through the motions. Take small, measured bites, as if chewing will somehow settle the restless feeling creeping up your spine.
It doesn’t.
When you finish the sad lump of noodles, you head to the kitchen. Dishes clink as you rinse them, your mind half-present as your body moves on autopilot.
By the time you’ve cleaned up, the tension in your body has quieted. You tell yourself it’s fine. You’re fine. It’s just another night with one more thing to add to the ever-growing list of reasons why this city is exhausting.
You make your way to the bathroom with a sigh, shutting the door behind you. The day clings to your skin, heavy and lingering, but the promise of hot water is enough to shake off the worst of it.
You twist the shower knob. Pipes groan, then sputter, before a steady stream rushes out. You strip down, kicking your dirty clothes into the corner as steam billows, curling against the mirror until your reflection blurs.
After testing the water with your hand, you step in, a sharp inhale slipping past your lips as the warmth crashes over you. It seeps into your muscles, loosening tension you hadn’t even realized you were still holding. You tilt your head back, eyes fluttering shut as you let it pour over you.
Your body moves through the motions on autopilot. Shampoo, scrubbed into your scalp. Conditioner, combed through the ends with your fingers. The buy-one-get-one soap glides over your skin, the scent of cheap vanilla and pomegranate thick in the humid air, mingling with the steam that cocoons you. You carefully shave where necessary before the water washes everything away.
You finish your shower, stepping out into the warm fog of steam clinging to the bathroom walls. You take your towel off the hook and drag it over your skin, patting your hair just enough to keep it from dripping but not enough to fully dry it.
Right now, all you want is to crawl into bed and pretend this night is just like any other, despite the very real fact that the London Bridge might actually go down overnight.
You don’t bother wrapping the towel around yourself. There’s no point. It’s just you here—always, unfortunately, just you. As much as you wish that wasn’t the case, there’s no reason to pretend otherwise.
Pushing open the bathroom door, steam rushes past you, rolling into the hallway like a ghost of its own. The air is cooler than usual, biting at your damp skin. A shiver rolls through you, goosebumps prickling to life as you clutch the towel tighter around yourself.
You move quickly, bare feet padding against the floor, the cool air chasing you down the hall. You shake it off, the shower was especially hot today, after all.
Once inside your bedroom, you flick on the small lamp on your bedside table. The weak glow struggles against the shadows, barely illuminating the room beyond a soft, feeble pool of light. You sigh, staring at it for a moment. You really should invest in another one, something stronger, something that does its job—but the thought of subjecting yourself to the blinding glare of overhead lighting is unbearable.
The usual cool breeze from the window rolls in and whisks against your skin as you stand in front of the large mirror sitting atop your dresser, as naked as the day you were born. You absentmindedly rub lotion onto your arms and legs, the smooth cream sinking into your skin with satisfying ease, a small act of self-care amidst the shit-show of your life. You swipe on some deodorant, a miscellaneous powdery scent briefly masking the other smells that linger in your room.
You pull open the top drawer, fingers brushing past folded fabric until you find a pair of plain black no-show panties. The material is soft between your fingertips.
You hook your thumbs into the waistband, bending slightly as you slide the fabric up your legs, smooth against your skin. It settles high on your hips, snug and familiar.
But as you straighten, the air feels different.
Your breath stalls, a tight, involuntary hitch in your throat. A prickle skates down your spine, the hairs on the back of your neck rising, your body sensing the shift before your mind can grasp it. Then comes the scent. Subtle quickly shifts to suffocating.
Ash, woody and bitter like a lonely bonfire.
Gunpowder, metallic and pungent like a shrill war cry.
And beneath it all, something brutally masculine. Utterly tart, like blood welling on your tongue, bitter, metallic, yet impossible to spit out so you’re forced to swallow.
You’re still facing the mirror, bare skin gleaming under the dim light, damp where the shower’s heat still lingers. Your reflection is all soft curves and slow, steady breaths, the delicate contrast of black fabric against your skin.
But you’re not looking at yourself anymore.
Your eyes are locked onto something else. Someone else.
Over your right shoulder, a hulking figure sits backward in your desk chair, big, long legs spread on either side, the heavy, shadowy outline of him filling the space behind you. His presence is so sudden, so jarring, that it takes you a moment to even process it. From what you can make out, he is facing you, arms crossed over the backrest like he owns the room.
You’re frozen, trapped in your own body, your mind a tangled mess of confusion and fear. You scramble to process how this could even be happening. Your eyes dart to the window over your left shoulder in the reflection, the wind howling on cue as if to mock you.
Your window is violently wrenched ajar, and suddenly, the drop in temperature makes sense. That’s what you felt earlier—the sudden chill that wrapped around you the second you stepped out of the bathroom. How you didn’t feel it moments ago is beyond you.
Your heart pounds in your ears, a brutal thundering that mutes the voice in your head telling you to run, single-handedly hijacking every morsel of reason you possess. Each beat is so violent, that you think you can feel your ribs splintering, cracking to make room.
You can’t help but stare at yourself, standing there, exposed and utterly vulnerable, tits perked and on display like it’s time for Sunday dinner. But it’s impossible to make yourself move. Your feet feel like cinder blocks.
Your eyes flick back to him.
He hasn’t moved. Not an inch. A statue of flesh and shadow, his towering frame swallowing the space behind you. Your breath stutters as your gaze collides with his—an accident, a mistake. Dark eyes, barely visible, catch the light as he leans in, closer, closer still.
You regret it instantly. Your stomach flips, twisting in on itself as something molten ignites deep inside you. Butterflies—you’re sure—but they feel wrong, tainted, clawing their way up your throat, wings drenched in bile, desperate to break free.
He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even breathe.
Just silen—
“Shouldn’t’ve given a dog a bone, Girl.”
Oh.
Oh.
Shit.
You swallow, the motion sharp and dry, as your eyes fixate on the sliver of him that the mirror allows you to see. Your tongue feels like it’s too big for your mouth, thick and clumsy, but it's not just that—it’s as though it’s been wrung dry like you’ve forgotten how to speak, how to make any sound at all.
Could be fight, could be flight—or could be sheer, reckless stupidity. Superficial courage floods your veins, burning hot and impulsive. You don’t know where it comes from, only that it’s there, forcing you to turn, to face him, not through the mirror’s reflection but for real, head-on. Your body obeys even as your mind screams to stop, to run, to do anything but face the giant sitting in the chair behind you. It must be adrenaline.
You pivot, and the room changes. It warps.
He fills the room—dominates it—far more than four walls should ever allow, and far more than your traitorous mirror portrayed. His frame is more ape than human, more God than man, every inch of him radiating undomesticated power that seems to bend the very air around him like a mirage.
He’s dressed in grey, prison-issued sweatpants, the soft fabric taut over his thick, spread thighs. A matching grey sweatshirt is tied around his waist, a small, white wife-beater stretched across his chest. The fabric strains against the thickness of his body, pecs beneath like boulders, barely contained by the threadbare material. The shirt looks as though it might snap under the sheer pressure of him.
It almost seems pointless for him to wear it.
A sick part of you wishes he didn’t.
Around his neck, a set of dog tags dangles, the metal catching the light as it sways in rhythm with his slow, steady breaths. His arms are a canvas of dark ink—twisting amalgamations of war and death, flames and ruin etched into his skin. The same balaclava you’ve seen on your screen stretches over his face, but it feels even more menacing now.
His eyes—dark brown, nearly black—burn as they lock onto you. There’s an eerie glow to them, a depth that makes your stomach twist. You can barely make out their full shape, but you feel the weight of his gaze, the way it maps your body with an intensity that singes. He’s memorizing you, branding you into his mind, scorching every visible inch of your skin just by looking.
Which, right now, is essentially all of it.
It’s suffocating, and overwhelming. The space around you seems to shrink, the walls pressing inward, forcing you to feel the heft of his presence. Your bubble, your safe little world, vanishes, replaced by the oppressive weight of him, his sheer size and power making the room feel like a part of a dollhouse, too small to contain him. Every breath feels harder to take like you’re drowning, and he’s the rip current that dragged you out from shore and pushed you under.
And then, as if sensing your every thought, as if aware of your discomfort and your disbelief, he shifts. Just a subtle movement at first. But a shift is all it takes before he’s not sitting anymore.
Your breath catches in your throat, as he slowly rises from the chair, taking up even more of the room, shadow growing longer in his wake, his muscles rippling in the lamplight. He doesn’t rush. No, there’s no need. He moves, each large step bringing him closer to you.
All that ‘courage’ drained. You never thought you’d be the frozen-in-fear type, but here you are, your body stiff and uncooperative as you look up at him. Your neck cranes back further and further, unwillingly following as he stalks toward you, each step near imperceptible to the ear. At least you know why you didn’t hear him come in.
You’re backed flush against your dresser, your breath coming in shallow gasps, your chest tight with panic, but you can’t look away. You don’t even know if you want to. There’s a strange magnetism to him, something almost predatory in the way he moves, so controlled, so sure.
It’s addicting.
Your thighs clench together at the internal acceptance, a small attempt at some kind of control over the sick part of your brain that’s turned on by this.
“Quiet little thing.” His voice is low, gravelly like it’s been rubbed raw, but there’s a hint of amusement in it, a wicked edge that makes your skin prickle and your cunt gush. He takes another step closer, a mere foot away, the distance between you is agonizing. “Glad you’re not a screamer.”
He pauses just in front of you, towering over you. The weight of his gaze chokes you like a noose. He doesn’t miss when your thighs clench. You could have sworn you saw the flicker of a smile beneath the balaclava, though it’s hard to tell.
“I’m not gonna bite, Girl,” he tuts, “unless y’want me to.”
The way he says it—so carnivorously—sends a jolt of electricity down your spine, a hot flush of pure shame of pooling low in your stomach. You're still frozen, unsure whether you should respond, run, or drop to your knees.
“Y’sent me a letter,” he continues, his voice softening just slightly as his eyes flick to your tits like he’s checking out a new appliance.
“Tellin’ me all about your boring little life,” He steps even closer, “And that sweet little cunt, untouched like you want me t’make it mine.”
You try to speak, but only your mouth moves, your vocal cords too dry, too hoarse, and your throat constricted. He notices. The slight twitch of his lips like he’s enjoying how utterly speechless you are, how dumb you look.
“Y’want me t’make it mine? Hmm? That why you gave a ‘Big Bad’ man your address?”
You swallow in an attempt to lubricate your throat, but it’s futile. Is this what you were subconsciously hoping for when you wrote down which street you lived on and your apartment number? Did you want this? Were you that lonely—that desperate?
“Can y’imagine how hard I came,” he leans over you, his breath hot against your ear, you feel it through the mask, “How I rubbed my cock raw to the thought of some dumb virgin with the audacity of a dozen slags?”
Yeah. You were that desperate.
You nearly whimper at the way he talks to you. You finally manage to take a breath, your voice barely more than a whisper. “I— I didn’t think you’d—”
He cocks his head slightly as if considering your words “What? Didn’t think I’d show?” he repeats, dragging the words out slowly, a smirk curling at the edges of his lips as if he’s savoring the mockery in them. “You invited me here. It’d be rude to reject such a generous offer.”
You bite back a scoff. As if he’s so gracious, breaking into your house and cornering you while you’re naked. Talk about audacity.
“Go fuck yourself.”
“I have,” he shoots back, shrugging almost imperceptibly as his hands find your hips, tracing the fabric of your panties, eyes darkening at the way your mons dimples beneath his thumbs. “Won’t be as good as her.”
Your pulse spikes, a mix of anger and something darker curling in your chest. You should shove him away, scream at him to get out, but his hands are so warm when they hold you. The proximity of his body has you paralyzed, his hands still firm on your hips, as if to remind you that he can have his way with you at a moment’s notice.
You open your mouth to speak, but his hand moves higher, wrapping around your waist, while the other slides down to grip your ass, pulling you against him with a force that leaves no space between your bodies. The words die in your throat as your tits collide with his stomach and your cheek presses into his chest, the hard beat of his heart thudding beneath your ear, as he holds you there, pinning you in some weird, bone-crushing hug.
He smells like soap and something musky and everything you’d expect a fugitive to smell like, like cigarette ash and a smidge of gunpowder. It makes your pulse stutter, like a drug you didn’t know you were addicted to. You can’t help but melt into his strong frame despite your brain screaming at you to push him away.
“Y’feel that, sweetheart?” he hums, his hand kneading the fat of your ass, pressing his bulge against your pelvis through his sweatpants. “Ever felt a cock that big before?”
“Please,” you whisper, the plea a stark contrast to the defiance you try to muster. Your body trembles, a mix of fear and blistering heat. “Just... don't.”
He chuckles, a low, mocking sound. “Don't what, sweetheart?” he murmurs, his fingers rising from your ass to trace the delicate line of your throat. “Don't touch you? Don't remind you of what y’are?”
He tips your head up to his as you flinch at his words, the truth of them cutting deeper than any physical blow. “I…” you stammer, faltering as you meet his dark hazel eyes.
“Virgin,” he deadpans as he grips your chin between his digits, “Y’terrified. It's written all over your face, baby” He coos condescendingly, eyes scanning your body, lingering on the cute flush in your cheeks, “Curious, too, aren't you? Wondering what it would be like.”
You swallow hard, eyes flicking away from his. “No,” you lie, the denial weak and utterly unconvincing.
He lets out a low, exasperated grunt, like you’re testing his patience, like this is tedious for him. And then, without warning, his hands clamp around your thighs, lifting you effortlessly before settling you atop the dresser. His grip is firm as he pushes your legs apart, spreading them as far as they’ll go to make room for himself. The wood is cold against your skin, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from him, from the rough drag of his palms as they find purchase on the soft flesh of your thighs, from where he dips his head to your throat.
“Don’t fuckin’ lie to me, sweetheart,” You don’t know when he pulled his mask up, but you can feel his canines graze against your jugular, making you wince. He crowds your space, forcing you to tilt back until you’re leaning against the mirror, until there’s nowhere to go. You can feel his lips twitch against the skin of your neck, the ghost of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.
“I can smell your cunt.” He licks a fat, hot stripe from your collarbone, past your jaw, and to your cheek, all before growling in your ear, “She’s droolin’ f’me, ain’t she? Gonna give me a taste o' her?”
Your eyebrows knit at the feel of his tongue slobbering all over you. Your breath hitches, and you can’t help but tremble. You can feel your panties sticking to your folds, but you’ve never been this wet before. “I... I don't know,” you whimpered, overwhelmed by everything he was making you feel.
“Don't know? Please,” he scoffs, his voice thick with disdain. Without any hesitation, both of his hands find the gusset of your panties, balling them before ripping them in half. You yelp as they fall and settle against the dresser top. “Awh. Look at that,” he gets to his knees, thumbs spreading your glistening folds. “She's leakin’ onto my hand." He chuckles as he stares at the dampness between your legs.
He lunges forward, his mouth latching to your pussy like it promised him a million dollars. A strangled moan rips through you as his tongue swirls and plunges into your weeping hole, mimicking the thrusts he intends to deliver later. He laps and nips, teeth gently but fervently grazing your clit, sending shivers of both pleasure and terror through your body.
Your head jerks back, waves of pleasure that have you gasping for air. His tongue works you in ways that should be illegal. You cling to the edge of the dresser, your knuckles turning white as he buries his face in you. You peer down at him as he eats you, his mask pulled over his nose.
“Whinin’ already?” he growls, his voice muffled against your cunt. He sucks harder, reveling in the way you arch your back and press your hips into his face. “Like a bitch in heat.” Your hands find his head and he suckles at your clit harder, eliciting a string of please, please, please’s from you.
“Beg for it,” he commands, “Beg to come on m’tongue, baby.”
“Yes,” you choked out in a gasp, the word a desperate plea lost in a wave of overwhelming sensation. Your body thrums with frantic energy, every nerve ending firing in a symphony as you desperately claw at his balaclava, nearly smothering him. “Please,” you beg, your voice thick with need. “Please, I— ‘m—”
He pulls away from you, gasping for air. His eyes find yours and he lands a firm slap to your cunt, making you jolt. “Tell me,” he hisses. “Tell me y’want to come for me.”
“I... I want to,” you gasped, your body trembling on the verge of collapse. “I wanna come for you, Ghost— Please—.”
“Good fuckin’ whore,” he slaps your cunt again, before diving back in, his hot tongue carding through your folds. He slips his ring and middle finger into your hole and you wail as he massages your g-spot. He slobbers on your clit, wet squelches echoing through the room as you feel the coil tightening in your belly. “Come, let me taste this slutty fuckin’ pussy.”
A strangled cry rips through you as the pleasure reaches its peak, a blinding wave of sensation that absolutely shatters your control. You convulse around him and he has to hold you still, pinning your hips down as your muscles clench and release in a series of involuntary spasms that make up the best orgasm of your life. Hot, thick spurts of cum flood his mouth as you croak out a broken string of curses and moans.
He laps at you unhurriedly, savoring the taste, the feel of your release coating his tongue. “Fuck,” he moans, his voice rough with satisfaction. He pulls back, lips and chin glistening, and looks up at you with a smirk. “Love you virgins. Come so easily.”
Heat surges up your neck, pooling in your cheeks—a traitorous flush of shame that only worsens when you try to press your legs together. You didn’t think it would affect you like this, didn’t think you’d feel a spark of something twisted at being called the most horrific of names.
Your gaze darts away from his, unable to withstand the weight of it. Your hands move on instinct, a feeble attempt to shield yourself, to reclaim some sense of control. “Stop staring,” you whisper, not used to having eyes on you. But even to your own ears, it sounds weak—like a plea rather than a command.
He chuckles, a low, mocking sound as he rises to his feet, pressing his massive bulge against your bare cunt. “Stop what? Admiring my handiwork?” He reaches out, his fingers tracing the curve of your cheek before harshly squishing them between his index and thumb, your lips puckering. “Don't be shy, sweetheart. You should feel lucky. Could’ve ruined this pretty fuckin’ mouth instead.”
You bite your lip at the thought of taking him in your mouth, stretching your throat and making you gag. He was so big, would stretch your pussy so good and you know it. He could give you what you’ve been wanting, what you’ve been needing. Tears prickle your eyes as you recover from your orgasm. “Just... fuck me, Please…?” you hum, unsure..
He grins, briefly flashing his teeth in the dim light. “Eager, are we?” He straightens, pulling you by your knees to stand on your feet. “Don't worry. Got more in store for you.”
He hauls you off of your dresser and toward your bed without much effort. Your legs feel like jelly and you trip over yourself, falling back onto the mattress, your body bouncing with the impact. He chuckles as he moves toward you, looming over you, his eyes burning with lust at the sight of you all spread out beneath him.
He reaches for the hem of his wife beater and pulls it over his head, tossing it aside without care, not bothering to take off his balaclava. You drag your gaze over his broad torso, taking in every inch as he stands before you. His muscles shift beneath scarred skin, every ridge and plane carved by years of violence you can’t even begin to imagine. Scars that have scars, bright pink wounds closed over. His dog tags rest between his pecs, gleaming dully against the heat of him.
Your eyes trail lower, catching on the unmistakable wet patch darkening his sweatpants, a frighteningly long outline of his hard cock to accompany it. He watches you closely as your gaze traces the contours of his body, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips.
"Like what you see, Girl?" His voice is low, thick with a dark amusement. It’s rhetorical, he knows you do. Without breaking eye contact, he slides his fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants and pulls them down, revealing his length with a singular motion.
No underwear. A Right dog, he is.
Your breath hitches, a gasp trapped in your throat as you take in the full view. His cock is thick and heavy. A brutal, veined length that periodically twitches every time his gaze drops to your sodden cunt. A thatch of dark, dirty blonde hair frames its base, leading up to his navel. The uncircumcised head glistens in the lamplight, a single drop of pre drooling from his tip. You wish you could flick your tongue against it, gulping down every ounce of his slick he’d be willing to let you swallow.
“What’d y’want?”
You can't form the words, your mind blank, throat tight with a mix of fear and anticipation, the air heavy with implicit tension and the scent of sex.
How could he even fit inside of you?
You just dumbly nod in response to whatever he said. Meek, almost imperceptible.
He tuts, “Noddin’ ain’t enough, sweets,” he growled. “You’re a big girl, ain’t you?
“I…” you stammer, your cheeks burning with shame at saying something so lewd out loud. “I want…”
“Say it,” he taunts as he takes his cock in his hands, pumping slowly. His voice is like thunder, a low, dangerous rumble. “Say y’want this cock.”
“I... I want your cock,” you whisper, the words barely audible. You’re too focused on the way his pre drips onto your spread pussy.
“Louder,” he demands, landing a firm slap against your clit. “Can't hear you.”
“I want your cock,” you enunciated, your voice a little stronger this time.
“Louder, y’fuckin’ slag—”
“I want your fucking cock!” you shout, the words echoing through the room.
He shrugs and a satisfied smirk spreads across his face. “Geez, all y’had to do was ask.”
You could slap him.
He positions himself between your legs, the bed dipping as he crawls closer to you. He takes your thighs in his hands, pressing them up to your chest. His knees dimple the duvet on either side of your hips, the ruddy head of his cock tracing the puffy folds of your entrance. Each time his tip grazes your clit, a tremor runs through your body.
“So fuckin’ sensitive,” he groans, “So wet f’me, too, Christ.”
He presses forward, your pussy stretching taut over his mushroomed tip. You wince, your eyebrows knitting in pain. He was huge, impossibly thick, and the feeling of him pushing against your sensitive flesh was both terrifying and exhilarating.
“Gonna split this cunny in half, girl,” he winces as you pulse around him. He draws tight circles on your clit and you’re reeling, choking on your own gasps, “gonna feel me in y’fuckin’ throat.”
He pushes himself deeper, inch by agonizing inch until he sheaths himself inside of you completely. Tears stream down your face, a mixture of pain and pleasure overwhelming you. You cry out at the stretch, your body arching into his as your hands search for anything to steady yourself, settling on the hard plains of his back.
“Jesus baby, so tight,” he grunts, stalled inside of you as he tries not to blow his load. “So fucking tight.”
You slowly loosen around him as you adapt to his size, but the burn still has you lightheaded. You've never been so full in your life. Your nails claw into his back, leaving raw streaks and crescent-shaped marks on his scarred skin. “Fuck me,” you rasp, “Please, Ghost, fuck me.” Your hips buck involuntarily as you babble, desperate for more of him.
He chuckles a low, guttural sound that you swear you can feel vibrating through your body. “Cock-drunk already, are we?” he taunts, “Fuckin’ whore,” He pulls back slightly before plunging forward with renewed force, cramming his cock against your cervix, hitting places you couldn’t even reach with your own fingers.
He was right. You could feel him everywhere, stretching you, filling you, owning you, utterly consuming you. Every thrust punched the air out of you, the rhythmic plap, plap, plap of his thighs meeting yours reverberating through the room as he fucked you.
“Fuck me harder, I need you— please—” You were so close already, worked up from your last orgasm and already teetering on the edge of another, the pleasure building each time the head of his cock strokes your g-spot. He picks up the pace with a groan and hammers into you, unable to breathe as his cock stretches you to your limits.
“Ghost,” you sob, fat tears falling from your eyes, wetting your cheeks before you can stop them. His name escapes your lips through hiccups, unable to think of anything except how full you feel, how you could’ve possibly missed out on this for so long.
He slaps your cheek, the sting is a sudden shock that jolts you back to the present. “Stop fuckin’ callin’ me that,” he snarls, his voice thick with pure sex and an edge of possessiveness, just lurking beneath his words. He leans directly over you, your legs pinned between his torso and yours. He groans before shrugging up his balaclava and licking your stray tears. You’re too deep in it to fully process, too consumed by the heat of the moment to care.
“Call me Simon when I fuck you,” he rasps against your lips,
“Say it.”
“S—Sim—on,” you mewl, your voice punctuated by each of his thrusts. “S—simon, p—ple—ase…”
“Please what?” he snarls, the head of his cock devastatingly rubbing your g-spot with each thrust, “Please fuck you harder? Please make you cream all over this cock?”
“Yes, yes, yes,” you wail, your body writhing beneath him. “Please, Simon— Fuck!”
“Atta fuckin’ girl,” he praises through gritted teeth, and with renewed vigor, he fucks you harder, caging you in as he fucks you into the mattress, each stroke shoving you farther up the bed.
“Squeezin’ me so tight,” he rasps, “So fucking tight.” he gripped your thighs harder, the fat dimpling beneath his fingers, surely to bruise in the morning. He presses you further, painfully folded in half. “Feel me? Feel how deep I am inside o’ you?”
You gasp, your body trembling, heat pooling low in your belly, sparks shooting up your spine, “Yes,” you breathed, your voice a strained whisper. “Too much... it's so much, Si—”
You’re on the edge, pressure just building and tightening as your walls pulse around him, ready to milk him for all he’s worth. His hips stutter and he knows he’s done for. “Fuck, let go, Let it happen, pet,”
At his command, a raw, guttural cry tears from your throat, and a shattered echo of his name launches into the humid air. It isn’t much of a word, not really, but a primal sound, a desperate, broken exclamation born from the white-hot core of your pleasure.
Your back arches, lifting you off the bed, your spine a rigid curve against his. Your hips buck wildly against his, grinding and shuddering. The hot, slick rush of your release coats his cock. It spreads across his abdomen and your thighs as well, a glistening sheen in the dim light. Your breath hitches and ragged gasps escape your lips as the waves of pleasure wash over you.
The world narrows, focusing solely on the feel of his skin on your own as he still thrusts into you, telling you to “Cream this fuckin’ cock,” as he groans, just as lost in the pleasure as you. The aftershocks of your orgasm reverberate through you, leaving you trembling and weak as he fucks you through it to reach his own.
A series of breathy moans escape his lips in tandem with yours, each one a ragged exhale as his hips begin to twitch, thrusts growing sloppy as you pulse around him, energy rippling through his muscles as his own orgasm approaches.
“Oh-,” he breathes, his voice a low, jagged rasp, a guttural urging. “Fuck! Fuck— Shit, just like that, girl.” His hips slam against yours, a final, desperate thrust that presses him flush against your cunt. He spills inside you, a hot, thick tide of his cum flooding your cunt. Ropes of his seed paint your inner walls, as far as he can reach, marking you as his. A wave of heat pulses through you, the feeling of him filling you completely, claiming you from the inside out.
Eventually, the tremors die down, and he rolls off you, the sudden absence of his weight pinning you down leaving you feeling strangely hollow. Your thighs fall limply as he lets go of them, a strange ache that almost bothers you.
A low chuckle rumbles in his chest, a sound of contentment.
“Broken little bird aren’t you?” he drawls..
You lift your head to see him eye-level with your pussy, watching as his cum leaks out of you. You lay still, your body aching, your mind spinning. You want to protest, to deny his words and shut your legs, but you don’t think you could form a genuine sentence if you tried.
Not only did you (finally) lose your virginity, but you lost it to a criminal. That broke into your house.
He moves to sit next to your laid figure and reaches out, his fingers tracing the delicate curve of your jaw, his touch surprisingly gentle. “Don't look so glum, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice softening slightly. “You did well,”
“for a first-timer.”
A blush creeps up your neck, and you instinctively turn your face away, curling into yourself. “Shut up,” you mutter, your voice hoarse.
He lets out a low, husky chuckle. “Oh, usin’ fightin’ words now, are we?” His fingers find a stray strand of your hair, twisting it lazily between calloused fingertips. “Funny, didn’t see you puttin’ up much of a fight five minutes ag—”
You don’t let him finish. Grabbing a tousled pillow, you launch it at his face. It bounces off his head with a pathetic little thump. He snorts, catching it mid-air, the plush looking comically small in his massive hands.
“Oh, we’re throwin’ shit now?” He smirks, squeezing the poor thing for emphasis. “Little minx—”
The sudden blare of the doorbell slices through the moment. You both freeze.
His eyes flick toward the door, sharp and assessing, mood immediately changing. “You expectin’ anyone?”
You shake your head. “No.”
His jaw tightens. The weight of reality comes crashing back. He’s a fugitive, and did, in fact, break into your house.
“I’ll get it,” you hum, already moving.
He gives a slow nod, hungrily watching as you rummage through your dresser for something decent. You yank an oversized T-shirt over your head and grab the first pair of pants you can find, his sweats. They nearly slide right off your hips, the waistband hanging dangerously loose, but there’s no time to fix it.
You leave the bedroom, your pulse drumming in your ears as you make your way to the front door. The second you pull it open, your stomach drops.
Two cops.
Their faces are unreadable, their eyes scanning you, the dim space behind you, everything. “Evening, miss. Sorry to bother you, but we’re making the rounds,” one of them says, flashing a tight-lipped smile. “You seen anything suspicious? Anything out of the ordinary?”
Your fingers tighten around the doorframe. You think of Simon. His hands on your waist, the weight of him between your legs, the low rasp of his voice still ringing in your ears. But you swallow hard and shake your head.
“No, nothing,” you say, keeping your voice light, casual. “Why?”
The other officer exhales sharply, shifting his weight. “ Highly dangerous man on the loose. Escaped with the rest of those arseholes from Belmarsh. Last spotted in this area.” His gaze flicks past you again, scanning the dreary interior of your flat. “Figured we’d check in, see if anyone’s seen him.”
You school your face into something neutral, shaking your head again. “Haven’t seen anything lately, sorry to disappoint.”
They watch you for a second too long. You wonder if they can hear your heartbeat slamming against your ribs. But finally, they nod.
“All right. Just be careful, ma’am. Lock your doors.”
“Will do,” you say, forcing a tight-lipped smile of your own.
You shut the door.
Your heart is pounding. You press your back against the timber, exhaling sharply before pushing off and heading back to the bedroom.
“Simon—” you call, nudging the door open.
The bed is empty, sheets tangled, the ghost of his warmth already fading. The curtains billow, the night air slithering in, laced with the scent of him—sex, sweat, something else that’s so distinctly him.
pairing(s): baelor "breakspear" targaryen x fem!reader
summary: When Prince Daeron Targaryen refuses your hand in marriage, it puts you between a rock and a hard place. The rock being a deadly sex potion, and the hard place being the heir to the Iron Throne.
words: 21.1k (ahaha. wtf)
cw: explicit, smut, sex pollen, fuck or die, piv sex, unprotected sex, fingering, oral sex (f receiving), virginity loss, hand kink, fluids, belly bulge, mild exhibitionism, implied voyeurism at the end, somewhat forced proximity, brat taming, soft dom!baelor, big dick baelor, baelor is a munch, older man/younger woman, age difference, discussions of pregnancy, breeding kink, mild coercion, this is all very gratuitous, marriage, possessive behavior, noble!reader, reader called 'lady' and 'girl', yearning, poisoning, magic potions, suicidal ideation, sickbed, canon typical sexism, i love you daeron baby but you very much caused this to happen, mildly edited, not beta read
a/n: i made the executive decision to use american english for this instead of the canonical british english of the books. found very little information on the dragon's breath flower as it appears in canon, so i made some bullshit up and based it on devil's trumpet. don't ask me about the capitalization of nothin. Mircalla is named for Mircalla Karnstein from Carmilla by J. Sheridan Le Fanu. Maester Florin named bc I couldn't just call the fucker Thorin Oakenshield. whatever
thank you again to my babes @urhoneycombwitch and @runawaywerewolf for being so nice to me while i lost my mind about this <3
ALL MY WORKS ARE 18+ MINORS DNI
The Targaryens believe that they have the fire of dragons coursing through their veins, but you aren't certain that it's true. If they did, you don't see how they could get anything done, at all. Because right now you do, and it's agony.
Everything hurts. From your head to your toes it feels like your body is filled with venom, burning beneath your skin, your muscles all convulsing in waves of destruction that leave you all but incapacitated. Milk of the poppy does not help, and nor does wine. If you were delirious it would probably be more bearable, but unfortunately your mind is devastatingly sharp. It feels like you have even more awareness of everything than you normally do— your skin is so hypersensitive that you can feel every fibre of your sweat-drenched chemise, and you can feel the temperature of every breath you take as it fills your lungs. The lights are too bright, sounds are louder, flavors more vibrant on your tongue. Every little thing that is happening around you gets filed into your mind so that you feel, in no uncertain terms, like you could fight an entire army yourself and survive. If you were able to move beyond the pain.
You've really done it this time. You didn't believe that the potion was anything dangerous; otherwise you wouldn't have put it in your wine. You were under the impression that it was just a little charm, something cooked up by a wise woman to make lovesick people sleep better at night. You expected it to put a gleam in your eye and a skip in your step, but not this.
"Put this in your wine and watch your love blossom like a rose in bloom," the old lady had told you as she pressed the vial into your outstretched hand. She had taken your coin readily enough and ignored the skeptical look that your lady's maid, Mircalla, had given her. "Drink deep. Enjoy the fortune of love."
Fortune of love, indeed. You're dying. You can tell just by the look on Maester Florin's face as he tests the remnants of the bottle in the corner with some convoluted apothecary setup he's constructed on your vanity table. You feel as though you have one eye on the bubbling beakers, and another eye on Mircalla as she sits by your bedside and dabs a damp cloth over your forehead.
"Is there anything I can get for you?" she asks quietly, and you know that she means well, but you have to physically stop yourself from smacking her hand away. The cloth is too rough on your forehead, scratching and squelching in your ears with the sound of the water, which smells of ale and sour fruit. Perhaps the bucket she used to bring the water in previously had been used to brew cider, but now it just makes the water stink.
"Nothing else, please," you croak at her with as much grace as you can muster. You lightly grab her wrist, squeeze it. "Thank you, Mircalla. Your services won't be needed anymore today, I think. I would not want you to see this any further."
"I am not certain that I should—"
"No. Go, please—" You just barely manage to turn your head away before a spasm of white-hot pain rips through your body, and you scream as you plant your face into your pillow. Both Mircalla and the maester jump at the shrillness of it.
"They're happening more frequently," you hear her mutter to him as she carries the bucket toward the door. "Shall I send for someone? A septon, perhaps?"
"Not yet, thank you. I must discuss the lady's affliction with her privately."
You close your eyes as if to block out the rush of sound that comes from the hall upon Mircalla opening your chamber door. You know that most— if not all— of your own family members, have retreated to other areas of the Red Keep. You assume that it's because you've been screaming loud enough to wake the dead, but perhaps there are other things happening in the castle that are more important than you managing to poison yourself.
"Maester," you grumble out dryly, your voice crackling in your throat. Now that the water is gone you aren't being assaulted by the smell of old cider, but the air still reeks of incense and acrid fumes from whatever his alchemy wrought. "I know I am dying. Just tell me why."
Maester Florin clears his throat and shifts on his feet, holding the little glass vial in his fingers. "My lady. You say that you bought this from a market stall?"
"Yes."
"And… did the seller tell you precisely what it was?"
"She said it was a potion," you tell him, tensing as a wave of pain swells up but then recedes before it can hit its peak, "to bring fortune in love. Nothing more."
There is a long silence, and you wonder if the maester has gone back to his work. You open your eyes a crack to look at him, but he is still standing in the same spot, seemingly deep in thought. Finally, he chances, "It is… not for me to ask what use you have of this potion…"
You groan, and it has nothing to do with the pain coursing through your body. You can't even gather the strength to cover your face in embarrassment, so you simply close your eyes.
It is common knowledge within the castle walls that Prince Daeron refused your hand in marriage after you were presented to him. He cited 'conflicting personalities' as the reason for his refusal— however, you had never had a complete conversation with Prince Daeron. There was no possible way that your personalities could be in conflict; you'd barely met him. Which meant that there was another reason for his refusal.
You knew that neither the King, nor the Crown Prince or his brother were pleased about it. It caused immense trouble for House Targaryen; your own family is one of the Targaryens' greatest allies, so it would only cause a rift between the two households if you were to be turned away with no good reason. House Targaryen could not afford to lose your family's alliance, and so you were asked to remain in King's Landing for another two weeks— or, to put it more plainly, until Prince Maekar or another of the Targaryens could convince Daeron to change his mind.
All of the muscles in your abdomen lock up, and what feels like a roaring hot fire rushes through your body all at once. You scream again, your back threatening to arch off the bed with your convulsing. It hurts so much. How could it possibly hurt so much? How could this little vial of fluid be enough to make you feel like you're burning alive from the inside out? You can hear your own scream ringing around the stone walls of the chamber, loud enough to startle a couple crows off of the eaves outside the open window.
While you're still curled into a ball on the bed, catching your breath, you hear a swift knock on the chamber door before it creaks open. There, you catch a whiff of spice and musk, rich and full. Your eyes fly open in horror as the source of the scent steps into the room with all the lordly grace of the seven kingdoms.
"Maester Florin," comes Prince Baelor Breakspear's voice, usually grounding and calming, but right now it hits you like a lightning bolt in the chest, knocking the very wind out of your lungs. "There seems to be much commotion. May I inquire as to how the lady is faring?"
Maester Florin bows. "Your Grace, I—"
"No."
The word tumbles out of your mouth before you can even stop it. Everything was manageable, more or less, until the Crown Prince entered the room, but now… now, his scent fills your lungs, his words are in your ears, you can practically taste him on the air, like peppercorn and sweet juniper. Your heart pounds in your ribcage like it's trying to escape, your blood singing with fire and your skin prickling with sweat.
You don't want to think about Prince Baelor right now. Each time he comes to mind, it's with an enormous wave of pain ripping through your entire body, as though the very thought of him causes the affliction to double its efforts to end you. Even so, in your mind you see the image of the Prince's concerned face when he stepped into your sick room one day ago, to make the same inquiry and send for a maester to attend you.
You have to get out. You have to leave before the next wave of pain kills you.
You're so tense that when you try to flop over on the bed, you look like a cockroach trying to right itself. "No. No no no no—" In spite of the pain in your muscles, you grab the corner of the goose down mattress and pull yourself toward the edge of the bed, until your upper body hangs off the side, limp as a wet rag.
"My lady, that is inadvisable—" Maester Florin rushes towards you as soon as your fingers meet the stone floor. "You will hurt yourself without assistance."
"Has she been like this the entire time?" Baelor's voice remains steady, but there is a newer, sharper quality to it: he's displeased. If you were to chance a look at him, you would see the carefully concealed worry beneath his practiced diplomacy, but you cannot bring yourself to look his way for fear that it might end you.
