Already as a young girl you knew you won’t have much say in your future because it’s all already written out for you, especially when it comes to the man you shall marry when you turn of age and whose babes you would have to carry. Which is the faith of most princesses of Westeros. All you could do was hope to get lucky enough to have a kind husband, who wouldn’t treat you with cruelty and leave you feeling unseen, and hopefully handsome one as well.
And now the time for you to hope these things have come around, as your wedding bells are to ring in few moons. Your father had chosen your husband to be Ser Gwayne Hightower. You had heard of the knight, words spoke of him as kind, caring and good to those who need it the most. Whispers also had described to be handsome, with his reddish auburn hair and blue eyes. That years of knighthood had made him into a strong man. You hope for the whispers to be true. Perhaps then the arranged marriage will be easier, when there’s mutual kindness to each other.
In few days you and Ser Gwayne are to be married, but you have yet to met him. You had travelled to old town, where you’ll live for the rest of you days with your soon to be husband. The oldest and largest city in Westeros, which beholds many beautiful places. But also which doesn’t feel like home as much as you try to. You’ve come to meet Otto Hightower, the father of you betrothed. He treats you politely, speaking only kind words, even so his presence makes you unwell, and you can’t bring yourself to trust him. You’ve spend some time with Alicent, Gwayne’s sister, she has treated you with kindness, showing you around your new home trying to help you grow comfortable.
You had hoped to meet your soon to be husband Ser Gwayne, to be able to get to know him even slightly before the marriage ceremony. But instead all you found in old town were empty halls without his presence. You were told he had to leave for a little while to take care of some matters. The words disappointed you, but you did your best not to show it.
Every now and then when the walls start to feel too heavy you find yourself by a small lake you had found some time ago. There you are now, your fingertips playing with the warm water while your eyes are focused on the pair of swans dancing around. Completely unaware of the presence behind you who has been looking at you for a while, until his voice pulls you out of your thoughts “princess”
He sees as your shoulders tense, startled by his sudden appearance. You turn enough to get a better look at the man behind you, for awhile you simply look at him trying to place where you had seen him before, until you realise it’s your soon to be husband himself. Suddenly you got nervous, worried how you look, is your hair distorted, if your dress has gotten muddy from the route you took to get here. All of these worries running around your mind until you remember to answer to him “Ser”
“Please, call me Gwayne”
And as you speak his name he wishes you’d repeat it again and again, he never thought his name could sound as beautiful as it sounds from your lips. And he can’t wait to hear you speak his name again. His trail of thoughts are stopped when you speak again, your voice laced with nervousness “I wasn’t unaware of you coming back today Gwayne, I apologise for not greeting you”
“Nothing to apologise for princess, I wasn’t sure if I’d make it back today. Fortunately I managed to” for awhile he’s quiet, trying to find the right words until he speaks again “I saw you here and decide to take my chances and greet you without others around”
You gift him with a genuine smile at his words, and he could feel his knees weaken at the sight of it. He had heard the whispers of your beauty, but none which came even close to the real thing. And oh how he will do anything to see you smile again, at him. “Are you fond of swans?” He suddenly asks, referring to how you were admiring them moment earlier.
You nod as you say “I think they’re beautiful and smart creatures. I admire how they love deeply, mating for life”. And now it was the knights time to smile fondly at your words. This small moment shared between the two of you has been enough to make him sure that he’ll fall in love with you very soon, and that he’ll do everything he can to be the greatest husband to you. To make your days filled with nothing but happiness and joy.
Gwayne is the first to break the comforting silence that had grown between the two of you “it’s almost time for supper. Would you give me the honour of walking you back?” He asks as he offers his arm
Tags: @userhotd @vlarrtrgryn @littlelovebiird {feel free to comment, message or send me an ask if you’d like to be tagged!}
This whole Gwayne thing is kinda crazy cuz even before this happened people were already writing him with male readers while he was supposedly “still straight” and no one was complaining.
Now people are shitting on others for writing him with a female reader just because it was implied that he might like men. It wasn’t a confirmation it was an implication made by his ass of a cousin and people are already labeling him as gay as if it were 100% confirmed.
People have this need to put a label on everything why can’t we just enjoy the content without turning it into drama.
We’ll never really know his sexual orientation for sure and all we can do is speculate whether he’s gay, bi, pan, etc. None of those interpretations make writers homophobic or mean they’re ignoring his queerness. Instead of shitting on people if you don’t enjoy a certain type of content just don’t consume it.
There will still be fics with gender neutral, female, and male readers and honestly if you ask me that’s a win win situation.
Let’s all just chill out and enjoy the work these amazing writers on this platform provide.
clark being dominant + pretending he’s the submissive, mommy kink, pubes, messy spit and cum, size kink
. . .
“I… I don’t wanna cum yet, baby you just started—“
Clark doesn’t let her pleads steer off his rapid pace. He’s beneath her, thrusting upwards with grit while his balls slap against her every time he’s all the way back in. He needed this all day. She could cum multiple times if he wanted her to. It didn’t matter to him that she’d get loopy and exhausted on top of him after just a few minutes of gushing all over his cock.
“Shhh. You don’t have a choice,” he breathes, stills his hips as they raise all the way up off the bed, the pubes on their groins each meeting each other as he gets every inch snug right in.
“You have no choice. Cum on your baby boy’s dick, come on, you’re supposed to feel good, so feel good then.”
She gargles on her spit in the middle of a long whine. Feeling him twitch in her walls while he’s in so, so deep, she thinks he’s stretched her as far as she could stretch. Leaks some on the base as he holds her by her ass and then pulls all the way out, kisses her clit with his tip, then shoves himself all the way back in.
Her clit aches, her walls clench, she feels like an animal. Getting used like this, filled like this. Molded and fucked into like she’s a doll made just for collecting his cum and taking all his cock’s beatings. Clark laughs and sweats, shushes her while he bounces his hips back up and feels her leaking more by the second. Adding sloppy friction so thrusting all the way in just felt and sounded that much better.
“Cream on me, baby, cream on it. Yeah. That’s it.”
“Y…You’re… You’re so deep—”
“Right where I’m supposed to be.”
Clark is smug as he grabs an ass cheek and smacks it, turning her cheek red as he extends his neck out to kiss her chin.
“Mmmhm. You know you have to. It feels too good to slow down,” Clark hums. Closes his eyes and rushes his hips upward, not even feeling the ache of the workout of thrusting upwards at such a rapid speed. If he did feel sore later it wouldn’t matter.
This position, these deep, quick thrusts were the easiest way to make her pussy weep and gush a mess. Since he memorized her body, the techniques that got her sopping wet, he liked to punish her with all the overwhelming pleasure every now and then and draw it out until she couldn’t feel anymore. Until he milked her so good she was gaping, dripping the evidence out, and snoring right on his lap just after cumming as many times as he made her.
“Spit in your baby boy’s mouth. Do it. Don’t disappoint me now, honey, I need a drink.”
She nods with her mouth gaped open, body stuttering with each of his hard thrusts while she gathers up all the drool she could and aims her head over right over his sprawled out tongue. He holds her hair back as she hovers, hums while her drool spills out in a long, warm drip right onto his mouth, tongue and chin. Can’t help himself but lick the rest off, swallowing it right up before grabbing her hand and forcing her thumb into his mouth. Starts to suckle, dragging his lips up and down her digit and humming some more around her knuckle. Doesn’t halt his thrusts or break his speed.
The slapping sound still ripples every time their bodies meet, joining right to the hilt and gaining a bigger and nastier mess on both of their thighs while she tries to keep holding on as to not fall over on him.
Clark licks on her thumb, finally slows his dick down, but still ensuring he goes in deep. She’s sat on his lap with his sweaty, heavy sac bunched right up against her ass.
“Still holding your cum, Mommy? Don’t hold it, baby, I know your pussy needs this.”
“I’m—I’m holding it for you,” she gasps, eyes dumb and rolled back while he easily bounces her up and down on him for the both of them. “I’ve been holding it. I can’t. You’re so big, baby.”
“You aren’t used to it by now, honey? Thought your little pussy had fun on all this cock. You want me to only fuck you with half?”
Clark is clearly taunting her, grinning while he demonstrates by only hitting her walls with the first three inches of his dick. It’s still so thick, even at the head that it alone has spit her open and made her bleed before. She panicked more than he did. Clark just soothed her with his tip, not caring when she bled all over him and got accustomed to his chubby size.
“No, no, fuck me with all of it. Please. My pussy wants it all.”
“Mmm, are you sure it isn’t too big?”
“Yes! Oh, god yes.”
Clark hums a laugh, playing with a strand of her hair, playing soft and innocent before he ruts all the way back in. Relishes in the reactionary moans while a fresh wave of milk comes dribbling out of her pussy, smoothing the way even more for every thrust. His cock is milky, shiny. Down to his balls. It’s always heaven for Clark, it’s exactly how he wants to beat her pussy up every single time.
“Yeah. Yeah you really fucking need it. Need all this dick to feel satisfied. Turned this pussy into a brat. Now she won’t feel anything if anyone smaller ever tries—“
“No one but you,” she interrupts with a high pitch gasp. Clenches her walls to emphasize her point, leaning down to kiss him, wet with spit while their tongues tangle. The reassurance already pleases Clark.
“Good girl. I love my Mommy. So loyal,” he breathes. Presses himself back to the hilt again, taking a finger to dip down into the mess, in their shared milk. Drags his finger around her pussy, getting it drenched in her bush and his before raising the finger up to her mouth and having her suckle.
“You like how we taste together?”
“Mmmmhm, so good,” she slurs. Licks the finger clean and then keeps sucking just for fun.
The visual has Clark losing the last bits of control that he had built up, now gradually leaving his body to deflate like a popped balloon. He stutters a curse and speeds his hips back up, pleading with her to cum with him at the exact same time.
“Come on baby, come on momma, let’s feel good. Together. I’m gonna make you.”
“I’m gonna cum—“
“You fucking have to. Oh yes, yeah please, all over my dick— all over me right now—”
She squeals and tightens as hard as she can, dribbling the mess of her finish as she simultaneously feels his nut start to burst right inside her. Each spurt, weak at first, starts to strengthen in both thickness and longevity. Painting her guts with everything milked out of his balls. They both cry and groan and hold onto each other, Clark rubbing her back and biting her shoulder with her name barely audible mixed with all his whines. His dick trembles and she feels it all. It made her finally want to take the last few moments to take on the control, rocking her pussy back and forth while Clark’s humming gets hilariously desperate and loud.
“Baby,” Clark laughs with a helpless wince. She laughs and still humps on his tip, little wet sounds more prominent now after their shared cum spills out. “You wear me out.”
“You wore me out as soon as you first put it in,” she retorts, still grinding like a bunny in his lap, bubbles of liquid still running down, taking Clark’s breath away while he watches with his lazy, horny eyes.
“I love to wear you out. Have to keep treating that pussy right.”
“Mm, you always do. Look,” she plants her feet on either side of his thighs, letting him get a closer, better look of her creamy pussy and his cum slathered dick.
“Fuck… fuck we can go again. Use our cum like lube,” he breathes. Trails his thumb over her wet clit and rubs, teasing her with a raised brow, hoping she takes him up on his offer.
“You know I can’t get enough of this cock.”
“I can see that.”
Clark pointedly looks down. He hasn’t fully been able to look back up since.
“Do you want me on top,” he offers. “I’m not tired. I can fuck you fast again.”
She laughs and lifts her body to pull his cock out, tumbling backwards with a lazy fall backwards to the foot of their bed.
“Mm. Hey, be careful baby. Don’t get too dumb.”
He cradles the back of her head while jacking his dick with the help of the mess they both made on it. Stroking her face and slapping her cunt with the brunt weight of his cock before he sinks just the head right back home.
He demands she open up her mouth so he can spit all over her tongue as he thrusts deep inside, getting lazier with his aim and ending up spitting on her face instead. Not that either of them had any objections whatsoever. She marveled in getting covered with it, opening her legs up and high in the air to free up space for his pounding yet again. He has her eat some of their cum that splashed out of her, getting some dripped all over her face right on top of all his spit while he dangles a finger that was covered in the mess.
Clark could bow down to the very sight. Seeing his love so drenched and coated in parts of him. His spit, his cum. While she takes him all the way. It has his head spinning with adoration, with gratitude, and a primal possessive need for binding her to him with everything he can.
Milked Clark! - you want sex all the time and he can’t believe someone wants it as much as him
Milked Clark! - Will 1000% start crying from how much cum you’ve gotten out and you don’t even need your pussy. He’s so whipped your hands, mouth, thighs, ass, are all enough. When your pussy finally engulfs him he sobs
Milked Clark! - Is basically a pet isn’t he? Just good for cummies
Milked Clark! - goes to work with swirling eyes, an empty head, and little control of his language or limbs
Milked Clark! - Has his dick used ALL THE TIME
Milked Clark! - Complains but secretly loves how you use him and how you just get SO much cum from him
Milked Clark! - Is whipped! A slut, needy, completely cooked as the kids say
Milked Clark! - actually does better as superman because he can get so much build up worked out of him by you
Milked Clark! - Has Jimmy asking what’s gotten into him, and Lois asking where his brain has gone
Milked Clark! - finally has his wild Kryptonian desires met and doesn’t feel weird anymore
Milked Clark! - Who kisses you lazily and holds you after you get every drop out
summary: you refuse to be another girl on dean di laurentis’ list, but then accidentally become his juliet instead
strangers to lovers
warnings: alcohol consumption, double meet cute, bit of flirty banter, and loads of tension
word count: 4.2k
a/n: based on this request! i hope you like it<3 first official dean fic who’s ready
dean di laurentis masterlist off campus masterlist
── ᵎᵎ ✦
heat clung to the walls, trapped beneath low ceilings and packed bodies, carrying the smell of cheap vodka, cologne and whatever someone had burnt in the kitchen an hour ago. music thundered through every floorboard and the bass was heavy enough to feel in your ribs.
you smiled automatically; this was exactly why you loved parties.
someone called your name from somewhere near the staircase, another person waved a cup in your direction, and someone else was already apologising for bumping into your shoulder before disappearing back into the crowd. conversations overlapped, laughter echoed from upstairs, and every room seemed louder than the last.
you slipped through the kitchen long enough to steal a drink from a friend who insisted she’d already had enough, earning a dramatic complaint that made you laugh all the way into the living room.
people stood shoulder to shoulder, shouting over music that was far too loud for conversation anyway. someone had climbed onto the coffee table, earning cheers from everyone around them. a group of hockey players occupied one corner, already halfway through another drinking game.
you barely noticed them because your attention had already shifted somewhere else. the music changed and the opening beat was enough, “oh, i love this one.”
your feet were already carrying you towards the middle of the room. you’d never understood people who came to parties just to stand against walls nursing the same drink for three hours. if you were going to be here, you were going to enjoy yourself.
your cup disappeared onto the nearest table and your hair was stuck to the back of your neck almost immediately, but you didn’t care.
another girl recognised the song too and laughed as she grabbed your hands, spinning you once before the two of you dissolved back into the crowd. someone else sang directly into your face despite not knowing half the words. you laughed so hard you nearly stumbled into another group.
the entire room seemed to move together and you loved every second of it.
dean leaned against the doorway separating the living room from the kitchen, absentmindedly rolling the cold bottle between his palms while his teammates argued over something behind him.
someone brushed against his shoulder, “dean.” he glanced over to find a brunette smiling up at him, “wanna get out of here?”
he smiled politely, muttering a “maybe later” and barely noticing when she walked away. his attention had already shifted. it happened because of a laugh that was bright enough to cut through everything else.
his eyes drifted across the room until he found the source. you.
he watched as you danced without an ounce of self-consciousness, completely unaware of anyone around you. there wasn’t anything particularly rehearsed about the way you moved. no stolen glances around the room to see who was looking. no deliberate attempts to draw attention.
if anything, you seemed completely oblivious to it.
you laughed when someone bumped into you. threw your head back when another song blended into the next. spun with a stranger you’d probably never speak to again before immediately losing them in the crowd. you looked like you belonged exactly where you were.
he found himself smiling, “who’s that?”
beau, his best friend, followed his line of sight, “don’t know.”
the blonde kept watching anyway. he told himself he’d look away after another minute … he didn’t. instead, he found himself setting his bottle down on the nearest table before weaving through the crowd.
people moved aside instinctively when they recognised him, but his eyes stayed on you.
you were facing away from him when he finally reached the middle of the room, still completely caught up in the music.
you were laughing at something someone else had done, clapping once before turning slightly— and almost walked straight into him. your eyes widened, “oh my god, sorry.”
his hands instinctively found your hips to steady you as he smiled, “don’t be.”
you looked up properly then, recognition flickering across your face, “dean di laurentis.”
“that’s usually what people call me.”
“good.” you nodded once with a sly smile, “would’ve been awkward if i’d got the wrong hockey player.”
“there are worse fates,” he laughed, his hands still grazing your hips.