Instead, you continue trying to throw yourself from the bed, while Maester Florin actively tries to put you back in it. "No, Your Grace. Aside from the— the screaming—"
Florin's hand connects with your shoulder, and you just about punch him, the pain is so excruciating. Instead, you whack your hand against the front of his robes and bunch them in your fist to pull him close to your face.
"I asked you a question, Maester," you growl at him with a livid expression, watching his eyes widen at your sudden outburst. "Why is this happening?"
"You consumed a powerful aphrodisiac." He swallows, his eyes nervously flitting in Baelor's direction.
You make the grave mistake of following Florin's gaze, and you look at Baelor. The Hand of the King stands at the foot of your sickbed, his eyes focused on you, and only you. His face remains impassive, yet his fingers twitch as though he is contemplating what he can do to intervene.
You push Maester Florin away and begin frantically clawing your way back up the bed towards the headboard. You can feel it: the next wave of heat and pain, building in your toes and hands, inching down your limbs. "Nonono— Maid and Mother's fucking tits."
You manage to plant your face in the pillow before you let out another scream, but this time it seems worse, like you might actually split in half from the pain. You don't know how much more of it you can take. You've drenched your threadbare chemise in sweat, to the point that it doesn't really preserve your modesty anymore. All it does is stick to your damp, oversensitive skin, irritating you and making the sensory overload that much worse.
Once the pain subsides, you begin to rip at the offending garment in an attempt to draw it over your head. You're babbling nonsense, fragments of sentences and profanities that you don't even remember having in your repertoire, but you can still hear Maester Florin as he rattles off technical explanations to his Prince.
"—was purchased from a market stall— seems to be a tincture of moonbloom and gilliflower— another ingredient I have not yet identified—"
Before you can manage to muscle the useless chemise over your head, a hand settles on your back directly between your shoulder blades.
"Don't do that, my lady."
Baelor's voice is directly over your shoulder, gentle but stern. His hand presses solidly between your shoulders, holding the fabric of your chemise against your overheated flesh. You blink, seeing nothing but the headboard of the bed and cream colored linen, but feeling surrounded by him. His scent, his touch, his voice, so close and so strong, should hurt. It should hurt, because until now the barest touch has been agony, exacerbating the pain and torment.
But Baelor's touch does nothing. It's the oddest thing, enough to make you stop moving and tensing up for just a moment. You are still too hot, your skin is still too sensitive, but the only warmth and sensation that Baelor's hand brings is… comforting. Relief emanates from the single point of contact, bleeding through your body in tangible ripples that seem to stretch out down your spine and along your limbs.
That is, until the relief settles low. And then it becomes something else, something arguably worse than the pain. Your core muscles draw up tight and aching, and the heat and agony is replaced with devastating, almost crippling arousal.
You gasp, your back arching dramatically like that of a frightened cat, and you practically throw yourself away from Baelor with all the grace of a scared animal. Or, at least, you try to leap from the bed, but your body is sluggish, and Baelor Breakspear is nothing if not a quick combatant.
As soon as you try to take off, bouncing up like one of the crows into the air, Baelor's arm comes around your waist and drags you back down to the mattress. Try as you might to wriggle free and fling yourself to the floor, Baelor is strong, a force to be reckoned with.
"Stop this at once." Baelor's voice is still just as firm, but the gentility with which he orders you is… it's awful. He commands you with kindness and patience. "I will not abide you hurting yourself."
"Already hurts," you argue, although it's more of a lie the longer Baelor holds you.
It's as though he has the cure to your ailment within his very palms. But, while he holds you down, cradling you with your back to his chest, your arousal grows to a horrifying degree. You can feel your core muscles contract and release, the wetness between your legs smearing your thighs. There is a very likely chance that you may cum without any other form of stimulation, and you will not be able to survive that amount of humiliation. Perhaps he cannot abide you hurting yourself, but you cannot abide acting like a whore in the Prince of Dragonstone's arms.
You make a small, frantic noise in the back of your throat, and whimper, "I have to go. Let me go. Please. Please— Please. My lord, let me go. I have to go."
The small skirmish nears its end as you plant your hands on his forearm and try to push it away, but your hands are too weak and his arm is like a steel belt holding you down.
"Go where?" His voice is too close to your ear. You shiver in his arms, clamping your thighs together to stave off the new waves of heat coalescing between them. Goosebumps break out across your skin, and you feel your eyes widen. He sounds so fucking calm when he says, "There are several flights of stairs to descend before you reach the ground floor. Your only other option is the window, and you will break every bone in your body no matter which way you decide to go, unless you can walk. Can you walk?"
Only if you're touching me. You grit your teeth. "I have to try."
"No." It's Baelor who says it this time, and in spite of all your fighting, you can't seem to drum up any more of it.
You have to admit that it's a relief to not be in pain anymore, even if you have an entirely different set of problems to contend with, now. You slump forward in his arms, hanging your head as you dumbly squeeze at the fabric of his sleeve. "It is not proper for you to be holding me this way, Your Grace."
"I fear that it would be less proper of me to allow you to throw yourself from the window," Baelor explains rationally. Still, he releases his arm from around your waist, only bringing a hand up to move your hair away from your face. You have to physically fight not to press your overheated cheek into the cradle of his hand, like a cat seeking out affection. He pauses, and then says, "Maester, you said that you had not identified an ingredient of the tincture. Could it be dragon's breath?"
"No, Your Grace." Maester Florin speaks from across the room, where he retreated back to his apothecary setup. "With respect, I am familiar with dragon's breath. I would have been able to identify its presence with relative ease."
"She smells of it." Baelor does not say it unkindly.
"It is possible that while the tincture is in her system, the aphrodisiac effects may occur outwardly as well." Florin pauses, then clarifies, "That is, it will cause her to look, smell, or sound in ways that… some may consider… attractive, Your Grace."
Baelor remains silent. The implication hangs solidly in the air. You notice almost immediately that the maester did not include taste in that assessment, although it lingers in the subtext. The Prince is being effected by your presence, even if it is not to the same degree that you are being effected by his.
"You never answered my question, Maester," you finally interject. "Why is it killing me?"
You feel Baelor's fingers tense on your shoulder just slightly at the question, but he doesn't say anything. Instead, he waits while Florin seems to flounder for a moment, and then gently supplements, "Please answer the lady's question."
Florin looks deeply uncomfortable. "Your Grace, it's… of quite a delicate subject matter. I hesitate to cause yourself or the lady any offense—"
"Seven above, just spit it out, already!" You swipe your arm across your sweaty forehead, desperate to put an end to the hedging about. "I've been laying here dying for ages! What is it, what?"
"That's enough, now." Baelor holds a hand up to silence you, and you almost think you might bite it, except that he has such beautiful hands. You wouldn't want to mar them. You stare unabashedly at his silver ring and the lines on his palm, and you start… salivating.
Gods be good. You're going to eat him.
Florin hesitates only a second more. "This aphrodisiac… although the recipes differ across various regions, it is normally intended as a… a temporary cure for impotence and infertility. It is… I believe it is primarily used in brothels, to make— er… intercourse more— ehm. Pleasurable?"
You blink. "If it's meant to be pleasurable, then why does it hurt so much?" You still refuse to admit that you're already experiencing the so-called pleasurable function— that is, you're soaking the mattress with it the longer Baelor keeps his hand on your shoulder.
"Well, it is usually taken with the intention of… ehm. Using it for its innate purpose, you see. The aphrodisiac will remain in one's system until it has been expelled during copulation."
Baelor drops his hand from your shoulder and takes a step back. You feel the loss like a punch in the gut— quite literally, all of your muscles tighten at once, and you double over in pain.
Through clenched teeth, you say, "So, you mean I have to… to have sex?" The look on the maester's face says everything you need to know. "Or what? What if I don't? I'm— it hurts so much, I can't— I wouldn't be able to do anything… not on my own."
Your face burns at the admission. The humiliation— the irony of it all is unbelievable. The little lady took a love potion and now can't fuck herself properly enough to get it out of her system. The only hand she reacts to is the one she can't have, because it belongs to the Realm.
Florin chews on his lip while he thinks, and then explains, "This particular recipe seems more aggressive than most. That is likely due to the unidentifiable ingredient. The potion is, essentially, a slow acting poison. If it is not used for its intended purpose… I suppose, generally, there will be immense pain and fits for… three days after ingestion. Delirium sets in after about two days. And then—" His eyes flit from you, to Baelor, and back. "Then, my lady, I'm afraid you will die."
One Week Earlier
Admittedly, you knew it wouldn't work the minute you saw Daeron. He looked green about the face, his eyes so red and bleary that you thought he would keel over at any moment. If you hadn't heard him called 'Daeron the Drunken' behind closed doors, you would have tried to somehow politely ask if he was ill. Instead, you just assumed he'd had one too many before showing up to your presentation in court.
No, you aren't surprised that he turned down the offer of marriage. You were, however, surprised that he did not deliver the news himself. Instead, he sent a servant with a note while you were eating breakfast, and left you to bring it before the King. The entire meeting went over about the way you expected. Prince Maekar went to find Daeron, Prince Baelor apologized for his nephew's rudeness and the inconvenience, and the King assured you that all would be made well.
The truth of the matter is that you have no interest in Daeron, anyway. You do not want a husband who refuses to talk to you, even if his drunkenness was not an issue. Daeron has given you no reason to desire him— at this point, the prospect of the marriage would be a matter of your family's social and financial standing, and your own status as a Princess.
Now that the castle is sufficiently in an uproar about Daeron's refusal, you have made your gracious retreat to the gardens. You don't want to be in the castle any longer than you have to. Your family has already suggested leaving King's Landing in two days' time, and even so, it feels like too long to wait.
From the gardens, you look out over Blackwater Bay, watching ships disappear one by one over the horizon. You have no idea how long you sit there, but the sun slowly creeps lower and lower in the sky, until golden light filters through the leaves of the trees.
"My lady." For how large of a man Baelor is, he is light on his feet. You hadn't heard him approach, and so you jump when he addresses you, spinning around to find him standing a respectable distance away from your bench. When you stand to curtsy, he gives you an indulgent smile. "It appears that you've been out here for some time. I only wanted to ensure all was well."
You fight not to raise an eyebrow at the Prince. "You must have been watching me closely, then, Your Grace."
He squints, then pivots to peer up at the Tower of the Hand, looming over the Red Keep. "Not so close, I should think."
You snicker at that, casting your eyes away from him. Baelor is a handsome man, and kind. You find your awareness lingering on him above all others, and you're beginning to fear that your crush is becoming obvious. You feel nervous in his presence in only the best way, as though you may trip over your own tongue and say something entirely unbecoming just as soon as you open your mouth. That feeling is… refreshing, in the right company. But Baelor is heir apparent to the Iron Throne, Protector of the Realm, and you are simply a noble lady much younger than him, with the prospect of marrying his nephew. Any fantasies you indulge can only be that.
"May I join you a moment?" Baelor asks, and despite your internal angst, you cannot bring yourself to refuse him.
Perhaps it would be more proper to have your lady's maid here with you, but Mircalla has other things to be doing now, and so you sit a respectable distance away from Baelor on the bench while staring out to sea and wishing it was not respectable at all.
"In my week at court, I've discovered that I quite like this view," you say after a beat, to puncture the tight shroud of silence that settles between the two of you. "I enjoy watching the waves. I wonder what it's like to be one of them, sometimes. Rolling always towards the shore."
"Or dashing upon the rocks?"
You hum. "At least they know where they're going, rocks or no."
You retreat back into silence with him, and watch him out of the corner of your eye as he twirls his silver ring around his finger idly. He seems to be thinking hard about something, eyes fixed on the horizon with a purpose. It gives you just a moment to admire his profile— his strong, twice-broken nose, his furrowed brow, the touches of silvery gray in his close-cropped dark hair. The small freckle on his cheekbone. The stretch of his neck from beneath his collar, begging for a pair of lips or a tongue to lavish it.
"My lady, allow me to extend my apologies once more for my nephew's behavior," Baelor says finally, and you turn your eyes quickly back out to sea. "It is not the first time Daeron has been irresponsible with delicate matters. Although, it is also the fault of we who expect responsibility from him, that there must be an apology."
"I don't think it's unreasonable to expect responsibility from a prince," you answer without thinking, and then suddenly remember who you are speaking to. "…Your Grace."
"No. On that, we agree." There is a light chuckle in his voice, a slight humor that you imagine is meant to make you feel more at ease. "I do not imagine that Daeron will take long to rectify his behavior, however."
You feel a girlish temper flare within you at the idea that Daeron could rectify anything. You take a long, sobering breath, smelling sea salt and garden flowers on the air.
"You were married, Your Grace. You know quite well how to approach a—" Woman. You want to say it, but you feel it would be too forward. You reconsider, and continue instead with, "a betrothal. Do you believe that anything Daeron has done makes for a… a loving marriage?"
Baelor considers your question with the attention you would expect from the King's Hand. Then, he answers, "I would not hazard a guess as to the sincerity of Daeron's feelings toward you, my lady. Only he can truly know the answer to that. Though, it may bring you some comfort to know that…" He pauses thoughtfully. "My own marriage was not for love. It was arranged, as duty demanded. But, in time, I do believe Jena and I came to love one another, as well as a match made in service to the Crown would allow. Perhaps your marriage to Daeron would be the same."
You sit with his words. Enter into a loveless marriage, having already been besmirched by the man who you would bind yourself to, and hope that love will come in spite of it all. It sounds like a fool's errand.
"Be that as it may, I believe Daeron has already done some irreparable damage to my reputation." When you see Baelor turn his head just barely toward you, you supplement, "My lady's maid, Mircalla, shares with me the gossip I would otherwise be protected from. Sometimes, it can be… harsh. She is honest with me, which is a quality I admire most, you understand." You look down at your hands to find yourself tearing at your own cuticles in your nervousness. "She told me some hours ago that there are rumors floating about as to why— why Daeron would refuse me. Some speculated that we fought upon first meeting. Others suggest that I am pregnant with another man's bastard. Or— Or that we have already slept together, and that Daeron was not pleased with me. Can you imagine…?"
Your voice fades out on a horrified whisper. Although none of these rumors are true, each of them deal a blow to your reputation in turn. Your eyes sting with tears the longer you think of the different stories concocted about you.
"Although it may satisfy me to have Daeron grovel and beg forgiveness, it makes no difference. From now on I will be known as the whore that Daeron refused."
Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Baelor pressing his lips together tightly, raising his chin just a tick. The Prince is quiet for a moment, while you bite back your tears and turn your face away from him.
"You say that honesty is a trait that you value," Baelor remarks, and waits until you nod at him in response. "Then please trust me to be honest. I cannot imagine that anyone would truly believe that of you, my lady. You see, I have had the privilege of knowing you during your time at the Red Keep, and I find you to be exceptional in every way. I can't imagine it, because I cannot fathom anyone viewing you as anything else."
You finally turn to fix him with a watery stare, and find him looking back at you with such solitary focus that you practically wither beneath his gaze. For the first time, you notice that Baelor's eyes are two different colors. The castle is not brightly lit inside, and you have never been close enough to him to notice it, until now. One brown, one violet, they lend even more of a sense of mystery to his handsome features. You have a mind to mention it— you open your mouth to tell him that they're beautiful, but then you think better of it.
He's the Prince of Dragonstone. The Hand of the King. There is nothing that could bring you together.
Baelor holds a hand out to you, his palm facing upward. You peer down at it for a moment before placing your hand delicately in his. Baelor's thumb gently brushes your knuckles, his hand practically dwarfing your own. His palm is so warm, and when he places his other hand atop yours, your skin feels engulfed in flames.
"However," Baelor says, and locks you in his stare, "I can believe that rumors abound. It is an unfortunate effect of being highborn that many will speak on what they know nothing about. But rumors seldom bear any truth. They reflect nothing of your true nature. I assure you that House Targaryen, Daeron included, will understand that."
You blink down at your hand, enveloped in both of his. Daeron. Of course, all of this is to convince you not to lose hope, that Daeron will change his mind, that Daeron will decide to marry you.
"I… thank you for your kindness, Your Grace," you respond, for lack of anything else to say. You know that he's being as fair in his judgment as possible, but he has a duty to the King and to House Targaryen. Gently, you withdraw your hand from his as you add, "Unfortunately, I regret that my family are displeased with Daeron's refusal. I understand that they have designs on leaving King's Landing in two days' time. While I know that both you and Prince Maekar are quite persuasive, I doubt that it provides ample time for Daeron to change his mind. I imagine he wanted to refuse me the moment he saw me."
"Why do you imagine that?"
You look out across Blackwater Bay, thinking back to your first meeting with Daeron. When you curtsyed, the princeling looked as though he was going to either throw up or faint, or both. At the time, you blamed it on the drink. Now, you're not entirely sure.
"I believe he finds me ugly."
Baelor huffs a short laugh through his nose, so quiet and subtle that you would not have caught it if you weren't sitting so close to him. You turn to look at him, appalled, and find him with a soft, reserved smile on his face.
"Well, don't laugh."
"Apologies, my lady." Still, Baelor's mouth curves up at the edges as though he just can't help himself. You watch him tongue the inside of his cheek, half-amused. "I mean no jest. I just find it rather unlikely, to be frank."
"I can't think of another reason why," you explain, finally letting your true emotions ring through. You're hurt. You had given Daeron no reason to dislike you; you had been agreeable and good-natured whenever you spoke to him. "He sent his refusal via courier. He wanted not to speak to me, and he has been quite avoidant throughout my entire visit."
"It's true," Baelor replies smoothly. "Daeron has behaved abominably. But I do know him to be kind, and mannerly when given the opportunity."
You had given Daeron plenty of opportunities. You don't want to argue with Baelor, but you think that he is viewing your situation only from the position of a Prince of the Realm.
"How many hours in the day are there? How many days in a week? Daeron could have come to me during any of them, and I would have recieved him. Kind and mannerly though he may be, Your Grace," you say, looking over at Baelor Breakspear with a challenging fire in your eyes, "no one can force a man to want, any more than they can force a horse to drink."
Baelor's expression remains frustratingly unreadable. You gaze into his mismatched eyes as though they will tell you something, anything about what he's thinking, but there is nothing there to betray him.
"Daeron would be a fool not to want you," Baelor tells you, his voice low and edged with a finality that makes you want to take it for fact. "Whether he is or is not, I cannot say. Only time will tell."
"Do you say that as a man? Or as the Hand of the King?" you ask him more pointedly than you should.
"Both."
You gaze at each other for a long time, long enough that the breeze picks up and sweeps your hair up in its gust. You watch Baelor's jaw work— as small of a gesture though it is, it is the only thing about him that tells you he's contemplating something. He is no open book, your Prince, and it frustrates you as much as it seduces you. It sets you daydreaming, watching him openly in the cool evening air as his mouth curves vaguely toward a frown. Down by his knee, he worries the silver ring on his finger.
Then, Baelor lifts his hand, and with a touch so featherlight it's almost inconsequential, he brushes your hair away from your brow and tucks it behind your ear. His skin barely even meets yours— you can explain it away as him just being chivalrous, just keeping your hair from flying into your eyes. But it's enough to make your heart lurch up into your throat, nonetheless.
"It's late," you mutter, now that the sun has dipped below the horizon and the garden is bathed in shadow. You swallow the lump in your throat, trying to regain your composure as you drop your gaze.
"It is."
"It's getting dark."
"Yes," Baelor agrees, then finally looks away from you. He squints out across the bay, staring into the distance at the absence of sun. "The dragon's breath will be blooming, now."
"Dragon's breath?" You shake your head. "I'm sorry, Your Grace, I have not heard of it."
"I'm not surprised. It's a night-blooming flower, native to Dorne. There is a crop of them not far off, if I recall. Come, I can show it to you." Baelor stands and offers you his hand once again, and this time, you do not hesitate to take it.
He leads you, arm-in-arm, down the garden path toward the godswood. Just as the treeline begins to thicken in the gloaming, Baelor brings you to a stop.
"Just there," he murmurs, guiding you to investigate a shrub low to the ground, littered with trumpet-shaped red blooms. As he stoops to pluck one from the shrub, he says, "Dragon's breath. They are sweetly fragranced, but do not be mistaken. They can be quite deadly if eaten."
"I'll make sure not to put them in my tea, then," you tell him as you take the flower he extends to you. It smells slightly of jasmine and woodsmoke when you hold it beneath your nose, careful not to let it touch your lips. "It's lovely."
"Yes," Baelor says, watching you closely. His eyes linger on yours for an extended moment, a gentle smile curving his mouth. Then, a serene look crosses his face. "It is said that the First Men would ingest it to convene with the old gods. Whether or not this is true remains to be seen, but I would not advise it, at any rate."
"No, I'd imagine not." You spend a second twirling the little red blossom, the same shade as the red thread in his doublet, the colors of House Targaryen. Quite suddenly, you observe, "They're your favorite."
Baelor is quiet for a moment. "What makes you so certain?"
"You thought of them first. You could have shown me anything in the entire Keep, but you showed me these. Obviously, they're important to you." You peer up at him, and you can't bite back your smirk. "I'm right, aren't I?"
Baelor huffs a small laugh, the second one you've managed from him. The sound of it warms the pit of your stomach. "You're rather sure of yourself."
"That isn't a 'no.'"
"Mm. It's not a 'yes,' either."
You crack a grin. "Okay. Don't tell me, then. But I'm right."
This time, when Baelor tilts his head downward, you catch him smiling, a flash of teeth and a dimple indenting his bearded cheek. It is imperfect, crooked and so very human. He hides it well, but you're able to see it before he gentles his face into a careful mask once again.
He doesn't know that you see it. It will remain your secret, a fascination to look back on when you're in need of comfort. You made the Prince of Dragonstone smile. A real smile.
"Thank you, Your Grace," you tell him quietly, still pinching the blossom in your fingers. "For your company. And your hospitality."
"The pleasure is mine." Baelor looks as though he may leave the conversation there, but then he adds, "One more word before we part, my lady, if you please?"
"Certainly." You step a touch closer to him. A cricket sounds somewhere in the brush. The night is beginning to wake around you, the longer you linger with the Prince. You wonder if you could draw the moment out long enough to see the dawn.
Baelor does not seem overly concerned about it. "I should like to extend an invitation to your family, if you believe they would be willing. Perhaps, rather than departing King's Landing in two days' time, they would agree to remain another fortnight?"
You blink at him. Another two weeks? For what, exactly?
Baelor answers your unasked question, as though he can see directly into your mind. "So that we may have ample time for Daeron to correct his mistake. Of course."
"Of course," you echo. You feel clean out of air in your lungs, stunned for something to say. "Your Grace, I— I would say that my family would have to answer that invitation for themselves. I cannot speak for the lot."
He affords you the most patient of smiles. "I would like to hear your answer before all, if you don't mind."
"Oh."
Another two weeks at the Red Keep. Two weeks for the rumors to spread, to converge and morph into even worse ones. Two weeks for Daeron to insult you by ignoring you, tarnish your reputation by refusing you a second time. Conversely, two weeks for Daeron to decide that he may tolerate your company and accept you.
You look down at the flower in your fingers. Two weeks to search for the sight of Baelor in the halls and in the councils. Two weeks to speak to him again. Two weeks to indulge in that wickedest of fantasies: that you might fall in love with Baelor Breakspear.
"Yes," you tell Baelor, quiet enough that it threatens to be spirited away on the breeze. "Yes, if my family is willing. I would be glad to stay another fortnight, at Your Grace's pleasure."
Baelor nods at you graciously. "Then I will see to your family's response in the morning. Thank you for your acceptance, my lady."
"Thank you for your invitation." You tilt your face towards the sky. "It is quite dark. I fear that I will have trouble on my way back, should I remain any longer."
"Indeed. The fault is mine, entirely. Allow me to walk you to the holdfast."
You make the journey back to the holdfast in comfortable silence. You find that you do not feel even remotely unsafe as long as Baelor is near; otherwise, you would never chance to linger outside the holdfast, even within the castle walls, after dark. But Baelor's presence is a relief. You would trust him with your life. You would probably trust him with even more than that, given the chance.
"My Prince."
You pause in the golden torchlight, only bright enough to illuminate the bridge over the dry moat. Down in the pit there is nothing but blackness, and a sense that if you stepped too close it would suck you in. Turning to Baelor, you have the dragon's breath blossom still in your fingers, and lift it to your face to take in its scent again— sweet, smoky, like a garden aflame. You can understand why he is taken with this particular flower.
Baelor watches you expectantly, a respectable distance away again, as though every part of your conversation this evening had been a diplomatic mission. Cleaning up his nephew's mess. Doing what is right for the Realm.
The idea rattles you. It cuts you deep and hits something within that you thought you'd left in your girlhood— covetousness. The desire to be shown favoritism, attention. To be wanted, not simply tolerated. You are not a girl anymore, but the King's Hand seems to bring her out of you as though it were second nature. You feel the urge to try to bring the boy out of him, which may be an insurmountable task. He is a prince, a warrior and a lord of refined poise and sophistication. But you have never been one to shy away from a challenge.
You step closer to him. Baelor does not move away, but follows you with his eyes, a reserved expression on his face. Perhaps he is trying to anticipate what you may do, but he does not show any signs of backing down. You imagine that he wouldn't, even if you threw yourself at him unceremoniously. If you kissed him like you desperately want to, open-mouthed and wet.
But you are not improper, or desperate. You are a lady, and well-versed in flattery and elegant flirtation. You take the dragon's breath, and you tuck the green stem into the gap between the silk fabric of his doublet and the Hand of the King pin that adorns his chest. It flares up from the pin, as though the fingers of the hand were holding it tight to his heart.
"Keep this safe," you say, your smile hiding your desirous stare. Your fingers rest against his chest for just a second longer than is proper, but you pull them away quickly enough, you think. "I would hate for it to go to waste."
Baelor's eyes soften. "Certainly, my lady."
"You are quite a wonderful man, my Prince." Your innermost thoughts become physical things, they turn balmy on your tongue. "If you may pardon my saying so. I have wanted to for some time, but… the opportunity did not present itself."
Baelor's brows raise just the slightest, but he does not admonish you. "I thank you for the compliment, my lady. You are very kind, indeed." A pause, a breath on the wind. "Lovely."
You stay there, held captive in his gaze. One violet, one brown. Finally, in spite of your sense of self preservation, you tell him, "Your eyes… They really are very beautiful, you know."
You do not wait for his answer or reaction before you bid him goodnight, and all but flee into the holdfast. And so, you are not able to see the way he watches after you with a lingering smile, and a longing gaze in those very eyes.
Present
Baelor sends Maester Florin away with an order to return on the morrow, and to alert the servants that you should not be disturbed. It is not without your notice that after he ushers the maester out the chamber door, he bolts it with a final clang that reverberates in your oversensitive ears.
You lay on the mussed bedsheets, curled into a ball. You are sideways in the bed; there is no point in putting yourself to rights, because the moment the next wave of pain hits you will become a writhing animal once again, a slave to the torrents of agony. Through the stringy, damp strands of your loose hair, you watch Baelor's back.
He leans against the door with both hands pressed flat to the wood, head bowed in thought. Or, is it distress? Perhaps both. You don't quite know what to make of his reaction to your situation, at all.
What you do know is that you feel a wave of heat flash through your body so fast and so sharp that all of your muscles tense at once, and you yelp from the blast of pain. Your head pounds as though your heartbeat originates from it.
Baelor turns at the sound of your anguish, and his face pinches at the sight of you, a small, trembling heap on the bed. "I will fetch Daeron."
"No."
"My lady, please."
He approaches the end of the bed, but you can't do more than follow the sight of his face with your eyes, until it passes too far into your periphery, and you must drop them to his belt. The sight of Baelor's belt inches away from your face is not something that helps your situation at all, however, and so you shut your eyes before your body manages to torment you further.
"Daeron is… unreliable, yes. And irresponsible. I know that you harbor wounded feelings towards him at the moment, but…" Baelor hesitates. Clearly, he knows that he is not making the best case for his nephew. His eyes roam your disconsolate form, and then he finishes, "But he is your best chance at survival. I am certain that he will be agreeable, at least in this pursuit."
"Do you even know if his cock works?"
Baelor is eerily silent. You don't open your eyes to look at him until you feel the mattress shift, and you find that he's sat on the foot of the bed, his back to you once again. His hands loosely grip the edge of the mattress on either side of him, and his posture betrays no real emotion. It is only when you notice the redness of his ears that you realize your words must have unnerved him.
"I would not know, my lady," Baelor answers quietly, after a moment. "Daeron has sired no bastards, as far as I am aware. His drunkenness may prove an issue, but questionable odds are better than none."
"I don't want Daeron. He doesn't want me."
"He is to be your betrothed." Baelor's words are flat, even. Clinical. "I understand that if he had not refused you, then perhaps you would not have resorted to… other methods—"
"I didn't take the fucking thing for him," you finally snap, gritting your teeth against the pain throbbing in your head and in your abdomen.
Baelor's voice surrenders to something inquisitive. "Then, why did you take it?"
Another moment of silence. Baelor is too still, his hand pressed flat to the mattress in front of your face. You stare, unblinking, at the glint of the silver ring on his finger, bearing the insignia of House Targaryen.
"I thought… perhaps there was someone else for me." You take in a shallow breath. "Although, I think my rash decision making outweighs my judgment."
Baelor turns and gives you the most indulgent smile you think you've ever received, even though there is immense pain behind his eyes.
"If you will not have Daeron… perhaps I can call another for you. Ser Duncan may be willing," he suggests, his voice just above a whisper. "Ser Duncan is a good and honorable man. I trust him with my life, and I would trust him with yours."
You stare at him in shock for a moment. "Oh… Oh, yes, of course. Ser Duncan. Ser Duncan. Why didn't I think of that? Ser Duncan the Tall." Baelor remains stoic, nonplussed at your sarcasm. Your stomach cramps up as you blather, "Or, better yet, why not call Ser Donnel as well? The entire King's Guard, even? Drag me down to the Great Yard, maybe they can take turns, pass me off—"
"Enough," Baelor finally snaps, shooting you a stern look. "I will hear no more of that sort of talk from you."
"Or what? Your Grace," you return with a wicked glare. "I will not be foisted off to the first man you think of."
Lit up with the fury of a thousand suns now, and sweating enough to show it, you push yourself up on wobbly limbs and tumble off of the bed onto the bearskin rug on the floor. You land on your aching stomach with a loud, "OOMF," and all the air painfully leaves your lungs.
"Stop this, now." Baelor sounds weary, as though he's bored of a game you're playing.
"No. Leave me." You crawl clumsily across the rug towards the chamber window. "I'm not going to lay there, dying in agony and— and losing my mind. I'd rather throw myself out of the tower. Let me die with quiet dignity and grace."
"Quiet dignity and grace," he eventually repeats, incredulous. He hasn't even gotten up from the end of the bed, but just watches you, fascinated with your display. "You know, I fathered two boys. Theatrics don't impress me, especially when negotiating."
"Yes, remind me again of how you're so amazing at everything, like— fathering sons, and— negotiating," you growl, huffing with the exertion of your endeavor. "Because you're— you're so fucking perfect and chivalrous. The Hammer. With your— fucking— giant, veiny— host of Dornish spearmen."
"My, you're verbose."
It's only when you threaten to tip the table by the window, as you attempt to haul yourself up to your feet, that Baelor rises. He reaches you in three quick strides, snatches you about the waist and throws you over his shoulder, just to carry you back to the bed. Your small amount of spite-fueled energy spent, you merely hang on him like a sack of straw.
Baelor lays you down so that your head hits the pillow, your hands thrown above your head. "Are you quite finished?" he asks sharply, looming over you, his eyes boring into yours. His jaw set, he states, "I am trying to save your life."
"And I am no one's whore." You stare defiantly up into the eyes of Baelor Targaryen, willing him to yield.
And, to your surprise, he does. His eyes soften, his jaw untensing as he lets out a slow, defeated sigh. "No, you are not."
He sits back, his hands still pressed into the mattress on either side of you. You miss his proximity like a lost limb.
"Forgive me. I have been presumptuous in my suggestions. I would never force you into any situation against your will or desires." A pause. "But I cannot sit idle and let you die. I beg you, my lady. Name someone, anyone, who you would trust in this matter. Someone who you would accept. I will bring them to you without question."
You gaze up at him tearfully, and feel another wave of heat blooming in your hands and feet. You press your tongue to the back of your teeth and take in the sight of him, so poised and regal, even when faced with an unmanageable task.
"Baelor."
Your hand— small, clammy with sweat and shaky from the fatigue in your limbs— reaches out and finds his— large, warm, grounding. You pull at his hand, and he lets you. His head turns just slightly, watching you as you cradle his large palm in your two hands and press it firmly against your chest, just below your collarbone.
Whatever this magic is, be it gods sent or gods cursed, it reacts the second his skin touches yours. Your entire body sparks alive with sensation— but rather than the unrelenting heat and pain of the poison coursing through your veins, it's solace. You let out a soft moan at the feeling, like gentle sunlight flooding through your body the moment that his fingers lace with yours.
"My Prince," you whisper shakily, and feel his fingers flex just slightly against your chest. Your heart pounds against your ribcage so hard that you know he feels it. He can probably feel the unbelievable heat radiating off of you. "It's— I feel so much pain. I hear the voices of the guards on the ramparts and I taste— I taste the salt from the sweat on your brow. I feel as though I will rip in two when the waves come, and nothing has made it better except— except you. When you touch me. Your hands on me… it's you."
Baelor is quiet, listening to your rambling speech. Tears stream from your eyes. It is both a relief and a terror to confess what you feel to him.
Then, Baelor removes his hand from your chest and brings it to cup the side of your face. The tenderness of his touch strips you to the bone. You feel like you're breathing only for him, like he commands the very air that gives your body function. His thumb brushes your damp hair away from your face, wiping away your tears with it, and he gazes down at you with such care, such affection.
He says your name softly, but there's a touch of sadness in it. He closes his eyes, breathes in long and slow through his nose. "I cannot do what you ask. You must name another."
"Please." You make a frail noise in the back of your throat, feeling as though you may begin sobbing in a moment. You shake your head, lifting one hand to clutch at Baelor's wrist.
"I cannot," he insists, although he doesn't pull his hand away from you. You don't know if he is bearing in mind what you told him— that his touch is the only thing that keeps the pain from tormenting you. There is palpable tension in his expression, his brow furrowed and his mouth set in a firm line. "I am the King's Hand and heir to the throne. If you were to be gotten with my child, it would cause a scandal."
"I am already rumored to be pregnant, remember? House Targaryen has weathered far worse than a bastard child," you remark weakly.
"But you have not. I would not dishonor you in such a way." When you pout and look as though you may argue, he continues, "Whatever rumors circulate about you, we need not give them merit."
"So you would have me carry another man's bastard, instead?"
Baelor snaps his mouth shut, his expression turning suddenly guarded. He makes as though he may pull his hand back as he turns away from you, and your stomach drops.
"Baelor, no."
You clap your own hand over his, turning to nuzzle into the warmth of his palm. On instinct, you plant your lips against his skin, and it's as though something savage bursts alive within you. Some greedy, desperate thing takes hold as your eyes drift shut, with each breath tasting the warmth and spice of his skin as though your tongue were flush to it.
"Don't let go," you whisper into the cradle of his hand. "If you let go of me the pain will return, and I can't— I can't bear it anymore, Baelor, I can't—"
"I know. I won't let you go, darling." He sounds strained even as he reassures you, but he doesn't remove his hand.
There is a long silence, while you practically lose yourself in the feeling of just… giving in. You relax into the glowing feeling, hot pleasure sweeping through your body, up your limbs and into your core, replacing any pain that had been there before. It's glorious. It distracts you, pulls your mind away from the reality of the situation— that you cannot simply have him hold your face and hope that the poison works its way out of your system on its own.
Without meaning to, you drag your parted lips along his fingers, as though exploring them just with your mouth. His fingers are so long. Slender and dextrous, calloused from hours of sword training. You feel each bump and ridge against your mouth and you're trying so hard not to sink your teeth in. Your lower lip catches on the band of his silver ring and draws back, letting the smallest flash of your teeth graze his skin.
You hear his breath catch, and your eyes fly open, suddenly aware of what you're doing. Baelor watches you from the corner of his eye as you press your face into his touch, his jaw locked up tight, his free hand a fist where it rests on his knee.
You feel as though you should apologize, but you can't bring yourself to. Apologize for what? For desiring him? Wanting him? He's so handsome. His differently colored eyes study you, a painful reminder of it. You stare back at him, imagining what it would be like to trace his face with your lips, as well.
"You told me once that Daeron would be a fool not to want me," you say, and you take a purposefully slow breath, because if you don't you may start heaving for air. "Are you a fool, my Prince?"
Baelor lets out a soft sigh, and looks quickly away from you. His fingers twitch slightly against your cheek. He's silent for a long time, long enough that you begin to fear you've misread him, confused his kindness for something deeper.
But then he tilts his head down, and without looking at you, he says quietly, "I am not, my lady. Though, whether my desire in itself is foolish, I have no idea. I may be doomed for it."
"Then… perhaps we are both doomed," you admit, your eyes practically dancing over his features. "I can't think around my desire for you. All I know is that you— you are all that I want in the world. Scandals and suspicious potions be damned."
"Gods above." You watch Baelor roll his eyes toward the ceiling. When he returns his eyes to you, it's with a look of solemn admiration. He strokes his knuckles along the curve of your jaw. "I'm beginning to believe you exist simply to torment me."
You allow yourself to fashion a wobbly smile. "Me? Torment the Breakspear? Never."
Baelor huffs a quiet laugh, looking away from you in a manner that is almost… shy. You can see his jaw flex beneath his short beard and a rosy flush come over his face, and—
You just made Baelor blush.
You lay with that, watching him in the silence. His hand drifts from grazing your jaw to resting flat against your collarbone again, and you lift your own to trace your fingers languidly along the back of his palm. You can hear his breath come out shaky at the light contact, and it's just enough to give you the clarity to really, truly think about this.
His hands on you could be enough, you realize. You practically came the moment that he touched you, and if this magic can just be expelled from your system by an orgasm, it might be that he doesn't need to do anything more than just… put his hands on you. It feels good enough as it is— the heat of him, the smell and the feeling of him, are all adding to the pleasurable fire burning in your core. But, if you felt his hands go… down…
"Baelor."
His name comes out of your mouth faster than it should, and he snaps his eyes to you with a look of sudden concern, as though he expects to find something wrong. But nothing really is wrong— at least nothing that hasn't been wrong to begin with.
"What if—" You bite your lip, trying hard not to move your hips in any way that could startle him off. Your cunt throbs just at the thought of feeling his hands on your body with no barrier. "What if you just… touched me?"
Baelor seems to think your question over, searching your face for any kind of deception. But you simply stare at him openly, your eyes pleading, heart pounding as you feel his thumb stroke once over the hollow of your throat.
And then, his eyes drift down. They linger on the swell of your breast, heaving under the thin, practically sheer linen of your chemise. Everything is too intimate, too bright in the mid-afternoon sun slanting through the open window, illuminating you. Gods, it feels like you're already naked before him with the way he just stares, undressing you in his mind. It hits you directly between the legs, and you clench your thighs together to stave off the rush of arousal.
Your breath hitches, and Baelor snaps his eyes back up to your face, as though he's just remembered himself. "I am touching you."
"Y-You—" Your breath hiccups in your chest with how hard you're trying not to gasp for air. "You don't know how cl-close I am to— to—"
You clap your hands over your face, feeling a flush of heat throughout your body that has nothing to do with his hand on you. It's hard enough to be begging him for some kind of stimulation, but to tell him how close you are to an orgasm just from his touch is mortifying.
Not for the first time, Baelor seems to be able to see inside your mind without you voicing your thoughts. "Tell me," he plies gently, his thumb sweeping across your damp skin. He remains so composed, even when you feel like dissolving into thin air. "What is it that you feel… when I touch you?"
He's still hesitant, but his voice holds a curiosity that he hadn't made manifest before now. Everything in you winds up tight at the sound. He's not just indulging you, he wants to know. You know that he's trying to be proper— Baelor is a man of restraint, of infinite patience and regard for honor and decency. You know that he's clinging to his morals even while trying to rationalize the problem set before him.
But he bolted the chamber door, you remember. Behind your closed eyelids, beyond the sound of your heavy breathing and his, more measured, you can hear the clang of the bolt reverberate in your ears all over again. His hands pressed to the solid oak, his head bowed in thought. Why would he have locked you in together? Unless…
"It feels like sunrise after a frost." Your voice is muffled behind your hands, because you refuse to look at him while you say such things. You don't think you could bear to see his face, as you confess, "It is as though all of this poison in me changes, and it becomes heavenly. I feel… when you touch me… as though my body is not my own, but yours to— to do with as you please. To mold to your whim. And I would let you, my lord, I— I would have you do anything that you desired to me, and I would ask you only to do it again. I could glut myself on your touch and it would not be enough, it undoes me in ways I cannot explain, I… You set your hand upon my back and I thought… I thought I was going to c-cum—"
You choke off on a quiet, humiliated sob. So there it is, out in the open now, with no way to take it back. Baelor is still frustratingly silent, but you refuse to pull your hands away from your face to look at him, because you can't find it within yourself to be clever or brave anymore.
"You wouldn't even need to— to deflower me," you continue, blathering now, unleashing any thought that comes to mind as a way to fill the silence. "It would hardly even be anything that would be significant to anyone, just— just lay your hand upon me, and I might— I could—"
"Where?"
All things stop at once. Your thoughts, your breath, your heartbeat. You freeze up like he has just found a way to completely obliterate you with one word. You take a sharp inhale to kickstart your lungs again, and hesitantly curl your fingers away from your eyes to look at him.
Baelor's eyes are transfixed on your face, unwavering, his expression open and earnest. He waits for you to answer him, but when it becomes apparent that you can't, he supplements, "Show me where you would have me touch you."
You consider him for just a second, just long enough for the gravity of his words to register. He wants you to show him. It occurs to you to tell him that he could touch you anywhere beneath your chemise— your stomach, your hip, your knee— and it may yield the same results. But you don't.
You take Baelor's hand, the one resting on your chest so steadily, and you move it. He allows you to, watching you all the time, the pupils of his mismatched eyes blown wide. With one hand you pull at the fabric of your chemise, tugging it up your legs, while you guide his own beneath it. As soon as his hand touches the plush skin of your thigh, you both gasp in tandem— but for different reasons.
For you, it's the burst of sensation, the sharp arcing pleasure that shoots up your spine and grips at something tight and cruel in your core, making you stifle a moan. You were right. The proximity of his touch to where you want it most makes all the difference— you fist at the gathered fabric in your hand and try not to rock your hips toward his touch, but your pussy throbs threateningly at the heat of him so close to it.
Baelor is simply startled. His brow shoots up, his jaw slack as he breathlessly murmurs, "Oh, my sweet girl."
You're drenched down your thighs, a fact that you had failed to mention to him. His fingers slip through the wetness there, feeling it against your skin, and his breath leaves him in shock.
"I— I wasn't like this, before." You take a shaky inhale, and tremors travel through your entire body. "Before you."
It's as though something within him cracks, and all of his inner turmoil is laid bare before you, etched across his features like a carving on stone. The fear, the worry, the frustration, all manifest in his pinched brow and the dip of his mouth, the tremble of his breath. But there is something else there, too— raw desire, sharp as a knife's edge. It's in his eyes, in the way that his shoulders draw tight, in the set of his jaw. It's in his hands, the way that his fingers shift and press into the pillowy flesh of your thigh.
Baelor's thumb sweeps along the curve of your inner thigh, the same affectionate, instinctive gesture that it had been as he laid his hand on your chest. But on this part of your body it is more suggestive, and perhaps ill-advised. His thumb glides too close to the core of you and, quite by accident, he discovers that you are bare of any smallclothes.
Your gasp is sudden and loud. The brush of his finger against your bare sex is enough to make you jump, your hand clamping down on his wrist desperately as pleasure dances like pure dragonflame over your nerves. Your cunt pulses, and a feeble moan breaks from you. "Baelor, please."
He halts, and something changes in his expression. Call it the end of resolve, or a breaking point. There is no hiding anything from him now, you know. He has seen everything, knows what you are laying with.
"No more begging," Baelor finally says, and it's a gentle order. This man who has led armies, who has killed and fought to defend his realm, speaks to you with infinite tenderness. "I have you now, darling. I am for you. You need not beg anymore."
I am for you. He is your knight, upholding his vows, taking up his sword to defend you.
You shiver to feel his grip on your thigh tighten just a bit, a final test of his resolve before he moves it. There is a shift beneath the white linen of your chemise, and then Baelor's knuckle drags slowly through your soaked folds.
Your breath stalls in your chest as your mouth drops open. His touch turns you golden. Your body seems to light up from the inside, fresh heat blooming low in your stomach. Heart pounding in your chest, you stutter, "Oh, fuck— fuck, Baelor, this— this is too much, you don't have to—"
He shushes you, and the look in his eyes threatens to undo you more than his finger tracing a line through your cunt. There is a fire in his eyes that was not there before. The fire of a dragon, of a Targaryen. His gaze feels almost like a physical caress as he says, "Hush, now. I do this willingly."
Fuck. His voice is deep, rich and soft as velvet as he stares at you with that unwavering intensity, touching you between your legs. Your Prince. Touching you between your legs. It completely arrests your ability to think. He is slow, methodical in his movements as he is with everything; he glides the length of his finger through your pussy without rush, letting you feel each bump and ridge as they pass over your clit.
With your heightened senses, you can hear how wet you are, and the salacious sound of his fingers gliding through the mess you've made is enough to drive you up the wall. He begins drawing circles around your clit with the tip of his finger, and you melt into the mattress. You feel as though your pleasure and your need have turned you inside out, bitten chunks from your sensibilities.
He's too beautiful. The thought plagues you more and more. Baelor is too handsome, too competent with his strong hands and too gentle with his lust-roughened words. Gods above, you feel like you could cum— you should have cum by now, with how badly your cunt spasms under his attention, how hypersensitive your clit is as he continues tracing languid circles around it.
Then Baelor dips down and sinks a single finger into you, where you leak and ache desperately for him. Your thighs widen to give him more room, and he takes it, pushes in to the knuckle and gives you a practiced crook of his finger.
A sound rips from you— something animalistic and completely unfamiliar, a moan from the very depths of your fevered being. You tighten a fist in the tangled bedsheets and turn your face to the side, trying to hide from him while he makes you unravel at the seams.
"Look at me, darling." At the hushed rasp of his voice, your cunt clamps down hard on his finger. He pauses, halting all movement until you turn your head to open your eyes to him.
What you find in his face is enough to move the endless soul in you. You have spent two weeks etching Baelor's face into your memory— his careful, poised demeanor, the way he steadies his expression to keep it neutral, tactful. You know his cautious smiles, and you know his deeper one, the one that you hold tight to your chest like a secret. You know his kindness, and you know his disappointment.
But you've never seen this. This unbridled lust, his every feature touched by the amount of desire he has for you. He gazes at you like he feels everything you do, and more. Baelor inclines his head, and he appears so composed, as he always does, but his chest is heaving— you can see it and you can hear it, in the rattle of his inhale, in the obvious rise and fall of his shoulders.
"I will have you look at me when I do this," Baelor tells you, his eyes so dark and hungry that the very glint in them is wicked. It unnerves you, runs quick and hot through your veins. "I will have you see all that I give, and know it is yours to keep. Only yours. Do you understand?"
You swallow hard. "Yes, my lord."
"Baelor." His voice is quiet when he corrects you.
"Baelor."
He flexes his finger within you and your face crumples, your thighs shaking where they lay spread on the mattress. His free hand comes to rest on your thigh and makes to pull your legs further apart, prevents you from moving it back to center. It is not a rough or demanding move, but it conveys his message. Stay. Don't move away.
Baelor whispers something in a language you don't understand— High Valyrian, most like, but it makes no difference that you cannot speak it. It sounds warm, seductive in his throat, and a tremble rolls through your body at the sound of it.
Soft moans fall from your lips as he adds a second finger beside the first, and your hips nearly leave the bed. You take him in so easily, a quiet breath of disbelief leaves him, and he shifts, giving you strokes that have you fighting to keep your eyes open and fixed on him. A gentle back and forth, a hot press against the wall of you. Your body doesn't know how to react— hot then cold, trembling and then still, rocking against him and then backing away as though it's too much and not enough all at once.
His silver signet ring grazes you, hard to offset his softness. You're so close, you can taste your release on the back of your tongue like the entire ocean is rising within you. You grab at the pillow beside your head, ripping at it between fingers that don't know what to do with themselves. Your eyes clench shut at the sudden onslaught, your head tilted back on the pillow.
"Look at me," Baelor reminds you, his voice gently commanding.
Quick as he says it, you snap your eyes open again and find his fixed on you, dark and fathomless. There is a sudden surge, a quickening in your breath. "Oh, gods, Baelor—"
It looms like some wretched, evil thing come to destroy you. You snatch at his forearm frantically, trying to warn him, but unable to form words.
"I know. I feel it," he soothes, a palm moving sweetly against your thigh. He squeezes you there, a reassuring touch even while his other hand takes you apart. "You don't have to hold on anymore. I've got you. I've got you."
Your hips lurch towards him, your vision whiting out. His fingers hit a spot both perfect and devastating inside of you, and your mind's focus is whittled down to a fine point, aimed at him.
"Cum for me, lovely girl," Baelor orders. So you do.
He remains constant. Even when the wave rises and breaks within you, even when you writhe and let out a ragged cry, the sound torn from a hidden, previously unknown part of you. Through the seemingly unending torrents, Baelor remains your anchor. He does not change. He does not move. He does not let you go.
You turn pliant in the aftershocks. He gentles his movements— he does not stop them altogether, but turns them lighter, slower. His thumb brushes over your clit, and you jolt hard enough to convince him to finally withdraw his hand.
Baelor watches you closely, his darkened eyes focused on yours, but that familiar tenderness is returning, creeping across his features. The span of his fingers curves around the meat of your thigh, measured breaths leaving parted lips. His other hand is drenched with your fluids, still held cautiously between your legs as though hesitant to pull back entirely.
"How do you feel?" He asks then, softly.
You blink at him, and then up at the canopy over the bed. You're still shaking, your brain fizzling and humming from the orgasm he'd given you. "I don't… I don't know, I— that's the first time anyone has ever— done that…"
Baelor stays quiet for a beat, a small, affectionate smile curling the corners of his mouth. Then, he clarifies, "Do you think that it worked?"
"Oh." Yes, that. You had somehow forgotten that there is an ulterior motive to all of this, that it is not just sex for the sake of sex. "We… We could check?"
The words leave your mouth meekly. You don't want him to let you go. You don't want him to go away. Yes, you want the poison to be gone from your system, but you are greedy. You want him to stay with you and take you until morning. You want him to keep looking at you like that, like he'd swallow you whole, bones and all.
Unfortunately, Baelor listens. He slowly lifts his hands away from you, leaving you entirely. For a few calm seconds, nothing happens. Your body is still awash with the remnants of your orgasm, your skin still tingling with the memory of his touch. You lay there for a moment, thinking, was that it?
But then you look at Baelor again. He stares down at his hand— the one drenched in your arousal. It shines in the mid-afternoon light, strings of it threading between the parting of his fingers as he… feels it. Rubs his fingers against each other to test the silkiness, pulls them apart just to watch it web across the gap in thin strands.
You watch, wide-eyed, as he returns his gaze to your face. And he lifts his fingers to his mouth to suck your wetness from them. His eyes, amber and violet, trained on your expression until they flutter shut, and he groans.
"Oh— gods on fire."
Your whole body tenses up with the fury of it. The pain. It assaults you worse than before, with a ferocity that scares you. There's so much of it that it is not enough to scream— you can't even breathe for it. You curl into yourself and roll, the muscles of your stomach and core pulling taut.
"No. No no no— Baelor." You whimper, blindly throwing your hand back to grab at him. You find a wrist— left or right, you don't know— and pull so that his hand smacks down onto your flank with a lewd sounding slap. "Didn't work. It didn't— fuck."
"All right. All right, my love. Come here." Baelor's hand slides around your waist to gather you into his lap. You slide across the bedsheets with your spine bent into a crescent, knees pulled to your chest. "I've got you. I'm right here, just relax." You jerk involuntarily in his hold, an elbow catching him in the ribs. He grunts, adjusting his arm around you, curling himself over you like a shield. "Relax. Relax."
You will the tension in your muscles to release one by one. You imagine yourself absorbing into him, your head resting on his strong thigh as you allow your body to feel him. The rise and fall of his chest as he breathes, the distracting warmth radiating from the space between his legs. The smell of him there, strong and sweetly arousing. The taste of something on the back of your tongue— sweat and something muskier, something more masculine.
Him. The taste of him, through silk, through smallclothes. Your head spins, and you fight not to turn your head further into his lap, not to nuzzle into the crotch of his breeches and just breathe him into your lungs.
"Stupid fucking sex potion," you mumble angrily once the pain recedes. "Secret ingredient. Bullshit."
"All right," Baelor says again to quiet you, laying his hand on the crown of your head soothingly. You imagine that he understands what you're feeling, though, because he doesn't argue.
"What do we do?" Your voice is thin, a barely-there thing in the quiet.
"We continue."
You turn your head. Baelor is gazing down at you, eyes glittering with affection. He exudes a calmness that you cannot feel, even though your overwrought body relaxes into him. "You want to… continue?"
"We need not stop at one." Baelor pets your head, shrugs a shoulder. "I wouldn't, even under normal conditions."
You stare at him, aghast. "Your Grace."
He gives you a wry smile. "We don't know what this 'secret ingredient' is. Perhaps it needs… more. We can continue until it takes." Another pause. "You'll have to forgive me for my choice of words. It's my first time experiencing the… joys of a sex potion, as well."
You snort incredulously, trailing your fingers along his clothed forearm. "And what if it… takes?"
You don't need to elaborate. What if you become pregnant with his child, like he suggested you might? What happens if you bear the heir apparent a bastard, and still end up married to his nephew? What if you cause a scandal?
"Then… we continue," he repeats. "Come what may." Baelor takes your hand in his, presses a kiss to the back of your palm. You are filled with so much adoration for him that it almost wounds you. It sets up a home in your body, right below your heart. "Whatever happens, it makes no difference. You may have anything that you want from me."
"Even your hand?"
"Especially that."
"In marriage?" Your chest tightens up in anticipation. You gaze up at him, willing him to accept you, clutching his hand like he might pull it away, recoil in disgust. If he were to turn you down now, you think that it might just kill you before the poison does.
Perhaps he feels how hard you tense up in your nervousness. He pulls back just the slightest bit and peers at you, taking in your expression, before his own turns into something open, genuine. His eyes crease at the corners as he traces a single finger down the part in your hair, and he replies, "Yes. I will marry you, darling girl. I should have, the moment I was able to. I should have begged you on my knees."
You smile at the mental image that provides. The Hand and Heir on his knees for you. "I would have liked that."
He gives you the fondest look. "I have no doubt."
You fiddle with his hand. His skin is soft, prominent veins running up the back and to the knuckles. You fit your hand to his like a question, examining the difference in size and shape. The ring on his middle finger, still damp from where it's been. In you. In his mouth.
"Why did you do that?" You don't mean to ask the question aloud, but it comes out anyway.
"Do what?"
You glance at Baelor and determine that he's only asking because he wants to hear you say it, and not because he's really confused as to what you mean. He looks coy, which is not something you've ever seen on him before— but you think that it suits him.
"Taste it." The words feel sharp in your mouth. "You didn't have to. I wouldn't have expected you to."
He breathes in deeply, and exhales on a long, low hum. Then, his eyes find yours again. "There are few pleasures in this world that compare to the taste of a woman. I wanted to."
Your heartbeat thrums in your ears. "And?"
"And you taste divine." A deft finger twists in the hair just at the very top of your head, twirling it around and around in hypnotic circles. "I would taste you again, if you would allow me."
It's your turn to hum. You hold his one hand in both of yours, tracing the details of them with your fingertips. Your thumbs map out the dip of his palm, the raised, sword-strengthened calluses beneath his fingers. The meat of his hand, where it connects to his wrist.
Without pausing to feel embarrassment or shame, you bring his hand to your mouth. You brush your lips over his fingers just barely, before you take them in and suck on them. You hear a shudder in Baelor's breath, but you don't stop. It is an intimate thing, to have his fingers stroke your tongue, to taste yourself on him, to know that his own tongue had been in the exact same place moments ago. You whimper and draw them in deep, your lips fitting around the silver ring against his knuckle, your eyes falling shut. He watches you, allowing you to take his swordsman's hand and fit his fingers between your teeth, trusting you not to bite down.
You sigh as you release them, dragging your tongue along the ridges and dips of his fingers on their way out. "I wanted to do that," you admit to him quietly. "For a while."
"You like my hands, it seems," he muses, a note of approval in his voice.
"Very much." You blink at him, suddenly feeling shy under the intensity of his gaze. "I'll let you have me however you want, my Prince. I only ask that first… you kiss me."
"Is that so? Only a kiss?" You nod, and Baelor smirks. He drags the tip of his pinkie finger gently down the slope of your nose. "You drive a hard bargain. If I kiss you now, I fear I may never stop."
"Don't stop."
Baelor lets out a short breath, and then scoops you up into a sitting position. You grunt in surprise, grabbing for his shoulders at the sudden movement, but you settle with his arm tight around your waist. Your heart skips a beat when he cradles your head in his palm, his fingers tangled in your hair.
"I don't think you understand just how wonderful you are," Baelor whispers, his mouth so close to your that the warmth of his lips practically touches yours. He hovers there, a breath away, and it's torturous to hold back. "You'll be the death of me."
With a shaking hand, you rest your palm against his cheek. You feel the scruff of his beard, the way that his jaw tenses the tiniest bit. "And if I don't kiss you, I'll die."
That seems to finally crack his composure. Baelor brushes your hair away from your face, strokes his thumb over your cheekbone, and closes the gap.
His kiss sends shocks of warmth through you, and you melt into him with a quiet sob of relief. Relief from the tension and swells of pain and fear. Relief at finally being able to hold him, to kiss him, open mouth to open mouth. You clutch at his shoulder, his neck, and swing your thigh over his to sit halfway on his lap.
He moves with you, his strong arms keeping you steady as you sink against him, groaning into you. Each point of contact feels bright, like if you opened your eyes to look you would find yourself glowing where he touches you. But his mouth moves against yours like silk, his tongue against yours, and he tastes like peace. It feels like the end of the storm, the answer to all your problems— even if it is only just the beginning.
Baelor's hand slides down to your lower back, holding you fast, splayed wide across your spine. His fingertips press into the flesh there, pulling you closer, until you're flush against him.
Your cunt grinds down onto the meat of his thigh, and you moan brokenly into his mouth. The sound of his name again, sweet on your tongue. He captures your lips with his, his other hand coming down to grip your hip. He rocks you against his thigh purposefully, swallowing the desperate sound that leaves you when your clit presses into the heat of him, through frustrating barriers of fabric.
You make a small, disgruntled noise, and your hand falls to the belt around his doublet. Nails scratching at the leather, you fumble with the buckle until it comes free. You feel beneath the cover of his doublet to find his soft linen shirt, warm from the heat of his body. Strong muscles tense beneath the lightness of your touch.
You huff a perturbed sigh against his mouth. "You are too clothed."
"You are too impatient," Baelor returns, but there is a huskiness to his voice that makes his words seem inconsequential. He shrugs out of his doublet to let your hands wander over his shoulders, down to squeeze the width of his arms. His beard tickles along your jaw as he presses kisses to your skin, trailing up to your ear. "Lie back, darling."
You recline on a pile of tangled sheets, chemise rucked up around your hips. Heat kisses your cheeks and pulses low in your core, your thighs instinctively wanting to close in on themselves, but they are stopped in their endeavor by Baelor's hips.
The mattress dips beside your shoulder where he leans his weight, hovering over you, a veil of security against the rest of the world. He drags his open mouth across your skin like this is not only for your benefit, but for his. You feel the flash of wet and warmth from his tongue, and your back arches up against him. He moves so slowly, savoring, his breath tumbling across your heated flesh like clouds of smoke.
It feels good. It feels so heavenly that you don't quite know how to accept it— you feel almost as though you should move away, but you would only be condemning yourself to more torment. You are bound to the bed by curiosity, an insatiable need to see what he does next. To feel his mouth touch more of you, places that you never thought to feel a pair of lips, teeth, or a tongue.
Baelor skims lightly over your breasts through the fabric of your chemise, while his hands find the curve of your waist. As he lowers, he ever-so-slowly tugs the fabric up, up, up, until you are bare from the waist-down and left open for his wandering mouth.
Your hands cling to him, one clawing against his back, the other gliding over the back of his head, cradling him to you. You gasp to feel the heat of his tongue on the skin just beneath your ribs. "Baelor…"
He hums in acknowledgement of his name, dragging his lips down over the curve of your stomach and lingering there. Baelor is thorough in a way that shouldn't shock you as much as it does— he lavishes you with his tongue and his lips, the quickest grazes of his teeth making you lurch against him with small sighs and moans. You are entirely alive with feeling, winding you up, until your whole body tenses and releases with it.
Then, he's moving. He passes over your pelvis and your aching, swollen cunt, and goes lower, settling between your knees. You make a little sound, a whimper of protest when you can't hold his head in your hands anymore.
He shushes you with his mouth against the inside of your knee, and then the wet swath of his tongue licks upwards in a way that takes you entirely by surprise. Bold, quick, his face so close and coming towards the most intimate part of you that you startle. "Gods—"
"Let me." It's a quiet plea, hushed against the skin of your inner thigh, one big hand cradling it to his cheek. There's the prickle of his beard, then the soft soothing of his tongue after. "My sweet girl. Let me taste you here."
"Yes," you sigh, even as he's already licking over the trail that your arousal has left, smeared across your overheated flesh.
The aphrodisiac effects may occur outwardly. The maester had said as much, and it becomes more and more apparent that, as Baelor lingers there, breathing in your scent and tasting you on his tongue, he is becoming intoxicated by the poison leeching from you. It's in the way his breath falls unevenly from his mouth, the way his gaze has gone a bit glassy with want, his pupils so wide that his beautiful, incongruous eyes are nearly black.
Baelor takes to you with a wide, flat stroke of his tongue that practically burns you alive. Your back leaves the mattress, your hands snatching at his head. Your cry breaks in your throat with its intensity and pitch, already taken to pieces by the single touch of his mouth to your cunt.
He groans into you— fully moans, as though this is entirely for his benefit and it is not something that he's doing in service to you. It is not a sound that you would have ever expected to hear from him, half-animalistic and far from the restrained, princely figure you've come to know him as. Large hands grasp at your hips and bring you further into his mouth, firm and consuming.
His name leaves you on a squeal. You're being too loud and you know it— through the open window, you can hear birds soar past, voices down in the courtyards. Any and everyone will hear you, and what the Prince of Dragonstone is doing to you, if you can't help it. You barely have the mental fortitude to let one shaking hand leave his head and clap over your mouth to stifle your cries.
He pulls back, releasing your clit from between his lips with a wet sound that makes your face burn. His eyes find yours, and you feel pinned beneath the weight of his gaze. "Do not silence yourself. Let me hear you."
You hesitate for only a second, but he doesn't move. Baelor's eyes remain fixed on your face as you reach forward, then stroke a hand over the crown of his head, a tentative and seeking touch. Then he returns to suck at your clit again, and you have to bite your tongue on a whimper.
He remains there for a long time. Long enough that you begin to think you may go delirious from the pleasure, and not from the poison throbbing and coursing through your veins, effecting him as he tastes you. He drags you to the precipice, to a place where reason and restraint don't exist anymore. There, you threaten to burn alive.
You cum into his mouth with a hoarse cry, your head tipped back on the pillows. It splinters through you like it may both destroy you and rebuild you anew at the same time— there's a rush, a flood between your legs that you don't expect, any more than you expect Baelor to stay there and take it, in all its viciousness.
You can't quite think. You feel him lingering there, his lips and tongue still on you, but it's as though you've been entirely unmade. He doesn't move, just remains solid and capable with his attention on your spent cunt, his tongue still lapping at the wetness that drips from you until you're certain— almost entirely certain— that this is not for the sake of the poison. This is not the potion at work. This is sex for the sake of sex.
"Baelor," you murmur, your voice a bit too high and airy in your throat. Your fingers dig at his scalp for something to make sense of. "D'you think— think it worked—?"
"Mm. You need another." Baelor answers you before you finish asking the question, his eyes narrowed as he rears back. His face is painted in your wetness, glistening around his mouth as he breathes heavily. "Let's not take any chances, shall we?"
"No, I wouldn't want to— to take chances— oh."
Baelor is climbing the line of your body, traversing over you like a panther on the hunt. His parted lips trail a wet line over your stomach, and he nudges your bunched up chemise back, further up your ribs. With trembling hands, you grab the useless fabric and pull it, tugging it frustratedly over your head so that you can throw it across the room.
"My beautiful girl," Baelor whispers into your skin, almost as though talking to himself more than you. His palm smoothes over the curve of your ribs and comes up to cup your breast, a reverent and tender touch, as though simply feeling the weight of it in his hand. "So stunning. Oh, I dreamt of this."
"You dreamt…?" You stutter out a gasp when his mouth closes hotly over your nipple, and your hands fly up to grasp the back of his head.
"I dreamt," Baelor repeats, moving his attention to your other breast with the same amount of care. "I wanted. I wished."
You pull him by the nape of his neck and he moves with your urging, lifting himself over you so that you can kiss him. The dampness of your arousal, still lingering in his facial hair, smears against your cheek as you lick into his mouth and taste yourself, oddly sweet on his tongue.
"Take your clothes off," you grumble against his lips, the slightest note of impatience lacing your tone as your fingers dig against his shoulders.
His linen shirt meets your chemise somewhere on the floor. Your hands find his chest, sliding down over hard muscle padded with soft flesh. He has a body befitting a man of his station— a soldier, hard and lean, bearing the scars of battle but unashamed of them. You trace a scar stretching across his ribs, trailing down towards his navel. Unhurried fingers dance over the trail of hair stretching downwards, guiding you towards the waist of his breeches.
"You're beautiful." It comes out more forceful than you mean for it to— but gods, do you mean it. You want to map out his body with your hands and your lips and your teeth, you want to learn every inch of him by rote, and still never stop once you know all. You try to convey it to him with your eyes, because you can't find any other words to express it. "You're so beautiful, Baelor, you must know."
He smiles, and it's that smile. The one that has haunted you since you saw it last, the one that you want to see over and over again. It causes a swelling feeling in your chest that… probably isn't healthy, but none of this is. It would be death to deny it now.
"You flatter me," Baelor says, his thumb stroking idly against your thigh, where his hand rests. His eyes are soft, flicking over you with so much adoration you struggle not to squirm beneath it.
"I tell the truth," you murmur, slipping two fingers just beneath the waist of his breeches to trace just below the fabric. His breath hitches, and you smirk. "I could always lie, but I imagine you'd see right through it, now."
"It would be very unladylike of you," he remarks, his smile turning sardonic.
"Hm. Can't have that." Even as you say it, your hands are untying his breeches, your fingers tugging until you're able to slip them down his hips. "We both know just how ladylike I am."
One boot comes off, then two, and his breeches shed to leave him in his smallclothes. There is no finesse to his movements— the seduction is over, leaving only sharp intent and the promise of what's to come. Desire wound tight like a spring, loaded to snap at a single touch.
That touch comes when you slip your fingers along the band of his smallclothes, a single, featherlight graze against the laces. Baelor's entire body goes rigid over you, as if you've held a blade to his throat. You guide them over his hips and down his thighs, until he snaps to and shirks them the rest of the way. He whispers your name, something between awe and guttural need forming the word in his throat.
"Baelor," you hum in response when your fingers find him and wrap around his cock. You freeze for just a moment— he's larger than you expected, and the prospect sends a little shiver through you. The Hammer, you think to yourself. Of course. He's hot to the touch, burning and throbbing against your palm, so hard it seems like it should be unbearable for him. But he bears it, for you. "Do you know how many women in the realm dream of this?"
He makes a small noise of warning, twitching in your grip.
Your grin turns wolfish as you pass your thumb over the head, flushed and leaking. "Do you know how many would kill for this? Would die to lie beneath you like this?"
"Heavens above." He shudders out a sigh as you stroke him, his forehead falling to rest against yours. "Don't— you mustn't say such things to me, my love, I— I have to be so careful with you. You have no idea."
So this is what it is, to have him lose his composure. No longer the Prince of Dragonstone, Hand to the King, heir to the Iron Throne— in your hands, he is simply a man. A man who wants, whose breath spills warm across your lips. Whose hips search for yours when you wrap your legs around his waist.
"Would you let me have you, my Prince?" you ask him, and your voice is light, inquisitive. It can't be anything else, because you are just as desperate as he is. You don't have it in you to be teasing, you are simply open with your need for him, allowing your innermost thoughts to surge to the forefront. Your forehead pressed to his, you look up through your lashes to find his eyes closed, squeezed shut in some vain attempt to hold on. "My love?"
His eyes snap open to meet yours, pressed so close that your noses touch. Baelor groans quietly when you guide him between your legs without waiting for an answer— it was a rhetorical question, after all.
But all the same, he replies, "Anything you desire."
Baelor drops his hips, enough to follow the guidance of your hand. He fills you in one fluid stoke, and together you take a long, deep breath.
"You are…"
"Perfect." He finishes your sentence for you, hushed and airy though it is. It feels as though you could be interrupted at any moment with the way he holds you, like a secret, like something that should never been spoken or heard about. Like you are only for him to know this way.
He presses his hips flush to yours, making you keen from the fullness, the exquisite stretch. The potion, for what it's worth, does make everything slicker, easier— you are so swollen and relaxed from his mouth, your body so attuned to his that there is no pain. Only the pleasure of his touch remains.
He moves, and it lights you up from within like wildfire. Your back arches towards him, your chest pressing up against his, and a sound unlike anything you've ever made tears from your throat. Arms blindly snatching for him, you wrap yourself around him as though he may try to move away.
He nuzzles his nose against yours, almost too tender of a gesture for the position you find yourself in. "That's it, darling. Take all of me."
Your mind clouds with pleasure as he rocks his hips into yours. You feel like you're drowning in the skin on skin, stripped to the skin and pressed flush to him. Your hand smoothes down his back, feeling rigid muscle and raised scars there, too.
He withdraws and presses forward, setting a slow, deliberate pace that drives you practically mad. He's so gentle and tender even when everything about him, about this situation, tells you that he wants to let go of his restraint. Widening your thighs on instinct, your hand cradles the back of his head, bringing his lips closer to yours.
"Don't hold back," you tell him, and you feel his breath pause where it fans against your cheek. Even though to try to be commanding, your voice cracks. "Baelor— stop holding back—"
Baelor presses a single, chaste kiss to your lips, and you are too caught up in the moment to realize that it's a warning, a subtle apology before he's shifting. He lifts your hips, planting his knees on the mattress before he pulls you into his lap, your back bent over the expanse of his strong thighs.
You slide down the mattress with an undignified squeak, hands scratching along the sheets for stability where there is none. And then you settle into your new position, gazing up at him with a stunned expression.
He's unbelievably gorgeous. His chest leaps with his breath, tanned and freckled skin glistening with a thin layer of sweat. He pants through parted lips, his eyes sharp and focused as they always are, cheeks flushed. He's a vision, and he's all yours.
Baelor splays his hand flat against your chest, running his palm over the skin where, beneath, your heart pounds a drumbeat loud as thunder in your ears. Then he drags his touch down, between your breasts, over the curve of your stomach. His hand settles warm and solid over your navel, thumb stroking you tenderly enough to make you let out a soft sigh.
But then he's sliding his cock into you again, a wicked thrust that punches all the air from your lungs, and his hand presses down. Your brows draw together, your mouth falling open on a silent moan as he hits something so devastating inside of you that it makes your eyes involuntarily roll back in your head.
"Feel that?" Baelor murmurs, his voice roughened with desperation as he does it again, and again. Pull back, push forward, press down. "Feel how deep I am inside you?"
It comes out so… possessive. Spurred on by the fact that he's the only one to do this to you, the only person to see you like this. Like he's staking a claim to you with each roll of his hips. His fingers rub back and forth over the soft flesh of your stomach, and you do feel it— the tip of his cock as he drives it into you, reaching so deep within you that it makes a faint bulge in your lower stomach.
You sob out an incoherent response, lights dancing behind your eyelids. Your hands, searching for something to hold onto as his thrusts gain momentum, find the pillow above your head. You squeeze it, pull blindly as though it will bring you some respite, and the downy soft padding of it covers your face, smothering the obscene moans that spill from your mouth.
Baelor's hand all but slams down on top of the pillow with a dull thump. You feel the impact through the feather stuffing, a slight bump against the tip of your nose before he's snatching it away from you and flinging the accursed thing across the room. It hits one of the open window shutters and falls to the floor.
"Do not. Hide." It's a snarl released from his throat, his hand coming to cup your chin and pull you to center. "Show me your eyes."
You blink your eyes open at him and bite your lip, trying to keep your whimpering at bay. You watch his core muscles flex with the movement of his hips, his chest dappled with golden sunlight, his jaw tightening with the effort to remain consistent, even when you told him to let go.
"There she is," Baelor whispers, a flicker of awe crossing his features. "My beautiful girl."
His thumb strokes across your lower lip, and without even thinking, you close your lips around it. The pad of his thumb, tasting of salt and the sweet musk of your own cunt, strokes against your tongue. A quiet groan breaks from him, his thrusts turning erratic and unmeasured when you suck hard.
Baelor drops his chin toward his chest, his face drawn in silent agony. "Fuck."
Your cunt clamps down hard around him at the sound of the swear falling from his lips. You don't know why the single word is enough to drive you crazy— probably because you've never heard Baelor curse before, and it's such a juxtaposition to the rest of him. The unshakeable prince brought to shambles by your lips around his thumb, your legs around his core.
Your orgasm mounts suddenly, and your teeth bear down hard on his thumb. It's enough to throw him off-kilter. He hisses through his teeth and pulls you with his free hand, seating himself deep inside you, his hips pressed flush to yours. He slides his hand from your waist downward, through the soft curls of hair on your mound. He finds your clit, brushing a circle around it with the tip of one, impossibly gentle fingertip.
You cum so quickly that the force of it turns blinding and sharp. Your cunt pulses on his cock with an urgency that wracks your entire body. But it is not enough for him that you lay there milking him— no, he has to escalate it.
Just as soon as it hits, Baelor's hand is gripping your thigh, pushing your leg up until your knee hooks over his shoulder, and he bends you. Your thigh presses tight to your chest as he moves over you, his cock hitting immeasurably deeper now. You claw desperately at his back, fingernails scratching, raking hard lines that will be too easy for his servants to notice, come morning.
He doesn't let up, even for a second. Still driving his hips, fucking you through the pulsing of your cunt, his body holding you down against the bed. His thumb slides from your mouth with a wet pop, spit smearing across your cheek as he cradles your face. Baelor replaces his thumb with his tongue, kissing you deeply, reverently, like he can feed all his devotion into you with it.
"Good girl," he whispers into your mouth, dragging his hips back slowly and then filling you back up even slower. You squirm, drowning between your legs from the oversensitivity and the entirely new angle he hits at. The sound that he makes is unbelievably erotic, something between a sigh and a rasping moan that cracks in his throat. "So good for me, my darling."
You cry his name, latching onto him with a trembling hand. "Fuck— Baelor. You need to cum. You should—"
"Don't." He shakes his head, fixing you with a heated look. He swallows, exhaling a stuttering breath. "Not— not yet, I don't—"
But you're nodding against him in retaliation, tightening your core muscles around his cock, squeezing him so hard that he makes a noise like you've punched him.
"Fuck," Baelor grits, hanging his head. "Oh, fucking Seven, you just— just can't stand to lose— can you—?"
Perspiration beads on his brow, and you have the sudden urge to lick it. So, you do. You pull him down by the neck, and he goes, following the urging of your hand like it's a command he's beholden to. You run your tongue across his temple, up and over his drawn brow, and he shudders.
In spite of everything— the overstimulation, the frightening possibility that you might cum again— you manage to break a small, breathless smile. Your mouth finds the shell of his ear, and your voice drops unexpectedly low. "Yield."
He plants his hips against yours, pressing your thigh so far against your chest that your knee almost touches your ear. He cums with an exquisite moan against your cheek, your tongue still pressed to his face to taste more of him, as though you can consume the very beauty from his skin.
You take his hand— the one against your thigh, holding it up around his waist— and guide it down between your flush bodies. Even while you feel him pulse inside you, he follows your guidance without question. He rubs a light caress against your clit, just enough to send sparks shooting up your spine.