“for you, maybe.”
the corner of his mouth lifted, “mind if i join?”
you looked around theatrically, pretending to search for someone else, “don’t see anyone stopping you.”
he stepped closer, “generous.”
the next song started, it was heavier this time; the kind of song that settled low in your chest and made standing still impossible.
your eyes slipped closed for a moment as the bass rolled through the room, your shoulders swaying with the beat before your hips followed naturally. around you, the crowd seemed to breathe as one, bodies packed tightly enough that every movement rippled into the next.
when you opened your eyes again, dean was still there. watching you like he’d forgotten there was an entire party happening around him. you smiled without meaning to, “you gonna stand there all night?”
“thought i’d let the professional work,” one corner of his mouth lifted causing you to let out a quiet laugh, “professional?”
“you look like you’ve done this before.”
“it’s called having fun,” you turned away before he could answer, letting yourself disappear back into the music.
this time he followed. he stepped into your space with an ease that matched your rhythm instead of trying to change it.
he was close enough that every shift of the crowd nudged you together. close enough that you caught the clean scent of his cologne beneath the sweat and alcohol filling the room.
your shoulder brushed his, but neither of you moved away. people squeezed past on either side, compressing the space between you until there was barely any room left. dean glanced down at you, “i get it now”
you smirked and answered by spinning away from him. it was only half a turn, just enough that your back almost met his chest before you faced him again. his eyebrows lifted, “show-off.”
heat climbed your neck, though whether it came from the room or the way he was looking at you, you couldn’t quite tell.
without thinking, you lifted your hands up carefully place them on the back of his neck, your fingers tangling up in his hair. dean kept his eyes focused on you as he put his hands on your hips, barely more than a brush of his fingers.
you looked at him, your lips curling into into a smile as you found his still glued to you.
the rest of the room blurred at the edges as flashing lights painted shifting colours across his face, catching in the faint grin tugging at one corner of his mouth. your breathing steadied as his gaze dropped to your lips for the briefest moment, then back to your eyes. it was so quick you almost convinced yourself you’d imagined it.
the next wave of dancers surged around you, forcing him even closer. something flickered across his face just as another beat rolled through the speakers. without thinking, you mirrored each other’s movements, swaying in easy rhythm, neither leading nor following anymore.
it was somewhere in that silence, after dancing and laughing and never quite stepping away from one another, that dean leaned down just enough for you to hear him over the music.
“come upstairs with me,” the words were quiet, almost swallowed by the music, but they settled between you with surprising weight.
for a moment, neither of you moved as the crowd carried on around you, oblivious. someone bumped your shoulder, muttered a distracted apology, and disappeared again. the lights flashed overhead in uneven bursts, washing dean’s face blue, then red, then back into shadow.
your eyes dropped briefly, watching where the toe of his sneakers nudged yours as the crowd shifted again. you let out a quiet breath, “i knew that’s what this was.”
“what?” his brow furrowed.
“you coming over.”
“it wasn’t.”
“no?”
“no,” the answer came too quickly as you looked back up at him, “i came over because you caught my attention.”
“and now you’re asking me upstairs.”
he held your gaze, “i am.”
you smiled — a small one, softer than before. it wasn’t mocking, if anything, it was almost apologetic. “you know,” you said quietly, “i think everyone was probably right.”
something shifted behind his eyes, “you don’t even know what I was going to ask.”
a tiny laugh escaped you, “i think i do dean” you said his name gently, as though trying to soften what was coming next, “i don’t want to be another girl you take upstairs.”
his jaw flexed once before he looked away, running a hand through his hair, “you really think that’s all i’d see you as?”
“i think that’s what usually happens.” neither of you could pretend it wasn’t true. you’d heard enough stories. seen enough girls leaving hockey parties in oversized sweatshirts the next morning. some smiling, some pretending not to notice the whispers that followed them across campus.
maybe dean had liked all of them. maybe he’d liked none of them. it didn’t really matter because the pattern stayed the same. “you’ve got this…” you searched for the right word, “reputation.”
he laughed once, though it wasn’t amused, “i know, people can’t mind their own business”
you smiled faintly, but shook your head, “they don’t have to, you don’t exactly hide it.”another beat of silence occurred before you continued, “i don’t think you’re a bad guy.”
his mouth twitched and his eyes went over your features as you spoke, “which is why I’m telling you no before this turns into something that ends exactly how everyone expects it to.”
there was no challenge in your face and dean realised then that he wasn’t going to talk you out of it. his chest tightened unexpectedly, “i would’ve called you,” the words left him before he could stop them.
you looked at him for a second. then smiled with a kind of sadness that caught him off guard, “maybe.”
you stepped a little closer, just enough that he could hear you without either of you shouting, “but you don’t know that.”
he opened his mouth to reply but closed it again, because you were right. until he’d crossed the room tonight, he’d been planning to leave with whoever happened to catch his eye. then he’d met you.
you took another step back, “i had a really good time, but i’d rather leave it there.”
the corner of his mouth lifted, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes, “you always reject people this politely?”
“only the ones i actually like.”
that earned the smallest laugh from him just as the opening notes of another song rolled through the speakers. you glanced towards the middle of the room, where people were already shouting the lyrics.
dean followed your gaze before looking back at you, “so, you’re really just going back out there?”
you grinned, “i came here to dance.” someone reached for your hand from somewhere in the crowd. a girl tugged you towards her once, laughing when you stumbled. you looked back at dean one last time, “see you around?”
he held your eyes for a beat before nodding, “yeah.”
you gave him a small smile just before being swallowed by flashing lights and moving bodies, laughing as you’d made your way to the middle of the room again.
dean stayed exactly where he was. the staircase was only a few steps behind him and a month ago — hell, an hour ago, he would’ve taken it without a second thought. instead, he found himself watching you disappear into the crowd.
you never looked back and, somehow, that was the first thing all night that made him want to chase after someone.
midterms had swallowed most of campus whole, your group chat would somehow turned into an argument every single day, and by friday evening you were thinking of escaping to a far away island.
“i still don’t understand what drunk shakespeare actually is,” your friend said as the four of you walked towards the theatre.
you shrugged, “from what i’ve heard? chaos.”the queue already stretched outside the entrance, students talking over one another while someone in costume wandered through the crowd carrying what looked suspiciously like a plastic skull, “this already feels ridiculous.”
inside, it somehow got worse … or better.
candles flickered across tiny tables, actors wandered between audience members before the show had even started, and somewhere near the stage someone was already arguing with a man dressed as mercutio.
you were still laughing when you heard a familiar voice behind you, “look who we’ve got here.”you turned to find dean standing a minor three feet away. his hands disappeared into the pockets of a navy hoodie, a crooked smile already spreading across his face, “you following me?”
you laughed, “pretty sure i got here first.”
as he smirked at your statement you realized there wasn’t any awkwardness. the last conversation you’d had should’ve made this uncomfortable. instead, it felt strangely easy, “you’ve been avoiding hockey parties?” he asked.
“have you been looking for me?”
he didn’t answer immediately, which was answer enough. but, before either of you could say anything else, someone clapped loudly from the stage, “ladies and gentlemen!”the room quietened, “tonight,” the actor announced dramatically, “we require volunteers.”
a collective holler swept through the audience. you immediately looked away from the stage. absolutely not.
“you!”
your head snapped up and saw that the actor was pointing directly at you. surely not, right? you looked behind yourself, “yes, you.”
a sarcastic laugh escaped your lips, “no.”
“that’s not how volunteering works.”
your friends immediately betrayed you, shouting “go!” and “she’ll do it!”
“absolutely not,” you hissed, already shaking your head. but it was too late because the actor was making his way towards you with alarming determination, “come along.”
“i said no.”
“which is exactly what juliet would’ve said,” he smirked and before you knew it, the entire room was applauding as you reluctantly made your way towards the stage. you shot your friends a look over your shoulder to see every single one of them laughing. traitors.
“give her another round of applause!” the actor declared.
“this is my worst nightmare,” you muttered as you covered your face with your hands.
“excellent,” he turned back towards the audience. “now… our romeo.”
your stomach dropped immediately. please don’t. please— the actor’s arm extended dramatically, straight towards dean. he blinked, “me?”
“yes, you!”
“what about him?” dean immediately pointed at john logan, one of his teammates, who shot him a surprised glare.
“already dead in act three.”
the room laughed again and dean sighed dramatically before pushing himself to his feet. “i knew i should’ve stayed home,” he muttered as he climbed onto the stage beside you.
the actor looked between the two of you before grinning, “oh, this is perfect.”
you glanced sideways at dean, “don’t.”
“i haven’t said anything.”
you glared at him just as the actor patted the two of you on the back, “right!” he announced. “romeo and juliet!”
he left just as another actress appeared from the wings carrying a stack of oversized cue cards and a stool. while your eyes were focused on her placing it in the centre of the stage, someone else pushed you towards it.
the actress with the cue cards turned to the audience, “after the capulet party, juliet decides to retreat to the quiet of her balcony.” the guy who’d brought you to the stool told you to get on while the other continued, “where she thinks she is alone when she utters…”
you glanced backwards to see the actor had left and when you looked back you found a cue card already held up in front of you, “o romeo, o romeo! wherefore art thou romeo?”
instead of letting you do the entire, incredibly long and difficult speech, the next cue card said ‘kneel’ and you watched as dean dramatically went down on one knee. a giggle forced it way past your lips at the sight in front of you. dean placed a hand on his heart as he glanced at the cue cards before reciting, “i take thee at thy word, call me but love, and i’ll be new baptis’d!”
the rest of the balcony scene and play went by quickly. dean, apparently, had a knack for theater; knowing exactly how to use the drama to get the audience to love him.
you found yourself laughing more often than speaking. somewhere between juliet’s arranged marriage and the sleeping potion, the nerves you’d felt climbing onto the stage disappeared completely.
when the actors inevitably interrupted another scene to make a joke, you’d glance at dean at exactly the same moment he looked back at you. neither of you ever said anything, but the actors noticed, of course. one actress began deliberately placing the two of you beside one another whenever she could.
before long, the play had reached its inevitable conclusion. one actor solemnly wheeled what looked suspiciously like a blue camping mat into the centre of the stage.
“the capulet tomb,” he announced as another scattered plastic flowers around it with all the reverence of a funeral director. then he turned to you, “juliet.” he gestured towards the mat, “if you’d be so kind.”
with a long-suffering sigh that earned another laugh from the audience, you lowered yourself onto the camping mat, trying your hardest at playing dead.
the actor glanced towards dean, who was waiting just offstage, “romeo!”
the room quietened slightly. someone still laughed into their drink near the back, and a chair scraped loudly against the wooden floor as someone shifted for a better view, but compared to the chaos of the last forty-five minutes, it felt almost silent.
dean glanced towards the cue cards before looking at you lying remarkably still. a moment ago, you’d been laughing so hard your stomach hurt. now you had your eyes closed, hands folded neatly across your middle.
the actress holding the cue cards stepped into his line of sight. “here’s to my love!” dean picked up the little plastic goblet someone had pressed into his hand earlier. he raised it with as much unnecessary drama as he could manage before tipping it back in one exaggerated gulp.
the audience applauded as the actress lifted another cue card, “thus with a kiss i die.”
slowly, a grin spread across the actress’ face; they’d done this on purpose. dean let out the quietest laugh through his nose before stepping closer. a chorus of excited murmurs spread across the room and someone wolf-whistled as he crouched beside you instead of standing over you, close enough that only you would’ve heard him if you’d opened your eyes, “you enjoying your nap?”
you fought the smile threatening your lips.
the cue card holder cleared her throat pointedly, causing dean to sigh. then, with the exaggerated reluctance of a man walking willingly into a trap, he leaned down just enough that, from where the audience sat, it looked convincingly like romeo’s farewell kiss.
your breath hitched once he closed the last few inches, brushing the lightest kiss against your forehead.
the audience erupted and cheers echoed around the room. another actor threw a handful of plastic flower petals into the air like confetti while dean, thoroughly committed now, collapsed dramatically onto the floor beside the camping mat with one hand over his chest.
another cue card appeared in front of you, “wake up.”
you slowly opened your eyes and the next few moments happened almost exactly as shakespeare intended — at least, as closely as they could with cue cards, camping mats and an audience three pints deep. you sat upright, looked at dean, and delivered juliet’s final lines from the card held in front of you.
then room grew noticeably quieter again. you reached the fake dagger, pressing it theatrically against your chest, and fell sideways onto the camping mat beside dean.
silence. one second. two seconds. then the actor playing the prince strode confidently into the middle of the stage, “and thus,” he declared, spreading his arms wide, “everyone dies.”
before either you or dean had the chance to stand, the rest of the cast rushed the stage, hauling you both to your feet for an exaggerated curtain call.
you caught dean’s eye over the applause. his hair was a mess, there were plastic flower petals caught in the sleeve of his hoodie, and he was still trying not to laugh. you realised you were doing exactly the same.
the temperature had dropped while you’d been inside, leaving the streets quiet enough that the sounds of conversation drifted easily through the evening. streetlights cast long shadows across the pavement while groups of students gradually wandered back towards campus, still animatedly discussing the performance.
your friends hadn’t stopped; “i still think mercutio deserved an award.”“i think romeo should’ve kissed juliet.”
you looked at her, “please stop.”
“i’m just saying—”
someone fell into step beside you, “i’m stealing her for a minute.”the voice was familiar enough that you looked up before you really thought about it.
dean was wearing a jean jacket over his hoodie and his hair was still slightly dishevelled from repeatedly dragging his hands through it onstage. there was something strangely ordinary about seeing him like this after spending the last hour pretending to be romeo.
your friends noticed him far too quickly; one of them looked between the two of you before smiling with entirely too much satisfaction, “don’t stay out too late.”
you turned to glare at her, but she pretended not to notice. dean watched the exchange with poorly concealed amusement, “they seem nice.”
“they’re awful,” you sighed dramatically before turning back towards your friends, “i’ll catch up.”
they disappeared down the street with suspiciously little resistance and you waited until they were out of earshot before looking sideways at dean, “you definitely timed that.”
he looked ahead, hands buried comfortably in the pockets of his jacket, “i took a chance.”his smile appeared briefly before disappearing again.
you started walking in comfortable silence. the street wasn’t particularly crowded anymore. students drifted past in both directions, some still carrying programmes from the show, others stopping to greet people they recognised before moving on again.
eventually, you glanced across at him, “you really like attention, huh?”
“I play hockey,” he looked over.
“i’ve seen you play hockey,” you smirked lightly, “but i feel like i underestimated the theatre kid hiding underneath.”
he laughed quietly, “i think that’s the first time anyone’s ever called me that.”
“you did have everyone laughing,” you smiled.
“they were laughing at me.”
another comfortable silence settled. the breeze lifted a loose strand of hair across your face, and you tucked it behind your ear as the two of you reached the edge of campus.
you noticed dean slowing his pace almost imperceptibly, “so…” you said. “you wanted to steal me away for a reason?”
he let out a quiet breath through his nose, “i did.” he didn’t look at you. instead, his eyes stayed fixed somewhere ahead, thoughtful in a way you hadn’t really seen before. when he finally spoke again, his voice had lost the easy confidence it’d carried at the party, “i’ve been thinking about what you said.”
you didn’t need to ask which conversation he meant, “the party.”
he nodded, “you were right.” you looked at him. there wasn’t any defensiveness in his expression, no attempt to explain himself away, just honesty. “i gave you every reason to think i only wanted one thing.” the admission seemed to cost him something, “i kept thinking about it afterwards.”
a small smile tugged at your mouth, “that surprises you?”
“a little.”
“you seem like someone who moves on quickly.”
“i usually do,” he shrugged with a small smile, “i didn’t this time.”
you looked away for a moment, watching your sneakers scuff lightly against the pavement. there was something unexpectedly vulnerable about hearing that from him.
dean rubbed absent-mindedly at the back of his neck, “so,” he laughed once under his breath, “i feel like i’m asking properly this time.”
“no parties,” he ticked one finger. “no upstairs,” another finger. “no assumptions.”he stopped walking then, turning just enough to face you properly beneath the glow of a streetlamp, “i was wondering if you’d let me take you for coffee.”
it sounded simple and intentional. you’d spent weeks assuming dean di laurentis probably never got nervous around women. now you weren’t so sure.
you folded your arms loosely against the evening chill, “is this an actual date?”
“yeah,” his answer came without hesitation.
“no hidden agenda?”
“no.”
you held his gaze for another few seconds. it was enough that the corner of his mouth started to twitch, “you’re enjoying making me wait.”
“a little,” you smirked. the silence stretched just a little longer before you finally nodded, “okay.”
for a second, he simply stared at you, “okay?”
you laughed softly, “i’ll have coffee with you.”
he blinked once, almost as though he hadn’t fully prepared himself for you to say yes. then a smile spread slowly across his face.
there is NO way some of you are actually delusional enough to think you have the right to BAN other writers from writing any further gwaynehightower x femreader fics….
all because he MIGHT be gay (in the show)…I just saw some idiot writing about how it’s actually “homophobic” to continue writing gwayne x femreader because it’s “ignoring his queerness,” i laughed, blocked the user and kept scrolling. For all we know he could be bi, pan etc…he could still even be straight. It could be Ormund just trying to emasculate Gwayne because he knows Gwayne is more honourable. Even men in today’s society label reaping women as “gay” so that wouldn’t be a surprise. People need to grow tf up.