You cum again for him, and it's gentler this time— like sunlight breaking through a storm. You give him a soft, relieved moan, while you pulse on his cock and your tense muscles release beneath him.
You both lay there in the feeling, letting the pulsations die down as you settle. And then, he stirs just a bit.
"Better?" Baelor murmurs, nudging his nose against yours.
"Much."
You feel him smile as he kisses you, his hand coming up to cup your cheek. You let him linger there, smiling into your mouth, for a few more seconds— and then you kick your heel against his shoulder, where your leg is still slung up and pinned against you.
He laughs at the disgruntled noise you make, lowering your leg and smoothing his palm up the length of it as he pulls it to rest against his hip. "My strong girl. You're quite the force when you want something, hm?"
"Don't you forget it," you grumble, but there's no real heat to it.
"I'm not likely to anytime soon."
You sigh when he withdraws from you, but only so that he can roll you both, gathering you into his arms. You lay with your head on his sweat-slick chest, his arm encircling your shoulders to hold you close. Relaxing into him, your body spent, you place a hand over his chest to feel his heart thundering beneath your palm.
Both naked, tangled up in each other, you remain like that for a while. Your fingers drawing idle shapes against his chest, gliding through the hair there as it rises and falls with his breaths as they even out.
He's yours. The thought flits through your mind, light as a feather. He's going to marry you. You'll be his wife. Many things about it make your chest tighten. That you'll be the Crown Princess in the process. That eventually, you will be expected to be Queen.
As quickly as your fears bubble up, one thing quells the flood. He's Baelor. He'll take care of you. He always seems to. You trust him to. You… you love him for it.
"You're staring."
You blink, and tilt your head to look up at him. You had been staring, directly at the mess you made between his legs, while your mind whirled in a dozen different directions. You should probably feel embarrassed at being caught, but there's mirth in Baelor's eyes. His hand pets affectionately against the back of your head.
"We're betrothed," you say, in lieu of an explanation.
"So we are."
"The King should probably know."
Baelor makes a short noise. It rumbles in his chest, against your cheek. "The King can wait until the 'morrow. I'm not terribly enticed by the idea of leaving you tonight." He turns his head slightly towards the open window. "After all, I'd imagine most of the Keep knows about it, by now."
You giggle, turning your face towards his chest. You nuzzle into the hair over his heart and breathe in, smelling the comforting scent of his skin. Remarkably, it is less strong than it has been all evening, no longer heightened to the point of overwhelm. You can't hear every damned thing in the Keep anymore— nor can you taste the saltwater on the air from the bay.
"Baelor."
"Mm?"
"I think it worked." You press a kiss to his sternum. "We did it."
"Good." A pause. Baelor heaves a deep sigh. "Do not. Ever. Drink another fucking sex potion. For the love of the suffering Seven."
You tut, a teasing smile quirking at your lips. "So I shouldn't use the second one I have in my drawers, then?"
Baelor's head snaps towards you. When you see the look of terror on his face, you dissolve into a fit of laughter, pulling yourself closer against his side.
He huffs a quiet chuckle, but you can't mistake the sound of relief underlying it. He lays a warm palm against your bare shoulder. "Troublemaker."
"Yes, I am." You bite your lip, trailing your hand down his stomach, your fingers grazing lightly enough that you watch his abdominal muscles tense beneath the touch. "But I want you like this all the time."
"Naked?"
"Unmoored."
You turn your head to find him regarding you with the same calmness you've come to expect from him, but with a fire burning within his gaze. He smirks slightly. "That shouldn't be too difficult for you to accomplish, I fear."
With a hum, you slip your leg over his hips and lift yourself to straddle him. His hands find your waist, steadying you. You raise yourself up, one hand braced on his chest, the other falling to one of his hands. Beneath you, you feel his cock begin to harden again as you place his hand on your breast.
"Then let me begin, my Prince."
The wedding is scheduled for three weeks later, at Baelor's behest. Long enough for the lords of the seven houses to arrive in due course, but not long enough for there to be question if you indeed are with his child.
You spoke about it at length, actually. He was very insistent, seeing as how he was trying to actively put one in you at the time.
On the day of your wedding, you sit in your vanity chair and fiddle with the cuffs of your dress. It is white and gold, of a fabric quality you've never been able to luxuriate in before. It feels stifling. You fear walking in it, breathing in it, doing anything that may damage it at all. You sit with your spine stiff and straight, allowing Mircalla to fix pins into your hair. Several other serving girls flit about the room, attending to various other chores.
When you feel you've just about had enough of the prodding of pins, a knock sounds at the chamber door. Your heart thuds in your chest, and you shift in your seat, hoping that it may be your husband-to-be, come to steal you away for a moment before the ceremony. It would not be unlike him— Baelor is a busy man, but attentive as often when he can be. Even if it is a mere kiss in an alcove, or a five minute interlude in the courtyard, there is always a time and a place that he can find to be with you, to show you his affections.
But the chamber door opens, and your guard steps a foot into the room. "Prince Daeron to see you, my lady."
Daeron? Your brow draws in confusion, but you rise from your chair, regardless. "Enter."
Daeron stumbles into the room with all the grace of a newborn deer. The maids all pause in tandem, and a hush falls over the room as he blinks up at each of them awkwardly, his blue eyes a bit less bleary than normal, his honey-gold hair tied back with a black ribbon for the festivities. "Apologies for my… intrusion?"
"No harm done, my lord." You clasp your hands anxiously behind your back, all the same. "What may I do for you?"
"I had wanted a word with you, my lady. Alone. For only a moment, if you wouldn't mind?"
You think that you would mind, very much. But the longer you regard Daeron, trying to cling to your vitriol, the less you can find any. You are about to be married to the Crown Prince, a gorgeous and honorable man who you are falling desperately in love with, to no one's surprise.
You cannot bring yourself to refuse Daeron— and so, you dismiss your ladies with a courteous nod.
As soon as the door shuts, Daeron is crossing the room and slumping into an armchair by the window. You do not move, but follow him with your eyes as he slouches, heaving an enormous sigh.
"Are you drunk?" you ask him pointedly.
"Always." He flashes you a sardonic smile. You give him an incredulous look. "Necessity compels. But I am here, and not at a tavern, at least."
"Better wine, I'd imagine."
"Mm, yes. Arbor red. An excellent choice, indeed." He pauses, his eyes flicking over you apprehensively. "I came to… apologize, my lady. I fear I have behaved rather badly towards you, and I felt I owed you an explanation."
You only blink at him. "Yes, you do."
"Right." He licks his lips, seeming to collect his thoughts. "Before you came to King's Landing… I dreamed of you."
"How romantic."
"No, not— not so much." Daeron takes a breath and pinches the bridge of his nose. "You see, my dreams… they have a tendency to come true. It isn't always a good thing." He pauses for a long moment, his eyes focused on the middle-distance, appearing to see something that you can't. "When I dreamt of you, it was… I saw you dying, my lady. I saw you on your death bed. And you cursed me for it."
You say nothing, but watch him as his shaking hands smooth against his pants.
"I didn't know what it meant. But I figured, when I saw you, that if I was going to be the reason for your death— in screaming agony— then it would needs be best for both of us if I held no relation to you. If I could refuse you and not speak a word, it would be… you wouldn't have died. And I wouldn't have been the cause."
"But, I have not died, my lord."
"No." Daeron lets out a short laugh, void of humor. "But, you had an affliction some weeks back, did you not? I heard it was rather a close call." He fixes his eyes on you, and he looks so deeply apologetic. Like a kicked dog, he peers up at you through his lashes. "If I was in any way responsible for— for any pain caused, I am truly sorry, my lady. My intentions were noble, I assure you. My execution, however…"
"Leaves something to be desired, yes." You close your eyes, breathe in slowly. Daeron reeks of alcohol, but you don't allow it to deter you from stepping closer to his chair. "In your dream, what was it that I said? How did I curse you?"
Daeron swallows, his eyes flicking around the room briefly. "You said… 'I don't want Daeron. He doesn't want me. I didn't take the fucking thing for him.'" Your face must betray your thoughts, because Daeron regards you closely before nodding solemnly, folding his hands in his lap. "Right. So, it was that."
Your heart pounds so hard that you swear it's trying to leap up into your throat. "Daeron. Whatever you think you saw—"
"It's not for me to pry." His eyes continuously move from your face to various areas of the room, like he doesn't want to look at you head-on. "What I know is that you are well now, and marrying my uncle. And I am happy for you, my lady. I truly am. It has been many years since I saw him smile the way he does, when you aren't looking." Daeron finally chances to look you directly in the eye, and he looks gravely serious. "Do not take this the wrong way, but I think that we would have been terrible for each other. Wouldn't you agree?"
For the first time since Daeron stepped into your chambers, a smile crosses your face. "You know, I think you're absolutely right. We would have killed each other."
Daeron lets out a sad chuckle. "Quite so."
He looks around, at a loss for a few seconds, before he heaves himself up and stands over you. He's quite a bit taller than you first thought— maybe it's because he isn't slouching as much, now.
"Forgive me, my lady. I've taken enough of your time. I wish you a long and happy marriage." He winks. "Only, one not to me."
That finally earns him a giggle from you, and Daeron smiles, before lifting your hand and pressing a chaste kiss to your knuckles. You watch him cross the room, narrowly avoiding bumping into your vanity chair as he moves.
At the door, Daeron pauses and turns back to you with a reserved smirk. "Just so you know. My cock does work. If the need should ever arise again."
He ducks out of the room before the pillow you throw can hit him.
jumpcut mid porn scene to mircalla and florin sharing a blunt outside the laundry rooms like "so do u think they're fuckin or"
Simon Riley really delving into his oral fixation.
See, you'd asked Simon to stop smoking after reading that it would damage his sperm. Trying for a baby apparently meant he needed to give up his vice.
But you were his missus, and he'd learned a long time ago—don't fucking argue with the missus.
Already by day three Simon was buying multiple packs of gum a day. Grumbling around base and the house. But he wouldn't take it out on you, never on you.
Your tits? Different story.
Simon had been sucking on your tits for almost an hour, switching between your now swollen and spit slick nipples. Yes, it felt fantastic—but Jesus Christ what was his obsession tonight?
"Simon." You murmur, tugging at his hair to pull him up. "You're usually inside me by now."
Simon grumbled, licking his lips. "You had me quit smokin' my fucking mouth needs to be doin' somethin'"
After that confession, Simon was always on you.
He comes home from work, and he pushes your shirt up while you read some book on the couch. His mouth immediately locking around your nipple. The tension built throughout the day leaving his body.
He'd suck on your tits of a morning instead of going for his usual smoke. Though you point out that he spends a lot longer on your nipples than he ever did his cigarettes.
You can't even take your shirt off around him without Simon pawing at your tits and sucking on you for at least five minutes before you finally batt him off to go cook dinner.
After a long weekend though, you went to work with sore tits. Your coworkers getting excited after hearing you'd been trying for a baby and now you were adjusting your bra all day.
Simon only chuckled when you complained to him that afternoon, letting you frustratedly throw your bra at him. "Just tell them that your husbands helping you practice for when you're actually breastfeeding."
Mean owner! Price who snaps at Bunny hybrid! Reader after they accidentally break the nice ceramic bowl that he gave them for meals. You were just mad you got healthy yucky pellets!!! You wanted cake!!! (´∩｀。)
But he quickly feels bad because you give him the silent treatment. Refusing his pets, hiding under tables. You even refuse grooming time!!! You loved when he would brush your hair for you!! (╥ ω ╥)
So while you’re sleeping he gently scoops you up with those thick arms of his. giving you small kisses and coos while you wake up. And when you try to escape, legs kicking and wiggling with all your might! he just traces your hole. His finger against it. Finally pushing in when you whined enough. His two thick fingers pumping over and over as he whispers small apologies to you.
“Oh, I know, I know, m’such a meanie. M’sorry I’ll never yell again okay? Bunny? You gotta answer or I’ll stop”
You lazily nod your head, which makes him smile. He finally pumps harder making you finish. Your head against his chest as he enjoys finally being able to hug his bunny again <33
Back from college and staying with your dad in his shitty apartment complex, the older man... your neighbor next door has been noticing you, just as you have?
ಇ.content & warnings: porn with no plot :: non canon au :: reader is implied to be thicc :: age gaps - (reader is 19-20, Toji is in his Mid 30s) :: older neighbour trope :: touching through clothes :: kissing :: oral f.rec :: pussyjobs :: multi-gasms :: p in v :: spitting :: different sex positions? :: anal play - (thumb) :: c-pied :: description's of sex and anatomy was meant to be more on the 'graphic side' ::
The back porch of apartment 07 was nothing special — just cracked concrete painted a faded green years ago, a single wobbly plastic chair, and a rusted railing that overlooked the narrow strip of shared yard nobody ever used. Summer heat clung to everything like wet cotton, thick and slow even now that the sun had dipped low enough to turn the sky bruised purple.
You’d been inside all day, scrolling on your phone until your eyes ached, hoodie zipped halfway over a thin tank top because the AC was barely spitting cool air anymore. Shorts riding up high on your thighs, the soft cotton clinging where sweat had gathered at the crease of your hips.
Ninety degrees and no breeze, so you finally gave up and dragged yourself outside to sprawl on the single step, legs stretched long, bare feet dangling over the edge.
That’s when you saw him.
Toji Fushiguro, in apartment 08, right next door, he stepped out the side door with a black garbage bag in one scarred hand, in the same tight black t-shirt you’d seen him in a dozen times before, sleeves stretched tight around thick biceps, fabric clinging to the hard planes of his chest and stomach like it was painted on. Dark sweatpants slung low on narrow hips, the waistband showing a thin strip of tanned skin when he moved.
That scar sliced the corner of his mouth, pulling slightly when his lips twitched like he was always half a second from smirking at something only he found funny and black hair messy, damp at the temples from the heat or maybe from whatever he’d been doing inside his own place all day.
He didn’t look your way at first, he just hefts the bag into the big metal bin with one easy toss, muscles rolling under tanned skin, then wipes his forearm across his brow.
You should’ve looked away, should’ve pretended to stare at the sky or your chipped nail polish or literally anything else, but your eyes stayed glued, tracing the way his shoulders flexed when he turned, the slow roll of his neck as he cracked it side to side and maybe he felt it, because those sharp green eyes finally flicked over.
Eyes locking on yours.
Your stomach does a nasty, liquid flip. Not fear, exactly. Something hotter. Hungrier. You feel suddenly very aware of how your shorts are bunched high on your ass, how the hoodie’s ridden up to show the dip of your spine, how your thighs are parted just enough that if he looked lower he’d see the soft inner curve where skin meets cotton.
He didn’t smile, didn’t wave. Just stood there with one big hand still resting on the bin lid, staring like he had all night to decide what he wanted to do about the pretty little thing next door finally looking back.
Then he starts walking.
Not toward his apartment, towards you.
Each step, heavy. Bare feet on gravel and the closer he gets the more details you take in, faint sheen of sweat on his throat, the way veins stand out along his forearms and he stops at the edge of your porch slab, one foot planted on the rickety porch so he’s towering without even trying.
For a second the world narrows to just that look; heavy and unreadable, dragging down the length of your sprawled body like he was cataloging every inch. The hoodie half-open so the thin tank underneath showed the soft dip between your breasts, nipples pebbled from the sudden shift in temperature and maybe something else, your shorts bunched high enough that the plump curve where thigh met hip was on full display, cotton stretched tight across your mound.
You felt the fabric pull snug there, outlining the soft curve of your pussy in a way that made heat crawl up your neck, shifting your thighs together instinctively — only making it worse. A tiny damp spot had already started blooming at the crotch from hours of lazy daydreams and the sticky summer air.
You swallow. Throat dry. “Hi,” it comes out smaller than you meant.
Toji’s scarred mouth twitches barely. “Hey.”
Voice low and rough around the edges like gravel dragged over velvet. One word and it already felt like he’d put his palm flat on your sternum and pressed.
You sat up a little straighter, hoodie slipping off one shoulder. “You’re… Toji, right? My dad said you’re the quiet one.”
He huffed through his nose, the closest thing to a laugh you’d ever heard from him. “Yeah. That’s me.” He took one slow step closer. “And you’re the kid who’s been runnin’ around in those little shorts all summer.”
Your breath hitched, you're not a kid. Not really, but the way he said it with that lazy drawl, his eyes dropping to where your thighs are pressed together, made your clit throb under the cotton like he’d reached out and thumbed it.
“I’m not a kid,” you mumbled, cheeks burning. “I’m nineteen, almost twenty.”
Toji’s brows lifted just a fraction. “Almost twenty,” he echoed, like he was tasting the words. Another step forward, now he was close enough you could smell him; clean sweat, faint soap, something darker underneath like motor oil and cedar. “Old enough to know better than to sit out here lookin’ like that when it’s just you and me.”
Your heart slammed against your ribs. You tried to play it cool, tugging the hem of your hoodie down like it would hide anything. “It’s hot. I just wanted air.”
“Mm.” His gaze slid lower again, shamelessly, lingering on the visible outline of your pussy lips printed through the thin shorts, plump, puffy, already so swollen from nothing but his proximity. “Looks like you’re feelin’ more than just the heat, sweetheart.”
The pet name landed like a spark on dry grass, and you squeezed your thighs tighter, but that only made the damp cotton drag against your slick folds. A tiny, involuntary whimper slipped out before you could catch it.
Toji’s eyes darkened. He crouched slowly, his big body folding with surprising grace, until he was eye-level with you on the step. Forearms resting on spread thighs, scarred hands dangling loose between his knees. So close you can see the faint sheen of sweat on his collarbone, the way his happy trail disappears under the waistband, dark and tempting.
He tilts his head, just enough that the dying sunlight cuts across the sharp line of his jaw. Moss-green eyes drag from your bare legs up up up- slowly and unapologetic. Lingers on the bare strip of stomach where your hoodie’s rucked up. On the way your shorts cling to the plump curve of your ass, aaaaall the way up to your face like he’s cataloguing every inch he’s already seen a hundred times through cracked blinds.
“Been seein’ you around,” he says. Voice quieter now and allmost intimate. “You live next door, right? Your old man’s girl.”
Not a question again.
You nod anyway. Tongue feeling too big in your mouth.
“Yeah. I’m… back for summer break.”
He hums, deep in his chest. The sound vibrates through the humid air straight into your bones.
“Didn’t figure you’d be out here lookin’ like that,” his eyes glance to your lips then back up to your eyes, “always out this late too huh, doll?”
You blink. “...You noticed?”
Another almost-laugh. “Hard not to.”
Heat floods your cheeks. You’re suddenly hyper-aware of every inch of exposed skin. The way your nipples have pebbled against the thin hoodie fabric from the slight breeze or maybe just from him looking at you like that.
“You been watchin’ me too, huh?” he murmurs. Voice softer than you expect. Almost gentle. “Every time you come out here. Corner store. Back porch. Thought I didn’t notice?”
Your lips parted, no sound comes out at first. Then, barely a whisper, “I… I thought you didn’t.”
“Wrong.” One big hand lifts slow, carefully and the rough pad of his thumb brushes the edge of your hoodie sleeve where it had slipped down your shoulder. Goosebumps erupts across everywhere he almost touches. “Been noticin’ you since the first day you walked by in those jeans. Ass hugged so tight I could see the outline of your panties. Thought about bendin’ you over the railing right then.”
Heat floods between your thighs so fast your vision blurs and you can feel yourself leaking now, slow, syrupy slick soaking through your cotton panties, darkening the crotch of your shorts in an obvious little patch. His eyes drops to it immediately.
“Fuck,” he breathes, almost laboured. “Look at that. Sweet little pussy already cryin’ for me and I haven’t even touched you yet.”
You whimper again, louder this time, hips shifting forward on instinct, chasing nothing.
“You alone tonight?” he asks. Casually, like he’s asking about the weather.
You nod, throat dry. “Dad’s working late again, always is.”
Toji hums, low in his chest. The sound vibrates through the air into your palms.
He reaches out, slow enough that you could pull away if you wanted.
You don’t.
Thick fingers catch the hem of your hoodie where it’s ridden up over your hip and he doesn’t pull it down. Just tugs it a little higher, exposing another inch of soft skin. His thumb brushes the edge of your shorts, barely a graze, but it feels like he’s touching you somewhere much more intimate.
“These are reaaaaal short,” he drawls. Voice gone darker. “You always walk around in shit like this?”
Your heart slams against your ribs. “Sometimes.”
He exhales through his nose, almost a growl.
“Careful, sweetheart.” His thumb presses just barely into the crease where thigh meets ass. “Lots of eyes around here.”
You’re trembling now and its not from fear, its from the sudden, vicious ache blooming low in your belly. Your thighs press together on instinct and he notices. Of course he does.
Toji’s eyes flick down to where your legs squeeze, then back up to your face, that smirk of his deepens.
“You scared of me?” he asks softly, almost sweet — if sweet could be laced with this much danger.
You shake your head, barely.
“Liar,” he says but he sounds pleased.
His hand slides higher, his fingers splaying wide across the small of your back, his palm is hot and rough as calluses drag against your skin like a promise. He doesn’t push you down. Doesn’t need to, you’re already melting into the floor boards, arching just enough that your ass lifts a fraction — offering.
He groans quietly and guttural, the first real crack in that cool exterior.
“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath. “You’re trouble.”
You lick your lips, voice barely there. “You gonna do something about it?”
His eyes snap to yours. Dark, predatory.
For one endless second neither of you moves.
Your breath hitches when his gaze drops again — straight to the damp patch you know is starting to show. The cotton’s darker there now, clinging, outlining the plump shape of your pussy lips so clearly it’s obscene. You’re soaked, have been since you noticed him watching. And he can fucking see it.
“Pretty little thing like you,” he murmurs, voice dropping to something dangerous-soft, “sittin’ out here all needy. Drippin’ through your shorts for the old man next door.”
Your mouth falls open on a shaky gasp. No denial. No lie. Just liquid heat, shameful heat — flooding between your legs at his words.
Toji’s eyes darken and hooks one thick finger under the hem of your shorts. Doesn’t pull them down. Just lifts the fabric the tiniest bit, letting it snap back against the crease of your thigh with a soft thwack.
“Bet these panties are fuckin’ ruined,” he says, almost conversationally. “All wet and clingy, pushin’ up against the seam, yeah?”
You whimper high and helpless, hips shifting forward before you can stop them.
He chuckles, low and mean. “Knew it.”
Toji’s hand moves again, this time cupping the side of your face, thumb stroking slow along your jaw. Calluses rough against your soft skin. “Pretty thing,” he murmured. “So shy. So needy. Bet you’ve been touchin’ yourself thinkin’ about the mean neighbour next door, huh? Imaginin’ what these hands would feel like spreadin’ you open.”
Your head tipped into his palm. Eyes fluttering. “Y-yes…”
“Good girl.” Praise hits like honey dripping down your spine. He leaned in closer — close enough his breath fanned your glossed lips. “Gonna kiss you now. Wanna taste how sweet that pouty mouth is before I ruin the rest of you.”
You nodded with frantic little jerks of your head.
Then his mouth is on yours.
Soft at first, just the brush of scarred lips over your glossy ones, tasting artificial cherry and nervous salt. He groaned low in his throat the second your mouths connect, like he’d been starving for it, his big hand slides to the nape of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, tilting your head exactly how he wants so he could lick slow into the seam of your lips.
You opened for him instantly. Tongue shy and tentative, his is thicker, hotter, curling against yours with lazy confidence. He kisses like he had nowhere else to be, like he could spend hours just licking into your mouth, swallowing every tiny whimper you give him.
“So fuckin’ sweet,” he mumbles against your lips between slow, wet kisses. “Taste like summer, like you’ve been waitin’ for this.”
His other hand finds your thigh, palming the plush inner meat, squeezing gently, thumb stroking higher and higher until it grazes the damp edge of your shorts, not pushing inside. Just petting. Soothing. Praising.
“Doin’ so good for me already,” he whispers, nipping your bottom lip. “Letting me kiss you like this. Letting me feel how wet you are just from my mouth. Such a good girl f'me already.”
You moan into his kiss loud and needy — hips canting up so his thumb presses firmer against the soaked outline of your pussy. He growls softly, rewarding you with another deep, filthy lick into your mouth.
The kiss turns hungrier. Wetter. His tongue fucks slow and deliberately into yours while his hand kneads your thigh, inching closer to where you ache most — never quite touching your clit, just circling, teasing, making you drip more and more until the cotton’s clinging transparently to every swollen fold.
He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, breath ragged, green eyes blown black with want.
“Tell me you want more,” he raspes. Voice wrecked. “Tell me you want my hands on you. My mouth. Everything.”
Your lips trembles, gloss smeared and eyes glassy.
“I want it,” you breathe. “Want you…please, Toji…”
He smiled then slowly, gaze darkening but still so gentle when his thumb brushes your cheek again.
“Good girl,” he purred.
And then he kissed you deeper — claiming, devouring, promising every filthy thing he's about to do to you next.
His mouth is still on yours hot, slow and filthy in the best way. Tongue sliding deep, curling lazy against yours like he's mapping every soft inch of your mouth, tasting the cherry gloss you’d slicked on earlier just because you felt pretty.
Toji kisses like a man who’s waited too long to taste something sweet and now couldn’t get enough. A big hand cradles the back of your neck, thumb stroking the sensitive spot just under your ear while the other squeezes the plush meat of your inner thigh — fingers digging in just enough to make your hips twitch forward, chasing more pressure against the soaked cotton clinging to your pussy.
You were drowning in it. Brain turning to warm syrup, every thought melting into the wet drag of his tongue, the faint scrape of his scar against your lower lip when he sucks it between his teeth. Soft little whimpers bubbling out of you every time he pulls back just to nip, just to breathe a rough “good girl” against your mouth before diving back in deeper.
Your hands found his shoulders somewhere in the haze, your fingertips digging into hard muscles under that tight black shirt, feeling the heat rolling off him like a furnace. He smells so good up close; clean sweat, faint cologne that clung to his neck, something darker and masculine underneath that made your clit throb harder every time you inhaled.
When he finally eases back — barely an inch, forehead pressing to yours, your lips swollen, gloss smeared across both your mouths, strings of spit connecting when yours part. You were panting, chest heaving under the half-zipped hoodie, nipples tight and aching against the thin tank.
Toji’s green eyes were blown black, pupils eating up the color as he stares down at you like you were the only thing left in the world worth looking at. His thumb brushing slowly over your bottom lip, spreading the mess even more.
“Fuck, look at this mouth,” he murmurs, voice gravel-rough and wrecked. “All glossy and puffy from just my kisses. Bet it’d look even prettier wrapped around my cock.”
The words hit you like a slap of heat. Your thighs clenching hard — slick gushing fresh against your already drenched panties, the cotton so wet now it was sticking transparently to every plump fold. You could feel the outline of your pussy lips print shamelessly through the shorts, fat and swollen… begging.
You tried to speak — tried to be smart, to play it cool, but your brain was mush, words tumbling out careless and needy.
“W-wanna… come inside?” you breathed, barely coherent. “For… for a drink. Or… something. Please.”
Toji’s scarred lips curves slow and predatory, but still so fucking gentle when his thumb strokes your cheek again.
“Yeah?” he rasps. “You invitin’ the old man next door inside while your daddy’s gone? Careful, sweetheart. I might'n wanna leave once I get my hands on you proper.”
Your head bobs, frantical little nods. “I… I don’t want you to leave.”
He groans low in his throat, like the confession physically hurt him in the best way. Then he was standing, a slow roll of his muscles as he rose to his full height, now towering over you on the step. One big hand extended down.
“C’mon then pretty girl. Show me where you live.”
You take his hand, your small fingers swallowed up in his scarred palm and you let him pull you up. Legs shaky, thighs slick where they're rubbing together. The second you're standing he tugs you closer, arm banding around your waist so your soft body presses flush to his hard one. You could feel him, thick and heavy…his cock already half-hard and straining against his sweatpants, nudging insistently against your lower belly.
“Fuck,” he mutters into your hair, inhaling deep like he was trying to memorize your scent. “Smell's so sweet. Bet you taste even better between those thighs.”
He walks you the few steps to your door like that, an arm possessive around you, free hand palming slow over the curve of your ass through your shorts, squeezing the plush flesh like he was testing how soft you really are. You fumble the key with trembling fingers and he just chuckles low against your ear.
“Easy, baby. We got all night.”
The door finally opens. You stumble inside, the dim living room lit up only by the lamp you’d left on, the cheap couch, scattered textbooks from last semester you hadn’t bothered to put away. Toji kicks the door shut behind him without looking, then spun you gently until your back hits the wall beside it.
He didn’t crowd you right away. Just stood there, close enough you could feel his heat, but giving you that one last second to back out if you wanted.
You didn’t.
Instead you tipped your head back, lips parting eyes glassy and pleading.
Toji’s hand came up and cupsyour jaw so gently it made your chest ache, his thumb stroking over your swollen bottom lip again.
“Look at you,” he whispers, voice thick with something almost reverent. “So fuckin’ pretty. So young and soft and already drippin’ for a man old enough to know better. You know how filthy that is, sweetheart? How wrong?”
You whimpered, nodding your hips canting forward so the damp crotch of your shorts brushes the hard line of his cock through his sweats.
“Feels right to me,” you breathe out needy.
His eyes flutters shut for a second — like your words punched the air out of him. Then he was kissing you again, deeper this time, hungrier. Tongue fucking slow into your mouth while both hands slid down to grip your thighs, lifting you easy like you weighed nothing. Your legs wraps around his waist on instinct; he pins you to the wall with his hips, his thick cock grinding slow against your soaked pussy through layers of fabric.
You moaned loud into his mouth, a desperate, broken sound.
“That’s it,” he praises against your lips, rocking slow and deliberately. “Grind on it, baby, let me feel how wet you are for me. Soaked right through these little shorts… fuck, I can smell you. Sweet little cunt cryin’ for cock.”
His hands kneads your ass rough, spreading you open even through your clothes, his fingertips dipping under the hem of your shorts to brush the edge of your drenched panties. You jolt at the contact and he just shushes you softly by kissing the corner of your mouth.
“Doin’ so good,” he murmurs. “Such a good girl lettin’ me touch. Gonna take care of you, yeah? Gonna make this pretty pussy feel so full… but imma take my time. Wanna savor every second of ruinin’ you.”
You were shaking, your whole body trembling with need, clit throbbing against the drag of his cock every time he rolls his hips. Slick had soaked through everything now and you could feel it smearing against him, making the fabric cling obscenely.
“Toji…” His name comes out wrecked, pleading. “Please… need you.”
He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes dark, tender and filthy all at once.
“I know, sweetheart,” he rasps, pressing one last soft kiss to your forehead. “I know. Gonna give you everything. But first…”
His hand slid between your bodies and cups your pussy over the shorts, his palm grinds slow against your swollen clit while two thick fingers traces the soaked outline of your lips through the cotton.
“Gonna make you come like this first,” he promises, voice low and wrecked with want. “Just from my hand, m'gonna watch this sweet little thing soak my fingers before I even get inside you. You gonna be good and come for me, baby?”
Your head falls back against the wall, eyes rolling, your hips already chasing his palm in frantic little circles.
“Y-yes… yes, please… Toji…”
He smiles slowly, dangerous and adoring.
“That’s my girl.”
And then he kisses you again deeper and filthy, while his hand works unhurried, perfect little circles over your dripping cunt, building you up slow and sweet until you’re trembling on the edge, ready to fall apart for the quiet neighbour who’d finally let you into his world.
Toji didn’t set you down.
Not even for a second.
The second your shaky “yes” left your lips he scoops you up like you weigh nothing, his big scarred hands sliding under the plush meat of your thighs, lifting you clean off the floor so your legs had no choice but to wrap tight around his narrow waist.
Your soaked shorts presses right against the thick, heavy ridge of his cock straining through his sweatpants, and the friction made you whimper into his mouth — high, the needy sound swallowed by another slow, filthy kiss.
Toji doesn’t even glance at the couch, he heads straight for your bedroom door instead. “Wanna take this where I can spread you out proper. Where I can watch every little thing that pretty face does when I make you come apart.”
Your arms loops around his neck — fingers digging into the short black hair at his nape, clinging like he's the only solid thing left in your world. He carries you down the short hallway like that, feet heavy on the cheap laminate, every step grinding his cock against your dripping pussy through the thin layers. You could feel how hard he is — thick, hot and pulsing, already leaking enough that a damp spot had started blooming on his sweats where your slick had soaked through everything.
Your bedroom door was half-open already. Small room — nothing fancy. Twin bed pushed against one wall with rumpled pastel sheets you hadn’t bothered making, fairy lights strung lazy across the headboard from last semester, a cluttered desk with half-finished college notes and empty energy drink cans. Window cracked, letting in the thick summer night air. It smells faintly like your vanilla body spray and the faint laundry detergent on your sheets.
Toji kicks the door shut behind him, a soft click of the latch sealing you both in and crosses the small space in three strides, he didn’t bother with the light. The glow from a dim lamp on your table and those soft fairy lights was enough — warm, hazy, turning his sharp features golden and making the scar on his mouth look even more wicked when he smirked down at you.
He lowered you slow onto the edge of the mattress carefully, almost worshipful, until your ass hit the comforter and your legs dangles off. But he didn’t step back. Just stayed between your spread thighs, towering, broad shoulders blocking out the rest of the room.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice thick with something soft and hungry all at once. Big hands sliding up your sides, under the hem of your hoodie this time, his palms rough and warm dragging slow over the soft curve of your waist, thumbs brushing the underside of your tits through the thin tank. “So fuckin’ soft everywhere. Plush little body just beggin’ to be touched.”
You shiver, your whole body trembling as his hands keep roaming. Up your ribs, over the swell of your breasts, squeezing gently through fabric until your nipples peaks hard against his palms.
Then back down, his fingertips tracing the gentle pooch of your tummy, dipping into the soft dip of your navel, spreading wide to span the width of your lower belly like he was measuring how perfectly you’d fit under him.
His eyes drop lower, locking on the obscene wet spot darkening your shorts. The cotton plastered to your pussy now, every plump, fattened lip outlined clear as day, swollen clit peeking through like a needy little button begging for attention.
Slick soaked all the way through your cotton panties underneath, making the fabric sheer and clinging, showing the glossy sheen of your arousal coating every fold.
“Jesus,” he breathes, almost dazed. “Can’t even hide it, can you? Fat little cunt just printin’ out for me, drippin’ right through everything. Been leakin’ like this since I kissed you on the porch, huh?”
You nodded frantically, cheeks burning, your hips shifting forward on instinct so the soaked crotch of your shorts brushes his thigh.
Toji groans low, a deep rumble in his chest, then leans down, caging you with his arms braced on either side of your hips. His mouth finds your neck — hot, open-mouthed kisses trailing slow from under your ear down the column of your throat. He sucks gently at first, his lips sealing over soft skin, tongue flicking — then harder.
Teeth grazing just enough to sting before he soothes it with slow laps, blooming dark purple bruises one after another like he was marking territory.
“Good girl,” he whispers between sucks, voice muffled against your skin. “Lettin’ me mark you up like this. Gonna look so pretty tomorrow, little love bites all over this sweet neck so everyone knows who’s been takin’ care of you.”
His hands never stops moving, he slides them under your hoodie again, pushing the fabric up slowly until it bunches under your tits. Callused palms dragging over bare skin now, the rough texture making you arch, you let out a faint gasp, as his fingers splays wide over your soft tummy, kneading gently like he couldn’t get enough of how plush you were there.
“Love this,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the corner of your jaw. “This soft little belly. Gonna watch it bounce when I’m fuckin’ you deep later. Gonna feel it quiver when you come all over my cock.”
You were whimpering nonstop now, your brain goopy, thoughts reduced to nothing but the heat of his mouth, the weight of his hands, the slow grind of his hips every time he shifts closer. He was still fully clothed, his tight black shirt stretching over thick pecs and sharp-cut abs, sweatpants slung low but you could feel every ridge of muscle flexing against you when he moved. Solid. Unyielding. Cutting through the thin layers like he was already inside you.
Toji pulls back just enough to look at your face, eyes dark, tender and filthy with want. Thumb brushing over one of the fresh bruises on your throat, a gentle stroke that made you shiver.
“Doin’ so good for me, baby,” he praises, voice low and steady. “Look how pretty you are.” Your eyes were all glassy, lips swollen, pussy so wet he could hear it every time you shift. “Gonna take my time with you, m'gonna touch every inch, talk you through it nice and slow till you’re shakin’ and beggin’.”
One hand slides down, cupping your soaked mound over the shorts, his palm grinding slow against your clit while thick fingers traces the plump outline of your lips through the fabric. Not pushing inside yet. Just petting. Soothing. Building.
“Feel that?” he whispers, pressing firmer so you could feel how your slick squelches against his palm. “That’s all for me. Sweet little thing gettin’ this messy just from my kisses and my hands. Such a good girl. My good girl.”
You moan, loud and broken, your head tipping back as your hips rolls up into his touch.
He kisses you again, his tongue sliding against yours while his hand keeps that lazy rhythm between your thighs. The other stays on your tummy, rubbing slow circles over the soft pudge, possessive and adoring all at once.
“Gonna watch you fall apart, sweetheart,” he promised against your mouth. “Gonna make this pretty pussy cum so hard you see stars. And then I’m gonna do it again. And again. Till you’re too fucked-out to think about anything but me.”
His fingers hooks under the waistband of your shorts slowly tugging it downward, just enough to bare the top of your drenched panties.
“Ready for more?” he murmurs, nipping your bottom lip. “Gonna strip you and kiss every bruise I leave, spread these plush thighs and taste how sweet you are.”
Your answer was a shaky nod, eyes locked on his and pleading.
Toji smiles slow, dangerous and so fucking gentle.
“That’s my girl.”
And then he starts peeling your hoodie off slowly, his hands worshipping every new inch of bare skin he uncovers, mouth following right behind with more soft kisses and praise, ready to unravel you piece by trembling piece on your little twin bed while the summer night presses warm against the window.
Toji pulls back from your neck, his lips shiny with spit, a fresh bruise blooming dark and pretty under your jaw and his eyes drops to your face. You were a wreck already, cheeks flushing hot, eyes glassy and half-lidded, mouth hanging open in soft little pants.
A thin string of drool had slipped from the corner of your lips, trailing slow down your chin like you’d forgotten how to swallow. Fuck. The sight punches straight through him, making his cock twitch hard against the damp front of his sweats, thickening even more until the fat head was outlined clear as day through the gray cotton.
“Jesus, sweetheart,” he rasps, voice thick and wrecked. “Look at you droolin’ for me already. Can’t even keep that pretty mouth closed.”
He leans in slow, his big hand cupping the side of your face, thumb sweeping under your lower lip to catch the mess. But instead of wiping it away he just smears it wider and then dips down and licks it up himself, tongue flat and hot dragging slowly from your chin to the corner of your mouth, tasting the sweet-salty mix of your spit and his earlier kisses. You whimper the sound coming out high and broken as he seals his scarred lips over yours again in one sloppy, open-mouthed kiss.
Tongues sliding messy and wet, no rhythm left. Just hunger. He sucks your bottom lip between his teeth with a gentle tug and then plunges back in, licking deep into your mouth like he was trying to drink every drop of you.
Drool spilling between your lips, stringing down your chin again, soaking into the collar of your tank. You're making the filthiest little noises, soft, wet glucks every time his tongue licks into you and he groans low against your mouth, swallowing them all down.
“Such a messy girl,” he murmurs between kisses, nipping your tongue. “Doin’ so good though. Lettin’ me lick it all up. My sweet, sloppy baby.”
He breaks the kiss with a wet pop, a string of spit connecting your mouths for a second before it snaps and he sits back on his heels between your spread thighs. His eyes raking down your body slowly, like he was memorizing every inch. Hoodie shoved up to your tits, tank rucked under them so the soft undersides spilled out.
Shorts still on but soaked dark at the crotch, clinging transparently to the plump mound of your pussy. The fat lips were printed perfect through the cotton — swollen, puffy, glossy with thick gluey slick that had leaked through your panties and was now starting to drip down the crease of your thighs, making shiny wet trails on your sheets.
Toji’s mouth waters so hard he has to swallow. His cock was rock-hard now — veined, fattened, throbbing painfully against his sweats. He palmed it once, roughly squeezed it through the fabric, just to take the edge off. The head leaking more, darkening the gray in a fat wet spot right at the tip. But he didn’t care about himself yet. Not when your pretty soaked pussy was right there, begging for his mouth.
“Fuck,” he breathes, voice strained. “Look at this messy little thing.” So sticky. So sappy. “Drippin’ all over your bed like you can’t help it.”
He hooks two thick fingers under the waistband of your shorts, slowly tugging it down your hips. You lifted for him on instinct, — a shaky little arch and he peels them off along with your drenched panties in one go. The fabric stuck for a second — clinging to your slick folds before coming free with a wet schlick. Strings of thick, glossy arousal stretching between the cotton and your pussy, snapping slow as he tosses them aside.
Your legs fell open wider, your knees bent, feet planted on the mattress and there it was; your pussymound all shiny and swollen, lips puffy and parted just enough to show the sticky pretty inside. Slick coating everything — thick, gluey strands webbing between your folds, dripping slow down to your tight little hole that clenched on nothing.
Your clit was begging — fattened, flushed dark, peeking out from its hood like it was throbbing for attention. The whole thing glistened under the fairy lights — sappy, cummy, so fucking wet it looked obscene.
Toji groaned deeply, a guttural sound coming from his chest. His hands slid up your plush thighs, spreading you wider, thumbs hooking under the meat where thigh met hip so he could hold you open. Your pussy lips parted more, the sticky strings stretching, then breaking, revealing the creamy mess inside.
“Goddamn,” he whispers, almost to himself. “Prettiest fuckin’ pussy I’ve ever seen. All swollen and leaking for me. Gonna taste every drop, baby. Gonna lick this sweet cunt clean till you’re shakin’.”
You whimper high and desperate, your hips twitching up toward his face.
He leaned in slow, his hot breath fanning over your clit first, making it jump. Then his tongue, flat and wide dragged up the entire length of your slit in one long, slow lick. From your dripping hole to the tip of your clit. Thick gluey slick coated his tongue instantly, sweet, tangy, so fucking much of it he had to swallow hard. He groaned against you, the vibration rumbling straight through your core.
“So sweet,” he praised, voice muffled as he licked again — slower this time, savoring it. “Taste like fuckin’ heaven. My good girl’s pussy all creamy and ready. Doin’ so perfect for me.”
His tongue circled your clit, with gentle flicks at first, then slower, broad laps that made your hips buck. One big hand slid up to your soft tummy, his palm spreading wide over the plush curve, holding you down gentle while his mouth worked. The other kept your thigh spread, thumb stroking soothing circles on the inner meat while he sucked your clit between his lips, a soft pull, then releasing, then pulling again.
You were moaning nonstop loud and wrecked, the sounds filling the small room. Slick gushing fresh with every lick — thick ropes of it coating his chin, dripping down his neck. He didn’t stop, just kept on lapping messy and hungry, his tongue dipping into your tight hole to scoop out more of that gluey cream, then dragging back up to suckle your clit like it was candy.
“Look at her clenchin’,” he murmured between licks, eyes flicking up to watch your face. “So tight and needy. Gonna come for me like this, yeah? Gonna let me drink all this pretty mess while you fall apart?”
His tongue plunged deeper, fucking slow into your hole, then he pulled out to circle your clit again, the hand on your tummy pressed firmer, feeling the way your muscles quivered under his palm.
“That’s it, baby,” he cooed, voice thick with praise. “Doin’ so good. Such a sweet girl lettin’ me eat this pussy. Gonna make you come so hard you soak my face. Then I’m gonna do it again. Gonna keep goin’ till you’re cryin’ my name.”
He sucked harder, his lips sealing around your clit, tongue flicking faster now and your whole body arched, your thighs shaking, hands fisting the sheets, drool slipping from your open mouth again as the pleasure coiled tight and hot in your belly.
Toji didn’t let up, he just kept licking slow and filthy, worshipfully talking you through every tremor, every gush of slick, every broken whimper.
“My perfect girl,” he rasped against your dripping cunt. “Come for me, sweetheart. Let me taste how good I make you feel.”
And with one more long, slow drag of his tongue — circling your begging clit just right — you shattered.
You came hard, harder than you ever had alone in this little bed with your fingers or with that cheap little vibe tucked in your drawer. Your whole body seized up like lightning hit your spine, thighs clamping around Toji’s head on instinct, plush hips bucking wild against his mouth while thick ropes of slick gushed straight onto his tongue.
Your clit throbbing against his lips — fat, swollen, pulsing like a second heartbeat — and he didn’t pull away. Didn’t even flinch. Just groaned deep into your cunt like the taste of your orgasm was the only thing he’d been starving for all summer.
“Thaaat’s it,” he rasped, voice muffled and wrecked against your dripping folds. “Come all over my face, sweetheart. Fuck, look at her spillin’ for me. So sweet. So fuckin’ messy.”
He kept licking slow, greedy — greedy laps through the aftermath — cleaning up every fresh gush like he couldn’t bear to waste a drop. Your pussy lips were puffy and flushed dark now, glossy with spit and cum, parting easy every time his tongue nudged between them. Slick coated his chin, dripping down his scarred neck in shiny trails, soaked into the collar of his black shirt. The fairy lights caught it all — turning the mess iridescent, obscene, beautiful.
You were shaking, overstimulated already, clit so sensitive it hurt in the best way, but Toji wasn’t done. Not even close. Man-starved didn’t even cover it, he ate like he’d been denied pussy his whole life and yours was the first real meal he’d ever had. Toji after a moment hooked his fingers into the underside of his shirt and pulled it off in one fluid motion.
Then his big hands shoved your thighs wider, thumbs hooking under the crease where thigh met hip, spreading you so open your tight little hole winked at him with every clench.
He pulled back just enough to look, eyes black with hunger, pupils blown wide watching the way your fattened lips trembled, the way thick gluey strings of your arousal stretched between them like spider silk every time you fluttered.
“Goddamn,” he breathed softly. “This pretty cunt’s still cryin’ for more. Look how she’s clenchin’… all tight and needy even after comin’ that hard. Fuck, baby… you’re killin’ me.”
He dove back in — lips sealing over your clit again, sucking soft at first, then harder. Wet, filthy pulls that made your hips jerk, made your back arch off the mattress until your tits spilled free from under the rucked-up tank. His tongue flicked fast over the swollen bud — quick little lashes — then slowed to broad, dragging circles that had you sobbing.
“Toj i— f-fuck — too much — s’too much — ”
“Shhh,” he soothed without stopping, voice vibrating straight through your core. “You can take it. Doin’ so good for me. My perfect girl. Just lemme taste a little more. Gotta drink every drop this sweet pussy’s givin’ me.”
He licked lower, his tongue plunging slow into your tight hole, fucking in and out with lazy thrusts that made obscene wet squelches fill the room. Your walls fluttered around him greedily, sucking at his tongue like they wanted to keep him inside forever. He groaned — deep, guttural — then pulled out just to spit right onto your clit. A thick glob of his saliva landed hot and heavy, mixing with your slick, running down your folds in slow rivulets.
You whimpered, high and broken when he blew a soft puff of air over the mess, his cool breath hitting your overheated, spit-slick clit like ice on fire. Your whole pussy jolted — clit jumping, hole clenching hard enough to push out another bead of thick cream that dripped slow down your ass.
“Fuck yeah,” he growled, watching it with dark, fascinated eyes. “Look at her twitch. Sensitive little thing. Love how she jumps when I blow on her. Gonna make her come again just like this.” You were overstimulated and shaking.
He sucked your clit back into his mouth, gently this time, lips soft around the swollen bud while his tongue lapped slow, soothing circles. One hand slid up your soft tummy, his palm spreading wide over the soft give of skin, fingers splaying to feel every quiver of your muscles.
The other kept your thigh pinned, thumb stroking slow, reassuring circles on the inner skin like he was petting you through the overstimulation.
“Such a good girl,” he murmured between sucks, pulling off just long enough to speak before diving back in. “Lettin’ me eat this messy cunt even when it’s too much. Takin’ everything I give you. So pretty when you cry for me like this.”
He licked into you again, deeper this time, his tongue curling to scoop out the thickest parts of your cream, feeding it back to your pussy with slow, filthy thrusts. Then he pulled out, lips shiny, chin dripping and spat again. Right onto your hole this time, watching it slide in, mixing with your slick until everything was glossy and obscene.
“Breathe, baby,” he cooed, blowing another soft puff over your clit, watching it throb, watching your hips buck helplessly. “Just breathe. M'gonna make you come again. Gonna suck this pretty clit till you’re soakin’ the sheets even more. Wanna see how many times I can make her gush before you’re beggin’ me to fuck you.”
Your hands flew to his hair — fingers tangling in the black strands, pulling hard enough to make him growl against you. But he loved it, loved the way you were falling apart and drooling again, spit slipping from the corner of your mouth, eyes rolling back as another wave built fast and brutal in your belly.
He sucked harder — lips sealing tight, cheeks hollowing — tongue flicking relentless over your clit while he hummed low, vibrations rumbling straight through you. His free hand pressed firmer on your tummy, feeling the way your muscles clenched, the way your whole body trembled on the edge.
“Come on, sweetheart,” he praised, voice thick and wrecked. “Give it to me. Come all over my tongue again. Let me taste how overstimulated this sweet pussy gets for me. My good girl, my perfect, messy, drippin’ girl.”
One more long, slow drag of his tongue, circling your clit just right, then plunging back into your clenching hole and you shattered again. Harder. Louder, your whole body convulsing, thighs shaking around his head, slick gushing in thick spurts that coated his mouth, his chin and the sheets beneath you.
Toji drank it all — groaning like a man possessed — licking slow through the aftershocks, soothing your twitching clit with soft kitten licks while you sobbed his name, overstimulated and wrecked and still so fucking needy for more.
He finally pulled back — lips swollen, face a mess of spit and cum, his eyes locking on yours with that dark, adoring hunger.
“Fuck, baby,” he rasped, crawling up your body slow, caging you under his broad frame. “You taste like sin. Like every filthy thing I’ve ever wanted.”
His mouth found yours, in a slow, deep kiss letting you taste yourself on his tongue. Thick fingers sliding between your thighs again and petting your soaked, puffy pussy gentle now, soothing the oversensitive folds.
“Still shakin’,” he murmured against your lips, smiling soft and filthy. “Still drippin’. Think you can take my cock now, sweetheart? Or you need me to eat this pretty cunt one more time first?”
Your answer was a broken whimper — hips canting up toward his hand, begging without words.
He chuckled low, dark and tenderly.
“That’s my girl.”
Toji had finally pulled his mouth off your wrecked pussy — lips swollen dark red, his chin still glistening with thick ropes of your slick and his spit that stretched and snapped every time he moved.
He gave you one more slow, sweet savouring kiss to your sweet little lips before crouching back down between your trembling thighs for a second longer, just staring at the mess he’d made; your fat pussy mound all shiny and puffy, lips parted and drooling slow streams of cream down your ass, onto the already soaked sheets.
Your clit was a throbbing little pearl now — fattened up dark and glossy, peeking out like it was begging for one more touch even after two brutal orgasms. Your tight hole kept clenching on nothing — suckling air, pushing out fresh beads of gluey slick that made obscene wet sounds in the quiet room.
He groaned low, the sound ripping out from deep in his chest and he palmed his cock through his sweats again. Harder this time, giving it a rough squeeze that made the thick vein along the underside jump under his hand.
The front of the gray fabric was wrecked — a dark wet patch spreading from the fat, leaking tip, glossy pre soaking through in thick globs that clinged to the cotton like honey.
You saw the outline perfectly now; his fat fuckin’ cock all hardened up for you, swollen and heavy, curving slightly to the left, the round mushroom head so chubbed and probably flushed it looked angry.
“Fuck, look what you did to me, sweetheart,” he rasped, voice gravel-thick with want. “Got me so hard it hurts. Leakin’ like a faucet just from tastin’ this pretty cunt. You see how much pre I’m givin’ you? All for this messy little pussy.”
He shoved his sweats down slow enough to free himself, then kicked it off completely. His cock sprang out heavy the thick base dusted with dark curls of hair, shaft veined and ridged, fattened tip glossy with a fat pearl of pre that beaded at the pink slit and dripping slow down the underside.
It bobbed once, smacking wet against his abs, before he wrapped one scarred hand around the middle and gave himself one lazy stroke. More pre welled up — thick and clear — dribbling over his knuckles.
Your mouth watered. Your pussy clenched hard — sappy walls fluttering, clit jumping at the sight. You were so wet still — thicker now, gluey strands webbing between your lips every time your hips twitched.
Toji crawled back up your body, slow and carefully caging you in, under his broad frame. One thick forearm braced beside your head, the other hand guiding his cock down between your thighs. He didn’t push in…not yet. Just rubbing slow, filthy drags of that fattened round tip through your glossed folds.
The head was scorching hot — swelled up so big it parted your puffy lips easy, spreading them wide around the blunt crown. Your clammy, glued pussylips sucked at him, clinging wetly every time he dragged back, strings of your slick stretching from your hole to his tip like they didn’t want to let go. He nudged your clit with the slit, smearing thick pre over the aching bud — making it throb harder, making you whimper high and broken.
“Feel that?” he murmurs, voice low and mean-teasing as he rocked slow. “Fat fuckin’ cock all hardened up just for you.” Rubbin’ right through your glossy folds. “Y’er sweet little pussy’s kissin’ me back, suckin’ on the tip like she’s tryin’ to pull me in.”
You nodded — desperately, drool slipping from your open mouth again, hips canting up to chase more friction. Your clit was so achy, fattened and sensitive, every glide of his swollen head over it sent sparks shooting up your spine.
Toji chuckled, the sound breathless and dark — then pressed firmer. The round tip notched right at your entrance, stretching the tight ring just enough to make your hole flutter and suckle greedy around him. Not inside. Just teasing…just enough to feel how hot and wet and ready you were.
“Look how she’s grippin’,” he praised, eyes locked on where your pussy lips hugged the head of his cock — clinging, glossy, dripping. “Tight little hole sucklin’ like she’s starvin’. Fuck, baby, you’re so so wet. Drippin’ all over my dick before I even get in. Such a needy girl.”
He rocked against you slowly again, dragging that fattened tip up your slit to bump your clit, then back down to nudge your hole. Pre mixed with your slick, making everything slippery, obscene, the wet schlick, schlick, schlick filling the room every time he teased. Your clit throbbed harder, achy and begging, every time the ridge of his crown caught it just right.
“Toji…please—” Your voice cracked — high, pleading. “Need it… need you inside…”
He groaned, the deep rumble vibrating through both of you, then leaned down to kiss you lovingly, slow and sweet, his tongue sliding against yours while he kept that mean, teasing rhythm; fat tip rubbing through your folds, bumping your clit, nudging your hole, spreading you open without giving you what you craved.
“Not yet, sweetheart,” he whispered against your lips, voice wrecked with restraint. “Gonna tease this sweet pussy a little longer. Wanna feel how much wetter you get. Wanna watch this fat little cunt cry for my cock till you’re shakin’ and sobbin’.”
One big hand slid under your ass, lifting your hips just enough to change the angle. Now every slow drag had his swollen tip catching right on your entrance — stretching the rim, making your walls flutter desperate around nothing. Your clit dragged along the thick underside of his shaft, veins bumping the sensitive bud, sending fresh gushes of slick coating him.
“Feel how hard I am for you?” he rasped, rocking firmer. All his thick pre leakin’ “Just thinkin’ about sinkin’ into this tight, pretty cunt. You’re so fuckin’ wet, baby. So ready. But I wanna hear you beg a little more. Wanna hear how bad my good girl needs this fat cock stretchin’ her open.”
Your hands flew to his shoulders — nails digging into hard muscle, your hips rolling up frantically to chase his teasing. Slick squelching loud between you, gluey strands clinging to his shaft, dripping down his heavy balls that brushed your ass with every rock.
“Toji… please… fuck m’need you so bad —” You were babbling now, voice wrecked, drool slipping down your chin. “Want your cock… want it deep… please —”
He smiled slow, adoringly and mean, then kissed you again, deep and claiming — while his hips kept that torturous rhythm: fat fuckin’ cock rubbing slow through your glossed folds, teasing your achy clit, nudging your suckling hole, making you drip and clench and beg for the stretch you were dying for.
“Soon, baby,” he promised, voice thick with hunger. “Gonna give you every thick inch. Gonna ruin this pretty pussy so good you’ll feel me for days. But first… keep beggin’. Keep drippin’. Show me how desperate my sweet girl is for it.”
And he kept teasing, relentless — until your whole body was trembling, pussy clenching empty and greedy, clit throbbing achy and swollen, slick pooling under your ass in a sticky puddle while he watched you fall apart under his mean, loving touch.
Toji’s hips stilled for a second, his fat, glossy cockhead still notched right at your entrance, stretching the tight ring of your hole just enough that it fluttered desperately around him. Your clammy, slick walls were sucking greedily at the swollen tip, like your pussy was trying to pull him deeper even while fighting the stretch. He was so fuckin’ thick, the round mushroom head bloated and veined, ridged crown — catching on every soft fold as he pushed forward slowly, agonizingly slow.
You gasped high and sharp the sound cracking into a whimper — back arching off the mattress, plush thighs trembling where they were hooked over his hips. Your hole clenched hard on instinct — clammy, hot and so so tight it made his breath hitch rough in his throat.
“Fuck.. easy, sweetheart,” voice low and wrecked, one big scarred hand sliding under your ass to lift your hips just a fraction higher. “You’re grippin’ me like a vice already and I’ve barely got the tip in. So fuckin’ tight… this pretty little cunt’s never taken anything this big, huh?”
You shook your head — frantic little jerks — drool slipping from the corner of your mouth again as you stared up at him with glassy, pleading eyes.
Your clit still achy and swollen from his teasing, throbbing every time the base of his shaft dragged against it on accident. Slick poured out around his tip — thick, gluey strands coating the fat crown, dripping down his heavy balls in slow, shiny rivulets.
Toji groaned gutterally, his forehead dropping to rest against yours for a second while he fought not to just slam home. His cock throbbing hard inside that tiny stretch — veins pulsing against your clenching walls, pre leaking in fat drops that mixed with your cream and made everything even messier.
“Look at you tryin’ so hard for me,” he praised, voice soft and thick with adoration even as his hips rocked in tiny, teasing nudges. “Takin’ just the tip like such a good girl. Feel how she’s suckin’ on me? Fuck…your hole’s so tight and wet, baby. Grippin’ like she don’t ever wanna let go.”
He pushed forward another fraction — barely an inch more and your pussy resisted, walls fluttering wild around the fattened ridge of his crown. The stretch burned sweet — hot, the aching fullness made your toes curl and your nails rake down his broad back. A fresh gush of slick squirted out around him, coating his shaft, dripping onto the sheets in a sticky puddle.
“Haaah —Toji ” Your voice broke, high and wrecked, hips twitching up like you couldn’t decide if you wanted more or needed a second to breathe.
“Shhh, I got you,” he murmured, kissing the corner of your mouth gently-sweet — tongue flicking out to catch the drool on your chin. “Doin’ so perfect. So so tight for me… gonna make it fit, yeah? Gonna stretch this sweet little pussy slow till she’s huggin’ every thick inch. You’re my good girl, my perfect, drippin’ girl. Just breathe for me.”
His free hand slid up your soft tummy, his palm spreading wide over the plushness there, fingers splaying to feel the way your muscles quiver under him. He rocked again — tiny, shallow thrusts that barely moved the tip in and out, just enough to let your walls flutter and adjust around the blunt head.
Every nudge made obscene wet sounds, — schlick- schlick-schlick — your slick squelching loudly around him, strings of it clinging to his veined shaft like they were trying to keep him buried.
“Feel that burn, baby?” he cooed, voice low and praising as he watched your face — eyes locking on every flutter of your lashes, every tremble of your lips. “That’s me openin’ you up. So tight it’s squeezin’ the cum right outta me… fuck, you’re leakin’ all over my cock. Such a messy, needy cunt. Love how she’s fightin’ me and still beggin’ for more.”
He pushed again — slower this time — watching with dark, hungry eyes as another inch sank in. Your hole stretched wider, your puffy lips hugging the thickest part of his crown, clinging glossy and white-knuckled around him. The stretch was obscene — your clit jumping every time the ridge dragged over it on the way in, fresh cream bubbling out to coat him.
“Haaah — fuck — there we go,” he breathed, thumb stroking slow circles over your lower belly where he could feel the faint bulge starting to form just from the tip and a little more. “Look at that… already makin’ a pretty little bump and I’m not even halfway. So fuckin’ tight, sweetheart. Takin’ me like you were made for it.”
You were sobbing softly now, broken little sounds as your hips canted up helplessly, trying to take more even as your walls spasmed around the invasion. Slick pouring steadily, thick and gluey — drenching his balls, soaking the sheets under your ass in a warm, sticky mess.
Toji leaned down and kissed you deep and slow, his tongue sliding against yours while he kept those tiny, rocking thrusts. Just the tip popping in and out, stretching you open, teasing your clenching hole, making your clit throb against the veined underside every time he pulled back.
“Doin’ so good,” he whispers into your mouth between kisses. “My sweet girl takin’ just the tip so perfectly. Gonna keep goin’ slow, gonna make it fit inch by inch till this fat cock’s buried deep where you need it. You feel how hard I am for you? How much I’m leakin’? All ‘cause this tight little pussy’s grippin’ me like she never wants me to leave.”
One more gentle push and another thick inch goes sliding in and your back bows, a moan ripping out loud and raw as your walls flutter wild around him. He stills again, letting you adjust, his forehead pressing to yours, breath ragged.
“Almost there, baby,” he praises, voice thick with restraint and adoration. “So so tight… but you’re takin’ me so good. My perfect girl. Gonna fill you up soon, m’gonna stretch this sticky hole till it’s huggin’ every veiny inch. Ahh — Just a little more… just breathe and let me make it fit.”
His thumb finds your clit, and circles over the swollen bud slow and gently while he rocks another inch in shallow, keeping you on that razor edge of stretch and pleasure. Slick gushing fresh with every tiny thrust — coating him, dripping down, making the slide just a little easier even as your pussy fights to keep him right where he is.
“Tell me how it feels, sweetheart,” he murmurs, kissing your tear-streaked cheek. “Tell me how full you are already… how much you need the rest.”
Your answer is a broken whimper, your hips rolling up desperately, pussy clenching hard around just the tip and a little more now.
“Need… need all of you… please, Toji —”
He smiles slow, filthy but so fucking tender, then kisses you again, deep and claiming while his hips started that slow, relentless push forward again.
“That’s my girl,” he rasps against your lips. “Gonna give you everything. Gonna make this tight little cunt take every thick inch till you’re cryin’ and comin’ all over me.”
And inch by torturous inch he keeps making it fit. Slow. Sweet. Praising you through every clench, every gush, every trembling stretch until your pussy finally starts to yield — walls fluttering open, sucking him deeper, greedily and wrecked and so so ready for the rest.
Then Toji’s patience snapped like a thin wire, a low growl rumbling deep in his chest as his big scarred hands clamped around your soft waist. No warning. No gentle coaxing. Just raw, starving need. He grabs your little body like it was his to manhandle, his rough palms digging into your plush hips, flipping you onto your side in one swift yank that made the mattress springs squeak protest.
“Fuck ah I-I can’t take it anymore,” he rasps, voice thick and wrecked. “Need to go deeper. Need this tight cunt stuffed full, m’gonna make her take every fuckin’ inch now.”
He drags you down the bed, the sheets tangling around your ankles, until your ass hangs off the edge just enough, cheeks jiggling from the rough pull. Your face mashed into the rumpled comforter — cheek smushing against the soft fabric, drool already pooling under your agape mouth.
One hand flew out on instinct, your fingers clutching the fluffy stuffed bear you keep on the pillow (the one with the little bow tie you’d had since middle school), knuckles white as you gripped it like a lifeline while your body arches helplessly.
Toji presses your legs together, his thick thighs pressing your plush ones tight, forcing your chubby little cunt to pucker even more obscenely. Your fat pussy lips squished together now, glossy and swollen, the plump folds mashed into one slick, puffy seam that barely parts for the fat pink tip still teasing your entrance.
The position makes everything tighter — your gummy walls clenching harder, clit trapped between those squeezed-together lips, throbbing achy and trapped against the pressure.
He lines up, his veined, thick cock — throbbing heavy in his fist — and pushes in.
No slow tease this time.
The fat crown spears past your puckered entrance with a wet, filthy pop — stretching those mashed-together lips wide around his girth. Your hole sucking greedily and clenching so tight it made his eyes roll back, but he doesn’t stop.
Just keeps feeding inch after thick, veined inch into your poor stuffed cunt, the squeeze so intense it forces thick ropes of your gooey cream to bubble out around him, coating his shaft in shiny white strands that drip slow down your inner thighs.
“Haah… fuck — listen to her,” he groans, hips snapping forward harder now that the angle let him sink deeper. “This chubby little cunt’s cryin’ so loud for me. Squeezin’ like she’s scared I’ll pull out… but she’s suckin’ me right back in. Fuckin’ perfect.”
You wail high, lewd and broken, your cries muffled into the mattress — voice cracking every time his cock punches deeper. Never been fucked like this, with legs squeezed shut making your pussy feel impossibly smaller, every ridge and vein dragging slow and mean along your gummy walls.
Your fat lips puckering tight around his base — stretching thin and glossy, clinging desperately like they were made to mold to his shape. The pressure mashes your clit right against the thick underside of his shaft — rubbing it raw with every brutal thrust, sending sparks shooting up your spine until your toes curl hard.
Toji loses it completely.
Big hands gripping your hips — fingers sinking into soft flesh hard enough to bruise, and he starts pounding. Deep, mean strokes that bottoming out with a wet slap every time his heavy balls smacks your clit.
Precum and your thick cream mixing into a frothy mess squirting out around his cock with every pull-back, dripping in sticky webs down your thighs, soaking the edge of the bed where your ass hangs off.
“Goddamn, look at this mess you’re makin’,” he pants, voice rough and praising all at once. “Gooey little pussy just spillin’ everywhere f’me. So fuckin’ cute how she’s creamin’ all over my dick… takin’ it so deep even when she’s squeezes this tight. My good girl…my filthy, drippin’ girl.”
Your cries turn desperate — muffled sobs into the stuffed bear you are clutching, tears streaking hot down your cheeks. Every thrust punches the air out of your lungs, his cockhead kissing your cervix mean and relentless, stretching your gummy walls wide around his veined thickness.
Your clit rubs mercilessly against him — trapped between those puckered lips, swollen and throbbing, building that coil tighter and tighter until your whole body shakes.
“Feel that?” he growles, leaning over you, his broad chest pressing to your back, sweat-slick skin sliding against yours. One hand slides up to cup your soft tummy — palm pressing down so he can feel the bulge of his cock moving inside you. “Feel how deep I am, baby? Stuffin’ this chubby cunt so full she’s leakin’ like a faucet. Gonna make you come like this.” legs squeezed tight, clit rubbed raw and pussy stretched mean around every thick inch of his.
He snaps his hips harder, the angle perfect now, his cock dragging right over that spongy spot inside while his shaft grinds against your trapped clit. Slick squelches loud and obscene, wet slaps filling the room, your gooey cream frothing white at the base of his cock, dripping in thick strands every time he pulls back.
You shatter hard.
Whole body convulsing, walls clamping down like a vice around his pounding cock, milking him greedily as you scream into the mattress. Fresh gushes of slick squirting out around him, hot and messy, soaking his balls, drenching the sheets, making every thrust even sloppier. Your clit throbs wild against him — overstimulated and raw, sending aftershocks after aftershock rippling through you until your legs shake uncontrollably.
Toji groans deep and feral, his hips stuttering as your pussy sucks him in tight.
“Fuck… Aaah yeah, come on my cock, sweetheart,” he praises, voice breaking with how close he was. “Squeezin’ so fuckin’ tight… makin’ such a cute mess f’er me. Good girl, my perfect, pretty girl. Gonna fill this stuffed cunt up soon… gonna pump you so full you’ll be leakin’ me for days.”
He didn’t stop, Toji kept fucking you through it, with mean, deep thrusts that made your ass jiggle, made your cries turn hoarse and wrecked. His veined cock dragged slow and filthy through your fluttering walls — still so tight from your legs squeezed together and clit still rubbing helpless against him with every slam.
“Haah mhnm fuck…m’not done yet,” he rasps, hand sliding down to spread one cheek, exposing where you were stretched obscene around him. “Gonna keep, ah goin’. Gonna ruin this pretty pussy till she’s cryin’ for more… till you’re so full of cum you can’t move.”
And he did — pounding harder, deeper, meaner all while you clutched your stuffed bear tighter, face buried in the mattress, drooling and sobbing and coming undone again and again around his thick cock that finally fit all the way inside your chubby, gooey, perfect little cunt.
Toji’s hips roll in one long, deliberate drag — pulling back just enough that his thick, veined cock starts to slip free from your stuffed little hole. Your sloppy pussy doesn't want to let go. Gummy walls clenching down hard — squeezin’ greedy around every ridge and bump like they’re scared he’d leave you empty.
His foreskin bunches up soft and slick around the fattened base of his crown as he withdraws — pink tip glistening obscene with a thick coat of your cream and his own sappy pre, strings of it stretching taut between your puffy lips and his shaft before snapping wetly against your inner thighs.
You whine high and utterly broken, face mashed deeper into the mattress, your cheek smushed against the soft fur of your stuffed bear, fingers clutching the little plush thing so tight the seams strained. Drool still pooling under your slacked maw, soaking the fabric while your hips twitch back helplessly, chasing the stretch even as he teases you with the slow retreat.
“Fuck haah… listen to that,” he rasps, voice low and filthy-thick with awe. “This nasty lil’ pussy’s makin’ the sloppiest sounds just ‘cause I’m pullin’ out. Squelchin’ like she’s beggin’ me to stay buried. So fuckin’ greedy, baby.”
He didn’t let you go empty for long.
Right when the fat pink tip was almost out — your hole fluttering desperately around the ridge, he leaned over you again, his broad chest pressing hot to your back — and spat. A thick, heavy glob of spit landing right on your stretched entrance — hot and messy — sliding down the puffy seam of your mashed-together pussylips before dripping slow into the clenching ring still hugging his crown, the added slick made everything even nastier, your syrup-thick cream mixing with his spit, bubbling white and frothy where your walls gripped him.
Toji groans deep, a rumble that vibrates straight through you as he pushes forward again. Slow and mean, feeding every thick inch back into your pussy until his hips slapped flush against your ass, his balls heavy and wet smacking your clit trapped between those squeezed thighs. Your pussy sucking him in greedy — gummy walls fluttering wild, clinging so tight it made his eyes roll back.
“Haah…there we go,” he praises, hands clamping harder on your soft waist — fingers sinking into plush flesh like you really are his personal fleshlight, something soft and warm and perfect to use. “Takin’ me all the way again. Feel how deep I am, sweetheart?” His cockhead now kissin’ your cervix… — mngh "Stretchin’ this sloppy hole wide. God your pussy’s so fuckin’ good. So tight even after all that cream you just gushed.”
He drew back again slowly and torturous, watching the way your fat pussylips dragged along his veined shaft, clinging glossy and swollen, trying to keep him inside. Nasty lil’ squelches filling the room — wet, obscene pops every time he pulls out halfway — your syrup-thick pussy noisily protesting, cream bubbling out in thick white rings around his base, dripping slow down your inner thighs in sticky trails that soaked the edge of the mattress.
Your sobbing is muffled into the stuffed bear, your whole body trembling as he manhandles you deeper into the bed. One big hand slides up your spine — pushing your face firmer into the comforter, while the other grips your waist harder, yanking your hips back to meet every slow, punishing thrust.
He spreads your fat pussylips wider with his thumbs — peeling them apart even as your legs stay squeezed tight together — exposing the glossy pink inside where his thick cock splits you open.
“Look at her stretch,” he growls, voice wrecked with how good it feels. Your plump lil’ lips puckering so tight around him… huggin’ every veiny inch like she was made for his cock. “Fuck mhng baby, you’re ruinin’ me. This pussy’s too perfect… too sloppy… too fuckin’ tight.”
He bottoms out again, harder this time, his cockhead bullying deep until you feel that familiar bulge in your lower tummy, the faint swell under his palm when he presses down. Your clit rubbed raw against the underside of his shaft — trapped and throbbing — every drag sending fresh sparks through your overstimulated nerves until your thighs shake uncontrollably.
Toji didn’t speed up. Didn’t rush. Just kept that slow, deep pace — drawing back until only the fat tip stretched your entrance, then sinking all the way in with one long, filthy glide. Each pull-out made your pussy squelch louder — cream frothing white at his base, dripping in thick ropes — each push-in forcing more of your gooey slick to bubble out around him, coating his balls, soaking your ass cheeks, turning everything into a warm, sticky mess.
“God mhm feel that?” he rasps, leaning down to nip the shell of your ear, his breath hot and ragged. “How your pussy’s clenchin’ every time I try to pull out? Squeezin’ like she doesn't ever wanna be empty. My good girl… my perfect, drippin’ girl. Takin’ this thick cock so deep… makin’ such cute, nasty noises for me.”
His hands tighten on your waist — using you like he owns you — pulling your hips back to meet every slow, punishing thrust while he grounds deeper, letting the fat crown drag over that spongy spot inside until your cries turn hoarse and wrecked.
Your stuffed bear was crushed against your chest now, your fingers white-knuckled and face buried so deep in the mattress you could barely breathe around the drool and tears.
He spat again, a thick glob landing right where you were stretched widest around him — watching it slide in, mixing with the mess until everything was even slicker and messier.
“Not stoppin’,” he promises, voice low and filthy-sweet. “Gonna keep fuckin’ this little pussy… till she’s cryin’ and cumin’ again. Till you’re so full of my cum you can’t move, doll Till every time I pull out you’re squirtin’ that syrup-thick cream all over me.”
One more long, slow drag out and your pussy noisily protests with wet, lewd squelches, then he sinks back in deep, bottoming out with a wet slap that made your ass jiggle, clit grind hard against him, walls fluttering wild around every thick, veined inch of his.
“Haah…fuck t-there’s my girl,” he groans, kissing the back of your neck soft and filthy. “Takin’ it so good… makin’ me lose my fuckin’ mind. Gonna keep usin’ you just like this… slow… aah… till you’re nothin’ but a creamy, shakin’ mess for me.”
And he did, he kept that torturous rhythm, his hands bruising your waist, cock stretching your sloppy hole wide, foreskin bunched… slick, spit and cream mixing into the nastiest mess while you clutch your stuffed toy for dear life, sobbing his name into the mattress, pussy clenching greedily and wrecked around his thick cock that owned you completely.
Toji’s hips stayed buried deep, his thick cock throbbing hot and heavy inside your stuffed pussy, every veiny inch hugged so tight by your gummy walls that pulling out even an inch felt like fighting gravity. But he didn’t need to thrust right now.
Not when he had you exactly where he wanted; face-down, ass-up on the edge of your bed, legs squeezed shut, chubby pussy lips puckered and swollen around the base of his shaft like a glossy, creamy ring.
Your pretty little hole was still fluttering around him — suckling greedily on every ridge, even after the last brutal orgasm ripped through you, leaving your thighs trembling and slick dripping in slow, syrupy ropes down the insides of your legs.
He leaned over you, his broad chest pressing hot to your back, sweat-slick skin sliding against yours, until his scarred lips brushed the shell of your ear.
One big hand stayed clamped on your soft waist, fingers digging possessive bruises into plush flesh, while the other slid down between your squeezed-together thighs.
Rough callused fingertips found your puffed-out clit immediately — swollen, fat and glossy from all the rubbing, peeking out from between those mushed puffy lips like a needy little button begging for more.
“Fuck haah… look at this messy thing,” voice low and wrecked with hunger. “So puffed up… so gooey and sappy from comin’ all over my cock. Can’t even hide how bad she wants it.”
His fingers started moving in filthy, lazy circles right over your swollen bud. Not fast. Not rough. Just slow, perfect rubs that made your clit jump and throb under the pad of his middle finger.
He smeared your own thick cream around it — mixing it with the frothy white ring still clinging to his base — making every glide slicker, hotter, nastier. Your pussy clenched hard around his buried cock in response — walls fluttering wild, milking him greedy even though he wasn’t moving yet.