As a queer woman, i can tell all of the lovely lady writers who write for fem!reader that it is in fact, NOT homophobic whatsoever. Pls feel free to continue writing as you were and don’t pay any attention to these chronically online clowns that seem to think they have a right to actually BAN other grown adults from writing/reading certain pairings.
Gwayne Hightower is a FICTIONAL character whose sexuality has never been confirmed. Y’all are reaching. You don’t like a certain type of fanfiction? Block the author, don’t go about bitching and moaning like a 5 year old over something that’s non even canon, confirmed AND FICTIONAL.
Turn off your phone, walk outside and touch some grass - it’s clear some of you really need to.
LMAO perfect example of someone who needs this dose of reality would be this person, who feels it appropriate to send me an anonymous msg like this:
all over a fictional character mind you….also I’m queer AND I am not white wtf 😆
If requests for Gwayne are still open and if you don't mind, a fanfic where younger Daeron was the matchmaker for Gwayne and reader!! He meets her by chance and she's super kind to him and he's like "she needs to be my aunt/mom" and tries his best to get them together ♡
Matchmaker
Did you read my mind? I was thinking of doing a Gwayne/daeron version of my Valarr plays matchmaker fic and I’ve combined it with another request if that’s alright so both are slightly different to fit together. This is basically just pure fluff! 🩵
Request two: So reader is single mom with little daughter as well. Reader still approached by many suitors due to her beauty. And all suitors get hated by her little daughter too. But when reader met gwayne it's different. Like make it fluffy and cute. They met through her daughter. Reader's daughter would hate gwayne at the start but eventually start liking him. Gwayne would scared away all the creeps from the reader. Maybe ormund would try approaching reader not to marry her but try to having sex with her. But gwayne would save reader. At the end, gwayne and reader would get married. - 🎀
“Hello.” A little girl says looking at the ginger boy who looks around her age who’s playing on the floor of the nursery on his own. All the children being put in there while the adults attend the ball. All the other children in groups of friends/siblings.
“Hello.” He replies softly, clearly not expecting anyone to join him. Especially not a little girl holding multiple toys in her arms.
“Can I play with you?” She asks, already sat down and giving him some of her toys to play with. Him only having a little wooden dragon before.
“I uh, yes?” He says unsure of what to do, him not used to anyone other than his uncle willing to play with him.
“I’m Rosalie.” The girl, Rosalie, say introducing herself holding out her little hand for the boy to shake.
“Daeron.” He offers in return, warily shaking the girls hand. Not sure how to act around people his own age.
“Is your mummy also having to find a new husband?” She asks starting to divide up her toys.
“No, my papa- I mean uncle is looking for a wife.”
“Is he your papa or your uncle?” She asks tilting her head to the side in confusion.
“He’s my uncle but I live with him.” Daeron explains worried she won’t want to play with him anymore.
“Why?”
“My mother sent me away.” He responds sadly, holding his dragon toy close.
“Oh, you can have the horsey.” She says changing the subject and letting him have one of her favourite toys.
-
“Really?” You ask faining interest in whatever Lord Ormund Hightower was saying, you just grateful that he was the only man fighting for your attention tonight. Your daughter making her dislike for your possible suitors clear. Her biting the last man who tried to curry your favour. “That’s fascinating.”
“Cousin, my lady.” A handsome copper haired man interrupts nodding at you in greeting quickly before looking at the Lord. “I’ll be off, it’s past Daeron’s bedtime.”
“Nonsense.” The Lord says giving his cousin a look. The man trying to sleep with you. Him not wanting to take a wife himself. “He can wait a while longer, you need to find a wife.”
“What time is it if you don’t mind me asking?” You ask the handsome man, already knowing it but finding your escape.
“Just past the hour of the eel.” He responds, giving Lord Ormund a look as if saying it’s too late for him to stay.
“Is it? I must be off as well then.” You say, pretending you didn’t notice how late it’s gotten.
“Why?” Lord Ormund asks clearly agitated, him thinking he had a chance with you.
“My daughter my lord, it’s past her bedtime.” You explain, faking disappointment.
“Surely a nursemaid can care for her?”
“I’m afraid not, it was lovely speaking with you Lord Ormund.” You say before quickly taking your leave. The handsome man following you and waiting until you’re in the corridors to speak.
“I must confess to you my lady, it’s still the hour of the bat.” He say, looking a tad guilty for cutting your evening short.
“I know.” You say with a smirk. “Come, let us get our children and escape while we can.”
-
“Ser, my lady.” A nursemaid says quietly, all the children sleeping or reading. You and Ser Gwayne having introduced yourselves on the way. You finding out he’s taken his nephew in and him finding out your husband died when you were with child. “They’re over there.”
“They’re cuddling.” You say in shock, your daughter very picky with who she’ll spend time with let alone cuddle. Her and the little ginger boy tangled up together using Rosie’s cuddly toy as a pillow. “How sweet.”
“Wow.” Gwayne whispers, knowing the boy isn’t exactly the most social child. Him hiding with Gwayne whenever possible. You both sharing a look of bewilderment, knowing this is unlike your children.
“Rosie? It’s time to go sweetheart.” You whisper, shaking the girls shoulder lightly. Gwayne doing the same to Daeron.
“No.” She grumbles holding the ginger boy close, him slowly waking up and looking at his uncle in confusion.
“Rosie, we need to go and so does your friend.” You say softly, knowing how rare it is your daughter finds a friend.
“No.” She says stubbornly holding the boy close. “He my brother.”
“What do you mean sweetheart?”
“He doesn’t have a mummy and I don’t have a papa.” She explains in her 5 year old logic.
“That doesn’t mean you’re siblings.” You say softly, knowing your daughter finds it difficult not having a father or close relatives who are nice to her.
“And Daeron you do have a mummy, she’s in kingslanding remember?” Gwayne reminds the boy, the man knowing his sister loves her son.
“But she sent me away.” You and Gwayne share a look at that, not sure how to respond.
“Uh, let’s get you home and we can talk about it tomorrow.” Gwayne says, knowing he’s going to spend most of the night thinking of what to say to the boy he loves as a son.
After a short negotiation, not wanting to wake the other children, you agreed to meet up the next afternoon so the children could play. You and Gwayne grateful to have an excuse to miss the garden party that was happening at the same time.
-
“Come on mummy.” Rosalie says impatiently trying to drag you out of the entrance hall. Her having a satchel full of things she wants to show Daeron along with parchment so they could draw. “We can’t be late.”
“We won’t be.” You laugh knowing that you’ll be early, the park only a short walk away.
-
“Papa hurry up.” Daeron says, looking forward to seeing his new friend.
“I’m hurrying.” Gwayne laughs, never having seen the boy so excited before.
-
“My lady.” Ser Gwayne says greeting you with a light kiss to the back of your hand. The children immediately running off to a bench to show each other everything they’ve bought with them.
“Ser.” You say thinking he looks even more attractive in the days time. “Thank you for coming, she hasn’t stopped talking about this all morning.”
“Neither has Daeron.” Gwayne responds, thinking you look even more beautiful in the sunlight. Him always thinking you gorgeous when he met you the night before.
-
“Really?” You ask actually interested in all he’s saying. You both sat together on a bench taking while the children play. Him unable to respond when two hyperactive children come running over and clambering into your laps. “Can we help you?”
“We’ve planned your wedding.” Rosie says, sat in your lap. A piece of parchment in Daeron’s hands.
“I’m sorry?” You ask your daughter in confusion, not expecting her to say that.
“You’re getting married.” She reiterates.
“Are we now?” Gwayne asks raising an eyebrow and sharing a look of amusement with you.
“Yes.” Daeron confirms, showing you both the parchment that’s is depicting a wedding. With dragons and horses everywhere.
“See, mummy this is you, I’m here and Daeron and papa are here.” Rosie explains pointing at the picture. You wearing a very large dress while Gwayne looked like his hair was on fire and wearing a very big cloak, it being bigger than your dress.
“Sweetie, Ser Gwayne isn’t your papa.” You say gently, having had this conversation with the girl already today.
“Why not?”
“Because your papa died when I was with child.” You explain for what feels the hundredth time. Not feeling any grief over your late husband’s death but feeling guilt over the girls desire for a father.
“So I’ve never met him?” She asks.
“Well no.”
“So then ser gwayne can be my papa.” She says firmly, not seeing why it’s an issue.
“We’ll discuss that more later.” Gwayne says looking at the drawing in interest. “What am I wearing?”
“A crown.” Daeron says, pointing at the ‘crown’ that still just looks like Gwayne’s hair had been sent on fire.
“Why?”
“I’m a prince.” Daeron says factually.
“Yes you are.” Gwanye agrees, not sure what that has to do with him.
“Then so are you.” The boy says simply. Not understanding how his papa couldn’t be a prince if he is.
“Uh, it doesn’t exactly work like that.” Gwayne tries to explain before getting interrupted once more by your daughter.
“That’s not important what’s important is mummy’s dress.” She says making you all look at the squiggles on the dress. “It has horsey’s and dragons on.”
“Really?”
-
“Congratulations.” The septon says after service a while later. Him shaking Gwayne’s hand while nodding politely at you.
“Pardon?”
“On your betrothal, let me know when you’d like the wedding.” He says smiling brightly, having been waiting for the day Gwayne would marry.
“What wedding?” You ask in confusion, sharing a look with Gwayne. Both of you panicking that one of you had been married off without permission.
“The young prince Daeron and lady Rosalie have been telling everyone you’re getting married.” The septon explains before noting the looks on your faces. “Wishful thinking then I assume, don’t you worry I’ve seen children so this before. Have a good day.”
“You too.” You and Gwayne say back both clearly flustered at the prospect.
“Keep them in the books, they’ll marry soon enough.” The septon tells his student, him recognising the pattern.
-
“See that’s what I don’t get.” You say walking along a path with Gwayne in the ‘public’ gardens. Your arm looped with his while you talk. “He’s so religious and about continuing the Hightower name but he won’t marry and have children himself.”
“Thank you.” Gwayne says reacting as if hearing someone agreeing with him for the first time. “Someone with sense.”
“Oh, shit.” You groan seeing who’s in the distance. Having been avoiding them both whenever possible.
“What’s wrong?”
“My ex brother by law and his bitchy wife.” You say, not liking ether of them. Especially after she called you a whore.
“Oh?”
“He’s been trying to sell me off to the highest bidder for years but has been unsuccessful as Rosie keeps scaring them off. And her, well she thinks I was sleeping with him because he doesn’t like to bed her.” You explain, not knowing why he won’t bed his wife. The man having multiple mistresses. “Apparently I’m the reason he’s been crying when they do.”
“Oh.” Gwayne says with a shocked laugh, not expecting that.
“Exactly.” You respond giving him a look, also finding it a bit funny.
“Come with me.” He says quickly, having an idea.
“Gwayne!” you whisper shout giggling when he grabs your hand and runs over to where the children are playing in the hedge maze. It being incredibly easy to navigate at its made for children, but him somehow leading you down a dead end. “What did you do that for?”
“I really don’t know.” He laughs, having proper fun with a fellow adult for the first time. “I must confess though that I’m terrible at hedge mazes.”
“I can tell.” You giggle leaning into him, not noticing or caring how close you both are. Your laughs slowly fading as you look into each other eyes, his briefly looking down at your lips. Your mouths only a breath apart. “Ser.”
“My lady.” He whispers back both of you just looking at the others lips waiting for one to make the first move. When your moment gets interrupted by two giggling children playing tag. You both jumping apart at the interruption.
“Mummy Daeron’s cheating.”
“No I’m not! It’s not my fault I’m faster than you!”
-
“Are you alright my lady?” Gwayne asks making you jump in shock, you not knowing anyone had seen you leave the ball. Not knowing he knew immediately and only waited a few moments as not to appear clingy.
“Gwayne.” You breathe out in relief, grateful it’s him who’s found you. His being the only company you want. “How many times have I told you to call me my name?”
“That’s not proper my love.” He teases coming to stand beside you, him thinking you look beautiful in the sunset. “But truly are you alright?”
“I’m fine, I just needed a moment.” You reassure, knowing he probably saw you speaking with your ex brother by law and wanting to check on you. “Rosie’s uncle is trying to get me to marry your cousin.”
“Shit.”
“My sentiments exactly.” You say with slight laugh, knowing you’d like to marry a Hightower. But the one you want is right beside you, not demanding attention in the ball room. “Is it so bad I want to actually love my husband this time?”
“I don’t think that’s bad at all.” He says softly, looking you in the eyes. “Do you have anyone in mind?”
“You know I do.” You say rolling your eyes at him, and quickly holding his face in your hands before pulling him into a deep kiss. Not caring that you’re on a balcony of some random Lord, your only focus being Gwayne’s lips on yours. His lips tasting of your favourite wine, him kissing you back with as much vigour. “Have I made my intentions clear enough Ser?”
“You’d better kiss me again just to be sure.” He teases before kissing you again. Knowing he’s going to spend the rest of his life with you.
Clark who just loves being in you. He simply can't go too long without feeling your warm pussy around his cock.
First thing in the morning, he wakes up with his morning wood tenting his sweats. Sleepily, he reaches for you, spooning you and kissing across the side of your neck, causing you to stir from sleep.
Not ten minutes later, he's still spooning you as he sinks into you, groaning thickly as he feels your wet heat envelop him.
“Fuck, your pussy is so tight, baby, she feels so good around me,” he grunts, his mouth against your ear. The thick mushroom head brushes against your cervix once he's all the way in.
You squirm, gasping softly as he fucks you, the thickness of him pressing right against your g-spot as he fills you perfectly.
After, his cum dribbles down your thighs while you two rush to get ready for work before you're late.
He can barely keep himself away from you in the office. His senses are constantly tracking you, listening to your heartbeat, smelling the sweet scent of your shampoo and your perfume, and it drives him insane.
He's half-hard in his pants most of the day until he can't control himself anymore. Taking advantage when everyone goes out for lunch, he drags you into the bathroom and is quick to bend you over the sink. His hands hastily hike your skirt up around your waist, exposing your ass and your pretty cunt, and he's quick to rub his fingers against your clothed folds.
God, he's missed your cunt.
It's not long before you're soaked and he's pushing his aching cock past your folds, stretching your fluttering hole around him.
He moans out a raspy, “Aw, fuck,” as he sinks every inch into your pussy, stretching out your sensitive walls.
You mewl lowly, grabbing onto the edges of the sink to keep yourself upright. You look up at the mirror in front of you, meeting Clark's gaze in the reflection.
“Look how she takes me, baby,” he groans as he starts thrusting, dragging almost all the way out before pushing back in. “Look how good your pussy is for me, she's squeezing me so tight.”
The rest of the afternoon, you sit at your desk, squirming a little as the combination of your orgasms drips from you and gathers on your panties.
The second you're back home, Clark is all over you. His huge hands touch every inch of you he can reach as he walks you backwards to the bedroom.
And now that he's got time for more than a quickie, he makes the most of it.
He has you on your back for hours, your poor pussy fucked wide open, squelching every time his cock pushes in because you're just so wet.
Clark's mind is completely blank except for the feeling of your pulsing walls around him, sucking him in. He gives you orgasm after orgasm, making up for the quickies you've both had to settle for throughout the day, and simply enjoys how perfect your cunt fits him.
“It's like she was made for me, honey,” he grunts, his hands finding purchase on the fat of your thighs and fondling them. “All wet and warm and tight — I just wanna spend all my time in her.”
He's fucked you stupid now, so you can't do much beyond mewl and scratch at the skin of his arms as you try to hold on.
And fuck, Clark loves it. He knows it's probably a bit too much for you and that you're going to be sore after. But he also knows that, tomorrow, he's gonna do it all over again because he's just obsessed with your pussy <3
♡ please comment and reblog my work, it means so much to me and inspires me to keep writing
Clark Kent masterlist
---
𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝 - if you wanna be added to my Clark Kent taglist, lmk <3
Tags • sub male/dom female, sub Aegon, consensual kink, mild degrading language, dacryphilia, chastity belt, cock cage, orgasm control/forced orgasm, overstimulation, oral sex (female receiving)
Wordcount • 5,410
Unable to bear your husband Aegon's infidelities anymore, you take control of him by putting him in a chastity device and deciding when and how he may be granted release.
Aegon Masterlist • Kinktober Masterlist
The Red Keep was utterly still and silent at that time of the night, all the men and women of the court having retired to bed, with the exception of a few lords in search of mindless entertainment and inexpensive wine. The realm might have been at war, but the city still did not sleep, and all its services were provided as usual for those who could pay in gold.