You whimper high, the broken sound muffled into the stuffed bear you were still clutching like it could save you from how good it felt. Drool soaked the plush's fur, tears streaking hot down your cheeks, whole body shaking as those filthy circles kept coming — round n’ round, a slow pressure that built the ache back up fast.
“Haah… m’can’t stop touchin’ you, baby,” he groaned against your neck, nipping the soft skin where he’d already left dark bruises. “Even if I tried… fuck, this little clit’s too perfect. So fat and slippery… jumpin’ every time I rub right here.”
He pressed firmer, his middle finger circling tighter now, thumb hooking under to spread your puffy lips just enough to expose more of that sensitive pearl.
The motion dragging his cock the tiniest bit inside you — barely a rock, just enough to let the fat crown nudge your spongy spot while his fingers worked your clit relentlessly. Fresh slick gushed out around him, thick and syrupy — coating his hand, dripping down his wrist in warm rivulets that soaked into the sheets.
Your hips bucked back helplessly, your ass jiggling against his pelvis, trying to grind into his touch even as your pussy clenched tighter around the thick intrusion splitting you open.
Every filthy circle sent sparks shooting straight up your spine, your clit throbbed so hard it hurt in the sweetest way, walls spasming around his cock like they were trying to pull him even deeper.
“Goddamn…ya feel that?” he murmured, voice thick with praise and filth. “How your cunt ’s grippin’ me every time I rub this pretty clit? Squeezin’ like she’s beggin’ for more even though she’s already stuffed full. My good girl… my perfect, drippin’ mess. Look how she’s leakin’ just from my fingers. So fuckin’ sensitive.”
He sped up just a fraction, circles turning tighter, faster. The pad of his finger flicking quick over the swollen tip of your clit before smoothing back into those slow, filthy loops.
Your cries turned desperate, hoarse and wrecked, sobs muffled into the bear as your thighs shook harder, pussy fluttering wild around his cock. Thick cream bubbled out with every clench — frothing white at his base, dripping in sticky strands that clung to his heavy balls.
Toji groaned deep and feral, his hips finally rocking once, a slow, deep grind that dragged every veined inch along your gummy walls while his fingers never stopped. The dual sensation punched the air out of your lungs, clit rubbed raw and throbbing, cunt stretched wide and filled to the brim.
“Can’t get enough of touchin’ you,” he confessed, voice breaking with how wrecked he was. “This puffed-out little clit… so gooey and sappy… jumpin’ under my fingers like it’s alive. Fuck…baby, you’re gonna come again just like this. Gonna make this fat pussy squirt all over my hand while I’m still buried balls-deep.”
He pinched your clit gently, rolling it between thumb and finger, then went right back to those filthy circles, smearing more of your cream around the swollen bud until it glistened obscene under the fairy lights. Your whole body seized, your back arching hard, ass pressing back desperately against him, your narrow walls clamping down like a vice around his thick cock.
“That’s it ahh…come for me again,” he praised, lips brushing your ear, breath hot and ragged. “Let me feel this pussy milk me while I rub this pretty clit raw. My sweet girl… my filthy, pretty girl… gush for me, baby. Show me how much you love it when I can’t stop touchin’ you.”
One more tight, filthy circle pressed hard right over the tip and you shatter.
Whole body convulsing, pussy clamping down brutally around his cock, walls fluttering wild as thick spurts of slick squirted out around him, hot and messy — soaking his hand, drenching his thighs, pooling warm under your ass on the already wrecked sheets.
Your clit throbbed helplessly under his fingers, overstimulated and raw, sending aftershock after aftershock ripping through you until your legs gave out completely.
Toji didn’t pull his hand away. Just kept those slow, soothing circles, gentler now — petting your puffed-out clit through the tremors while his cock stays buried deep, throbbing hard inside your fluttering, creamy cunt.
“Haah…fuck…there’s my girl,” he sighs, kissing the back of your neck soft and filthy. “Comin’ so hard just from my fingers… makin’ such a cute, sloppy mess. Can’t stop touchin’ you, baby. Not when this little clit’s still jumpin’ for me… not when your pussy’s still grippin’ me like she never wants me to stop.”
He rocked once, letting you feel every thick inch while his fingers kept circling lazy, keeping you right on that overstimulated edge.
“Gonna keep goin’,” he promises, voice low and wrecked with adoration. “Gonna keep rubbin’ this pretty clit… keep fuckin’ you slow… till you’re cryin’ and squirting again. Till you’re nothin’ but a shakin’, creamy mess for me. My perfect girl… my filthy little thing… all mine.”
And he did, his fingers never stopping those filthy circles, cock grinding deep and slow, turning you into a drooling, trembling puddle while your stuffed bear stayed clutched tight in your shaking hands, soaked with tears and drool and the endless proof of how good he made you feel.
Toji’s cock was buried to the hilt, his thick-veined base flush against your swollen puffy lips, heavy balls pressed hot to your clit like they belonged there. Your little fat pussy was stretched obscene around him, your gummy walls parted wide, clinging desperate to every ridged inch like they’d forgotten how to close.
You were gaped already, your poor hole fluttering open every time he stayed still too long, the rim puffy and flushed dark pink, glistening with thick layers of your syrupy cream and his endless pre. Slick dripping steady from where you were joined, slow, sticky ropes that clung to his shaft, webbing down to his balls, pooling warm under your ass on the wrecked sheets.
Shaking, your whole body trembling, face still mashed into the mattress, drool soaking the stuffed bear you clutched like it was the only thing keeping you grounded. Your cries had turned hoarse, soft and wrecked whimpering every time his cock throbbed deep inside, nudging that spongy spot that made your toes curl and your tummy quiver.
He groans low, the sound ripping from his chest like it hurt to feel how tight you still were even after all the pounding, big scarred hands gripped your soft waist harder, his fingers sinking into plush flesh, holding you exactly where he wanted while he started to pull out.
Slow.
Agonizingly slow.
The drag was filthy, every veined inch sliding free with wet, obscene schlicks that filled the room. Your pussy lips dragged along his shaft, puffy and glossy, clinging greedily like they didn’t want to let go. The fat pink crown caught on your rim, stretching it wider one last time before popping free with a lewd, sucking pop.
Your hole gaped open immediately, pink and wrecked, fluttering helplessly around nothing, thick strings of cream stretching from your entrance to his dripping tip like obscene bridges before snapping wet against your inner thighs.
“Haah…fuck…look at that,” he said disbelieving,“This little hole’s gaped so pretty for me… still clenchin’ like she’s missin’ me already. So fuckin’ sloppy, baby. Drippin’ everywhere just ‘cause I pulled out.”
You whimpered, hips twitching back instinctively, chasing the emptiness even as your walls fluttered wild. But Toji wasn’t done teasing.
He lined up again, the fat tip nudging your gaping entrance, smearing thick pre over the stretched rim, then he pushed.
Deeper.
Harder.
One long, brutal glide that sank every thick inch back inside until his hips slapped flush against your ass, cockhead bullying past your cervix, stirring your guts up in that dizzying, overwhelming way that made your eyes roll back.
You felt him everywhere. Hot, heavy fullness stretching from your stuffed hole all the way up like he was rearranging you from the inside. Your tummy bulged faintly under his palm when he pressed down, feeling the outline of his cock moving deep, claiming every inch of your soft insides.
“Fuuuck…there it is,” he growled, hips grinding slow circles now, letting you feel him throb against your deepest walls. “Feel me in your throat, sweetheart? Stirrin’ up your guts… makin’ this pretty pussy taking me so deep she’s cryin’. My good girl… my perfect, stretched-out girl.”
Your cries turning guttural and raw, sounds muffled into the bear as he starts thrusting again, long punishing strokes that pull almost all the way out every time, only to slam back in deeper, harder, stirring your insides into a gooey, creamy mess. Slick squirting out with every pull-back, thick and white-frothed, coating his shaft, dripping down your thighs in warm rivers that soaked everything beneath you.
Then his thick thumb found your tight puckered asshole.
He didn’t ask…Didn’t tease.
Just pressed the blunt pad right against your clenched ring — hot, callused pressure that made your whole body jolt. Your hole fluttering instinctive, tight and untouched, trying to push him out even as your pussy clenched harder around his pounding cock.
“Shhh…relax for me, baby,” he murmured, voice low and filthy-sweet against your ear. ‘m'gonna plug this pretty little hole too. Keep you so full… till you’re shakin’ and sobbin’ for me.”
He pushes in so…so carefully, his thick thumb breaching the tight ring with a soft pop. The stretch burning sweet… the foreign fullness made your back arch hard, ass pushing back desperately onto both intrusions. Your asshole clamping down greedily around his thumb, sucking him into the first knuckle, while your pussy flutters wildly around his thick cock, walls spasming so hard it milks another thick spurt of pre deep inside you.
“Haah…fuck y-yeah,” he groans, thumb sinking deeper, and a slow twist of his thumb... has your hole clenching and fluttering around him. “Takin’ my thumb so good… tight little ass huggin’ me just like your pussy. Feel that? Both holes ngh stuffed f-full”… his cock stirrin’ your guts, thumb pluggin’ up your pretty asshole. “You’re mine, baby. All fuckin’ mine.”
He starts moving — thumb rocking shallow in time with his deep thrusts, cock slamming home every time his thumb pushes in, pulling out together in a filthy rhythm that makes your whole body rock forward into the mattress. Your clit rubbed raw against the sheets now — trapped and throbbing — every grind sending fresh sparks through your overstimulated nerves until tears streamed hot down your cheeks.
Your cries were nonstop, hoarse, wrecked sobs into your stuffed bear, your body trembling violently as he fucked you deeper, thumb plugging your ass, cock stretching your gaped pussy wide. Slick gushing with every thrust, thick, creamy ropes squirting out around his base, soaking his hand where it worked your plugged hole, drenching the bed in a warm, sticky puddle.
“God…look at you,” he praised, voice breaking with how close he was. “Takin’ everything… Such a good girl… my girl. Gonna make you come like this… gonna feel you milk me till I’m pumpin’ you full.”
He ground deeper, thumb twisting slow inside your tight ass, bulbous cockhead bullying your cervix, stirring everything up until the pressure coiled unbearable in your belly.
“Come for me, baby.” he says softly, lips brushing your tear-streaked cheek gently.
One more deep, brutal thrust, thumb sinking to the base, cock slamming home fully and you shattered.
Whole body convulsing, pussy clamping like a vice around his thick shaft, asshole fluttering wild around his thumb, clit throbbing helpless against the friction. Thick spurts of slick squirts out around him — hot and messy — soaking everything as you scream his name into the bear, tears and drool mixing on the sheets.
Toji goes all breathless, hips stuttering as your walls milked him ruthlessly.
“Fuck...yeah…take it, baby,” he pants, grinding deep through your orgasm. “Gonna come… gonna fill this pretty little cunt… gonna plug you so full you’ll feel me for days.”
And with one last deep thrust, thumb buried in your ass, cock throbbing hot and heavy inside your stuffed, creamy hole he starts to spill. Thick, hot ropes of cum flooding your gummed walls — pulse after pulse — stirring your insides even more as he keeps grinding slow, keeping you plugged front and back while you shook and sobbed and came undone completely around him.
And Toji Zenin still wasn’t done touching you.
Not by a long shot.
Toji finally eased his thumb out of your twitching little asshole, slow and careful, letting the tight ring flutter shut with a soft, wet sound that made your whole body shiver one last time. His cock slipped free next, his thick length dragging along your ruined walls until the fat crown popped out with a lewd, sucking pop.
A hot gush of cum followed immediately, thick, creamy ropes spilling from your gaping pussy in slow, obscene waves, dripping down your inner thighs, pooling sticky and warm beneath your ass on the already-soaked sheets.
You were trembling, completely spent, limbs heavy and breath coming in shaky little pants, face still buried halfway into the rumpled comforter with drool stringing from the corner of your swollen lips. Your stuffed bear was crushed, forgotten against your chest, fur matted and damp from tears and spit and everything else.
Toji didn’t move away.
He rolled you gently, almost tenderly — onto your back, big scarred hands sliding under your soft thighs and waist to lift you like you weighed nothing. He settled between your spread legs again, kneeling tall over you, sweat-glistening chest heaving while he looked down at the absolute mess he’d made of his pretty girl.
Your pussy was wrecked, lips puffy and dark, gaping open just enough to show the creamy white mess inside, clit still swollen and flushed, twitching with aftershocks. Cum leaked out in lazy pulses, mixing with your own slick, running in glossy trails down your perineum.
But his eyes softened when they reached your face.
All tear-streaked cheeks, glassy eyes, puffy lips still shining with spit.
“My pretty girl,” he murmured, voice low and wrecked but so fucking gentle now it made your chest ache.
He leaned down slow, his big heated body blanketing yours without crushing you and cups your face in both rough palms. Thumbs brushed away the fresh tears clinging to your lashes, smearing them gently across your flushed skin.
Toji didn’t pull out.
Not even a little.
He stayed buried to the root, his thick, heavy cock throbbing slow and deep inside your stuffed cunt, every veiny inch hugged so tight by your gummy walls it felt like your pussy had forgotten how to exist without him filling it. The fat pink crown was pressed right up against your cervix — hot, insistent pressure that made your tummy flutter every time his heartbeat pulsed through the shaft.
Cum was already leaking — thick, sticky ropes of it flooding your insides from the last brutal spill, so much that you could feel the warm, syrupy weight of it pooling deep in your guts, pressing against your walls like liquid heat.
Your poor hole was gaped just enough around his base, puffy lips stretched thin and glossy, clinging desperate to the thickest part of him like they were scared he’d slip free. But he wasn’t going anywhere, he just held you there, his hips flush to your ass, one big scarred hand splayed wide over your soft tummy so he could feel the faint swell where his cock and all that cum was making you bulge ever so slightly from the inside.
“Shhh… just like this, sweetheart,” he murmured low against the back of your neck, lips brushing damp skin in soft, lazy kisses. “Just cock warming. No more fuckin’ right now. Gonna let this pretty pussy soak in every drop I gave her… keep her nice and full, yeah?”
You whimpered — soft, a wrecked little sound muffled into the stuffed bear still clutched tight to your chest. Your whole body was trembling, overstimulated, oversensitive, thighs quivering where they were still squeezed shut and held down beneath his weight.
Slick and cum mixed into a warm, sticky mess between you, dripping slowly out around his base in thick, pearly strands that clung to your inner thighs, soaking the sheets in a warm puddle that smelled like sex and him and you all tangled together.
He shifted then, just a tiny rock of his hips, not thrusting, just enough to let his cock stir the cum inside you. The movement made a wet, filthy squelch, your walls fluttering greedy around him, milking another thick bead of leftover seed that oozed deeper into your guts.
You felt it, hot and slippery coating every inch of your gummy insides, threatening to drool out if he moved too much, but he didn’t. He just held you closer — arm banding around your waist, palm pressing firmer over that soft little bulge in your tummy like he was proud of how full he’d made you.
“Look how cute you are,” he whispered, voice rough and tender all at once. “Face all flushed… droolin’ on your lil’ bear… pussy so full of my cum she’s practically purring. My pretty girl… my perfect girl.”
He turned your face gently with scarred fingers under your chin, tilting you just enough so he could lean over your shoulder and kiss you slow. Soft at first — scarred lips brushing yours, tasting the salt of your tears and the cherry gloss long smeared away. Then deeper, tongue sliding lazy against yours, swallowing every tiny whimper you gave him while his cock stayed perfectly still inside you, just throbbing, just warming, just owning.
You moaned into his mouth, a soft and needy sound as another warm trickle of cum leaked out around his base, sliding slow down your puffy lips. Your clit still swollen and achy, brushed the underside of his shaft with every tiny shift, sending little aftershocks through your core that made your walls flutter and clench around him again.
“Haah…fuck — there she goes,” he groaned against your lips, kissing you deeper, filthier. “Clenchin’ so sweet even when she’s just holdin’ me. Feel all that cum sloshin’ around inside you? So warm… so sticky… gonna keep it all plugged up in there till it’s leakin’ out slow outta you.”
His free hand slid up and cupped the side of your face, thumb stroking slow over your tear-streaked cheek while he kissed you again and again. Forehead pressed to yours now, breath mingling hot and ragged, his green eyes dark and soft as he stared down at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.
“You’re so fuckin’ cute like this,” he murmured, pressing another soft kiss to your forehead — lingering, reverent. “All hugged up on my cock… pussy threatenin’ to drool my cum everywhere but still grippin’ me so tight. My good girl… my sweet, stuffed girl. Just stay like this for me, yeah? Let me keep you warm… let me feel how full I made you.”
He rocked once, barely a movement, just a slow grind that stirred the thick load inside you without pulling out. More cum bubbled out hot and slippery coating your puffy lips, dripping slow down to where your clit throbbed against him. You whimpered high and broken — hips twitching instinctively even though you were too spent to chase anything.
Toji shushed you gently, lips brushing your temple, your cheek, your mouth again in soft, endless kisses.
“Just this. Just me inside you… keepin’ all that cum nice and warm where it belongs. My pretty girl… my perfect little thing… all hugged up and full for me.”
He wrapped both arms around you then, pulling your soft body back flush to his chest, cock still buried deep, still throbbing slow, still leaking the last drops into your stuffed, creamy pussy. Forehead kisses rained down, soft, sweet and lazy in the best way, while he held you close, letting you feel every heartbeat through his shaft, every warm pulse of cum settling deeper inside you.
“Stay just like this,” he whispered one last time, lips lingering on your forehead. “My cute, sweet girl… mine.”
And he didn’t move.
Just held you there — thick cock warming your poor, gaped, cum-stuffed pussy while you trembled and whimpered and clung to your bear, face buried in his neck, soaking in the sticky, overwhelming heat of being so perfectly, completely full of him.
Toji’s arms locked around your waist like steel bands, scarred hands splaying wide over the soft curve of your lower belly, fingers digging in just enough to bruise the plush skin as he yanked you down hard, with no warning. No slow descent. Just raw, possessive force that slammed your dripping pussy all the way onto his thick, throbbing cock in one brutal, claiming drop.
The stretch hit like lightning — your poor gaped hole, forced to swallow every last veiny inch at once, walls parting wide around the fattened girth until his heavy balls slapped wet against your clit and the fat pink crown punched right up against the deepest part of your cervix again.
You felt it everywhere — hot, overwhelming fullness stretching from your stuffed entrance all the way up into your guts, making your tummy bulge visibly under his palm where he pressed down firmly to feel himself buried inside you.
“Haah…f-fuck — there it is,” he growled low against the shell of your ear, voice wrecked and deep, breath scorching your neck. “Takin’ every thick fuckin’ inch, sweetheart. All of it. No more teasin’. Just my cock stuffed deep where it belongs.”
Your cry ripped out raw and broken — high, desperate wails muffled into the crook of his shoulder as your body jolted from the sudden depth. Your gummy walls fluttered wild around him, clenching helpless. Spasming like they couldn’t decide if they wanted to push him out or suck him deeper.
Slick and leftover cum from before gushed out around his base in thick, creamy ropes,frothing white at the stretch, dripping slow down his heavy sack in warm, sticky trails that soaked into the sheets beneath you both.
He didn’t let you adjust. Just held you there, impaled, trembling, your pussy clenching greedily around the full length of him — while one hand slid up to fist in your hair, yanking your head back gently but firm so he could see your face.
Tears streaked hot down your cheeks, lips swollen and parted in endless soft whimpers, drool slipping from the corner of your mouth again like you’d forgotten how to swallow.
“Look at you,” he says proudly, green eyes dark and blown with hunger as he stared down at where your puffy lips were stretched thin and glossy around his base — clinging so tight the rim looked almost white-knuckled. “My pretty girl takin’ everything… pussy so full she’s shakin’. Feel that? Feel how deep I am?” His cockhead kissin’ your womb and stirrin’ up all that cum he already pumped in you.
He rocked his hips once, a slow grinding roll that dragged every ridge along your fluttering walls without pulling out. The motion made a wet, filthy squelch, your stuffed pussy protesting the fullness even as it clenched harder, milking him greedy. More thick cream bubbled out — syrupy and white — coating his shaft, dripping down to where your clit throbbed helpless against the veined underside.
“Nngh…Toji —” Your voice cracked,hoarse and wrecked, nails raking down his broad back again, leaving red trails over hard muscle. “S’too much… s’too deep —”
“Shhh, I know, baby,” he murmured, scarred lips brushing your tear-streaked cheek in soft, filthy kisses. “Doin’ so good though. Takin’ this fat cock like you were made for it. Feel how your pussy’s grippin’ me? Squeezin’ like she don’t ever wanna let go. My perfect girl… my sweet girl.”
He pulled you down harder, another sharp yank that seated him impossibly deeper, crown bullying against that spongy spot inside until your back bowed, thighs trembling violently around his hips. Your clit grinding raw against his pelvis — swollen and achy — every tiny shift sending sparks shooting through your core that made your walls flutter and clench harder around him.
Toji groaned deep, the guttural sound vibrating straight through you, then wrapped both arms around your waist, crushing your soft body to his chest. One hand slid down to cup your ass, fingers spreading the plush cheeks wide so he could feel where you were stretched obscene around him, while the other pressed firm over that faint bulge in your tummy, thumb stroking slow circles over the spot where he could feel himself moving inside.
“Fuck…look at this,” he breathed, voice thick with praise and filth. “My cock makin’ a pretty little bump right here… fillin’ you up so good you can see it. Gonna keep you right here… just like this”… Cock-warmin’ you deep while he kisses your sweet mouth.
He tilted your chin up, scarred thumb brushing your swollen bottom lip, then claimed your mouth in a slow, filthy kiss. Tongue sliding deep, tasting the salt of your tears and the cherry gloss long gone, swallowing every broken whimper you gave him while his cock throbbed hot and heavy inside your stuffed pussy.
No thrusting. Just deep, possessive grinding — tiny rolls of his hips that stirred the thick load of cum already flooding your cunt, making it slosh warm and sticky against your walls.
You moaned into his mouth, soft needy sounds, as another warm trickle leaked out around his base, sliding slow down your puffy lips to where your clit pulsed against him. Your pussy clenching helpless and fluttering wild — threatening to drool more of that creamy mess if he moved even a little, but he didn’t. Just held you impaled, full, trembling, while he kissed you deeper, tongue fucking slow into your mouth in the same lazy rhythm his cock was grinding inside you.
“So fuckin’ cute,” he whispers against your lips between kisses, forehead pressing to yours, breath mingling hot and ragged. “All hugged up on my dick… pussy so full she’s shakin’. My pretty girl… my perfect little thing… takin’ everything I give her. Gonna stay just like this… keep you warm and stuffed… let you feel everything while I kiss you stupid.”
Wanting to feel you constantly, he kept pressing soft kisses to your forehead, then your temple, to your cheek and your mouth again — endless, filthy affection while his arms stayed locked around you, cock buried to the hilt, cum sloshing warm and sticky deep inside your gaped, creamy pussy.
“Mine,” he murmured one last time, lips brushing your forehead in a final, claiming kiss. “All fuckin’ mine.”
And he didn’t move.
Just held you there, thick cock warming your stuffed, trembling pussy, while you whimpered and clung and soaked in the overwhelming heat of being so completely, perfectly taken.
The room had gone quiet except for the soft hum of the ceiling fan stirring the thick summer air, fairy lights flickering lazy gold across the rumpled sheets like dying embers. You were out cold — completely fucked-out and boneless, face half-buried in the crook of Toji’s neck, one arm slung loose over his chest, legs still tangled with his like you couldn’t bear to let go even in sleep.
Your breathing had evened out into those slow, deep little puffs that made your lips part every exhale, drool already pooling at the corner of your mouth onto his collarbone. Cute. Wrecked. His.
Toji hadn’t moved much since he’d pulled you down onto every thick inch and held you there, his cock still buried deep, warming your cum-stuffed pussy while the last pulses of his cum settled heavy and hot inside you.
Your walls kept fluttering around him in tiny, sleepy spasms — soft little squeezes that milked another lazy bead of seed from his tip even though he wasn’t thrusting anymore.
The mess between you was obscene; thick ropes of cum and your syrupy cream leaking slow out around his base, coating his heavy balls, dripping in warm, sticky trails down your inner thighs and soaking the sheets beneath your ass in a cooling puddle that smelled like sex and salt and him.
He stayed like that for a long while, his arm banded around your waist, scarred palm resting possessive over the faint swell in your lower tummy where his cock and all that cum made you bulge just enough to feel under his hand.
Every time you shifted in your sleep, tiny and little unconscious rolls of your hips, your pussy clenched tighter around him, gummy walls sucking greedy like even unconscious you didn’t want him to leave. It made his cock twitch — still half-hard, still leaking the last sluggish drops into your overflowing heat.
Eventually the ache in his thighs and the way your breathing had gone soft and even, told him you were really gone, deep in that post-orgasm haze where nothing existed but warmth and fullness and him.
Toji exhaled slowly through his nose, a low satisfied rumble in his chest, then started to move.
Careful. So fucking careful.
He slid one big hand under your thigh, lifting it just enough to ease the angle, while the other stayed splayed over your tummy, thumb stroking slow circles over that soft pudge like he was soothing you even in your sleep. Then he pulled.
Slow…
Inch by torturous inch.
The drag was filthy, your poor gaped hole clinging desperate to every veiny ridge as he withdrew, gummy walls fluttering weak protests around the retreating thickness. Slick and cum made obscene wet sounds, soft schlicks and squelches that filled the quiet room, thick white cream bubbling out around his shaft the second he started to slip free.
Strings of it stretched taut between your puffy lips and his glistening cockhead — snapping slow and wet against your inner thighs as he kept pulling.
When the fat pink crown finally popped free with a lewd, sucking pop, your hole gaped open, pink and wrecked, fluttering helpless around nothing. A thick gush of cum followed immediately — hot, sticky ropes drooling slow out of your stretched entrance, sliding down your ass crack in pearly trails, pooling warm under you on the already soaked sheets. Your clit, still swollen and flushed, twitched once at the sudden emptiness, a tiny bead of cream clinging to the tip like a pearl.
Toji stared, breath catching rough in his throat at the sight of his cum leaking from your used little pussy. So much of it. Thick and white and endless, proof of how deep he’d fucked you, how full he’d kept you. Your pussy looked ruined in the prettiest way — lips puffy and parted, hole still trying to clench shut but too stretched to close completely, just drooling his load in slow, obscene pulses.
“Fuck,” he breathed voice low, wrecked, almost reverent. Toji finally took a long inhale, eyes locked on the sight. His pretty girl’s pussy all sloppy and leaking his cum like she couldn’t help it even asleep. Fuck… it made his cock twitch soft against his thigh, already half-interested again for just looking.
He leaned down slow and carefully…not to jostle you too much, breath fanning hot over your sensitive skin and pressed the softest, filthiest kiss right to your swollen clit. Gentle. Worshipful.
Lips barely brushing the swollen bud…a warm, lingering press that made your hips twitch tiny in sleep, a soft whimper slipping from your throat. He kissed it again…slower, tongue flicking out just once to taste the mix of your cream and his cum still clinging there. Salty-sweet messy and perfect.
“My pretty girl,” he whispered against your pussy, voice so low it was more breath than sound. “Took me so deep… kept me warm all night. Look at you leakin’ my cum even when you’re sleepin’. So fuckin’ cute.”
Scarred lips brushing the sensitive bud, gentle and lingering, his tongue flicking out once to taste the mix of your cream and his cum clinging there. You whimpered in your sleep, a soft, needy little sound. Your hips twitched forward instinctively even when unconscious, thighs trembling once before settling again.
One more kiss, open-mouthed this time…lips sealing soft around your clit for a heartbeat, sucking the tiniest pull that made your thighs tremble before he let go.
Toji smiled against your pussy…slow, dangerous and so fucking tender, then kissed higher; one soft press to your puffy mound, another to the soft dip of your lower belly where the bulge was slowly fading.
“Fuck… gotta move, baby,” he rasped, voice gravel-thick with leftover lust and something softer underneath. “Your dad’s gonna be home soon. Can’t leave you lookin’ like this… all fucked-out and leakin’ me everywhere.”
He didn’t let you wallow in it.
He moved careful, almost gentle, sliding off you and scooping your limp, trembling body into his arms like you weighed nothing. Your legs dangled uselessly; your head lolled against his shoulder; your ruined pussy leaked a slow, sticky trail down his abs as he carried you to the tiny attached bathroom.
He set you on the edge of the tub softly with utter care, then ran warm water over a clean washcloth. No rough scrubbing. Just slow, careful wipes, dabbing away the cum and slick smeared across your inner thighs, between your ass cheeks, over your swollen mound. He was thorough, gentle thumbs parting your puffy lips just enough to clean the creamy mess still oozing from your gaping hole, wiping slow circles around your clit until you whimpered and twitched.
“Easy, sweetheart,” he murmured, kissing your forehead while he worked. “Gotta get you all clean… can’t have you drippin’ all over the place when your dad walks in.”
When you were as clean as he could get you, skin still flushed and sensitive, pussy still puffy and tender, he carried you back to the bed. He stripped the worst of the soaked sheets (bundling them into a ball to deal with later), flipped the comforter over the damp spot, and tucked you in slowly, pulling the soft blanket up to your chin, smoothing it over your trembling body like you were something precious.
He knelt beside the bed for a long minute, just watching you, then leaned down and pressed a final, lingering kiss to your swollen lips. Slow. Drooly. Tongue brushing yours one last time like he was memorizing the taste.
He pulled the rumpled sheet up over your body, tucking it around your shoulders gentle and careful, like you were something precious he didn’t want to break even though he’d just spent hours fucking you… making sure your shoulders were covered, your bare feet hidden under the blanket.
He smoothed a hand over your soft tummy, feeling the faint bloat still there from how full he’d left you and then leaned down to kiss your forehead too. Long, tender press of scarred lips.
“My good girl,” he whispered against your mouth, forehead resting against yours. “Took me so fuckin’ well… let me ruin you so pretty… now sleep, yeah? I’ll handle the rest. You just stay tucked in and dream about how full I made you.”
He kissed your forehead again, soft and possessive, then stood.
You watched through heavy lids as he pulled on his sweatpants (still stained, still smelling like sex), grabbed the bundled sheets, and slipped out the door quiet as a shadow.
The room smelled like him.
Like cum and sweat and summer heat.
Your pussy still ached, emptier… now but throbbing with the memory of how thick he’d been, how deep, how much he’d filled you.
You curled tighter under the blanket, legs pressing together to keep the lingering warmth inside and drifted.
You’ve worn your boyfriend Sukuna to the bone, so your other boyfriend Toji takes over.
warnings. fem!reader/tojikuna, threesome, multiple orgasms, piv, kissing, creampie, overstim, ovulation, switch!toji if you squint, dom!sukuna. nsfw 18+ mdni.
──── ୨୧ ────
The first thing Toji noticed when he stepped through the front door was the heat. A subtle humidity lacing the air like the sweet lingering remnants of perfume. There was your lotion, sweet and familiar, and the smell of fresh sweat, layered with something primal and musky - the smell of sex.
The second thing he noticed was Sukuna, splayed over the couch like he’d just run a marathon. Tank top soaked through and sweatpants riddled with little damp patches, dotted across the fabric like stray petals. Toji’s gaze dipped without bothering to hide the way he was blatantly staring at Sukuna’s chest, at the heaving pecs peeking out from his neckline, eyes tracking the little bead of sweat beginning to trail a hot path down the center.
“What’s your problem?” Came Toji’s eventual greeting as he paused by the door, tearing his eyes away just to sling his gym bag over the hook there before continuing into the room, water bottle clasped in his hand.
Sukuna glared in reply, and if Toji were anyone else he might have actually felt intimidated by the sight. But with the way the other man was panting, pink tufts of hair stuck every which way and slicked with sweat, he didn’t paint a particularly scary image. In fact the only sensation the sight triggered within Toji was a mild amusement, alongside a tiny spark of heat low and betraying in his belly.
“I’ve already had her four times,” Sukuna grunted, “the brats insatiable.”
Toji snorted mid sip of water, eyes leaving the couch to instead peer through the half opened doorway to the bedroom, where he managed to catch only a glimpse of your bare leg through the crack. From the looks of it you were naked - splayed over the sheets, hair probably still a little damp from the shower, skin lacquered with lotion, half washed away with sweat by now.
“What, she ovulating or something?” Toji wondered aloud, lowering the bottle to once again catch Sukuna’s gaze over the metal rim.
The other man crossed his arms unceremoniously across his chest, and Toji watched the tendons jump in the winding muscle of his forearms as he shrugged.
“That or she’s in heat, damn near milked me dry.” He grumbled, brows knitted, working a mean line between them. If you were here you’d reprimand him for such an expression, crawl over the couch and run your thumb between his salmon brows until the lines wore smooth, or until Sukuna grew bored and wrapped a hand around your wrist to flip you onto the cushions instead.
Toji laughed then, the sound rough and graveled like tattered velvet.
“Seriously?” He scoffed, lips spread into a sly grin as he licked stray droplets from them, “had to tap out did ya’ Ryomen?”
Sukuna’s scowl only deepened, soured now with genuine irritation.
“Just be grateful I wore her out for you,” he spat, “and watch your tone, or it’ll be you spread eagle and whining for more cock next, Fushiguro.”
Toji chuckled again as he screwed the lid of his bottle on tight, the motion accented with a metallic ‘squeak!’ before he tossed it toward Sukuna, hard enough that he heard the fleshy impact when the other man’s hand shot out to catch it.
“Yeah yeah,” he mused, moving past the couch to instead push through the bedroom door, which creaked beneath the effort, “drink some fuckin’ water and get outta my way.”
If he were being honest, when he’d left for the gym that morning he’d been hoping for this exact scenario. Toji knew you - or at least your cycle - well enough to know that you’d wake up needy and leaking, and he knew Sukuna well enough to know he wouldn’t be able to resist the sight of you humping his thigh like a dog in heat for very long. So he’d left without a word just as the sun kissed the horizon, and he’d been half hard in his sweats since his second rep just thinking about it.
If the living room was warm, the air within the bedroom was stifling. But it wasn’t the heat or the sticky sweet scent that knocked the air from Toji’s lungs on entry, no. It was the sight of you - limbs splayed over the mattress, hair messed and wild where your head was tucked between the pillows. Your jaw lifted back far enough to expose the long column of your throat, giving Toji a stellar view of the dark sucking marks peppered there, indents of teeth that he was sure would melt into bruises by the evening.
Toji took in the sight indulgently - paused in the doorway, a lone hand already trailing its way down the curve of his stomach, teasing until his fingers curled over the bulge forming there. He squeezed once and shivered, reveling in the immediate relief that sizzled over his body like a splash of ice water.
He could feel the weight of Sukuna’s gaze piercing into the back of his skull like the promise of a snipers sight. He didn’t indulge the urge to peer over his shoulder and meet that heated gaze, instead he let his hand drop to his side and pressed a knee into the mattress.
You didn’t move, didn’t speak or even open your eyes when he crawled over the sheets, crowding your space like a panther sliding atop its snagged prey.
His hand met the curve of your waist, skin soft and warm beneath his palm, layer of sweat sticking you lightly to him. He trailed one hand downward over the curve of your belly, the other grazed feather-soft over the slopes of your breasts, pausing to pinch gently at either nipple, perked and willing in his hands.
“You’re soaked sweetheart,” he mused when his fingers finally dipped between your thighs, which gave way to him easily, spreading to make room for his forearm to slot between. He moved slowly, palming soft and teasing over your mound and listening to you mumble mindlessly below him.
You whined something unintelligible in reply, voice nothing but a high pitched whimper, crackled like shattered glass.
With a chuckle, he leaned down and craned his head until his ear rested level with your mouth.
“What’s that sweetheart?” He questioned, head tilted to listen.
You swallowed, hard and dry, and licked your lips before you spoke again. Another croaked string of words hit his ear, a touch clearer this time. He realized then that you weren’t mumbling gibberish at all, you were begging.
“More, more, need more, please ‘kuna, please jus’ one more…”
Toji chuckled and lifted his head back to study you again - he found your eyes still closed, brows now knitted into an expression that was decidedly desperate.
“Old Ryo’ couldn’t keep up, huh?” He mused, hands lifted from your body to instead press into the mattress either side of your head, leveraging the weight of him as he slotted himself properly between your thighs.
You offered a gentle huff in reply, eyelids feeling much to heavy to bother opening. Your limbs felt numb, tingling with residual little sizzles of pleasure.
“Don’t worry doll, ‘m here now.”
Toji didn’t waste time working you open or teasing you with the brush of his lips or gentle caresses, no. He simply slipped his shirt over his head and tossed it sideways. His thumb hooked over his waistband, tugged down to let his length spring free and slap hard and raw against you.
The sensation was enough to have his lips parting around a shuddered breath. You felt like heaven - like slick molten silk kissing each bumped ridge as he rutted through your swollen folds. You jolted when he shifted, hard inches rubbing over your clit, still singing with over stimulation.
He grinned and lowered a thumb to pet at your entrance, leaking slick and dribbles of what he was sure was Sukuna’s spend. He traced your rim beneath the head of his cock slowly, smearing the milky little pearls gathered there and wondering just how many loads Sukuna had managed to stuff inside you before he’d finally tapped out. The thought made his breath catch, and sent another sizzle of heat straight to his throbbing cock.
“C’mon, look at me now,” Toji cooed, watching the way any semblance of coherency on your face melted away when he finally pressed down, sinking inside with a single dizzying press of his hips - testament to just how soaked and used you really were.
It was enough to make your eyes roll behind your lids, fluttering with the delicious sting of being stretched open again. Toji treated you with shallow little thrusts. The hair at his base tickling your clit, thick veins pulsing against your rubbed raw walls where Sukuna had pounded you until you cried, until you bruised. And yet despite the pain, the ache - that needling little bud of desire still burned just as hotly as when you’d first awoken that day, stoking the fire in your belly and dribbling lava hot between your aching thighs.
“Oh, oh…” you moaned dumbly, lashes twitching as you finally lifted them and tried to blink away the layer of hazy film that had settled there. Your mind felt fuzzy, vacant. Drunk on the sensation of being stuffed utterly full once again.
“There she is,” Toji soothed.
“‘Ji, it’s you…” came your delayed greeting, nothing more than a breathy whine, “need’t cum, need to cum again, please…”
“Again?” Toji echoed in faux surprise, hips lowing to a torturous roll, “that’s a little greedy of you, don’t you think?”
“Incredibly greedy,” a distant voice interrupted, flat and deep and utterly serious.
Toji tilted his head back just enough to catch sight of Sukuna’s broad form filling the doorway, looking more like the hired security than someone who actually lived there. Toji peered through strands of ink black hair at the big hand that was beginning to dip beneath the waistband of Sukuna’s sweats, palming lazily at the considerable bulge there. Sukuna’s gaze was equally heavy and heated, lowered past the curve of Toji’s spine to track the way your hole was stretching around his thickness.
Toji swallowed, took a final glance at the sight of Sukuna beginning to work his length free from his boxers. His eyes stuck on the exposed slip of tan skin where Sukuna had tugged his shirt upward, the spatter of hair dusted there, before he turned his attention back to you.
“Haven’t even asked how my day was yet, and here you are begging me to make this needy pussy cum,” Toji teased, “and after Ryo’ took such good care of you too.”
“Please,” you cried, shaking your head furiously against the damp pillows crumpled either side of you, “please don’t tease me.”
“Aw I’m sorry sweetheart,” Toji cooed, voice dripping thick with mock concern, “you just need it real bad, huh?”
The delicate shallow thrusts he had been nursing you with suddenly shifted, turned to long pulls smacked back inside hard enough that you felt the tip of him kiss somewhere deep and delicate. Each buck had your legs quivering, and a sharp little shock of pain and pleasure in equal measure sizzling over your skin.
You were lucid enough only to know that he was moving, slow methodical thrusts that felt achingly tender. Each twitch of his worked muscle was purposeful, each motion entirely controlled and aimed to break you apart.
“Shh, just feel it. You feel me, right baby? Nice ‘n deep.” The words were sin incarnate, purred right into your ear.
You were nodding before you could think, slurring a string of unintelligible words alongside breathy cries of his name, strung together like a prayer.
“Deep… deeper…”
The scent of him was intoxicating, dizzying. The sharp sting of fresh sweat and his own familiar woody musk was enough to have you lifting your trembling legs just to hook a heel over his hip and tug him closer.
“Finally knocked all the brains outta you, huh?” Toji teased, “That’s alright, don’t need to think. Just keep squeezin’ this pretty little pussy around me, yeah?”
One of your hands fled the sheets to instead grasp at one of Toji’s bare shoulders, fingers digging into the muscle there.
“Kiss me,” you panted, blinking up at him with wide wet eyes, blown black and glossy with need, “oh, hng-… please Toji…”
Toji didn’t bother with a reply, instead he simply dipped his head and captured your lips in a kiss so sudden you barely had the wherewithal to suck in a lungful of air before he was swiping any lingering thoughts away with the hot slide of his tongue.
You melted into the touch, letting the roll of his jaw guide your movements - moaning in surprise when his teeth nipped at your cracked lower lip, your grip on his shoulder tightening when his tongue met yours.
When you finally split apart you were sufficiently softened by the blend of his sweet kisses and the steady rock of his hips, brain humming quietly like the static of a tv set to a dead channel.
“Good?” Toji questioned, head tilting.
You just nodded, struggling to keep you gaze affixed on the inky strands of hair slipping over Toji’s forehead, that was until a sudden blur of colour crept into the edge of your vision.
“Oi, what are you?-…”
You watched, motion a little delayed, as Sukuna’s hand slid across the back of Toji’s neck. Toji’s eyes widened an inch, looking genuinely shocked for just a moment before Sukuna’s grip tightened, firm hand forcing his head upward until they finally met in a rough crashing of lips.
Peering up you simply watched, entranced, at the slide of pink tongue between sticky sweet flutters of your lashes. Eyes caught on the way Toji’s brows lifted and his hips stuttered just a little when Sukuna’s hand tightened into a fist at his nape, strands of silky black hair sticking wayward through his thick fingers.
Toji grunted into the kiss, rougher now - a tumble of teeth and tongue in stark contrast to the slow rhythm of the embrace you had shared. One of Toji’s hands curled over your hip, thumb mindlessly tracing the bone there. The other found Sukuna’s chest, grasping a handful of fabric before he was shoving the other man backwards.
You watched a glittering thread of spit link them for a moment before it split, and you must have clenched at the obscene sight because Toji made a choked sound above you, falling into the sensation a little like he were suddenly made of jelly.
“Fuck sweetheart,” he panted, lips glossed as he dug a fist into the mattress beside your head, “that’s it, just like that.”
His thrusts didn’t slow or soften, but they felt sloppier somehow, and when you blinked upward you realized why. Sukuna had stepped in behind Toji, plump chest pressed to his back, massive hand still curled around his nape, thumb rubbing soothing little shapes there. His head turned inward, lips pressed to the delicate little strip behind Toji’s ear, breathing so close you could see the speckle of goosebumps begin to prickle over Toji’s skin.
“C’mon Fushiguro,” Sukuna purred, quiet enough that you could barely hear the sweet syrupy words, “don’t get soft on me now.”
Dazed, you watched Sukuna raise a spare hand to his lips, thumb pressed against tongue beneath the glint of pearly canines before he reached past Toji’s hips and tucked it between your thighs. You jerked at the sudden contact, the searing heat of his slick thumb, calloused and rough and perfect against your abused clit.
“Bastard…” Toji gritted, breaths coming ragged now, panting between barely masked grunts of pleasure as his head dipped beneath the weight of the palm at his nape. His gaze was glassy, glued to where you were clamping around him, where your slick was painting the dark curls at his belly white.
Sukuna only grinned in reply, and you could hear the lazy glee lacing his tone with his next words, thumb still rolling over your twitching nub as you writhed beneath his touch.
“Go on now,” he rumbled, low and filthy over the shell of Toji’s ear, and you swore you felt Toji twitch in response. “make the pretty girl cum.”
You could feel it, the looming buzz of your orgasm, curling like the crest of a wave, hot and tight in your belly like the slow cinching of a knot.
“Close ‘ji…’m close,” you slurred, “gonna… hn!- ‘m gonna…”
“I’m right here sweetheart,” Toji was groaning now, shivering a little as the hand at his nape tightened once more. His thrusts were wild - wide sloppy pumps driven haphazardly into the slick mess between your thighs. Sukuna’s thumb continued its assault, drawing steady heart shapes over your clit, right above where Toji was busy splitting you open.
“C’mon princess,” Toji pleaded, words accented with a kicking throb that you felt all the way in your gut, “give it to me.”
You let your eyelids fall shut, squeezed tightly against the way your vision was beginning to blur at the edges. Senses dulled, sounds and scents becoming more and more distant with each second of rising pleasure until suddenly the knot snapped, and you were unraveling along with it.
Toji cursed somewhere beyond the numbed blackness of your senses, and alongside it you felt a flood of heat and the familiar twitching pulse of him as he filled you. Firm hands gripped your waist like an anchor, holding you in place as you squirmed against his final stuttered humps, wracked with unending wave after wave of white hot pleasure.
“Shh, that’s it, that’s a good girl…” Toji was cooing into your ear, forehead pressed to the pillow, only hair tickling your cheek.
The words were a salve, a balm smoothed over your mind until all that was left was the honeyed buzz of pleasure.
You sucked in a shaky breath and realized along with it that you were crying, cheeks soaked and salted with fresh tears. You let your limbs fall, limp and exhausted against the sheets. A subtle ache was beginning to settle in your muscles, in your bones, and yet beneath it all you still felt it - that itch deep inside, like an unending, desirous pit.
“More…” you croaked, voice utterly broken despite your pleading.
Toji scoffed somewhere above you - sounding equal parts shocked and proud at your incessant appetite. You heard the distant thump of approaching footfalls, followed by the telltale creak of a knee digging into the mattress before the bed was dipping beneath a considerable weight, and you felt Toji slip out with a slick sucking sound.
“Move Fushiguro, think I just got my second wind.”
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a/n: kinda ahhh drabble while I work on longer fics bc I’m stuck thinking about tojikuna, hope you enjoy anyway <3
I mean, after a certain point Dad bf!John Price hates when you call him even by last name or first name, it’s either you’re deathly serious when you use it or don’t use it at all.
Gotten so used to the roll, will go by anything but John.
Loves taking care of you, you being is sweet darlin, pushing the trolly that’s starting to fill up with food, slapping your ass and telling you to go to get something from the next isle that’s on the grocery list. Or you whining out a ‘Daaaad come on’ while he smothers your cheek in kisses while dropping you off where you need to be. Hearing the ‘yes sir’ or ‘no sir’ when you reply to him. Being the first person he calls to come pick you and your friends up after a long night out, or when you need help moving something that will definitely have his back aching.
Or the way he’s slip his tongue down your throat after two guys your age tried to ask you out and all you replied with was, “My old man’s comin, m’ okay.”
Simply so proud of you, is sweet girl. Well mannered.
Or late night calls when he’s stuff in the office, your sleepy murmurs filling his ears, “Just callin t’ check on you Daddy. That’s all, won’t hold you up, promise.”
Can’t wait to get home to you, sitting beside your sleeping form, back of his finger caressing your cheek. Sucking in a breath the way your angelic face looks in the soft hue of night stand lamp, “Daddy’s here dove, missed you.”
So please don’t call him by first name. Please.
The older man will fuck your brains out till that’s the only words coming out of you. Your hands tugging the sheets and he stuffs your snug cunt full again to night, arching you back off the bed just enough in prone bone you can feel the curve of his cock inside you. Toes curling while John slams his member creamed in your cum, into you gushing hole, he tsks, hand around your throat for behind and lifting your tear stained face from the bed. “Hah- You’ll have t’ remind me again sweetheart, ‘f the man takin care ‘f you hm?”
Your jaw drops, blood curdling moan leaving your mouth as the crown of his cock bruises your g-spot, “Daaaad, ‘m sorr— ohh- Daddy!”
“What was that?” He mocks, grinding into you so hard the cheeks of your ass are flat against him, he smirks when he feels your gummy walls squeeze around him, dragging him further inside you. “Don’t think I heard you.”
You can’t even hear yourself think, not over the uncontrollable moans and keens coming from you, eyes rolling into your skull every time he thrusts inside you. You don’t even realize he’s got you crying out, ‘Dad mm- Dad, Daaad,’ till you feel his fingers are on your tongue and keeping your mouth open, Saliva dripping down your chin and you’re still letting out those filthy muffled squeals.
He can’t help the sick smile on his lips, growling, “Shit love, just what ‘m I gonna do with you?”
Of Course, he’s gonna take care of you. It’s what good Dads do!
Simon Riley had never been good with women. He knew how to clear rooms, how to disappear, how to make threats stop breathing. But.. flirting, charming.. even talking to someone soft and smiling who brought him his lunch with a shy “here you go, love.” was another battlefield entirely.
Then there was you.
New café on the corner, stuck between a florist and a bookstore. The first time he saw you, you’d laughed at something a customer said and your eyes lit up. Simon’s chest did something strange.. he started going every morning just to watch the way your hands moved, the way you tucked your hair behind your ear when you were thinking…
He learned your schedule. Learned your likes, learned your habits.. learned the name of the useless boy who sometimes would be waiting for you after your shift—the one who never held the door, who barely looked up from his phone.
Simon decided that boy didn’t deserve you. Didn’t treat you the way you deserved.
But Simon would.
He planned for three weeks. Watched the cameras he’d installed along your usual route home, waited until your boyfriend was out of town. The cloth over your mouth was quick, clinical—military training made it efficient. No screams, no mess, just the soft weight of you in his arms as he carried you out to the waiting vehicle.
You woke up in his basement, except.. It didn’t look like a basement.
The walls were painted a soft sage green you’d once mentioned was your favorite color. String lights hung in careful loops across the ceiling. A nice bed with the quilt he’d seen you admire in a shop window. Bookshelves he’d stocked with the authors and novels you’d sneak on your break to read. A small kitchenette with your favorite tea and snacks fully stocked. A locked door at the top of the stairs, of course, but the room itself smelled like vanilla and fresh paint.
Simon sat in the armchair across from the bed, mask off, watching you stir. His hands flexed on his knees—nervous, almost boyish.
“You’re safe..” he said quietly when he noticed the fear when your eyes first fluttered open. “No one’s gonna hurt you here. Not him. Not anyone.” His voice was rough, unused to softness. “I know this ain’t… normal. I ain’t good at asking. But I’ll give you everything he never could. The world you deserve. You just… you gotta stay a while. Let me show you.”
He stood slowly, making sure to not scare you as he set a tray on the bedside table—tea, the exact kind you liked, a blueberry muffin, and a small vase with a single daisy. His eyes were dark, hungry, but trying to be gentle.
“I’ll be back in the morning. Door’s locked, but there’s a bell if you need anything. I’m not a monster, love. I just… finally found something I want to keep.”
He turned the lights down, casting soft warmth across the room before pausing at the door.
“Rest. You’re home now.”
The lock clicked.
Upstairs, Simon leaned against the wall, heart hammering like it never had before.
Downstairs, the room waited—pretty, quiet, inescapable. And somewhere in the middle of it, you, still blinking awake, trying to understand how the man who used to order flat whites had decided you were his to save.
Simon is impossibly deep inside of your warm, wet pussy, thrusting so hard you scoot up the bed as he knocks the air from the lungs while the headboard bangs against the wall. A pillow is strategically placed under your hips so every time he slams inside of you it hits your sweet spot, and your clit catches on the wet material without fail. Your nipples drag across the soft fabric beneath you, your hands clutching at the pillows in front of you, all while you’re being fucked dumb.
“Fuckin’ slut. Wish you could see the way your pussy sucks me in,” he growls, his grip on you turning punishing, his face never faltering as he continues to drill into you from behind.
His fingers are tangled in your hair, yanking on it hard and keeping your head in place so your moans aren’t muffled against the mattress. His other hand is wrapped around your throat, cutting off your airway just enough to make it more pleasurable as your choked sobs ring out around the room.
His thick, long cock slides through your walls as he molds your pussy to be perfect for him. The veins and ridges leave imprints the faster he thrusts, the deeper he reaches, the harder he grinds. Every knock to your cervix leaves you breathless, every brush against your sweet spot has pleasure shooting through your body, and the longer he abuses your poor pussy, the more you beg for it.
“P-please Si, please,” you manage to say, gripping onto the sheets for dear life, lifting your hips to meet his every thrust but trying to run from it all at the same time.
Simon fucks you harder, the sound of your sweet voice begging for him enough to bring him to the brink of his orgasm, but not until you unravel on him for the umpteenth time tonight. His hand smacks down against your ass, your skin burning raw immediately, and he yanks your hair so hard that stars burst behind your eyelids.
“Please what? Be a good girl and use your fuckin’ words,” he says through gritted teeth, biting back an obscene moan that wishes to fall from his swollen lips.
His fingers press into the delicate skin of your neck, your pulse fluttering around his thumb, and the adrenaline of knowing that you’re at his mercy makes your walls clamp down tight around him, earning you a hiss from the man behind you. When you don’t respond in what he deems as a timely manner, his hand strikes your ass again, harder this time, but somewhere in this moment he still feels guilty for it when his thumb brushes over the scorching skin to soothe you.
“More, p-please Si,” you continue to beg, completely consumed by the feeling of his cock inside you, bullying your insides with no pity.
His hand moves from your throat to the pillow in front of you as he steadies himself. Leaning over your back, his cock pressed against your cervix with the utmost amount of pressure, he positions himself to watch your face while he fucks into you like a rabid animal as if he has no compassion or love for the woman under him what-so-ever.
You know he would apologize after. Apologize for being rough, apologize for saying mean things, apologize for acting as if he has no respect for you, but it makes your pussy so fucking wet all you can do is beg for him to be meaner.
“Yeah? Beg for it. Look at me and beg me to make you cum, beg me to make you feel good slut.”
Your gaze lifts to his, and the way his pupils dilate from the sight of you so undone solely because of him has a groan rumbling out from the depths of his chest. Drool drips from your chin while your mouth hangs open ever so slightly. Your eyes are half-lidded and dazed with tears staining your cheeks, your lips swollen and pigmented, and he watches how every single time his cock thrusts until there’s no more space inside you the air from your lungs comes in short, ragged gasps that sound like music to his ears.
“Make me c-cum Si- f-fuck- make me f-feel good, p-please,” you stutter, tripping over every other word, trying your hardest to form sentences coherent enough to beg for it like he asked.
He growls, deep and low, animalist almost, and he shoves your face into the pillow while spreading your cheeks with his other hand to watch your pussy swallow him whole. He fucks you, deep and hard and fast, it is almost too much. Your juices leak out around his cock, coating his length of your arousal, and he watches how tight you get the closer your orgasm gets.
“Do it,” he says, the words coming out strained, “cum on my fucking dick then since you beg so pretty.”
Every movement of his hips is hitting a spot inside of you that bursts into pleasure. Your cervix, your sweet spot, your nipples drag against the sheets until they’re hard and sore, your clit grinding against the pillow beneath you until it all pushes you over the edge. Your body becomes rigid, your muscles draw taut, and your screaming sobs fill the room, and no other sounds can be heard.
“I’m c-cumming-“
“Who makes you feel this good? Who do you belong to,” he asks, fucking you harder, fucking you through your orgasm, fucking you into overstimulation, waiting for the words to fall from your pretty, swollen lips before he allows himself the same release.
“You! F-fuck it’s always you Si,” you whimper, your body twitching from your walls being rubbed raw, from your clit grinding against every last nerve, from your nipples peaking beyond belief.
With a few more thrusts and a guttural groan ripping from his throat, Simon buries himself to the hilt, spilling his seed into the deepest parts of you. Long, thick ropes of warm cum flood your pussy, spurting out against your cervix with every twitch of his cock, coating your walls in all he has to give as the man behind you stills while he fills you to the brim. When nothing else will fit it leaks out around him, your cum mixing with his, making a mess between your thighs and spreading against the sheets.
“Fuck,” he groans, collapsing on top of you, trying his hardest to catch his breath.
His face is buried between your shoulder blades, his warm breath hitting your skin and sending shivers down your spine, his hands moving from their previous positions to caress up your sides as if asking for forgiveness through touch before asking verbally. He kisses against your spine, all the way down to your ass where he licks the raw handprint burning against your skin, and when he reaches your pussy, he licks up the mess before flipping you over with ease.
He hovers above you, wiping a stray tear before placing a feather light kiss to your lips. Admiring you, he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, watching the way you give him the softest yet brightest smile he has ever seen, and he can’t help but cover your face in the same kisses.
“You’re not a slut, and you never have to beg for me…,” he mumbles in between kisses, and before he can keep rambling on you pull him down until your forehead is pressed against his.
“If you say sorry… I swear Simon.”
He laughs softly, “I know, I know. I’m sorry- shit- sorry. Fuck. I’ll just stop talking now, yeah?”
You’d been with the 141 long enough that the team felt like home—Price’s cigars, Soap’s endless jokes, Gaz’s easy laugh, and Ghost… well, Ghost was Ghost. Silent, broad-shouldered, always layered in black long sleeves and that damn mask. You’d never seen an inch of skin. Not once.
Well, until today.
You’d caught him in the gym, sleeves pushed up while he wiped down equipment. And oh God—Ink. A full sleeve on his left arm—dark, intricate, covered from wrist to bicep—maybe even higher— in sharp lines and shadows. Skulls, barbed wire, something that looked like a grim reaper. It suited him perfectly, and the sight hit you low in the gut.
You couldn’t stop staring. When he noticed, he tilted his head, that masked stare pinning you.
“Something wrong, love?”
You swallowed. “Your arm. I didn’t know you had any tattoos. They’re… really fucking cool.”
Ghost paused. “You want a closer look?” His voice dropped, low and rough, a warning but.. you didn’t catch it. “Might not be able to unsee it.”
You nodded without hesitation. “Yeah. I want to see.”
You not catching that warning was more blessing than curse— now you’re in his quarters, door locked, the only light a sad lamp casting shadows across the room. Your back is pressed to his chest, legs spread over his thighs as he fucks up into you from behind—slow, deep, relentless. The thick, tattooed arm hooked around you, and he’s got three fingers shoved deep in your mouth, stretching your lips, pressing down on your tongue, keeping you quiet.
You can see every inch of the ink.
The sleeve is even more detailed up close—black and gray, textured, the designs shifting with every flex of his forearm as he works his fingers in and out of your mouth in time with his cock. Saliva slicks his fingers, dripping down your chin, but you don’t care. You moan around them, eyes locked on the tattoos, on the way his muscles move, on how hot the contrast is between the deadly ink and the way he’s using that hand to keep you quiet and full.
“Fuckin’ asked if you were sure..” he growls against your ear, accent thick, breath hot through the mask he won’t remove. “Now look at you. Mouth stuffed with my fingers, cunt clenching every time you see somethin’ new. Dirty girl.”
He thrusts harder, hips snapping up, the wet sounds were obscene. His tattooed arm stays exactly where you can see it—fingers hooked in your cheek, thumb brushing your lower lip as he makes you take them deeper. You gag softly and he chuckles, low and dark, never slowing.
“That’s it. Keep your eyes on it while I ruin you.”
Your hands grip his forearm, fingers tracing the lines of the tattoos as your orgasm builds fast and sharp. Ghost doesn’t let up—he fucks you through it, fingers muffling your cries, the full sleeve on display just for you like he promised.
When he finally pulls his fingers free, strings of spit connecting them to your lips, he drags the wet digits down your throat, over your chest, and presses the tattooed palm flat against your stomach so you can feel every inch of him still buried inside.
“Next time..” he murmurs, voice wrecked, “you’ll trace every line while I’m balls deep. Yeah?”
୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧
A/N: ….I’ve been going feral since the sleeve reveal guys..
He'll have you sit on his lap naked, just so you'll get his jeans dirty. Something about it really makes his cock throb.
Or, he'll fuck you on his fingers while wearing his favourite pair of gloves before a mission, just so he has something to lick and smell when he gets lonely—and you do get a helluva fucking when your scent wears off his gloves sooner than usual. As if you can control that.
After one too many punishments for that though, you pushed him down and sat on his face while he wore his balaclava. Practically waterboarding the bloke with your arousal. Simon always loved when you were just as perverted as he was.
The thing that turns you on disgusts you the most? You'll be bent over in your kitchen, garden, laundry; and Simon'll come up behind you, shove his fingers in you before pulling them out before you can properly register what he's doing, walking off and sucking his fingers with a pleased hum.
You've scolded him for it countless times, yet the pervert doesn't care. Smiling at you in a way that from any other man? It would make your stomach twist in disgust. But from Simon? You can't get enough.
And yes, he is in fact the type of guy to pull your asscheeks apart so he can lick his thumb and press it against the spasming ring of muscle,
"If she keeps winking at me like this, I'll have to fuck her too." Growled in your ear while you whine in disgust, as if you don't have a pretty little collection of plugs in the back of your dresser already.
You and Simon just loved pretending like you were being corrupted by him.
⛧°. ⋆𓌹♰𓌺⋆. °⛧
Buy my cat a treat? (•˕ •マ.ᐟ
Might change my divider, and way of colouring text. I dunno guys. Anyway hiiiii lol please don't sound me for not posting until now. Can women be sounded? God I hope not.
summary: All it takes is one glance at the pretty girl who lives in the apartment across from his for Andrew Cody to become obsessed. But what begins as innocent observation from his window turns into something far more intense.
warnings: +18 MDNI. obsessive behavior, stalking, multiple scenes of male masturbation, themes of shame, reader has type b youngho vibes and andrew is stupidly into it, feminine reader who has hair and wears press on nails, unspecified but implied age gap, reader shares one kiss with a female friend (not super detailed), J pulls your cell phone records as a favor, andrew breaks into your apartment and raids your panty drawer, male masturbation with a vibrator, nipple play, alcohol consumption and mentioned drunkenness, lingerie, exhibitionism on readers part, mutual masturbation, jealousy, bratting/a touch of brat taming, reader tries to make pope jealous with another man, death threats (not to reader or pope), dirty talk, sloppy makeouts, spit swapping, over the clothes nipple sucking, finger sucking, f!use of a vibrator, clit play, rough fingering, unprotected piv, dacryphilia, light angst, insecure pope, reader matches his freak, stalker!reader, forced love confessions, begging, creampie
note: wow ok i think that might be the longest warning i've ever written whoops!! thank u sm to my angel @thykingdoncome for reassuring me through this whole process and taking a lil looksie at this for me love u 4ever
wc: 10.4k
[masterlist] [AO3]
Andrew knows it's weird.
He knows that.
But as long as you don't know he's doing it, what does it hurt?
It's not like he's doing anything weird. He's just…watching you. It almost feels like fate, the way your apartment is positioned directly across from his. There's the courtyard and a pool lying between you, but the windows of his apartment mirror yours so perfectly.
And…you don't have blinds.
No curtains, no shades. There's not even a half-effort of an old sheet hung up over the glass pane. And at night? When he can't sleep, and the moths circle the flickering porch lights, and you've got those blue or red or purple LED lights on…well.
Pope can see right into your apartment.
Can see you, watching TV on the couch or cooking boxed macaroni in nothing but a loose tank top and a pair of lace underwear.
He thinks you might be the only good thing about the apartment that Smurf forced him into only three days after he was released from prison.
It's been a long time since he's looked at a woman, you know. Longer since he's seen one as pretty as you.
He's not lacking self awareness or anything. Pope knows your open windows and ever changing LEDs aren't an invitation to stare, but…sometimes it feels like one.
You fall asleep on the couch most nights. Which is good for him, because Pope can't see into your bedroom.
Some things, he begins to realize, are a sort of chaotic routine.
You tend to fall asleep with your phone in your hand and scramble to find it each morning (it's always under the couch, beneath the hot pink throw pillow you kick off in your sleep).
You don't eat breakfast because you don't wake up early enough to (don't you know it's the most important meal of the day?). Most mornings, you wake up with just enough time to doll yourself up in the bathroom, prioritizing glittery eyeshadow and shimmering lip gloss rather than the sustenance of a bowl of cereal.
He doesn't know what you do for work, but it's something with an inconsistent schedule. You sleep until noon on your days off, which could be any day of the week, Pope learns.
Work doesn't stop you from going out, though. Saturday nights are reserved for those miniskirts and stiletto heels and all your giggling girlfriends who get ready on your living room floor with a hand mirror. You share perfume and makeup and clothes with them before you all climb into a shared uber.
A few times, Andrew finds himself tempted to follow you. He tells himself it's not like he'd be doing it for his own satisfaction. He'd just be doing it to keep an eye on you, that's all. You're a young girl (too young for someone his age). Don't you know there are predators out there?
But he never does. Because that would be weird, right? You don't even know him. But…he certainly starts to feel like he knows you.
You and your friends always stumble back to your apartment, sometimes falling up the concrete steps to the second floor. One of them will make pizza rolls or messy peanut butter sandwiches and you'll pass around cold bottles of water and spill electrolyte drink mixes on the kitchen counter.
You'll share your things with them even after the club, selfless girl. Passing out hair ties and makeup removing wipes and big t-shirts for them to sleep in. On one particular night, when most of them are passed out on the couch, legs and arms tangled together, Pope even watches you you share a kiss with one of them under pink LEDs.
That night, Andrew has to force his attention away. It feels way too close to the beginning of that porno Craig left open on the family computer years ago.
But this doesn't feel erotic. Watching your mouth move against someone else's doesn't elicit any warmth beneath the fabric of his jeans.
No, it makes Andrew...upset. Angry, even.
It makes him jealous.
He tries not to think about it again. Tries even harder (and fails, repeatedly) to give you some privacy on Saturday nights.
But Sundays…Sundays are sacred.
Both for you and for him.
So much so that he pulls out on a job when his brothers plan it for a Sunday. Tells them he has to check in with his parole officer that day. Lies to their faces, because he doesn't want to miss out on you.
Because every Sunday, without fail, Andrew gets to see you naked.
You start by cleaning your apartment. Wiping down the counters and vacuuming the carpet and dusting the top of the cabinets. Then you light the candle on the coffee table (pink champagne, he's pretty sure, after looking endlessly online to match up the glass container. Twenty six dollars. Four day shipping. Currently sitting unlit on his nightstand).
And when you're ready, you strip off all your clothes and discard them in the bathroom.
You put oil in your hair and nineties R&B on your bluetooth speaker. You paint your toes (usually white or black, occasionally an electric blue) and glue artificial nails with sparkling gems onto your fingers.
Sunday showers are the longest, Pope knows. Sometimes thirty minutes. And when you emerge from the bathroom, steam rolls out from the open door and you've got your hair wrapped up in a towel. You balance yourself with a foot on the edge of the couch and massage lotion into your skin first.
From top to bottom, moisturizing your entire body. And then you repeat the motion with an oil, and it's during this particular step that Andrew starts feeling a little lightheaded.
He'd bet you feel all smooth and soft and smell so fucking good. Maybe like vanilla or cherry or coconut. And, god. He wants to touch you. He wants to touch himself.
But he resists.
The first three times, anyway.
By the fourth Sunday, though…well. His cock gets so fucking hard in his jeans that it's leaking. Making a big fucking mess in his boxers. It hurts, you know?
And it's not like you'll know he's doing it. He's had a little over a month to perfect his setup—lights off, chair angled perfectly so if anyone glanced into his apartment they'd have to really look in order to see him.
So, he takes his cock in his hand and imagines it's your delicate fingers wrapped around him instead. Imagines it's his hands rubbing oil into your shoulders, over the swell of your breasts, pressing into your hips, squeezing at the supple flesh of your thighs.
He'd make sure to do it just how you like. And Pope wouldn't need to be told how to, either. Because he's spent so much time watching you now that he would just know.
He wonders if your head would fall back, wet hair clinging to your slick skin. He wonders if he pressed just right into that tender spot at the small of your back that you're always so gentle with if you'd moan or whine or whimper. Maybe even say his name.
Andrew cums at the thought alone, grunting low, lips parted, his release spilling over his hand and down the hard length of his cock.
The shame doesn't take hold of him for a while.
Not until later that night, when your hair is blow dried and you're dressed in a pretty silk pajama set. You've got some trashy reality show on the TV, and you're eating the pizza you had delivered right out of the box.
Andrew takes the moment to clean himself up. To change out of his clothes and into something more comfortable. He brushes his teeth and climbs in bed, but lays with his head propped up by an extra pillow so he can still see clearly out of his window.
He knows it's weird. He knows he shouldn't be staring at a naked girl who's probably half his age and doesn't know there's some fucking creep across the courtyard who watches her every fucking day. He knows he shouldn't be fucking his fist watching you put lotion on your skin. He knows he shouldn't be changing his plans with family or friends around your schedule, just so he can watch you a little longer.
He knows he should stop.
The problem, however, lies in the wanting.
Andrew's never had much. Not when it comes to women. But you…god. You're so beautiful, and so pure and so different from anything he's ever seen. You don't belong to anyone but yourself, and once he sees you, he finds it impossible to look away.
Things change late one Friday night.
Andrew gets sloppy. He gets comfortable, here in this routine he's created around you.
There's music coming from your apartment, some electronic pop ballad that's at a volume so loud he can hear it from across the courtyard (there will be complaints to the office manager tomorrow morning, he knows. But you don't have to worry. Pope will take care of it for you, baby. He'll make sure you can keep having your fun).
You're wearing just a lacy bra and a pair of linen sleep shorts. There's a seltzer in your hand, and you're singing and dancing like you've somehow summoned all the energy from the club right there in your apartment.
It's a beautiful sight, truly. You're so happy and carefree. The warmest ray of sunshine that he wants to find himself basking under.
Andrew gets comfortable, posture relaxing in the chair that now lives permanently in front of his window. He watches you dance around your apartment, the easy smile on your face reflected back on his own.
He thinks he could really take care of you. Keep you safe. Protect all that girlish whimsy that lives in your heart. He'd make you real happy, Andrew thinks. Would watch you dance with your friends at the club, leaning against the bar. He'd take you shopping and add more of those short dresses into your closet. He'd make you breakfast in the mornings before work and Christ—he'd buy you a set of fucking curtains.
Pope is so lost in the fantasy of it that he doesn't register in time that your dancing has slowed. And you've put your seltzer down on the coffee table.
And you're staring right back at him.
His heart kicks up, pounding against his chest. He knows he should move out of sight, shut his blinds, pass this off as a mistake, maybe even pretend he hadn't seen you.
But he doesn't do any of that.
He's frozen in time, terrified and exhilarated all at once by simply being perceived by you.
Pope just…stares.
It seems to be the only fucking thing he's capable of these days.
He expects you to flip him off or maybe come barreling out of the door and across the courtyard to confront him. Or maybe you'll scurry away into your room. Maybe you'll order a set of curtains online.
But you don't do any of that.
You just stare right back.
Andrew tilts his head curiously. It's an involuntary movement.
In the end, you're the first to look away. You pick up your seltzer, dump it down the drain in the kitchen, and then disappear into the bathroom to brush your teeth.
Your routine remains the exact same. You find your phone beneath the throw blanket on the couch and turn off the TV. You turn the kitchen light off and turn on the light above the stove instead. You grab a water bottle from the fridge, and then go to bed in your room.
It's not rushed, and you don't seem nervous or fearful that there's someone watching you.
And Andrew thinks to himself, see. This is why you need him. This is why you need someone looking out for you. Don't you know how dangerous he could be?
He would never hurt you, Andrew knows. But you don't know that.
He doesn't sleep that night. He doesn't sleep often as it is, but his mind is running too fast. Cataloguing all the potential scenarios in which you cut off all access he has to you, severing the comfort he finds in his new favorite, voyeuristic hobby.
And Andrew wouldn't—couldn't—blame you for it. He thinks that's what you should do.
You don't.
The following morning, your routine changes.
On the nights you fall asleep in your bed, you're usually dressed in a pair of jeans with gems decorating the pockets and a low-cut top by the time you emerge from your room.
But not this time.
No, this time you're still wearing the same clothes you'd fallen asleep in. A lacy bra and cotton shorts.
Andrew watches, freshly emerged from the quickest shower of his life, hair still wet, as you stand in front of the fridge to find the fizzy energy drink you'd brought home with you last night.
He watches you struggle for a moment to crack the seal open (Those pretty nails of yours. He could help you with that, you know). You take a slow sip, put the aluminum can down on the counter, and turn your head just enough to let Pope know you see him.
You know he's there, in the window. You know he's watching.
And then, painfully slow, you drag your shorts down your thighs. The fabric pools at your feet, and Pope loses all train of thought.
Because this is no accident. You want this. You want him to watch you.
Your bra is next. You reach around to unclasp it and soon after the lace joins the linen fabric on the linoleum floor.
Warmth blooms beneath his skin as he watches you press your hands to your abdomen, feeling your skin, running your hands up your chest and over the swell of your breasts.
You try and play it off like a stretch, lifting your arms above your head and arching your back.
Andrew knows it's not.
You get ready the rest of the morning like normal. And Andrew…God. He doesn't know what to think.
He knows he should stop this before it goes too far. He thinks it already has.
It's…it's weird, right?
Everything about it is wrong.
He doesn't want to stop, but he knows he should.
He tries, though. For what little it's worth.
Tries to busy himself building a fountain at Smurf's. Tries to find small jobs he can do himself to pass the time. He still thinks about you all hours of the day, though. Like a thorn stuck beneath his skin, aching when he moves just the wrong way.
He overhears Nicky explaining to Deran what an 'everything shower' is and thinks about your Sunday ritual. He walks into a hungover Craig making boxed macaroni in his boxers and thinks of you. Smurf lights a candle called pink cashmere and even though it's not pink champagne, it still makes him think of you.
The pretty little girl in the apartment across from his, who he finds himself certifiably, insanely, obsessed with.
One Thursday afternoon, Andrew returns home earlier than he'd planned. He tells himself he just wants to get a little glance.
Just one look. You know, to soothe the ache the thought of you brings. To see if maybe he imagined the weight of your stare.
What he finds, though, is somehow more concerning.
You're pacing your living room, cell phone pressed to your ear, still wearing jeans and your sneakers. There's tension in your shoulders and even though he can't hear the conversation you're having with the person on the other end of the phone, he can see that you're shouting.
It drags on for the better half of an hour. The pacing, the frustrated hand waving, the pinching of the bridge of your nose. Whatever it is, Andrew bets he could help with it.
He hates seeing you stressed. Thinks you should be living your fun, carefree life like normal. You shouldn't be burdened with…whatever it is that's got you so upset.
But it's not like he can go over and just ask.
So, he chooses a different path instead.
Gets the key to the office of the apartment complex from Smurf. Rummages through the paper files until he finds the lease contract linked to your apartment number.
Andrew thinks he should've done this weeks ago. He learns an awful lot about you this way. Like your name, which he begins to recite like a mantra in his head. He learns your birthday and, regretfully, your age.
But, most importantly, he discovers (and memorizes) your phone number.
And that same day, he returns to Smurf's with a torn piece of paper with the digits scribbled on it. He hands it to his nephew and says, "Need you to get a few phone call records. Can you do that for me?"
J furrows his brows in confusion. "Who's number?"
Pope shrugs. "No one," he lies. "Can you get the records or not?"
"Uh, yeah. Yeah, probably. Anything specific you're looking for?"
"I wanna know about a call that happened today. Around two or so. Lasted almost an hour. Just get me the number of whoever was on the other line."
J hesitates for a single moment, and then nods slowly. "Alright. I'll get back to you on it."
In the meantime, Andrew spirals.
The thought of you having a boyfriend never really crossed his mind until now. You don't really have men over. Just your girl friends.
But there are some Saturday nights you don't come home, stumbling in early Sunday morning instead with sunglasses on and your hair a mess. So, Pope thinks you very well could have a boyfriend and he never would've known it.
Pope tells himself if it is a boyfriend, he won't…he won't do anything. It's not his place to make decisions for you, right?
Still. You shouldn't let a man stress you out so much. Whoever it is, they're not worth it. You deserve better. You deserve more.
You deserve someone who knows you.
Less than two hours later, Pope gets a phone call from J, who explains that the person on the other end of that phone call wasn't a person at all.
It was your phone company.
Your stupid fucking service provider who just so happened to put an extra two hundred dollar fee on your bill this month, claiming data overages.
All that stress wasn't over a boyfriend. It was over money.
And money is something Andrew can provide.
He waits until you leave for work, locking up tight behind you. But that doesn't matter, not now. Andrew has a key to the office, which means he has access to the spare key to your apartment.
He is fully aware that he shouldn't be doing this, but ten minutes after you leave he unlocks the door and steps inside anyway.