Such had been the evening for the young king, and he had taken the hidden paths down to the brothels and taverns as he used to when he was still the prince, even though his hair and rich clothes gave him away in an instant. His council advised that such a habit was unbecoming of a monarch, and dangerous at that, but it was a solace he needed—the mindlessness of the drink, the freedom, the lack of expectations.
Dawn was creeping closer, leaving twilight behind when Aegon stumbled up the great stone steps of the Keep, dragged by the shoulder by one of his squires, his cape half-strangling him. The poor young man was barely able to stand himself, and ended up tripping on his king’s cape, almost knocking them both into a pillar. Behind this strange procession, two kingsguards were hovering, both amused and worried.
Aegon’s hysterical laugh resonated below the high ceilings—the night had been long and particularly enjoyable, wine and ale flowing easily and the sweetest company to soothe the bite of the drink. His chest was sore with laughter and even though his bones still felt heavy, the gnawing pit at this stomach had gone.
However his laughter died in his throat when he stepped over the threshold of his chambers, and found you, his queen, waiting for him in the middle of the room, arms crossed over your chest and your expression profoundly displeased.
“Where were you?” you asked, cold as ice, and at least his men had the decency to look ashamed. The squire stumbled back, catching himself on the arm of one of the kingsguards.
“To the city,” Aegon replied, splaying his arms in a theatrical display. “I thought you did not concern yourself with me anymore.”
He took a few, stumbling steps then sat heavily into one of the armchairs in front of the fire, almost missing the seat and sprawling onto the floor. Laying back against the backrest, his eyes wide and glassy, he struggled with his doublet before giving up, realizing he could not pull it off his shoulders as he had sat on it.
“You should go, boys,” he then giggled, throwing a glance over his shoulder. “I’m about to get proper— properly chastised.”
“Leave us,” you confirmed, still standing straight, your expression oddly blank.
The kingsguard bowed from the neck and left without a word, one of them pulling the doors shut while the other dragged the squire away, all of them eager to avoid your rage. “Is this a laughable matter to you?” you immediately accused, your voice barely a hiss.
“No need to be so angry,” Aegon retorted, confused as to why you were so furious over such a common matter as his nocturnal habits—your marriage had initially been one of love, but the burden of the crown had soon driven you apart, and now Aegon had resorted to turning back to the poison of his youth.
“I am your wife, and you are out there whoring, exhibiting a behavior that’s unbecoming of a king, and of my husband,” you explained, prompting Aegon to rise, albeit clumsily, in the hopes of reaching you.
Finally, he was able to rid himself of his doublet, throwing it on the floor and coming to stand in front of you, a gleeful smile on his face. “Fury suits you so well, wife,” he complimented—in truth he was endeared and amused by your anger, as it was the most emotions you had shown him in days.
You swatted his hand away when he tried to reach for your face, and he laughed openly. “Might you take this matter seriously for a second in your miserable life?” you countered, slamming your palm on his chest and giving him a shove, hard enough to send him stumbling back a step.
Aegon gave you a pinched look at that, saddened again at your insistence to be unpleasant. The drink was making his head swim, the floor tilting under his feet, but it was not enough to mute his sorrow and make him forget why he had been so eager to drown his worries in bad wine.
“If you must know, I was out because I could not stand to be within the same walls as you,” he murmured, and while it should have been accusatory, it was instead miserable, barely a murmur.
“Not again with this ridiculous theory of yours,” you scoffed.
In recent weeks, the young king had buckled under the weight of the war of succession and subsequent conflict and bloodshed that had crippled the realm.
Since assassins had come into the castle one night with the intent to harm him, he had grown suspicious of those around him, doubting every one of his advisors, even those closest to him. He resorted back to drinking heavily despite your protests, and soon he started to see shadows on the wall, and fear for the worst at every turn.
He imagined enemies at every corner, until that fear had reached your marital chambers.
In one of his drunken hazes, he had hurled terrible accusations at you, suggesting that you were not as loyal a wife as you appeared, and that soon you might stab him in the back as well, and join his half-sister’s side.
Such accusations were ludicrous but in that moment, he had been convinced of them, and when the alcohol had lifted from his mind and reason had come back to him, he had not taken his words back nor offered any apologies.
In truth Aegon loathed the pathetic king he made, and he had hoped you would turn away, so that he would not be subjected to your looks of pity. He had eventually apologized for his drunken misconceptions, once your absence had tugged at his heart too long, but you had not been so forgiving.
“I cannot afford to be too prudent, but my words went beyond what I believed,” Aegon attempted to defend himself once more, but you could tell he did not heartedly mean it.
“This idea was ludicrous to begin with,” you replied—you wanted to scream and rage but instead your voice came out quiet, almost a regretful murmur. “Do you think I would remain here, watching you whore yourself out every night, if I did not wish to be here and share the burden of the crown with you?”
Aegon turned to a nearby table, hiding his face from your eyes and drowning his mounting tears into yet another goblet of wine. It was stale and bitter but he drank a cup full, swallowing the rising bile in his stomach.
“That word is ugly in your mouth,” he sneered, turning to you once more, cup in hand, hoping a mean jest would distract you from the bottom of the matter. “Perhaps we could replace it with something more pleasant.”
The slap that stung his cheek also took his breath away for a moment. The cup flew from his hand and spilled on the floor, turning the edge of the golden-trimmed carpet crimson. Warmth bloomed on the side of his face as tears spilled from his eyes from surprise and sorrow, and a touch of something dark and hot he could not name spread in his chest.
“I will call you a whore if I wish it so, because it is what you are!” you spat in his face, and he knew then that he had lied—that word sounded heavenly in your mouth and he could not pinpoint why. “You are my husband, and you defile me by acting this way. Perhaps I should put you in your place.”
Aegon’s wide eyes turned dark at this—he suddenly looked elated, perhaps even dizzy with it. His chest was heaving and his hands twitched at his side, a heavy blush crawling from his neck to the bridge of his nose. He was aroused, you realized, and it excited you. Your palm was itching with the force of your slap and you resisted the urge to strike him again.
“Perhaps you should,” he answered, breathless, and another night you would have chastised him for his lustful ways, but tonight you could not cast the first stone.
“Do you wish to atone?” you asked, almost musing out loud, your hand rising to his face again. He flinched minutely and yet did not turn his cheek away, instead leaned into your touch when you stroked the back of your knuckle where you had struck him.
He hummed, more of a whimper than anything else, and nodded.
An idea, twisted and forbidden but impossible to resist, came to your mind. You steeled your voice, made it cold and emotionless. “You are not to leave your chambers for the rest of the night. Consider this an order from your queen and your penance for your behavior tonight,” you said
Turning on your heels, you left the room without a look back. Your instincts were telling you he would obey. Instead of going to your own chambers, you chased the mad idea that had come to you, eager to see it come true as quickly as possible, and you knew exactly who you could turn to, to make a device worthy of your endeavor.
You took the stairs down to the bowels of the castle in search of the Master of Whisperers.
Morning came quickly, and when you stepped into your husband’s chambers at dawn, you were pleased to see he had seemingly obeyed you. His clothes were thrown on the settee at the foot of the bed, his boots discarded not far from it, and there were no signs that he had drunk more after you had left—the fallen cup still laid, discarded, on the stained carpet.
“Wife, have you returned?” Aegon asked, his voice muffled with sleep. His face was buried into his plush pillow, the supple curves of his bare body on display, the covers having been kicked aside.
Under your gaze, he lounged on the bed, delightfully aware of the path of your eyes on his exposed shoulders and back, his firm buttocks, the firm lengths of his legs. You bit back a smile when you noticed how his muscles clenched and his skin rippled in shivers when you approached in quiet steps. A sigh was breathed into the pillow when you reached out, indulging in the beautiful, creamy expanse of his skin, and ran a knuckle over the back of his thigh, then around and up his hip.
“You shall bathe and scrub yourself clean of the filth,” you instructed in the same distant, measured tone he had obeyed the night prior. “However, before you dress, I have a present for you.”
Aegon’s mind was reeling, his heart thrumming in excitement beneath his breast, however he did as you instructed and refrained from asking what you had brought him. The servants brought hot water and he scrubbed every inch of his body and his full head of hair in silence, biting his lip against his own curiosity. He washed away all traces of his transgression, although shame burned his cheeks to do so under your watchful gaze.
Finally when he was done, clean and worthy of your touch again, he stood bare in front of the tub, loosely wrapped in a soft linen. More of his pale skin was on display, the entire front of his body that had been hidden from your eyes earlier, and you did not conceal your pleasure as seeing him bare, from his round shoulders to the meat of his thighs, his flat but soft stomach leading to a thick cock.
The scent of soap clung to him, the water curling the ends of his hair, you noticed as you stepped closer, and he let himself be enjoyed. “You did well,” you complimented. “You deserve a reward.”
Your nightly endeavor had been successful, and you had procured the device you had come to request. Delighted as you were, you had not asked why he already possessed the device you were looking for, and Lord Strong had the discretion not to ask what use you had for it.
From a fold of your skirt, you pulled out a velvet pouch, and Aegon’s heart quickened, eager to know what was inside. From it, you procured a steel device Aegon immediately recognized—a great shudder went through him, surprise at your boldness, and sudden fear of what you wished to subject him to.
“No,” he protested weakly, his voice merely a whisper.
“Do you still wish to earn my forgiveness?” you asked—whether it was for his drunken accusations weeks prior or his comportment the night before, you did not say, and he did not inquire.
Shame burned behind his breastbone, and to his horror, his cock started to fill. “None of that,” you chastised, not unkindly, as he appeared far less excited than he had been a moment prior.
You twirled the device in your hand, admiring it. It was a prowess of craftsmanship—rings of steel held together in a curve large and long enough to hold a soft male appendage, attached to a leather belt and thin chain that closed with a heavy lock. You smoothed your thumb over the tip of the cage, the metal clinking softly in your grasp, the sound awakening something dark and desperate in the pit of Aegon’s stomach.
“What will you do with that?” he asked, frightful and hopeful in one sentence.
He brought his hand down to his cock, stroking himself lazily in slow, loose motions. He was hoping to negotiate one last release before you put him in the cage, perhaps even a touch from you, but you quickly obliterated that idea.
You slapped his hand away, in the same motion hitting the head of his cock. He yelped and cried, curling in on himself. “Cease this. From now on you will only be allowed release at my will and pleasure, if and only if I deem you deserving of it,” you ordered, watching with delight as his whole frame shuddered, his shoulders hitching with a contained sob, and his cock throbbing. “We are not off to a good start.”
Aegon wanted to weep—he was so very eager to please you, to appease you. He had behaved horrendously and instead of turning away from him you had come back with a token of your devotion to him. You wished to own him, and mind him almost as a master would a hound.
The prospect both elated and frightened him and yet he trusted you completely. He would happily surrender to your will, only for the utter reassurance that as long as you were exercising control over him, you remained at his side.
“I am sorry, my queen,” he whispered contritely, to which you instantly mellowed, a hand reaching out to wipe the tear that pearled at the edge of his jaw, waiting to drop.
“Do not fret, my love, you will learn,” you replied, in such an awfully patronizing tone. He closed his eyes and willed himself to soften again, conjuring the most gruesome thoughts he could to chase away his excitement.
Aegon forced himself to breathe, but he could not help the hiss that shook his chest when you slid his length into the row of steel rings. The metal was cold against his skin, and the pressure around his cock rather uncomfortable. The leather belt fit snugly around his waist, held in place by a chain and lock that kept him from removing the cage.
He yearned to please you and therefore reasoned with himself that he could bear the discomfort for the price of making you proud.
“Will you obey your queen’s orders?” you asked, but the both of you knew it was not truly a question but a threat. Still, he nodded eagerly.
“I will,” he whispered, earning himself a firm, lingering press of your lips on his, which he melted into.
To his regret, you did not take his mouth fully, and instead were quick to step back, your kiss a mere seal to your unspoken pact of obedience. “I will keep the key to the lock on myself at all times. If you wish to earn my forgiveness, you are not to have this opened by anyone but me,” you instructed. “I shall call on you whenever I require your presence in my chambers.”
With those rules laid out clearly, you turned on your heels again, much like you had done the night before, fully expecting him to obey. “I thought—” he called after you, tears rising to his eyes at the prospect of you leaving him alone again.
You glanced at him over your shoulders, an endeared smile pulling at your mouth. “It is not required for you to think, your grace. All you have to do is follow my orders. As I said, I will call on you when I have need of you,” you repeated, forcing your voice to be cold and distant, and it made him yearn to be needed.
Aegon’s cheeks burned at the implications—it was custom for husbands to send for their wives whenever they desired them, and now he was the one put in this position, to be called on and expected to answer, lest the consequences would be dire. The mere thought of punishment for his disobedience made him shiver violently.
Such a night came, much sooner than anticipated, but you could hardly resist. The idea of your husband and king in the cage at your will and pleasure, proved too much for you to ignore. The first time you called on him was during the darkest part of the night, when the castle was asleep.
A thrill went through you when you sent your servant to fetch him, and you could tell she was anxious at the idea of summoning the king.
However, Aegon came willingly, in nothing but a night robe hastily fastened, cheeks already pink with arousal. “You asked for me, my queen?” he asked, almost meek, but he could hardly contain his excitement.
“Yes, my love,” you confirmed, tangling a hand in his hair. It was still wet from a bath he had no doubt taken before bed, and it pleased you to know he was keeping himself clean for you.
“I’ve missed you,” he confessed.
“Have you?” you inquired, doubtful. “Or have you missed the free use of your cock?”
Aegon bit his lip, a shiver following the line of his spine when you tugged at his hair forcefully. It had been a few days now since you had put him in the device, and the pressure on his skin and weight at his pelvis grounded him. He was more aware of his own skin than before, and every touch was almost overwhelming.
“Tell me the truth,” you suggested harshly.
“I miss my cock,” he admitted, a lovely shameful blush creeping across the bridge of his nose.
“Do as I say and I might let you play with it,” you offered, and yet it sounded more like a threat than a gift. “Lay on the bed, against the pillow,” you instructed while you free hand undid the tie of his robe and pulled it off his body, letting it fall to the floor.
The sight of him, laying back on the pillows, leather belt secure at his waist, made a lick of heat light up your core. You settled with your knees on either side of his head, your thighs framing his slim shoulders, towering over him. The key at your neck dangled slightly, settling between your naked breasts.
Despite the inability for his cock to harden, arousal was coursing through him, and a strange pleasure of all his senses took over instead. His eyes relished in your curves and his hands in the softness of your skin under his touch.
His mind went blissfully quiet when you took hold of his hair again and pressed his face at the apex of your thighs—much like when he was inebriated, he felt himself float in this comfortable state, relieved of all his worries. He had no other purpose but to be used by you, and he was confident in his skill.
“You are lovely,” you praised easily at the first lick of his tongue on your pearl.
Aegon’s mouth was heavenly against your core, his skillful tongue the softest touch in comparison to his firm lip. You rocked against his face unashamedly, steadying yourself on the headboard and with the grip you had on his hair, working relentlessly towards your own pleasure without a thought for his.
Within minutes you grew heavier atop him, the rhythm of your hips against his mouth less coordinated, and a strange rush took over Aegon—he was desperate to see it through, to be the one leading you to the other side.
Pain radiated at the back of his head where your hand pulled at his roots at the same time as your release washed over you, triggering an odd shiver that spilled from pleasure into hysteria. Your moans broke into choked-off sighs and you rocked lazily into him until finally, your release abated, and you sat back on his bare chest.
Such a sight was glorious, and the feel of your wet cunt against his bare chest made his cock want to throb, but the cage kept him from filling out, and his arousal having nowhere to go instead settled, heavy and painful, at the base of his spine.
“Please?” he begged, but he knew it was useless. It was agony, and yet it was making his skin tingle deliciously, oddly excited for your impending refusal. Authority suited you and it appealed to him.
“You may go, your grace,” you dismissed as you dismounted, almost blasphemous in the use of his title.
Aegon wanted to protest, but he remembered you had not promised for certain that you would grant him freedom from the cage. He swallowed his protest and picked up his robe from the ground, deciding on compliance, and walked back to his chambers with a feeling of pride despite his frustration.
It was the sweetest sort of torture you could have put him through, and after nearly a fortnight he felt more tormented than ever. The constant feeling around his cock stimulated him as well as it kept him unable to perform.
His stones felt heavy and a low thrum of arousal was constantly flowing through him, heat licking up the base of his spine whenever his thoughts drifted. He didn’t dare ask when you would take him out of the cage, for fear that he would hear your refusal.
Several nights you summoned him for your own pleasure and he held on to the promise of the first night, that you would take him out when you would be fully satisfied with his act of penance.
Despite his mounting frustration, he somehow rested easy in the knowledge that you were in charge and he trusted you to know his own limits—you knew him, intimately and perhaps more deeply than anyone else, and as such it gave him the confidence to let go of his fears.