Your apartment smells sweet. Like sugar and citrus. He wonders if you smell the same way, and the thought alone makes Andrew's mouth water.
He moves slowly into your space, fingers tracing over the TV stand, feeling the wood beneath his calloused fingertips. He straightens the crooked throw pillow on the couch and puts the lighter for your candle back into the tray on the coffee table.
Andrew knows he should just…leave the cash and go. He shouldn't be snooping around, invading your privacy.
But you left a knife point-side up in the strainer in the sink. And you could get hurt doing something like that.
And once he's already in the kitchen, turning the knife over so the sharp edge is down, well…what will it hurt if he opens a couple of drawers?
None of your silverware matches. Andrew finds this little fact sort of endearing. Messy and chaotic in the same way you are, but that's okay. Maybe he can fix that for you one day, too.
Your bathroom is cluttered. There's makeup products littering the porcelain sink and the cabinet mirror is left wide open. Andrew picks up a few different products to read the labels and finds lip liners and leave-in conditioners and powdered blush with pilled pigment on the counter.
He finds that lotion you're always using on Sundays and opens the lid. Andrew brings the container to his nose, inhales deeply, and feels suddenly too hot.
The scent of it is sweet, like you. There's notes of syrupy amber and warm florals and it has the muscles in his abdomen squeezing tight as he thinks about how potent the scent would be if he were between your legs, freshly oiled, calves resting on his shoulders as he licks and sucks at your clit.
His cock has been half hard since the moment he stepped foot in your apartment, but by the time he makes it to your bedroom?
Pope is aching.
Your clothes are strewn all over. There's t-shirts on the floor and jeans inside out near the hamper and a dress you'd worn two weekends ago lying on the edge of your unmade bed.
It smells like you in here, too. Even more so. There's less perfume, but Andrew swears he can smell the scent of your skin. Sweet and intoxicating, sending sparks of arousal straight to his groin.
Your bedside table has a lamp on it and three half-empty bottles of water. There's one drawer, and he pries it open and gives a slow exhale to see all the silk and lace inside.
Going through your underwear drawer is, quite literally, the very last thing someone like Andrew Cody should be doing.
He does it anyway.
Rummages around until he finds that little black pair you like to sleep in. He runs his fingers over the lace band, feeling the softness beneath the rough pad of his thumb. His cock is throbbing, even before he brings the fabric to his nose and inhales the scent of laundry detergent and faint mahogany from the nightstand and—there. The scent of you.
As close as he can get.
As close as he'll probably ever get.
He needs to leave. Andrew is painfully aware that this is crossing a line of a whole new degree. Levels above simply watching.
This is obsession. This is addiction. Sick and twisted and perverted.
Andrew does not leave.
He climbs into your bed instead. Kicks off his boots and discards his hoodie until he's in nothing but his jeans. He slips beneath your sheets—satin, and pink, and filled with the scent of your shampoo and your skin and—fuck.
His cock is leaking by the time he undoes his belt. Andrew reaches beneath your blankets and shoves his jeans down just enough to free himself.
And it's almost enough to blow his load right fucking there, when the underside of his heavy length brushes against the fabric of your sheets. It's almost too much, being in your room, in your bed, breathing in your scent.
But he resists. Grits his teeth and takes his cock in one hand and uses the other to wrap the soft fabric of your underwear around his aching length.
This time, there's nothing slow about the way he strokes himself to the thought of you. He's desperate for it. Release already clouds the edges of his mind and he needs the relief it'll provide.
His brain feels hazy and his vision blurs, just thinking about you, lying here, hand between your legs. He wonders how you touch yourself, if you just play with your clit or if you fuck yourself on your fingers.
The thought crosses his mind that you might be using more than just your hand, and Pope finds himself sitting up. He leans over the edge of your bed and sticks his hand back into your panty drawer, reaching to the very bottom, feeling around until the tips of his fingers brush over silicone.
His heart is beating fast.
It's a small thing. Pink, of course. With only a small, almost hidden power button.
Pope leans back in your pillows and turns the little vibrator on. It buzzes to life in his hand, and when he pushes the button again, the intensity ratchets even higher.
There's only three settings. He turns it to the highest one and imagines holding it against your swollen clit. He imagines you lying under him, thighs around his waist, hips bucking wildly, chasing the vibration that he gives and gives and then takes away.
He turns so he's lying face down in your sheets now, nose pressed into your pillow. Pope puts the vibrator between his cock and the soft expanse of his abdomen, and he feels the sensation everywhere.
He's still got your underwear wrapped around his cock, and he gives a tentative roll of his hips against the mattress.
The groan he lets out is guttural. With his eyes closed, he can imagine its not your panties he's fucking but you. The tight, wet cunt between your legs. He can imagine it's the curve of your throat he's got his nose buried in and not your pillow. He can imagine that sweet, intense vibration is reverberating through your pelvic bone, little toy pressed hard against your clit.
Pope tells himself he'd make it so fucking good for you. He'd bury his cock so deep you'd never forget the weight of it inside you. He'd whisper how beautiful you are in your ear and make you look him in the eyes while he watches you cum over and over and over.
His release is…embarrassingly fast.
A few rolls of his hips against your mattress and he's cumming into the lace fabric of your panties, the vibration of the toy milking him until he's so overstimulated it almost hurts.
Pope rolls over, turns the toy off, and buries it back in the bottom of your drawer. He gives himself a few more moments to gather himself. To catch his breath, to wipe himself clean (never mind the couple of drops that now stain your satin sheets. That could be from anything, right?).
He tucks himself back into his jeans, pulls on his boots and his hoodie, and tosses your underwear in the pile of clothes next to the laundry bin.
There's a pair of your jeans in the middle of the floor, away from the rest. One leg of the denim is inside out. Pope takes the cash from his wallet and tucks it into the pocket, leaving out just enough that he knows you'll notice it.
He leaves.
Locks the door behind him with the spare key.
Makes it halfway across the courtyard before he doubles back, lets himself back into your apartment and into the bathroom where he pockets one of the many different chapsticks on the sink.
It isn't until he's home, tucked safe back in his own apartment, that he realizes it's strawberries and cream flavored.
Andrew puts it on, swiping the transparent petroleum over his lips. He tells himself it's almost like kissing.
Later that day, Craig calls a family meeting. But you've just gotten home, and he knows you'll find the cash within a few minutes when you go to change out of your clothes.
So Andrew waits at the bottom of the stairs on his side of the courtyard. He can't see into your apartment from here, though. And he decides he'll only wait for thirty minutes.
He responds to text messages and opens his blank, photo-less Instagram (that he definitely didn't make only to look at your profile. The one filled with selfies under neon lights and bikini photos on the beach and mirror pictures in the dressing room at that one boutique in the mall).
Twenty nine minutes later, he hears an apartment door slam shut and looks up to see you.
You've got your bag over one shoulder and a grin on your face and the cash in your hand. Enough to cover the additional charges and a little extra, too.
You notice him at the bottom of the cement stairs and freeze, but you don't look…scared, like he expects. Maybe a little startled at first, but the tension bleeds from your face the moment you recognize him.
He should say something. Talk to you. Apologize, maybe, for staring at you.
But Andrew isn't sorry.
And he's never really been good at talking, anyway.
You tilt your head and give him the sweetest fucking smile he's ever seen. It's somehow innocent and knowing at the same time, and Andrew feels the corners of his mouth lifting in response.
Something passes silently between you. An understanding, maybe. You know he watches you, and he knows you know, but…you don't stop him. You just let it happen.
You smile at him from fifteen feet away.
And then you turn to leave, no doubt making your way to pay off that stupid bill that caused you so much unrest.
Pope watches you go, like always.
But this time, you glance back at him over your shoulder with…something lingering in your pretty eyes. Excitement, maybe. He can't be sure.
He needs to get closer.
During the family meeting, he isn't very present. His mind is so far away, stuck on you, that he just blindly agrees to whatever job they're doing next and trusts that it'll all work out.
When he returns to his apartment, there's a note stuck to his door.
A pink sticky note with nothing but a phone number and a heart with an arrow through it scribbled on the paper.
Your phone number, Pope knows.
He knows he shouldn't text you.
It's stupid and dangerous and god, you really shouldn't be giving your number to random men. He could be a creep. He could be a stalker or something.
His message just says,
Hello.
Your response is immediate, with no capitalization which seems quite…fitting for you. He finds it strangely endearing.
hey
are u the guy from apt 212 ???
Pope can feel that this is a bad idea already. But he's already here, and there's no going back now, is there? He doesn't want to hurt your feelings. He doesn't want to leave you on read and make you think he's not interested when the problem is the exact opposite.
Yes.
The typing bubble pops up, disappears, and appears again three different times before you send another message.
im gonna be home in like an hr
will u be watching ???
Always, he wants to say. Fucking always. He can't take his eyes off you, no matter how hard he tries. No matter how shameful it feels.
Andrew's hands shake as he types out a response.
Do you want me to be?
No hesitation this time. Your message comes through a second later.
uhmmm tbh yeah <3
He exhales a long breath. It doesn't feel real. Like he's imagining the entire thing. How could he not be? Why on earth would the sweetest, prettiest little thing want someone to watch her?
But the weight of his cell phone in his hand is real.
And the text message is real.
And this…this is real.
Then yes. I will be.
You don't reply, and Andrew's heart flutters in his chest as he takes his practiced position in the chair in front of his window and waits.
True to your word, you're skipping up the steps fifty three minutes after the last message is sent. You turn on those LEDs and and move about your apartment like normal, kicking off your sneakers and dropping your bag by the door. You change out of your clothes and put on a worn in t-shirt that's two sizes too big for you, but underneath…
Pope can see the sheer thigh highs you wear and the black, lace edge of them. He can see those strappy garters attached to them, but nothing else. The straps disappear beneath your shirt, leaving him wanting for more.
You're teasing him, Pope realizes.
He watches with bated breath as you lay on the couch, getting comfortable with the throw pillow against the arm.
And then, for the first time, Andrew watches you touch yourself.
You start slowly, hands roaming over your body, on top of the fabric, massaging gently at the inside of your thighs.
His cock's always hard watching you, truth be told. But this…
His skin feels hot. His lungs feel tight.
Your fingers curl around the edge of your t-shirt, and you pull it over your head to discard it on the floor.
Andrew hasn't seen you wear this set before, not even on those sacred Sundays.
It's pretty. Matching black lace. The bra is low cut and pushes your breasts up your chest, the soft flesh swelling over the top. The waistband of the matching panties is decorated in shining silver gems, laying so perfectly against your hips that he feels dizzy just looking at it.
The prettiest package, just begging to be unraveled by his big, mean hands.
You dressed up for him.
You dressed up for him.
Your hands start to move again, palming your breasts, pulling the lace down until they spill out of the top. Your nipples are so pretty that his mouth waters. He wants to kiss them, to feel the shape of them under his tongue. He wants to kneel over top of you and jerk himself off until they're covered in his sticky white release.
You squeeze your breasts until your nipples form pretty little peaks, and then your hands slide lower. Over your abdomen, and your hips, and then your thighs. You bring them slowly back up, only to slide them over the lace fabric of your panties, right down the center of your cunt.
Andrew thinks he could die.
He could fucking die, just looking at you.
Carefully, you unbuckle the chrome latch of your garter. The left side first, and then the right quickly follows. You leave the lace belt on, but hook your thumbs around the bedazzled lace of your panties and pull them down your thighs painfully slowly.
Your knees fall apart.
Pope swallows hard.
He can see everything from here. The seam of your thighs that he's dreamt about. The pretty shape of your pussy. The wetness that's gathered between your folds, slick and shiny with arousal. With want.
For him. It's for him.
His cock throbs so hard it hurts.
Pope doesn't touch himself. He can't. Can he? All you asked of him was that he watched.
That's what you wanted.
But wouldn't it be better if he was there? Wouldn't it be better if he could touch you, if he could taste you, if he could fuck you?
All you'd have to do is let him in.
Your fingers stroke gently over your clit in small circles, and he watches in awe as your lips part and your spine bends.
He can't hear your moans but god does he wish he could. Thinks about putting a little microphone in your lampshade the next time he sneaks into your apartment.
Your fingers drift lower, over your center, and slowly press inside.
Pope wants it to be him so fucking bad.
If not his cock inside you then his fingers. They're bigger. Longer. Thicker. They'd please you more. Reach places your fingers can't.
Maybe his tongue. He'd drink you right from the fucking source and cum in his jeans, probably. But he'd make sure to find that sweet, velvety spot inside you first and he'd spell his full fucking name over it with a pointed tongue.
Silly girl. Don't you know what he could do for you? Don't you know what he could do to you?
Pope squeezes the bulge in his jeans to try and alleviate the pain of his lust.
You fuck yourself with your fingers, stuffing in one and then two and then three, stretching yourself on them, slick dripping down the seam of your cunt. Your back arches when your free hand finds your clit, and he knows you're close.
He knows he shouldn't, but he searches frantically for his phone anyway and sends another text message.
I want to hear you.
You pause only long enough to grab your phone off the coffee table, read the text, and lay your phone on the arm of the couch behind you.
Pope's phone buzzes in his hand.
You're calling him.
He answers on the first ring, and the sounds that greet him are so erotic it steals the breath from his lungs.
You sound so pretty. So sweet and feminine, everything he's imagined yet somehow so, so much more. He's sure you can hear his heavy breaths on the other end of the phone, but Pope can't find it in himself to care. Can't think of much else besides the way you whimper and the sight of your fingers stuffed inside you.
"Oh, god—"
His inhale is shaky.
"I'm gonna cum," you choke out, words hazy with your moans. "I'm so close, I'm so fucking—hmm. Yes. What's your name?"
He almost doesn't hear you, so lost in the sight before him. Immersed in the euphoria of it. But then he says, voice a low, uncertain whisper, "Andrew."
Your spine bends and the fingers on your clit slow. "Oh my god. Fuck, Andrew—I'm cumming, I'm—yes, yes—god."
His cock twitches and when he tries to soothe it with another tight squeeze, he sends himself careening off the precipice of release instead. His head falls back and his once heavy breaths get stuck in his lungs. Pope rubs himself over his jeans, making a sticky, hot mess in his boxers, generating what little friction he can.
He watches you come down in real time. Not his dreams, not his imagination. He watches it happen. Watches that fucked-out, hazy look cross your face. Watches the tension in your muscles melt away, wishing he could kiss the junction of your throat.
Pope wishes he could worship you. Wishes he could clean you up and put on that trashy reality show you like and hold you against his chest, comforting you while your brain comes back to earth.
Instead, you lean up. Grab your phone and press it to your ear, staring right at him through his wide open window.
He doesn't know what he expects you to say, but it's certainly not, "Have you been inside my apartment, Andrew?"
For a second, he thinks about lying. Because there's no way you know, right? Not for sure. It's not like you have cameras or anything (he knows, because he checked).
But he doesn't want to lie. Not to you.
"I…might have been. Once, yes."
"Did you steal my chapstick?"
"You have ten of them."
He hears your laugh for the first time, and the sound is like sunlight in his chest. "You took the best flavor."
"I'm…I'm sorry. I'll return it."
"Keep it. I already got a new one," you say. "Cost me five hundred dollars, though."
So, you know it was him who left the cash, too.
Smart, pretty girl.
He doesn't say anything, too afraid he'll say something stupid or awkward the way he usually does. He doesn't want to ruin this moment. This absolutely perfect moment.
You smile at him, kiss your palm, and blow it towards your window. "Goodnight, Andrew."
He feels his face heat. "Goodnight."
Pope rides the high of it for days.
Can't shake the sight of you open and bare for him. Can't stop thinking about the sound of your moans or the way you'd said his name in the peak of euphoria. He fucks his first to the thought of it more times than he can count.
And Andrew's never been a really sexual person. Not unless it's with someone he loves.
But is that what this is? Love?
You've never met. Not really, not properly. How could it be something so intense? You don't know him. You don't know who he is or what he does. You don't know how he's hurt and maimed and killed.
Would you be afraid, finding out? Would you run to the police if you knew? Would you recoil away from him with terror in your eyes?
All things left unsaid. All things that may, very well, never be said.
Pope feels so uncertain with all of this that he finds himself resorting to fucking google, even. Search history littered with questions and Reddit threads that never provide any real clarity.
Define love.
Define obsession.
How to know if you're in love?
How to ask a girl out?
How to get over a girl.
Define voyeur.
Define fetish.
How big of an age gap is too big?
Apartments for sale on the east coast.
Pink champagne candle.
Strawberries and cream chapstick bulk pack.
You text him again a week after your exhibitionistic display.
do u wanna like go out sometime?? been thinking about u a lot
He's at Smurf's when he reads the message.
Pope doesn't even realize he's smiling until Deran slides a beer across the counter at him and asks, "What's got you all happy today?"
And Pope just shakes his head. Schools his features back into neutrality and says, "Nothing. Just won a bet."
He can tell his brother doesn't believe him, not even for a second. But thankfully, Deran doesn't push any further. He lets the subject go, but the question stays stuck in Andrew's head for hours.
It takes him a while to decide on a response. It's honest, and…mostly true.
We shouldn't. I'm a lot older than you.
Your response is a single, painful letter.
k
He doesn't respond to try his hand at damage control, even though he wants to. It's probably better this way, he thinks. Better that there's some distance between you. Better that you hate him and see him as the creepy neighbor he is.
But that Saturday night, when you return home, it's not with your friends.
Pope watches from his window as you guide a man up the stairs and into your apartment.
He's tall. Dark haired, with bright eyes and white teeth and a good smile. Closer to your age. Handsome like a man allowed into your space should be.
You're fumbling a little with your apartment key and Pope watches as the man stands behind you and slides his hands down the back of your thighs.
Thighs he should be touching. Thighs he's watched for months. Thighs that spread for him, long before this fucking loser ever laid his eyes on you.
He tells himself he won't interfere.
You're your own woman. You deserve to feel good, even if it's with…someone else.
And Pope knows he's just going to have to get the fuck over it.
He did it to himself, really.
He should look away.
But he watches instead.
Watches the two of you fall onto the couch. Watches another man kiss down the column of your throat and squeeze the supple curve of your ass over your sequined dress.
Your eyes find his from across the courtyard, and Pope's jaw clenches.
Putting on another show for him. Filthy, filthy girl.
And you're just going to give it to some random man? Someone who doesn't know you like Pope does? Someone who doesn't know how you like to be touched?
He needs to look away. Close his own fucking blinds for once.
But he feels frozen. Knowing this time, you're watching him. Looking for him. Goading for a reaction.
Pope watches the slow ascent of the man's hand. Promises himself he won't interfere. He'll just watch to make sure you're safe, that's all.
But the moment that greedy hand disappears beneath your dress, Andrew's moving. Throwing open his door and slamming it closed behind him. He crosses the courtyard and takes the steps two at a time.
His fist against your apartment door is incessant. He doesn't stop, even when he hears the uttered, male voice ask, "Who is that?"
When the door opens, it's you who stands in front of him, chin tilted up as you stare at him, pupils flared wide.
The man you'd brought home with you hovers over your shoulder.
Pope doesn't even look at him. He stares only at you as he says, a little snarl in his voice, "Tell him to leave."
"Dude, what the fuck? Who is this guy?"
Your lips curl at the corners. A devilish little smile. "Okay," you say, nodding, your voice soft and pliant. You turn your head to look at the man who stands behind you. "Sorry, but you've gotta go."
"You're joking," he responds flatly. "You said I could—!"
Andrew reaches past you and takes him by the collar, pulling him out of your apartment and slamming him up against the paneled siding. "I ever see you in this apartment again, I'll fucking kill you. You understand me?"
"Jesus fucking—yeah, okay. Alright. Sorry."
Pope isn't joking. Doesn't say it to scare him off but rather as a warning.
He lets him go and watches him scramble down the stairs. He doesn't turn back to face you until the little tool you used for attention gets in his car and drives away.
And when he does finally turn back to you…Christ. Your eyes are half lidded and full of lust. Pope's close enough this time that there's no mistaking it.
He should be a gentleman. Should take you out first. Bring you home and kiss you on your doorstep and leave you untouched.
He knows he should.
What he does instead is curl his hand around the back of your neck and pull you to him. He leans down, mouth hovering over yours, breathing in your panicky exhales. "This what you want?"
Your grin is immediate and undeniable. You nod and breathe out the word, "Please."
Andrew kisses you hard, crowding you back into your apartment. He kicks the door closed behind him and slides his tongue into your mouth, tasting you and groaning at the sweetness. There's mint and strawberry and you, his favorite flavor.
He feels drunk on it. On the taste of your tongue, the glide of your wet lips over his, the way your hands scramble and tug desperately at his belt.
"Fuck," he sighs, pulling back just enough to see you. "Open your mouth, baby. Wide. And stick out your tongue."
The way you immediately obey has his cock twitching. Good girl. So fucking good for him when he gives you exactly what you need.
Andrew licks the flat of your tongue once, delighting in the way you whimper in response, before bringing his hand to your mouth. He slides two fingers behind your teeth and orders, "Suck."
You do, lips closing tight around the digits, wet tongue swirling over his thick knuckles. He pushes them further down your throat, your eyes locked on his as he makes you choke on them.
"So fucking pretty," he tells you. "You always look so pretty."
Andrew pulls the straps of your mini dress over your shoulders, roughly tugging the fabric over your chest down to expose your breasts.
You're wearing the same lace bra you'd worn when you dressed up for him, he realizes. He can see the peaks of your nipples through the semi-sheer fabric, and leans down to lock his lips around the left one over the lace.
The fabric is rough beneath his tongue, a stark contrast to the softness of your skin. He sucks hard, spreading the wetness of his saliva over the lace. You push your dress further down your waist and over your hips.
Andrew slides his fingers out of your mouth, sticky and dripping with your spit. He brings them to his own lips instead and sucks them clean, watching your breath hitch and your eyes grow impossibly more hazy.
He lowers himself to his knees before you and his slick fingers work quickly at the straps of your heels, unbuckling them to free your pretty, white-painted toes.
Your hands find his shoulders for balance. "I like that you watch me," you tell him. "I think about it sometimes and it makes me so…god, Andrew. It gets me so wet."
He looks up at you from his knees, big brown eyes glassy and full of adoration. "Good," he says. "'Cause I'm gonna watch you a little closer tonight."
That pretty smile finds its way to your face again.
Andrew presses a sweet, chaste kiss to the apex of your thighs. Over your panties, right where he knows your clit lies beneath. He then stands to his feet, towering over you now without the added height of your heels, and presses you forward.
You take a careful step back, nearly losing your balance.
Andrew grins, taking another step, crowding you back towards your bedroom. He doesn't stop until the back of your knees hit the edge of your mattress.
You stumble backwards, falling into the plush sheets that he's all too familiar with. Lying on your back, propped up by your elbows, you stare up at him with wide eyes and he's reminded of a timid little animal caught in the trap of a predator.
Don't you know how dangerous he could be?
You don't look afraid. You actually look…eager.
Pope stands tall at the edge of your mattress. "Take off your clothes."
You do. Unclasping your bra first, tossing the fabric into the already existing mess on the floor. And then your panties follow, thumbs hooking around the fabric to drag it down your legs.
Andrew reaches around and fists the collar of his shirt, tugging it over his head. He feels warm all over, watching you greedily drink up the sight of him. He thinks he'd feel a little nervous, in any other setting. If it were anyone but you.
His sweet, filthy girl.
Andrew reaches into the half-open drawer of your nightstand, searching until he finds your vibrator again.
Your brows furrow as you watch him find it with practiced ease. "You went through my underwear drawer, too?"
"Did more than that," he admits.
You inhale like you're going to speak again, but the words melt to nothing when he tosses the small toy onto the bed beside you.
"Use it," Pope orders.
"What?"
He crawls onto the mattress between your legs, spreading them wide, laying your calves on either side of his hips. "Let me watch you."
There's a moment of hesitation, but you don't look nervous. Only…curious.
You pick up the vibrator and slide the pink silicone through your folds, spreading your arousal before you press the power button. You circle your clit with the tip of it a few times, teasing yourself.
When you turn the toy on, he can feel the vibration against his hands that grip your thighs. You let out a syrupy moan and turn the intensity higher, drawing tight circles around your pretty clit.
He watches you, eyes locked on the pink silicone between your legs. He watches your entrance flutter, tightening around nothing, begging to be filled. "Your pussy is so pretty," he mutters. "Do you know that?"
Your only response is a breathy whimper. You click the intensity up again, putting it on the highest setting, and Pope sighs when your legs begin to shake around him.
He wants to watch you make yourself cum. Wants another scene to fuck his fist to in the shower or in his bed or in his truck.
But he's here. Finally, finally here, in your bed, with you, and he can't help himself.
Pope grips your hips hard and pulls you closer, tilting your hips up into his lap. The vibrator falls from your hand at the sudden movement, but he's quick to return it to you. "Keep going."
You press the silicone back to your clit, and Andrew spreads you open with gentle thumbs. He gathers the spit in his mouth and lets it drip from his lips and onto the seam of your cunt.
And then he's sliding his middle finger inside of your entrance, curling it upwards, searching for that sweet spot that makes you writhe.
It doesn't take long. He's watched you. He knows just what you like and what angle to hit. And the second the tip of his finger presses hard against it, you fist your free hand in the sheets and curses fall from your sweet mouth.
Pope slides another thick finger inside, watching the way you squirm, feeling the walls of your cunt flutter around the swell of his knuckles.
"I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna—oh, fuck. Feels so good, feels so fucking—"
A long, throaty moan leaves your mouth, and he feels the warmth of your release pool in his palm. You're so slick that each wet thrust of his fingers echoes against the walls of your room.
He doesn't stop until you're twitching. Until you click the vibrator off and shove it away from you. And even then, he still gives a few, slow curls of his fingers inside of you. Not touching with intent, just…feeling. Memorizing.
Once you catch your breath, you lean up enough to find his eyes again. You say timidly, shyly, "I want…I want to feel you, Andrew. I want you inside me. Do you…do you want to fuck me?"
It's the most asinine question he's ever been asked in his fucking life. Does he want to fuck you?
He's thought of nothing else for months. Every night when he fights for sleep, it's the thought of you under him that puts him to bed.
It's such an impractical concern from his point of view that he laughs. Actually laughs, for the first time in years. "Oh, baby."
Pope takes your hands in his. He presses one to his chest, right over his heart, and the other against the hardness in his jeans.
"I have never wanted another woman as bad as I want you," he says truthfully. "But I…you…you deserve better than this. Better than me. You understand that, don't you?"
You shake your head. "You don't know me, Andrew. Not really. You don't know if—"
"No, no. I do. I know you're the kind of friend who would give the shirt off their back. The kind of girl who'd let her phone get cut off before asking for help. The kind of girl who gets up every morning and just…tries. Every day. And you fucking…you smile about it. You're good. You're so fucking good and I…"
He stops.
Remembers the last time he loved someone like this and how he'd made a stupid confession he should've taken to his grave and how it'd fucked him completely.
"You're what, Andrew?"
Pope swallows. "I'm...I'm a bad man. I've hurt people. I will…hurt people, I—" His voice cracks. He lowers his eyes, trying to turn away, unable to find the strength to face you.
But you take his jaw in your gentle hands and force him to look at you. Sweet, angel of a girl that you are. And then you say without a waver to be found in your voice, "I like who you are. Do you think I gave the man who watches me through my window my phone number because I want some guy I could match with on Tinder?"
He tries to slow the rapid pounding of his heart. He wonders if love is supposed to be like this. To feel like this. All consuming and terrifying and devastatingly hopeful above all.
You shake your head and tuck your legs beneath you, sitting up on your knees. He sits stone still as you lean forward and kiss his cheek, whispering against his ear, "I've been watching you, too, Andrew Cody."
Something shifts inside of him as you say it. Uttering his last name that he'd never given you, that isn't even on his lease because this is a fake apartment under a fake name to launder the money they steal.
Oh—sweet, smart girl. Smarter than he thought.
How silly of him to ever doubt you.
There's a newfound wildness in your eyes when they meet his again. An unveiling. Like he's seeing you for who you truly are for the first time.
And you're…god. So fucking beautiful.
And, yeah. Pope thinks he's been right this whole fucking time.
He's weird and wrong and sickly obsessed.
But you are, too.
Andrew takes you by the back of the neck and kisses you hard, desperate to taste you, to close what little physical space remains between your body and his. He pushes you back against the mattress and follows you down.
Your hands find his belt buckle before he does, and he stares down at you as your deft fingers pry the leather open and unbutton his jeans. He helps you push the denim down his legs until his cock springs free, heavy and leaking. Wanting for you, twitching as you take it carefully in your hand.
A groan reverberates at the back of his mouth. Your hands are so soft. Perfect and pliant. One day, he swears he'll show you how he likes to be touched. He'll let you sit in his lap and watch him stroke his cock for you.
But for now, he lets you touch him slowly. Experimental. Feeling the heavy weight of him in your palm. You spit on your fingertips and spread your saliva over his sensitive tip, flushed red and pulsing beneath your touch.
You lean back and guide him between your thighs, sliding the head of his cock through your syrupy folds and over your clit.
The moment you line him up at your entrance, Pope eases inside and you let out the sweetest fucking sigh he's ever heard in his entire life. Sweet and soft and so, so satisfied.
It's so beautiful. You're so beautiful. And you feel warm and heavenly and wet around him. He pulls out slowly, almost all the way, and then drives his cock back into your cunt.
You squeal and those sharp, acrylic nails dig into his spine. But your legs circle his hips, and so Pope does it again.
He fucks you hard. Claiming that spot at the back of your cunt, pressed right up against your cervix. He rolls his hips and presses his mouth to yours, swallowing up those desperate, carnal sounds he pulls out of our chest.
Sweet girl. Sweet fucking girl. He reaches between you and circles your clit. "My girl now," he says, words spoken against your lips. "You'll never need anyone else, baby. No one but me."
You nod, the velvety walls of your pussy squeezing around the hard length of his cock.
Andrew puts his whole weight on top of you, grinding himself between your thighs, giving you everything he has. Everything he is.
"I'm yours," you choke out. "I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm—"
It becomes a mantra. One that feeds his desire, in perfect sync with the rhythm of his thrusts. He watches your arousal begin to crest, nearing the summit, the muscles in your thighs twitching. "Look at me, baby," he says. "Tell me you love me when I make you cum."
You're so lost in it, head all spacey, that your eyes remain closed until he takes your jaw in a firm grip.
There are pretty tears in your eyes when you open them, but that smile on your face is present, too. He feels you pulse around him and your breath gets all shallow and then—
"I love you, Andrew, I fucking—oh my god please, please—I love you."
The words are music to his ears, tingling down his spine, leaving goosebumps in their wake. He thought the sound of his name in your mouth was beautiful but this…fuck. He could die.
Pope thinks he would. For you, he would.
He fucks you through it. Tastes your moans and says, "Yeah, that's it. Give it to me. Look so pretty when you cum for me."
He doesn't let his pace falter until your muscles loosen, until your nails stroke gently over his spin instead of leaving marks.
You pepper sweet kisses over his jaw, tongue sliding up the shell of his ear. "I want you to cum inside me," you tell him.
He's been fighting it the whole time, trying desperately not to blow his load before he'd at least gotten you there first.
But when you say that?
When you say, "Please, Andrew. Want you to give it to me. Want you to fill me up with your cum. Please. I need it."
He thinks about telling you that you don't have to beg. Not him, not for anything (especially this). But you just sound so pretty, begging for his cum, that he can't bring himself to do it.
So, he gives you what you want instead. Fucks his cum into you, groaning low in your ear, cock pulsing inside you. You feel so good wrapped around him it's euphoric. Otherworldly.
Your pussy grips tight, milking him dry, taking every last drop (he knows you're on birth control. Don't you know the women's clinic downtown keeps a spare key beneath the plant in front of their door?).
Andrew is careful when he slides out of you. And he wastes no time before kicking his jeans the rest of the way off and pulling you against his chest.
He pulls the blanket up around your shoulders and presses a kiss to your hairline. His voice wavers a little as he says, "Sorry if I…if I was a little rough."
You shake your head, pressing your nose to the divot between his pectorals. "It was perfect," you murmur against his skin.
Silence settles between you. Comfortable and easy, the sound of your breathing in perfect synchronization.
After some time you say, "I meant it, you know. Wouldn't have said it if I didn't. I really think I might be in love with you, Andrew. Is that…crazy?"
Yes, he wants to say.
But he feels it, too.
So instead he says, "You know, I don't…I don't have much experience with that sorta thing. Don't really know how to…to navigate it, I guess. But, uhm…yeah. Me, too."
He feels that smile of yours against his chest.
Andrew knows that this dynamic the two of you have created is weird.
okay, this turned out to be a little different than what you asked but I hope you enjoy it just the same. it may or may not of been inspired by Allie & Dean’s secret fling in Off Campus.
18+ | fem!reader
You told Steve last week that this wouldn’t happen again.
Just like you said two days ago when he had you pressed against the wall in Tina’s upstairs hallway. Your leg hooked around his hip, grinding against what lived up to all the stories and then some while the party raged down stairs.
Now you’re in his empty basement knees pressing into the couch cushions on either side of his hips, while his big hands adjust you on his lap.
Steve grabs at your thighs tugging you close enough that your breasts press tight against his chest. He nips just under your jaw before peppering open mouth along the length of your neck. Catching the small roll of your hips with a smile against your skin, he pulls away confidently showing you the whites of them.
Grabbing your chin between two fingers, he tugs your face down just enough for his lips to ghost against yours.
“Let me guess, this is the last time.” He whispers against your mouth with a knowing smirk.
”Yes, I mean it.” You huff, unable to control your own grin, rocking your hips again. “Last. time.”
”Whatever you say.”
Steve snorts, not waiting for whatever smart comeback you have waiting on the tip of your tongue. Instead, he curls his hand around the back of your neck, and catches it on his own.
The moan that escapes out of your throat comes stirring from deep within your chest. He huffs out a small laugh at it before licking into your mouth with the kind of hunger that lights a fire along your already heated skin. Meeting him with equal enthusiasm, you apply more pressure with the next grind of your hips making his confidence stutter.
“Fuck —“ He breathes in between kisses, the grip on the back of your neck tightening.
Doing it again, it’s your turn to smile against his mouth, lashes fluttering open to admire the furrow of his brows.
“Better enjoy it while you can.”
His eyes open at that, something darkening the amber that swirls inside of them.
“Who are you trying to convince, honey? Me or you?” Steve smirks with a narrowed gaze filled with determination, the hand on your hip tightening.
“Shut u— ohmygod.”
Your bratty response is cut off, when he drags you over his lap, the seam of your jeans pressing into where you need it most.
“What was that? Couldn’t hear you.” He chuckles darkly, tearing his lips from your mouth to wrap around your pulse point.
He sucks hard enough for your eyes to hit the back of your head, leaving a bruise you’ll have to deal with in the morning. But when he drags his teeth along the sensitive skin, you can’t bring yourself to care.
“Steve, are you down there? I forgot my keys.”
Robin’s voice freezes you in place with fingers curled into the roots of his hair. Steve’s teeth stop right over the already blooming purple mark, the grip on the back of your neck tightening.
“Steve —?” The stairs squeak with the first steps she takes, and it’s enough for him to find his voice.
“Y- yeah!” His voice cracks, and your giggle that follows it earns you a glare.
“My keys, are they down there?” She calls out again, another creak following.
“Shit.” He blows out a breath, pulling away to look around the room, groaning quietly when he spots them on the coffee table.
“Yeah, I got them. Give me a second.” He lays back, running both his hands down his face before meeting your playful gaze.
“It’s getting late, I should probably go.” You smirk, using his broad chest as leverage to push yourself off his lap.
“What? No, she’ll be gone in like 2 seconds.” He whispers harshly trying to grab at your hips, but you slip through his fingers just like this moment.
“I said enjoy it while you can.”
“You can’t be serious.”
Steve stares you down, watching you with heated eyes as you straighten out your shirt and tug up your jeans.
“Never been more serious.” You wink, swiping Robin’s keys off the coffee table before calling out to her.
WARNINGS: MATURE CONTENT AHEAD (MDNI) - prone bone position, female!reader, lowkey younger!reader (isn’t mentioned but i always imagine it is), established relationship isn’t mentioned but can be read either way
LYRIC: "but i bet we'd have really good bed chem"
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"jack you're too deep," you cry out. or at least you try to. because your tongue is pushed up against his. any noise you make gets muffled by the sounds of slurping and saliva between your mouth and his.
"i know baby, i know," he coos back. he tips your jaw upwards to keep the kiss going while fucking his cock slowly into your poor hole, hitting deep. his chest presses against your back with one arm hooked around your neck.
he holds your face so he can control the messy kiss, his other hand clutching your own, holding you while his cock sucks deeper into your velvety walls. your pussy devours his cock, milking him with those creamy walls and making each thrust feel like heaven. he keeps his thrusts short so that he doesn't have to pull back for too long. he hates not having his cock not fill you even for a moment and wants to stay deep.
the thick head of his cock presses firmly against your sweet spot, putting pressure on your insides. you claw pathetically at his arm, you're too full. but he doesn't give you space, instead he stays buried inside, keeping you stuffed to the hilt.
"you can take it sweetheart. come on, be good for me,"
he fucks you fast and rough, punishing thrusts as he forces you to take what he gives. he bullies his way into your pussy, thrusting and thrusting into you until you're slick and soaking all over his cock. he keeps you pinned beneath his weight, chest plastered to your back, using his body to keep your legs to keep you spread open. and when you move your hands behind you, trying to claw at his massive arms, he just lets out a chuckle.
“nah, you’re not getting away that easy,”
he moves to lock a forearm around your throat, his thick muscles squeezing as he presses down harder on you, suffocating you with the weight of his chest. your head is all fuzzy as your vision glazes over, eyes rolled back and seeing stars. he grunts rough and exhales hard, fucking you hard. in this position you are all helpless and at his mercy. a mix of pleasure and pain coil low in your stomach, your poor body aching over all attention he’s giving you. it’s too much. you're all overstimulated and sobbing, whining and drooling. jack rewards your compliance with a drag of his tongue over the side of your neck.
your voice cracks when you beg him to cum inside you, "please."
he responds not with words, but by slamming his cock so deep into your cervix as you moan low and pitiful when you feel the warmth of his cum filling you up.
he whispers into your ear, "that's it, taking it like a good girl,”