During the day, the belt grounded him and served as a constant reminder that you were at his side, holding onto him firmly, and it gave him the assurance he needed to face his courtiers. The men of the council would agree, the king was much calmer and more assured these days, and he had to thank you, his queen, for it.
The simmering arousal beneath his skin, as frustrating as it was, also gave him a sharp edge he summoned whenever a decision needed to be made for the realm. He felt more assertive in his governance, as though this mark of ownership was propping him up and steadying his steps as king.
However at night, Aegon reverted to a desperate, pleading supplicant at your feet, relishing in the way you reacted to his begging and his tears. This night, a fortnight into his torment, was no exception.
“Please, my love,” he whined, unable to bite back his plea. “This is cruel.”
“Have you sufficiently atoned for your transgressions?” you asked, towering over him where he was kneeling on the carpet at the side of the bed, his cheek resting against the inside of your thigh. His lips were pink from kissing your pearl, bringing you to your release while you clutched the bedpost.
“I have done all you have asked of me,” he replied, reverent.
His lashes were clumped together with tears, his hips rocking back and forth absent-mindedly, yearning for a release he could not get in his condition. While such a sight was a delight to you, you could not deny you missed the sight of his hardness, and the view of him in the throes of pleasure. It was almost as awe-inspired as him in the throes of torment.
“Indeed you have, my love,” you confirmed. “And you have exceeded my expectations. I did not expect a whore such as you to hold on for so long without release.”
Aegon closed his eyes, his hands twitching where they rested on his thighs. His whole frame was quivering in desperation. “Vow to me,” you said, threading your fingers through his hair, pulling slightly until he blinked up at you in adoration.
“Anything,” he promised in a breath.
“That I own your pleasure, and that you are never to find it in another’s arms.
Aegon’s long lashes fluttered and he looked up at you, his bright eyes blown black with arousal. His pink lips parted on the sweetest of promises, his voice rough with emotion. “I swear it. I belong to no one but you, my queen.”
“How magnificent you are,” you murmured. He visibly shuddered, a whimper pushing past his lips when you let go of his hair and reached at the back of your neck and undid the clasp that held the chain. The key fell into your hand and you twirled it a few times as if testing its weight.
“Oh, please,” Aegon sobbed, heat curling at the base of his cock, desperate to fill, his hips jerking in aborted motions.
“Hush, now,” you soothed. Your wicked grin should have worried him but instead it incensed him. “You shall take whatever I deem you deserve.”
“Thank you, thank you,” he sobbed when the belt came under—a moan tore through his throat when the rings of metal finally slipped off his cock and freed it. For a moment he floated in that sudden empty feeling, kneeling naked at your feet, his wide, glassy eyes looking up at you in wonder.
“Kneel on the bed,” you said, following him atop the sheets when he complied. “Go on, my love, show me,” you encouraged.
Aegon bit off a hiss when his own hand closed around his soft length, the direct contact sending a shock of heat at the base of his spine. His cock filled with blood quickly, the simmering arousal of this last fortnight roaring to life. His skin rose in shivers from the inside of his thighs to the back of his neck, sensitive and raw. His whole body was shaking with it, whimpers and moans falling out of his lips despite himself.
“Touch me, please?” he moaned, but you shook your head gently.
“That needs to be earned, your grace,” you explained with a pointed look.
The rhythm of his hips quickened at that, although he could not picture what he would have to do to earn it. Within a minute, his release was close, his stones tightening at the base of his cock, a mad feeling taking hold of him, the breathless fear that he would convulse if the tension inside him would not snap.
“Please?” he gasped, a sudden anxious feeling crawling down his spine, that you would not grant him release, and he sped up the movement of his hand, tightening his grip further, desperate to reach his release before you could deny him.
However you did not, and that relief was the last push he needed. “Go ahead,” you confirmed, and pleasure tore through him, his cock throbbing in hot pulses over his hand.
Aegon’s lips parted on voiceless cries, his body curling in on itself, shuddering in time with the throbbing of his cock, his release coursing through him in hot bursts, his skin erupting in raw heat. Finally, as the pulses eased, high-pitched whimpers came. Aegon sagged forward on his knees, catching himself with the flat of his free hand on the mattress.
“Thank you,” he whispered, his voice hoarse.
“Save your praises, my love, we are not done,” you then said, and you came to kneel in front of him. Your hand replaced his when he took it away, curling around his wet length, your thumb swiping over the sensitive head.
Aegon’s mind took a few seconds to catch up to your meaning, and when it did, the gentle waves of lingering pleasure were turning sharp under the steady rhythm you started, quick and vicious as though he was still chasing his release.
It dawned on him what torment you were about to inflict on him. “What— no,” he choked, his hips angling away from your touch.
Your other hand came to hold the back of his head, your lips pressing to his in a soothing kiss. “Hush now, you’ll take what I give you,” you said as though it was certainty.
“No, it’s too much,” he protested, a searing pain rushing through his cock with every pass of your hand, followed by a lick of the sharpest pleasure, and he could not help but lean into it. He wanted to weep, to beg for you to continue and to curse you for it at the same time.
“You begged me for a fortnight to be allowed release, and now you refuse it?”
“I’ve already spent,” he lamented, wondering if his body could even reach such a high so soon, or if he would collapse in pain before it did.
“A whore like you needs more than one, your grace,” you said, sweet as ever.
Aegon sobbed out loud, shame burning bright behind his breastbone. If his eyes had been rimmed with pink, they were now red and brimming with tears. His whole body was tense as though he was fighting the pleasure your touch was inflicting on him, but soon he had no choice but surrender. You felt him sag in your hold, his shoulders seizing with sobs.
“Please,” he begged, rocking into your touch despite himself. It felt as though he was suspended at that very second when pleasure tipped into the unbearable tension that led to release, and every time he thought he would finally reach his climax, his torment continued until he was breathless with it.
A cry erupted from his chest and a searing pain shook his very core, and finally, his release was pulled out of him with force, tearing through the tension in his stomach much like imagined a knife wound felt. The pleasure was so sharp he thought he would fall into unconsciousness, and it seemed he did for a moment.
Unable to keep his eyes open, his sight blurred with tears, he fell sideways onto the sheets, utterly exhausted. The sort of contentment that fell over him was heavy, his mind dulled and blissfully void of any worries and concerns.
“Now, now, rest easy, my king,” you soothed, pushing his sweat-soaked hair from his face. You pressed a kiss to his pliant lips and he responded with a sweet whimper. “You were magnificent, my love,” you praised, laying down at his side, uncaring for the state of his skin.
Etched at the back of his mind, only one thought remained, the utter certainty that he was owned, body and mind, and that there was no deeper show of devotion. On the bedside dresser, the belt awaited, and with it the promise of your loyalty.
Dividers by @/saradika. Not beta read. Based on this ask ♡
A Bit of Blood Never Bothered Me (Lyonel Baratheon x reader)
A/N: Kind of struggled with the direction of this request but a good old fashioned smut shot never hurt anyone!
Summary: Slow sleepy period sex with Lyonel :)
Word count: ~2.3k
Tags: 18+/MDNI, she/her pronouns, AFAB reader, (significant) age gap, younger!reader (20s), SMUT, PERIOD sex, depictions of blood and periods and everything related to that, — never proofread, (please let me know if I missed any), Your media consumption is your own responsibility.
Disclaimer: I do not own any ‘A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms’ characters. I do not claim to own any of the ‘A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms’ characters. I do not own any pictures used nor do I claim to do so.
Always appreciate comments, likes, and reblogs :)
Since your moonblood had come upon you, you had not done much other than lie in your bed. You were immensely tired, with little to no desire to do anything other than sleep, eat, and perhaps read a little from the book on your bedside.
Your husband knew what these monthly periods were like for you, and despite his best wishes, he attempted to be peaceful and bother you as little as possible. He left you to your own devices during the day, and made little fuss in the evenings when he fell into bed beside you, wrapping his arms around you and dragging you closer to him with a satisfied grunt.
If it was possible, these moments made you fall in love with Lyonel even more. You knew your husband’s tendencies, the boisterousness, the sensitivity to boredom, the random and rather mad ideas that sometimes put him in harm’s way at some precariously high point of the keep at Storm’s End. But in these moments, when he was actively softening himself, when he was being careful not to speak too loud lest you have a headache, or when he gently pressed his palm to your lower belly to keep you warm where you hurt most without saying a word, you could not help but feel overwhelmed with love for him.
“How have you fared today?” He asked, voice a low sleepy rumble against the top of your temple.
He had only just come in from some feast with his friends and a small hunting party that had begged lodgings for one evening. He smelt slightly of drink, and though it was not necessarily pleasant, you had become accustomed to it.
His hair was loose and messy, draping onto your forehead in a way that tickled, and a lazy smile painted your mouth. You tilted up and blew on it to push it away, watched the greying strands flutter in the air then resettle a little higher on your head.
His arm draped heavily over your middle, clutching you close to him as he practically lay half on top of you. You stroked your fingers up and down the taut muscle of his bicep, mimicking the motion of his hand along your ribs just under your left breast. He was half naked, wearing only a loose pair of linen trousers, his preferred sleepwear.
The room was warm from the hearth, and you were just reaching the point of getting too hot, your skin flushing and beginning to shine. You wore only a thin nightgown, the sleeves having been pushed up to your elbows from your uncomfortable shifting in the bed, and the covers had long since been kicked down to the end of the bed.
“Alright I suppose,” you whispered back, eyes drifting shut as you tried to melt further into his hold. You would not ask him to dim the hearth because in a few hours it would burn away on its own and then you would be far too cold. “Uncomfortable more than pained, the worst of it has passed I think.”
He hummed low against the side of your head, nodding a little then lifting up to press a firm kiss to your temple, his beard rubbing against the skin. He rested his head once more and you smiled again, turning your head to press a return kiss to his bare shoulder.
“I missed your company today,” you whispered again, nuzzling your cheek to his shoulder.
“Mm,” you could hear the satisfaction even in that little sound, your smile growing as his did. “I missed you as well, my fawn,” he told you in a low voice, mouth moving against the side of your head, creeping closer to your ear. “The company of all these men put together does not come close to comparing to the joy I feel from one moment in your presence.” He nuzzled his nose into the space behind your ear and you giggled, shifting away from him at the oddly ticklish feeling and the way his beard rubbed at your neck. But he did not allow you to get far, one massive hand spanning over your side and forcing you back.
“You have a knack for flattery, beloved,” you told him with a laugh, shaking your head before turning it to the side so you could look at him properly.
“It is not flattery when it is true,” he told you firmly, shrugging as if it was that simple, and even that made your insides turn warm. It truly was just him that did it for you.
You shifted again, trying to get comfortable, but you grimaced at the wet feeling between your legs. The cloths you were using had become soaked enough to beg a change now, and the wetness smearing between your lips, be it blood or slick, would not be pleasant to keep there.
“Ugh,” you groaned, pressing one hand to your eyes as you thought of getting up to change when you were far too comfy and cozy here.
“What?” Lyonel asked, brows furrowing in confusion as you began attempting to move. He did not release his grip on you and you sighed a little.
“I must change my cloths. Either blood or desire for you has rendered it necessary,” you groaned, patting his arm so he would move it off. But rather than release you, he only lifted himself higher so he could look down into your face.
“Desire for me, huh?” He asked teasingly, eyebrows wiggling with suggestion, and you huffed a laugh, dropping your forehead to his shoulder as you shook your head.
“I should not tell you I desire you, it only feeds your bloated ego further,” you teased, giving in to the intrusive desire to bite the flesh of his shoulder. He let out a little sound at the feeling of your teeth but did not push you off.
“On the contrary, you should always tell me you desire me so that I may make your wishes come true!” He exclaimed before leaning down and pressing his mouth firmly to yours. You made a surprised little sound into the kiss, closing your eyes and responding with eagerness.
You reached up and caressed his cheek then scratched at his beard a little under his chin. He growled into the kiss, pressing even harder against you and opening your mouth with his own to lick into the hot space there. Your chin was rubbed raw every time he became voracious in this manner, but you did not mind one bit.
Lyonel pulled away, beginning to kiss over your cheek and down your neck, wet presses of his mouth to the skin there that made you shiver and pant. But as his hands began to traverse up and down your torso, stroking over your belly and up to your breasts that were already beginning to tighten at the tips, you nudged him at the shoulder until he rose to face you.
“I am still bleeding,” you told him in a small voice, something akin to shame and timidity colouring your eyes and mouth.
“So?” He asked, one eyebrow raising in question as if you had asked something completely ludicrous. “A little bit of blood has never bothered a true man, and my darling, you are blessed to have the truest of men in your bed.” He smirked then, hurriedly leaning down and pressing an obnoxious and loud kiss to your mouth as you giggled, before reaching down and beginning to bunch the skirt of your nightgown up to your waist.
You shifted upwards a little, rising onto your elbows, and you panted as you watched him push the hem of your night gown out of the way, and focus on your smallclothes. He pulled them down, quick but gentle, and then looked up at you as he reached between your thighs. You shivered, swallowing a little as you resisted the urge of slamming your legs tightly closed.
But he just stroked along the flesh of your thighs softly, little movements of his fingertips over the expanse of your leg and warm tingles shot through you at the motion. He curled in on himself so he could bend and press a ticklish kiss to the thigh closest to him, smiling up at you before he reached between your legs again. You were a little more relaxed now.
He pressed his fingers to the bundle of cloths you had pressed to your cunt to catch your blood, and after gaining a firm grip, he slowly began to swipe up with them. He wiped through your lips, ignoring the tremble that ran through you and the small sound that left your lips when he pressed against your clit for a moment. Once the cloth had dragged through fully, he pinched it to fold it, then wiped between your legs again. When much of the blood had been wiped away, he fisted the bundle and tossed it onto the floor on the other side of the bed.
You were pulsing at your core now, panting and shivering. You were so much more sensitive during your moonblood, and even the softest touches to your tender skin made you feel ten times what you would normally. He gently touched your lips, pressed the softest finger to your clit, and when you jolted and moaned, he smirked and huffed out a chuckle.
“Mm, I like you like this,” he teased. You smiled a little, but you could not focus on anything other than his hands and the sensations between your legs.
He clambered over your thigh, and once he was snugly situated, he pushed both of your thighs up until your knees were closer to your breasts than not. He caressed the back of your thigh, smirking when you twitched at the ticklish feeling, and he began to push the hem of his own trousers down.
“Will you be gentle?” You asked tentatively, hands settling on his shoulders as he held himself up with one hand and pumped his cock in the other. He stopped his motions and looked up at you, eyes softening as he nodded. He leaned down and kissed you, long and slow as both of his hands held you at the waist.
“Of course, my fawn,” he agreed against your mouth, and then he was reaching down again, situating his cock at your hole, and beginning to push forward.
You fluttered your eyes shut, grip tightening over his shoulder, and your mouth dropped open though no sound came out. He was spearing through you, and it was tender and raw and immensely pleasurable. It almost hurt but in a rather good way, your insides pulsing aggressively at the feeling.
Lyonel’s head dropped to your chest and neck, his beard rubbing the skin there raw. He slowly pulled back and then pushed in again, barely a movement more than the roll of his hips. He reached up, gripped the neck of your nightgown and yanked it down, cupping your one exposed breast in the same hand and instantly sucking the nipple into his mouth. You moaned, a sound punched from your chest at the sensation.
It was a rhythm from then on, a steady, loving pace, whereby he simply rolled his hips, barely pulling out and simply pressing a little deeper. You were lost to the feeling of it, eyes closed and focused on the tingles and warmth and the colours that burst behind your eyelids. His pelvis rubbed your clit and it only made everything else better. Your knees pressed into his ribs and you began rolling your hips against his, chasing that euphoria that was just at your fingertips.
Lyonel kissed up your neck, then back down, and returned to sucking your nipple, harsher this time, forcing the pleasure sparks to hit you like lightning. He mumbled against your skin, words of praise, nonsensical phrases, and the like. You only really caught the words “hot cunt” and “will fucking kill me” through your own haze.
You began moaning in earnest as the pleasure reached higher and higher, his name falling from your lips in whispers then whines then unabashed moans. You pressed your hand to his shoulder, clinging on for the final fall.
“Lyonel,” you panted, writhing under him. “Lyonel, Lyonel!” You yelled as you came, a rush, a spark, a flame. It was falling, seizing up, being engulfed in warmth and a feeling that could not be matched by anything else.
He fucked you a little harder then, little shoves of his hips back and forth, hurried movements before he yelled and followed you into oblivion. His grip on your waist was bruising, his other hand pressed so far into the mattress that the shape would be forever altered.
And then the two of you were arriving back to your bodies, back to your lovely warm room at Storm’s End. You blinked your eyes open, slowly beginning to catch your breath. You were hot and sweaty and very sticky in places. Lyonel remained on top of you, sprawled as if you were the mattress. You stroked a hand through his hair, scratching at his scalp a little, and he hummed in pleasure.
“Do not fall asleep on me,” you chastised quietly, though your own eyes were closing. “I must get up and change.”
“Mhm, yes, of course,” he mumbled, barely coherent, and did not budge an inch.
“Lyonel,” you sighed, though it was half-hearted.
“Yes, keep moaning my name,” he murmured, shifting a little but remaining on top of you. You chuckled, melting into the pillows behind you. You could get up in a little while…
Tags: porn no plot, smut, p. in v. sex, hand job, edging, mild dacryphilia, submissive Jace
Newly wedded to Jacaerys, the two of you explore all the possibilities of pleasure, only to discover a fact that your husband was not aware of—he likes to be denied release.
Jacaerys Masterlist
Dragonstone was a magnificent place, and you rejoiced in the fact that it was now your permanent home since you had wed Prince Jacaerys, the crown heir. You enjoyed the stormy nights of the island, the winds carrying the thin rain, the waves crashing on the rocks below the open arches of your summer bedchambers' windows.
The air was hot and wet with the storm passing by, far on the horizon, making your husband's curls turn into tight coils at his temples. Nestled between your thighs, Jacaerys was kissing you into the plush pillow, his hips rocking sloppily against yours.
The prince was always eager to join you in the marital bed, and since the two of you had wed, his passion had only grown.
Courtship had been blissful and your marriage was perfect in every way—except for one. Jacaerys was educated and graceful, galant and devoted to you, and his kisses were as passionate as you could have hoped for. Between his arms you felt both cherished and desired, and you knew you would find satisfaction in the youthful bloom of your love.
However there was one aspect, quite shameful to him, that cast a shadow over your perfect love—he never lasted long enough to please you when he made love to you, his release coming long before your own.
The first few times you had dismissed it as nerves or the unfamiliarity of the act, as he had been much a virgin as you, but as the months went on and he failed to gain stamina, you wondered whether the act would ever bring you to your release.
Jacaerys was an attentive lover, and always sought to please you fully, whether before or after he took you, with his fingers or his mouth. Such acts were delightful and you both enjoyed this exploration of all the ways you could please one another.
That warm, stormy night was no exception, and it wasn't long before he started trembling, his hips losing their momentum, which was the telltale sign of his release.
You kissed him through it, enjoying the way his moans were cutting off as his peak took his breath away, his slim waist shaking between your thighs.
"I am sorry," he said as his release had passed, dropping his head against your shoulder, as he always did.
"Do not stop," you requested, grinding up where his thumb was still drawing lazy circles at your core, distracted by his peak.
The sight of him in the throes of pleasure never ceased to incense you and your own release was not far—it only took him sucking a kiss into your neck and replacing his softening cock with his fingers, and within a minute you were shaking in his arms, calling out his name.
"We shall try again tomorrow," he promised as you melted into the sheets, and you smiled softly.
"It does not matter, you please me well enough," you sighed as you stretched your frame, rendered loose and pliant from your lovemaking.
Jacaerys sighed as well, but in frustration. While he had learned your ways, and how he could curl his fingers inside of you until you whimpered and shook, he felt it was his duty as a husband to satisfy you fully when he was inside of you. You had never made him feel inadequate, that he did well enough on his own, but the shame of it all burned nonetheless.
He had tried to find a solution on his own, taking a hand to himself forcing himself to slow down, to stave off his pleasure, but he was too impatient and never succeeded in making himself last. You had once said in jest that it was the dragon in him, and perhaps you were right, but he considered it a flaw more than a quality.
Perhaps it was his youth, or his inexperience, all he knew was that it was his greatest shame, and he was determined to remedy it.
Sensing your young husband's brooding mood, you gave him space over the next day, thinking of a solution on your own. You were perfectly satisfied, although you understood his shame—he always made sure you found your pleasure and it had pushed the two of you to be bold with your explorations.
Jacaerys had the advantage of a sharp and nimble tongue, and a plush lower lip, as well as agile but strong fingers. There was nothing you could long for, and yet, at the back of your mind you longed to experience at least one release while he was inside of you.
"You need to, hm, train him," one of your ladies-in-waiting suggested that afternoon at tea, and you almost choked on your earl grey.
You had brought up the subject almost casually, expecting a word of reassurance or a polite dismissal from your ladies, yet instead it was practical advice that came.
"Excuse me?" you gasped, caught between a laugh and a reproach.
Your lady blushed furiously, but refused to back down. "I know this from mine own sister, who had that trouble with her husband," she explained with a shrug, then took another sip of tea.
"And tell me, how does a lady go about training her husband?" you asked despite yourself, curious although your cheeks were warm in embarrassment.
Your friend flushed again, the two of you caught in a conversation that was so out of the bounds of propriety, you did not know if either of you had the words for it.
Across the table, your other ladies were watching, surprised but attentive. "Do not be shy now, you wished to make a point, now please tell me how," you pushed.
The young lady looked around the sitting room you had gathered even though privacy had been given to your meeting, then set her cup down, clearing her throat before speaking.
"You bring him to the edge, and then deny him," she said primly.
You hummed at that, startled. "This sounds impractical and uncomfortable," you replied.
Your lady scooted her chair closer to yours in confidence. "It will be easier if you are on top. You shall guide the rhythm, and he shall warn you when—" she stopped, then made a vague waving gesture with her hand, to which you nodded. "Then you shall stop and wait until the feeling subsides, only to start again."
Your other ladies-in-waiting nodded eagerly. "It does seem like it would build endurance?" one of them tried with an amused smile.
"Indeed, with time it should increase it."
"Well, I shall keep that in mind," you answered, and the group of you erupted in embarrassed laughter as the door suddenly opened, and a maid carrying a tray of cake came in, oblivious to your inappropriate topic of conversation.
Therefore that night, without a word, you endeavored to try what you had learned. You kept to yourself the conversation that had taken place, unwilling to bring your husband shame.
Jacaerys had fallen into your arms willingly, always eager to enjoy your beauty. Much as the night before, the air in your room was wet, but a cooling breeze was ruffling the curtains, encouraging your vigor as you rocked your hips down, your hands propped on his chest.
Jace's hands tight on your thighs, he was looking up at you in adoration, pleasure clearly painted on his face. You kept a slow rhythm, watching him attentively for any sign that his release was approaching.
As always it wasn't long, the first sign being the uncoordinated buckling of his hips under you—you stopped, putting a firm hand to his stomach.
"Hold on, my love," you encouraged.
"Is anything the matter?" he asked, soothing what he thought might be a burning in your thighs with the flat of his hands.
You shook your head and smiled down at him. "No, I just wish to enjoy this a moment longer."
He flushed at that remark, biting his lip. He tried to loosen the tension in his body which had been bracing for his peak, a slight frustration coiling in his belly, but you distracted him. You brought his hands to your breasts and he enjoyed their suppleness, as well as the sighs that fell from your lips as he swiped his thumbs over their peaks.
You waited until you thought you were safe, then started the rocking of your hips again, enjoying the stretch of his cock inside you. However it soon became apparent that the tightness of your body was bringing him to the edge far too quickly for the method you were trying to be effective.
"Might I try something?" you asked as you pulled off completely, making Jacaerys moan in frustration.
"You have had something in mind since you came to bed," Jace groaned, his voice tinted with amusement despite the painful twitch of his cock.
"Yes," you admitted, looking down in embarrassment, and his spine prickled in excitement. He forced himself to breathe, his thighs shaking slightly as the wave of pleasure lowered instead of cresting.
"I thought perhaps pleasure is like... endurance, like on the training yard for example, and can be built up," you explained clumsily, a delightful flush spreading over your face. "I've been trying to slow down when pleasure is coming to you, then waiting until it has passed so that, little by little, you might..."
"Build more endurance?" he finished your sentence with a grin.
For some reason, the idea made the bottom of his spine prickle again. The fact that you marriage bed had come to your mind, and that you had come to him with a new idea excited him, and he laid back down on the sheets, eager to see what you would do next.
"I will submit myself to your idea, my love. I am yours to do with as you wish," he said with a flourish, meaning to appear jesting, but he feared the waving of his voice betrayed his arousal.
You grinned and laughed, delighted that your husband was in such ways devoted to you and your pleasure, and straddled his thighs again. Jacaerys bit his lower lip as you curled your hand around him, a quick swipe of your thumb to his tip to spread the moisture seeping from there. You started a slow, purposeful rhythm and he groaned gently, his eyes fluttering shut.
"You are a Goddess," he praised, looking up at you whenever he could, but on each upstroke pleasure took over him and he could only surrender to it.
He brought a hand between your own thighs, pressing his thumb into your pearl and letting you rock against him as you wished, guiding the pressure and speed. For a little while there was nothing to this world but your mutual caresses, your combined panting breaths rising in the air, heat coiling in the pit of your bodies.
"My love, please—" Jacaerys suddenly warned, and you removed your hand swiftly, making him groan as he was denied.
The two of you breathed and you soothed his impatience with kisses to his neck. They never failed to make him shiver, and as his peak retreated once more, they kept him on an edge, like a promise of what was to come.
"You may start again," he instructed after a minute, confident he could withstand the touch of your hand again.
However it became clear within the first stroke that he had been wrong and he melted into your touch, utterly lost to it again. Pleasure mounted and crested far quicker and he grew frantic, desperate for more, but you had instructed him to stop you.
He whimpered, suddenly afraid that he did not have the will to warn you, but thankfully pulled your hand away, attentive to his signs.
Once more his stomach clenched in frustration that now bordered into pain and he groaned between clenched teeth.
"Jacaerys?" you worried as he gasped and hissed, curling on himself slightly.
His cock throbbed painfully and he wanted to cry, while at the same time a deep satisfaction was spreading in his stomach, making the back of his neck tingle. His mind was caught in a whirlwind, his thoughts and his shame were quiet, and all he could think about was to surrender to your will, to comply with your instructions.
Twice now you had denied him his pleasure, and it excited him to know you had not said how many times you would. He wished to ask but he did not wish to know. It incensed him to be at your mercy, under your undivided attention.
"I did not stop you early enough. I almost went over the edge," he confessed, his cheekbones tainted crimson and his eyes shining with unshed tears.
You core throbbed at the sight—he was so beautiful you had to kiss him, your mouth descending on his firmly. Jacaerys surged up against you, pouring his frustration into his kiss.
"Is it terribly uncomfortable?" you asked after you pulled away, carding your fingers into his wet curls.
"It is frustrating. My whole body feels like it is on fire," he confessed.
You ran your hands along his body, down his chest, to his flanks and his hips, and his skin raised in shivers, your touch leaving him wanting for more.
Without any warning you pressed your palm to his cock until it was caught between his stomach and your hand, and he ground his hips up, savoring the harsh friction.
"My love," he called, and you grinned, biting your lip. "Please?"
You shivered at the plea, but you did not have the courage to ask him to beg you again, and thus you wrapped your hand around him, complying to his request.
This time he appeared far more incensed, grinding up into your touch desperately. He was tense and trembling under you, more beautiful than ever—his pale, freckled skin was flushed a dark pink, his curls were wet at his hairline and his eyes were rimmed with red.
The sight made you take a hand to your own core, and he hissed as he looked down, noticing it.
"Please," your husband whined, and you knew his pleasure was cresting again. "No, please, no!" he suddenly cried out as you took your hand away, and this time you feared you had gone too far.
His cock throbbed and his tears finally spilled on his cheeks. His entire body seemed to throb, his cock twitching, the head swollen, flushed a dark purple.
Taking pity, you reached for him but his reaction took you aback.
"No!," Jacaerys pleaded, grabbing your hand and intertwining your fingers firmly, preventing you from touching him. You sat back on his thighs and watched, utterly confused.
He looked in pain, keening whines falling from his lips, his hips bucking wildly under you. His cock visibly throbbed once, then twice, until he seemed to settle again, although flushed and breathless.
"What has just occurred?" you inquired, puzzled, but your husband simply bit his lip and shook his head, words beyond him. "Do you... enjoy being denied?"
"I am sorry," he replied pitifully and you knew then you had gotten it right.
"Does it hurt?" you asked with a frown, daring to trail a curious finger down the length of his cock.
"Yes," he nearly whimpered.
"Do you want me to allow you release?" you continued, to which he shook his head fervently, biting his lip again when your finger reached the underside of his tip. "And yet you pleaded for it. Do you want me to deny you?"
"Yes. Yes, please," he begged.
"How will I know you've reached your limit?"
"I trust you to know," he replied, and such faith in you emboldened you.
You circled your thumb around the head of his cock, which you had noticed early on in your marriage was extremely sensitive. You pressed the very tip of your finger down the slit at the top and he hissed, hips bucking away from your touch but his eyes looking up at you adoringly.
"Oh, please, my love, please—" Jacaerys cried out, his lashes wet and his vision turning blurry.
He loved how you tormented him, and it made him wild to see how you enjoyed it. You had reduced him to a pleading heap of desperation, his whole body coiled in tension.
He nearly cried as you started a slow rhythm, his pleasure returning with an edge of pain this time, and he did not know whether he wished for it to stop or to continue.
"It is too much, please. I cannot take it anymore," he sobbed—his cheeks were burning with humiliation but his cock was throbbing with it. "I need release, please."
"Oh I know, my sweet prince," you crooned, pushing yourself up on your knees, hovering over him. You teased the head of his cock against your folds, then pressed it to the dip of your entrance.
"Oh gods, will you?" he begged, feeling the sweet pressure of it around his tip.
"Please me and I will," promised, to which he cried again, nodding fervently.
He brought his hand to your core as you ground your hips down, barely lowering yourself onto the tip of his cock. His mind was spinning with the temptation to rock up and bury himself inside you. It was taking all his might and his determination to deny himself, focusing instead on your pleasure.
His thumb drew tight circles at your core as you clenched around him, just enough to bring him closer to the edge with each rocking of your hips, but not enough to bring him over.
"No, please, my love," he begged as you finally lowered yourself fully onto his cock until your hips were nestled with his, but he did not know what he was asking for.
The length of him dragged against your sweet spot and you moaned, your pleasure sharp and almost burning. You had not realized how incensed you were, your core throbbing in excitement at the sight of him, tears wetting his thick lashes, his pupils blown in denied ecstasy, his slim frame trembling under you.
"Almost," you whined, gripping his wrist and grinding forward against the pressure of his thumb.
Your pearl was overly sensitive, and combined with the stretch of his cock, you felt your peak cresting inside of you, unstoppable. Your thighs burned with the effort, your hips sore with it, but you were too close for reason to stop you. Now you understood Jace's desperation.
"I cannot, my love, I cannot—" Jacaerys whimpered.
"Jace," you moaned as all words and thoughts left your mind, your mouth dropping open on a silent cry.
Jacaerys froze as your peak tore through you, your core clenching around him. You moaned so sweetly it was a miracle that he was able to hold his own peak at bay for a second, as sensitive as he was—but the miracle didn't last long.
"I'm sorry," he whined in defeat as he felt his cock start pulsing, but you shook your head.
"Go ahead my love," you panted, digging your nails into his chest.
"Thank you, thank you," he heaved as his own release spread through him, more intense than he knew. He could barely breathe, speared to the spot by the heated pulses that ran from his spine to the pit of his stomach, an edge of pain to his utter relief.
He rocked up into you as he spilled, his hands clawing at your back. You buried your face into his neck, grinding down to chase the last waves of your pleasure. Bodies intertwined, your own hands coming to cradle his shoulders and your feet tucking under his trembling thighs, the two of you savored every last drop of ecstasy coursing under your skin.
The room grew nearly silent again, with only the ruffling of the curtain in the breeze piercing through. Jacaerys shivered under your lips, tender kisses pressed to his neck—he dared not speak, the reality of what had just occurred coming to him.
His throat closed and his eyes prickled with renewed tears, but he forced them away. Instead he cradled you carefully and rolled you over, pressing you into the sheets.
You allowed him, sighing happily into the forceful kiss he gave you, surrendering. He rocked his softening cock into you for a couple more thrusts until it slipped from you. He broke the kiss then, looking down at you expectantly, his dark gaze searching yours.
"How beautiful you were," you murmured.
"I must have made a pitiful sight," he confessed, embarrassed.
"No. You were the most glorious sight I have ever seen," you replied. "You do cry so prettily," you remarked, wrapping your legs around his slim waist, bringing the two of you closer again.
Jacaerys shuddered at that—he had never suspected this side of you, just as he had never suspected this side of himself. He did not have the words for it, but as he had trusted you to guide him in this act, surely he would have to trust you in the unspoken as well.
Dividers by @/saradika. Thank you to my lovely @thenameswinter99 for reading over this fic for me ♡
Please consider reblogging if you enjoyed, this is how we keep stories alive on this platform. Likes and comments are equally appreciated.
sub!gwayne getting his dick polished 🥺 you have him tied up and he has tears in his eyes 🥺 the tip is so so sensitive and he’s been edged for the better part of an hour now 🥺 every time he feels his balls getting tighter the only thing that comes out of his mouth is “please, y/n, please, pleasepleasepleaseplease—” 🥺 and then he has to squeeze his eyes shut when you stop so he doesn’t cum 🥺 every sound that comes out of his mouth is so sweet but so tortured 🥺 the tears finally spill when you sit on his dick 🥺 he’s sobbing as you start riding him because at this point it hurts just as much as it feels good but he doesn’t wanna disappoint you 🥺 he’s been so well behaved and he knows that his reward for being your good boy (he knows he’s your good boy, you told him every time you stopped him from cumming 🥺) is getting to cum inside you and he doesn’t want to get that taken away from him now 🥺 after making you orgasm you let him cum and his moaning turns into sobbing turns into high pitched whining 🥺 the pain and the pleasure make him feel almost drunk as he watches his cum spill out of ur pussy 🥺 and then u kiss him all over and tell him how good he was and everything is ok 🥺
summary: you nurse gwayne back to life again when the war leaves him for dead, and he finds himself in no hurry to be rescued from you. (5k)
characters: gwayne hightower / fem!reader
contents: strangers to lovers, hurt/comfort, domestic fluff, mutual pining, canon divergent, not proofread, cw for mentions of blood and injuries, smut 18+ (MDNI): sub!gwayne, unprotected sex, premature ejaculation, face riding (this man has been through enough i just need someone to take care of him okay)
( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )
Gwayne’s heavy eyes open first to a low, timbered ceiling made of clay and dry-rotted oak — certainly not the ornately embellished stone of the Red Keep, which would’ve suggested that Daemon’s army had won in their ambush and had since taken him hostage; but it wasn’t the sagging canvas of a war tent either, which also meant that no green army had yet come to his rescue. This place, wherever this place was, was small and warm and heavy with the scent of a home-cooked meal and the coppery tang of his own blood.
The hurt returns to him as slowly his consciousness does. His body aches in a way that tells him, a bit more clearly than his own memory could, that he had been long in the dying not too long ago. All of his bones feel rusted shut and heavy; each breath feels like gravel in his lungs and blades against his ribs.
“Where am I…?” Gwayne wonders aloud in a near-inaudible rasp, almost lost beneath the crackle of a fire and the soft hiss of a pot simmering somewhere close.
His heavy head lolls on the thin pillow beneath him. The cushion propping up his stiff neck smells like something floral and sweet, like a woman. As his eyes scan the room, he finds that this quaint house, if it could even be referred to as such, is made of only one room — there’s a dining nook crowded in the corner by the window, a cluttered living area in the opposite corner by the hearth, and apparently a sickbed in which he languishes now.
Through the haze still clinging in his vision, he spots a figure dressed in tatters stirring at a pot with practiced hands — sleeves pushed up to the elbows, faded skirts flowing just below the knee. You do not startle at the sound of his voice, nor do you turn to look at him right away as you crush a handful of dried rosemary into the bubbling water before you.
“Starry Hill,” you answer plainly, as though you were talking to an old friend rather than a half-dead ghost in your bed. You turn slowly over your shoulder and watch confusion twist at the man’s handsome features — (he’d studied every keep, holdfast, and port in Westeros his father told him to, and yet he’d never once heard of this one). “And no, you haven’t heard of it before.”
The grin is evident in your voice as you turn away to wipe your palms off on a rag. You catch the man’s glassy blue eyes darting around your home — over the crooked shelf of clay jars, past the mismatched chairs around the ancient dining table, and towards the narrow window where dim orange light falls in slanted rays. He cannot yet tell whether it’s dawn or dusk, and the notion disorients him further.
“Apologies for the mess, my lord,” you sigh. “If I’d known I was going to be housing a Hightower for three days, I might’ve tidied the place up a bit first.”
Gwayne’s auburn brows furrow slowly as his face twists in a deeper confusion — both at the thought of having spent three days unconscious in this place, and at the ease with which you seemed to know his name. His house. His blood. “How… How did you know I was a Hightower?”
Your head turns lazily on your shoulder to flash the man a narrow-eyed, almost pitying sort of look. Your gaze falls across his flaming copper hair, the aristocratic slope of his nose, and the inherited Hightower beauty that not even war, nor three days on his deathbed, could manage to take from him. Even halfway ruined, the man still looks like something bred for portraiture. And it would, perhaps, be so easy to tell him as much.
“Well, you were wearing the sigil all over your armor, to be fair,” you deadpan instead and turn back to your cooking.
Only then does Gwayne realize that the heaviness of his armor is long gone from his frame. All of his clothes, in fact, are gone — the pale canvas of his bare chest is on display now, carved lean from a lifetime in the training yard, and now sporting a square piece of plaster across his ribcage. Beneath the heavy quilt thrown over his legs, he can feel a pair of baggy trousers riding low on his hips that do not belong to him.
Which means you had to have undressed him; bathed him; patched up his marred skin. The thought alone is dizzying.
Panic wraps its hands around his throat as he rises onto his elbows, grimacing at the ache it puts in his side and somewhere deep in his bicep — where a linen cloth has been wrapped tight.
“How did I get here?”
“Your guess is as good as mine…” you huff without looking away from the pot ahead of you. “You’re the one who showed up half-dead on my doorstep, if you’ll recall— So I think I have more questions for you than you have for me, in truth.”
Gwayne’s eyes go glassy and distant as he strains to recollect the events that led him here.
He remembers Ser Criston’s words about a death march, and the sudden screeching of his horse when the first volley of enemy arrows came flying every which way. He vaguely remembers his mare rearing up and tossing him onto his back against the heavy forest floor, and the way the world erupted with the shouting of a hundred men or more all at once. But he does not know what became of any of them now.
“I need to leave,” he announces at once.
“Oh, I wouldn’t,” you wince as you watch the man fling the quilt from his body, visibly toned from years of knighthood but still pale from his lingering brush with death. “Not on that leg of yours— I’m still not sure I set the bone just right.”
Gwayne’s jaw clenches tight as he swings his legs over the side of the bed. His tired muscles pull taut in protest, though it doesn’t hurt him nearly as badly as his left shin does when his bare feet hit the ancient floorboards. A white-hot pain sears from ankle to knee; his chiseled face screws tight as he chokes on a scream.
He doubles over in agony and digs his trembling fists into the thin sheets of the down mattress, struggling to take stock of his injuries.
There’s a plaster just below his knee and a sickly yellow-green bruise blooming just below that, from where the bone came through when the weight of his horse fell on top of him, perhaps. There’s a hot, pulsing feeling beneath the plaster on his right arm — a small but concentrated signature that must’ve come from an arrow. And the length of the shallow scrape along his ribs suggests that it came from a kiss of an enemy blade.
All of it is dressed now in clean linen, from the same kind hands stirring supper across the room from him, entirely unbothered by his suffering.
“Seven fucking hells…” you groan, more to yourself than to him. “I forgot the bloody potatoes.”
Gwayne blinks wildly at your passing figure as you trade the wooden spoon in your hands for the dark, beaten cloak hanging beside the door. “P-Potatoes?” he stammers in response, because he can think of a thousand issues much more pressing than potatoes.
“Yes,” you nod, sliding your arms through the thick woolen sleeves gone soft and shapeless with age. “You can’t have rabbit stew without potatoes. It ruins the whole dish— I’d think you’d know that, as a pretty little lord and all.”
He perks slightly at the mention of it — of food, and of the thought that some other man must surely live here to have killed and skinned the meat for your stew.
“Where is your father?” he calls to your retreating form.
There’s a certain edge of command in his voice that tries to surface past the wavers of pain. He attempts to assert some Hightower authority in the walls of your home, despite being half-dressed and hunched over the edge of your bed and completely at your mercy.
“Or a husband, perhaps? Someone I can speak rationally with.”
“No father… No husband…” you sigh and tie the top of your coat, which is a size or three too big for you. “You can speak rationally to me, if you wish, though I fear your current hysterics might render conversation somewhat impossible… But I require no thanks for saving your life, to be sure.”
Your words carry a certain bite that pierces him straight through the chest; the devastating reminder of a debt he has not yet had any sense to acknowledge.
The door opens with a high-pitched creaking sound; the cool breeze that rushes in tells him that the day is ending rather than just beginning. You pause at the threshold, hand on the frame and hood half-raised
“If you’re going to leave, at least remember to shut the door behind you,” you tell him, detached but not totally unkind. “I don’t want the smell of supper bringing the animals down from the hill.”
The door screeches and clicks behind you, punctuating your leaving. The little house — smaller than his bathing chambers back in Oldtown — goes very quiet and very still with your absence. The eeriness unnerves a distant, boyish part of him that wishes most desperately for your return. The rest of him, however, wants nothing more than to be rid of this place entirely — from the strangeness of it and of you most of all.
Gwayne grits his teeth and hauls himself not-quite to full height. He’s doubled over and bracing his white-knuckled grip on the ancient wooden bedframe as he hobbles the short distance towards the door, fighting through the screaming ache shooting up and down his left leg. He makes it not even five steps before it gives out on him completely.
He crumples to the unforgiving ground in a graceless heap of limbs and injured pride, catching himself on instinct with the arm sporting the throbbing arrow wound going down.
He lies there, groaning and writhing and choking down cries of frustration with his cheek pressed to the cold floor. The sound of his ragged breaths fills the small, empty house as he watches the sunset dip low past the window, quietly waiting for the sound of the door to open — and for your presence to follow.
It opens at last; three minutes or three hours later. A silken breeze rushes in alongside you, as you enter with a basket of potatoes and other vegetables on your hip. You falter in the doorway at the sight of the man sprawled out on your floor, a crumpled puppet with all of its strings cut clean.
A strange, satisfied smile creeps across your face as you swipe your hood back with your free hand. “Well…” you croon lowly. “What do we have here?”
Gwayne lifts his heavy head. He looks up at you with watery blue eyes through the strands of wild auburn hair hanging over his brow. He loses every ounce of his composure in that moment, turning into a doe-eyed and pleading thing as his wet gaze peers at you from beneath his lashes.
“Please…” he rasps. “Help me…”
He doesn’t learn your name until the second day. He does not stand on his own until the fifth. And he does not bathe himself unaided until the seventh.
You do not coddle him for any of it. You clean his wounds and change his bandages twice daily, and scold him for flinching at the sting — telling him that he’d spent too many years being pampered by wetnurses and that was precisely why he healed so slowly. But, after that first week, he learned to walk the length of your small home without his leg buckling underneath him; though he still requires the cane you’d fashioned for him out of a stag’s antler if he plans on taking more than a step or two.
“Here. So you can stop looking like a newborn calf every time you cross the room,” you’d said when you gifted it to him. “It’s starting to get hard to watch, if I’m honest.”
He is, if he’s being entirely truthful with himself, entirely unused to being spoken to this way. The ladies of his acquaintance back in Oldtown — the soft, sweet-voiced daughters of high lords and ladies — would never have dared to call him hysterical to his face or handle his wounds with such unromantic efficiency. They never would have laughed, as you had, at the sight of him crumpled on the floor.
You’re nothing at all like the ladies he grew up with.
You swear like a dockhand; you name your goats like they're your kin; you wear your dead parents' old clothes without a trace of shame and speak of your own life with a bluntness that would scandalize every septa he'd grown up with. It should, perhaps, trouble him a great deal more than it does.
Gwayne knows he could’ve and likely should’ve left days ago. He suspects that you know it, too. Tumbleton was not far from here, you told him, and his kin held the fortress now — a real castle with a real maester to tend to him — rather than this strange, sharp-tongued woman with rough hands and a rougher sense of humor. But still, he does not go. He tells himself that it’s his leg; that the roads were surely not safe yet and that he’d be long in the dying should he cross Daemon’s army a second time.
So he stays, and he makes himself useful to you in the waiting, in whatever small ways he can manage. He could not do much, at first — he could not chop firewood or carry water; he could barely carry himself, in truth — but he could mend a fence while seated, and feed the farm animals while leaning on his cane, and shell the peas you bring in from the garden for supper.
Gwayne quickly discovers, to his own mortification, that he takes a strange satisfaction in it all. This was not a life meant for knights, certainly not one meant for a Hightower, but yet he can picture all the rest of his days playing out exactly like this — utterly unremarkable, but his just the same.
It has been three weeks since his arrival, give or take, and his days feel less like exile now and more like routine. He sits propped on the pillows after his bath, milky-white skin glimmering from your homemade oils, with nothing but a pair of borrowed trousers covering his lower half.
You sit on the edge of the bed beside him and redress the stubborn wound on his arm that refuses to heal — the worst of his injuries he came here with, Gwayne insists; a nerve-deep pain that he swears he can feel when he’s dreaming. But even still, weeks into the habit of tending to him, you are no gentler about it than you were that very first night.
“Ow—” Gwayne winces when you press too firmly against the wound. You catch his elbow before he can draw it away and urge it back into place with an unsentimental force.
“Stop squirming,” you scold and continue to dab the homemade, herb-flecked ointment onto the irritated skin.
“It hurts,” the man insists.
“It hurts because you’re squirming.”
Gwayne attempts to glare at you as you reach for the linen cloth on the table beside you. The playful frown softens with a soft smile despite himself. “Has anyone ever told you that your bedside manner is just extraordinary?”
“All the time…” you lilt back and slide the fabric around his arm, tying it off with one particularly harsh tug. “Usually right before they tell me that they're feeling much better and no longer require any of my help.”
“Well…” Gwayne croons, pale eyes glittering in the dancing candlelight. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you wanted me gone…”
You glance finally up at him from beneath your lashes, at the handsome knight sharing your house — with bright copper hair gone soft from his bath, and bright blue eyes a little too earnest for someone meant to be teasing — the kind of man that belonged in the fairytales you’d read as a child; not in your own home in your own bed.
Something in your sharp expression finally gives, like The Wall finally weeping after the first warm day of summer.
“You’re the prettiest thing I’ve seen in years, Ser Gwayne,” you hum lowly. “So if you haven’t realized by now that I’m keeping you hostage here, then I fear you haven’t been paying attention.”
A breathy laugh shakes his toned stomach, and the scar along his ribs no longer pulls to do so. He’s fairly certain that you’re jesting, but even still, he doesn’t think he’d care all that much if you weren’t.
“I find that…” he trails slowly off with a squinted look in his pale eyes, as if the realization were hitting him the moment the words fell from his mouth. His melodic voice carries a sort of airiness in it despite the soft confession. “That perhaps I wouldn’t mind it. Being your hostage… Staying here. With you… I don't think I'd mind that at all…”
“Well… That’s a very dangerous thing to say to a woman with nothing to lose, Ser Gwayne,” you murmur, propping your fists on either side of his waist as you lean in close to him — until he can smell the lavender soap on your skin and count the flecks of firelight in your gaze. “Your army has surely presumed you dead by now… No one will come looking for you here… So if you do not wish to be kept by me, the door is still open…”
Something in his chest flares hot at your words, at the thought of being kept by you.
“For how long?” he teases with an arched auburn brow, pink lips curling into a slow smile.
Your eyes flit away and back again. “…Roughly the next ten seconds.”
“Well…” he lilts as his hand lifts slowly from the blankets to cradle your jaw, urging you that much closer. “That seems like plenty of time.”
He leans off the pillow to press his mouth to yours. His nose smushes into the side of yours as his plush lips slot with your softer ones. Your tongue darts between them with little warning and a degree too eager, swiping against his like velvet on velvet. Gwayne exhales a heavy sigh through his nose at the taste of you — like supper and wine and something foreign that he chases with each languid kiss.
You kiss him long and slow, like biting into the sweet skin of an apple, and shift on the mattress to straddle his waist. Gwayne’s free hand shoves the quilt down his thighs to accommodate you upon them. Your fingers rest around his neck like a collar as you grind your hips over his, up his lap and down again. A groan rumbles like thunder in his throat.
His hands dart instantly for your waist, knotting his long fingers in the skirts pushed up to your thighs, as he pulls off of you with a quiet smack. “Don’t,” he hears himself plead.
“Why?” you pant, blinking back at him with heavy eyes.
“It’s been…” His adam’s apple bobs in his throat. “A long… long time.”
Your lips curl into a grin before your head ducks down again. Your mouth smears along his pulse in a sloppy kiss. “Three weeks isn’t so long, is it?”
A laugh sounds in his throat. You feel it rumbling against your mouth. “The war’s been going on for a lot longer than three weeks, my dear…”
“Don’t tell me Ser Gwayne hasn’t taken his fair share of whores on the road,” you quip against the milky white tendon of his neck.
He smiles with his nose in your hair. “Not many whores on the battlefield, I’m afraid…”
“Oh, you poor thing…” you croon as you pull slowly back from him, more gentle with him now than you were when he was half dead on your porch; though there’s still a playful air about you that he doesn’t yet miss. “No wonder you’ve been so uptight… You’ve just been looking for a little… release, haven’t you? Spit—”
Gwayne’s eyes widen as they flick between your expectant face and the hand you hold under his chin. Despite his obvious diffidence, he ducks his head and spits a glob of saliva onto your palm — and watches with held breath as your fingers dip under the hem of his trousers. They wrap around his cock, laying half-soft on his thigh, and use his spit to work him the rest of the way hard. He feels like heavy velvet in your fist.
His dizzy head tips back against the wall with a quiet thud. Your quiet giggling melts with his pleasured groan as he hardens slowly in your fist.
“I’ll bet you’ll cum the second I tell you to,” you laugh.
Gwayne nods slowly, adam’s apple moving in his long throat as he fights to keep his lidded eyes open. His breath catches in his chest when your thumb swipes over the sensitive tip of his cock.
“I’ll bet you’ll do anything I tell you to… Won’t you?”
Gwayne nods again, jerking in your fist at your words.
“Oh…” you huff a mixture of a contented sigh and a devilish laugh as you squeeze him harder in your fist. “I am going to have… so much fun with you, Ser Gwayne…”
He has little time to ponder the weight of your words when you shift on top of him again. You pull your fingers from his trousers and tuck the hem beneath his heavy balls. His eyes snap open to find you urging your dress skirts further up your thighs. He’s left mourning the warmth of your touch only for a moment, before your hand slides between your bodies once more to guide the drooling tip of his cock into your already weeping confines.
He’s long and slender — not nearly as thick as the butcher’s son in town who’s been tending to your needs for years, but an inch or three longer still — and made of meandering veins you can feel when you pierce yourself upon him. Your head tips back to exhale a moan at the ceiling, mouth curling into a lazy smile as you adjust to the length of him.
Gwayne chokes on a groan in his throat when your hips sit flush with his again, fingers clutching mercilessly at the plush of your thighs hard enough to etch bruises on the skin. The sound turns into a strangled whimper when you clench absentmindedly around him, warmer than velvet and drooling something fierce.
“I can’t…” the man whines, chiseled features twisting into a pained sort of look as he shifts his hips under your weight — trying to chase his pleasure and run away from it all at once. “I— I can’t— Seven fucking hells…”
You smile down at him when he tries and fails to get the words out. He misses the amusement flashing across your face with his eyes squeezed shut, hard enough to make white stars speckle behind the deep black of his eyelids. You clench around him again, just to hear him whimper for you again.
“Can’t what, my lord?” you coo to him, with a gentleness he didn’t think you were capable of before now. Your hands smooth up and around his neck until your fingers twist in the short auburn tendrils at the very nape of it. Chills erupt down the length of his spine in their wake.
“I don’t wanna cum yet,” he protests through gritted teeth. “’S too soon—”
“But I want you to cum,” you tell him, and punctuate your command with a calculated roll of your hips. You tighten around him once more when your clit brushes the coarse, dark-auburn hair above his cock. You swallow his subsequent groan in a sloppy kiss, more tongue than mouth, and run the tip of your nose along the bridge of his after. “And then… after I’ve milked your cock—”
“Fuck…” he swears, though it comes out more like a sob.
“—I’ll let you clean me up with your mouth,” you continue.
A moan tears through his throat at the thought — of pressing his mouth to your cunt until his nose is smushed against your clit, of lapping at the mixture of pleasure leaking out of you like honey, of your hands in his hair pushing him further into your pussy. He bursts at the thought, losing himself completely as he draws you into his bare chest with two strong arms wound up and around your back.
Gwayne hides his flushed face in your neck as he hugs you against him, meeting your thrusts with weaker ones of his own. He buries each of his pitiful moans into your pulsepoint while his cock jerks wildly within your unforgiving confines— spitting ropes of warm cum that your clenching cunt milks from him.
“I’m sorry,” he hears himself say as he shudders just against you. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry… Seven hells— I’m sorry…”
You pet at his wild hair as he comes down from his high, whispering murmurs of praise in his ear as the pleasure ebbs from his trembling body. “There you go… Good boy… That’s it— Give me all of it…”
Gwayne pulls his face from your neck once he’s fully spent. His trembling hands reach for your face again, cupping your cheeks between his calloused palms to meet your eyes with his wide, wet, and pleading ones. “I’m sorry,” he whispers again. “Let me make you feel good— I want to make you feel good.”
“I know,” you coo to him, almost sympathetically so. “On your back.”
Gwayne’s auburn brows knit softly together, but his body obeys like it was designed to submit to you. You remain straddled against him as he descends back onto the pillows. He watches down the bridge of his nose as your hands smooth up his milky white torso — past the fine trail of hair on his lean stomach, over the healed scar on his ribs, and towards his heaving chest.
Your eyes stay locked with his heavy ones as you shift your weight above him, inching up up up. You cage your bottom lip between your teeth as you reach for the hem of your skirt. You drag the heavy fabric of your dress up and over your head. Gwayne has little time to admire your bare body before you’re straddling your knees on either side of his face. His mouth waters instantly at the sight of your glittering pussy as it descends over his mouth — he curls his arms around your thighs to pull you further in.
He groans when the taste of you hits his tongue — a sweet-salty mixture of your combined pleasures — and you feel the vibrations of the sound from your cunt to the top of your spine. You keep one hand braced on the wooden headboard and your other woven through his silken auburn locks, guiding his mouth along your cunt.
“Yes…” you sigh when his mouth meets your clit. “Right there…”
Gwayne moans again at your praise and does everything in his power to make you give it to him again. He focuses on the bundle of nerves — lapping his tongue against it and suckling it between his lips. You make a noise for him he’s never heard before, a high-pitched cry that swells across the quiet room. “Keep going,” he hears you whimper when his mouth wraps around your clit. “Fuck yes, keep going like that—”
Your fingers twist hard in his hair as your hips grind down over his tongue. He moans when you give the strands an especially harsh tongue, and the sound makes you tremble on top of him. You cum for him with a strangled cry, and Gwayne sighs through his nose when a mixture of his cum and yours drops onto the velvety pad of his tongue.
He laps at every ounce of it with an eagerness that you can hear, a chorus of panted breaths and muffled suckling sounds.
He doesn’t stop until you’re shoving him away by the crown of his head.
You exhale a heavy breath and sit back on your haunches, resting your ass over his chest and propping your weight along his ribs. Your heavy eyes rake over his face — cheeks flushed red, pale eyes glassy with desire, pink lips swollen, chin glittering with your cum, hair wild from the pillow and your fingers alike. An angel carved from in.
A lazy smile tugs at the corners of your mouth as you shake your heavy head down at him. “You’re not going anywhere, Ser Gwayne… You understand that, right?”
“Gwayne,” he corrects, glittering lips curling upward. “Not ser.”
“You’re not going anywhere… Gwayne.”
“I’m glad to hear it, in truth…” he confesses on an exhaled breath. “I was starting to like it here anyway…”
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 18+ mdni. friends to lovers, aphrodisiac/honey packets, explicit sexual content, mutual sexual tension, dirty talk, oral (f receiving), fingering, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, switch dynamics, light hair pulling, biting, neck holding, creampie, brief mentions of squirting, aggressive sex, topper thornton being an accidental matchmaker.
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: topper swears the honey packets work, you swear they’re bullshit, and rafe decides there’s only one way to prove him wrong. unfortunately, the honey has other plans.
𝐚/𝐧: this is equal parts friends-to-lovers, “we’re definitely not into each other” denial, and absolute stupidity. everyone is an adult. please read the warnings before continuing. i kept editing and fixing and changing this. after a while it was turning into that series of events where you take a selfie and keep looking at it until you hate it LOL so i kinda gave up. hopefully it makes sense and hopefully you guys like it anyway :) ♡
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 5.7k
you're on rafe's bed scrolling through your phone when he walks in with that stupid smirk, holding something between his fingers.
"what," you say without looking up.
"so... topper gave me these." the mattress dips as rafe sits, his weight pulling you slightly toward him. you glance up and see the tiny golden honey packets catch the light as he turns them between his fingers.
you actually laugh. "oh my god, rafe. are you serious?" you sit up straighter, grinning at him. "those don't even work. you know that right?"
"nah, i mean—"
"it's honey... it's literally just honey in some fancy ass packet. topper probably paid like thirty bucks for two dollars worth of honey because some instagram ad told him it would turn him into a porn star." you're fully laughing now, years of giving each other shit making this easy. you reach out and flick one of the packets in his hand. "you actually believe that shit?"
"listen—" rafe tries, but there's that smile tugging at his mouth because he knows you're gonna dog him for this. he shifts closer, his knee bumping against your leg.
"no, seriously, i need to know how much money topper wasted on honey packets." you push at his shoulder, invested in roasting him. "remember those gas station dick pills he got last summer?"
"alright, alright—" rafe's laughing too, shaking his head, catching your hand before you can push him again. his fingers wrap around your wrist for just a second before letting go. "you're not wrong."
"i'm never wrong about topper being an idiot." you settle back against his pillows, satisfied, tucking your legs underneath you. "remember when he tried to convince us that eating raw garlic would make him better at golf? and then his breath just smelled like shit the whole time?"
"yeah, and you kicked him out of the car," rafe says, grinning, leaning back on one hand so he's angled toward you.
"because he made it smell so fucking bad. and you know what— now you're an idiot too for even believing this."
"yeah, but—" rafe pauses, something shifting in his eyes. he leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees, the packets still dangling from his fingers. "i mean... c'mon. if it doesn't work, then nothin' happens, right? like literally nothin'. we'd just be sittin' here exactly like we are now."
you narrow your eyes at him. "that's your argument?"
"i'm just sayin'..." he shrugs, still holding up one of the packets, close enough now that you can see the gold foil catching the light. "if it's bullshit... then it's bullshit and we laugh about how dumb topper is. but if it's not..." he trails off, that smirk getting wider as he tilts his head.
"it is bullshit."
"probably," rafe agrees, way too casual, shifting his weight so he's sitting fully on the bed now, one leg bent, facing you. "but... what's the actual harm? you gonna tell me you're scared of honey?"
"i'm not scared of honey, i'm just not gonna waste my time on some stupid—"
"so then try it. humor me," his voice is smooth and logical, like he's not actively trying to peer pressure you into this. he holds one of the packets out toward you, close enough that you'd only have to reach a few inches to take it. "seriously. worst case scenario? nothin' happens and you get to say 'i told you so' for the rest of the night. and you love that shit."
and you hate that he's right. you hate that that actually makes sense, because if it doesn't work then literally nothing happens. it's just honey. and you do love being right.
"this is so fucking dumb," you mutter, but you're already grinning because this is exactly the kind of stupid shit you two always end up doing together. you reach out and snatch the packet from his hand.
"yeah, probably." rafe's already tearing open a packet, squeezing the honey into his mouth like it's nothing. he swallows, then looks at you with this expectant expression, leaning in slightly. "c'monnn. prove me wrong."
"i will." you tear open your packet, very aware of how close he is, how he's watching you. the honey is sweet on your tongue, sticky as you swallow it down and look at him. "it's not gonna work."
"we'll see," rafe says, settling back against the headboard next to you, his arm brushing yours as he gets comfortable, but his eyes are still on you.
"yeah, we will," you say, going back to your phone. "and when nothing happens, you're buying me food for a week as an apology for wasting my time."
"deal," rafe says, and there's something in his voice that makes you think he's not worried about losing that bet at all.
twenty minutes later the heat starts low in your belly and spreads outward until your skin feels too tight and every nerve ending is awake. you shift and the seam of your shorts catches against you in a way that makes your breath hitch—suddenly you're aware of how wet you're getting, the fabric sticking to you, and every tiny movement makes it worse.
your thighs press together without you meaning to and the pressure sends a pulse of need straight through your core that's so intense you have to bite the inside of your cheek. you try to focus on your phone but the words blur together and all you can think about is the throbbing between your legs, the way your pussy is clenching around nothing, how the cotton of your shirt feels too rough against your nipples.
"you good?"
your phone nearly slips from your hands when he speaks and for a second you can't catch your breath.
"yeah, i'm fine." but your voice sounds all wrong—strained and slightly pitched up in a way that gives you away immediately.
he's silent for a moment but you can feel him looking and it makes your skin prickle with awareness, makes the heat worse.
"you sure?" there's amusement threading through his voice now, low and knowing. "i could've sworn you said it was bullshit."
"it is." you try to sound convincing but you're pressing your thighs together again and you know he can see it, can probably see the flush spreading down your neck. "it's definitely not working."
"yeah? then why are you squirmin' like that?"
your entire body goes rigid.
"i'm not squirming."
"you keep pressin' your legs together..."
"oh my god, shutupshutupshutup."
then his hand lands on your thigh and the touch burns through the thin fabric of your shorts, making your breath catch immediately, and you realize you're in trouble because just that simple contact makes you want to spread your legs and beg.
"relax, alright?" his thumb strokes back and forth and each pass makes the ache between your legs worse, makes you wetter. "just checkin' somethin'."
"checking what?"
"how full of shit you are."
his hand slides higher and your pussy throbs so hard you gasp—you can't help it, can't control the way your body responds to him. he stops with his palm resting on your inner thigh, his fingers so close to where you're dripping that you want to grab his wrist and shove his hand where you need it.
"rafe—"
"whattt," he mutters, all innocence, but you can hear the smugness underneath. "thought it wasn't workin'."
"it's not." but you're shaking and your voice is barely there.
his thumb strokes your inner thigh again and you feel his breath against your ear, warm and close. "but you're breathin' all hard..." his fingers brush the edge of your shorts and you can't stop the whimper that escapes because you need more, need him to touch you properly or you're going to lose your mind.
"shut up."
his fingers trace the hem and it feels like you're going to die if he doesn't touch you properly, if he keeps teasing like this. "you want me to stop?"
"no." it comes out immediately and you want to take it back but then his hand slides up and cups you through your shorts and the pressure makes your hips jerk forward into his palm without permission.
"jesus—you're fuckin' drenched."
you are—you can feel how wet you are, how the fabric is clinging to you, and when he presses harder you feel the slickness spread and it should embarrass you but all you can think about is getting his hand closer.
then he's yanking you toward him and suddenly you're straddling his lap and his cock is right there beneath you, thick and hard and pressing up against your pussy through too many layers of fabric. you grind down without thinking and the friction makes you gasp because it's not enough but it's something.
his hands grip your hips and guide you to move against him again and the drag of his cock against your clit through your shorts makes your head fall back, makes you chase that pressure desperately.
"look at you." his voice is strained, rougher than before. "still waitin' for you to admit it was legit."
"shut up." you grind against him harder, chasing the pressure, and his fingers dig into your hips hard enough to bruise but you don't care because you need more.
his hand slides up your back into your hair and tugs and the sharp pull makes you gasp. his other hand moves between your bodies and presses against you through your shorts and you're so sensitive that even that makes you whimper, makes your hips roll forward seeking more contact.
"please..." you hear yourself say it and you don't even care anymore.
"please what?" he's enjoying this but his voice is rough, barely controlled. "what d'you want?"
"please touch me."
he pulls your shirt off and then your shorts and suddenly the air hits your wet pussy and you're exposed and aching and vulnerable. his hand slides between your legs and his fingers stroke through your folds and you shudder at the contact, at finally feeling his skin against you.
"jesus—" his voice cracks and you look down to see him staring between your legs like he's never seen anything like it. "you're fuckin' drenched."
his fingers run through the wetness and when he pulls his hand back you can see how they're coated, strings of it connecting his fingers to you, and he stares at it like he's mesmerized. the sight makes you clench around nothing, makes you need him inside you.
"look at this mess—" then his fingers find your clit and you stop breathing because the pressure is perfect and you're grinding into his hand desperately, chasing the sensation.
you're making these sounds you can't control—gasping and moaning—and you don't even care anymore because his fingers feel so good and you're so close already.
"there you go." his other hand is palming himself through his sweatpants and you can see how hard he is, can see the outline of his cock straining against the fabric. "listen to yourself—"
then his fingers slow down and barely touch you and you whine at the loss, at the sudden absence of pressure.
"what was that thing you said?" his voice is rough and his hips jerk forward into his own hand like he can't help it. "about instagram ads?"
"rafe please—"
his fingers push inside you—two at once—and you clench around them immediately, your pussy trying to pull them deeper because you need more. he curls them and presses against that spot and your entire body jerks forward, a sharp cry tearing out of you.
"shit—you're so tight—" his hand is shaking where he's gripping your hip and you can feel how affected he is, how much he wants this.
he does it again and you cry out, your nails digging into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks. his thumb finds your clit while his fingers work inside you and you can't help but moan at the combination, at how good it feels to finally have him touching you like this.
"you want more?"
"ohmy—pleaseyes—"
"c'mon, ask me nice."
"pleaseplease i need more—"
"yeah? need what?"
"your mouth." it comes out desperate and broken. "need your mouth on me."
he groans and the sound is all raw and broken like just hearing you say the words is fueling him, like he's been waiting to hear it. he pulls his fingers out and brings them to his mouth and sucks them clean and watching his eyes roll back makes something flip in your stomach because he looks needy for it already.
then he's pushing you down onto your back and the sheets are cool for half a second before his hands are spreading your thighs wide and his mouth is on you and—
your back arches off the bed before you can stop it. a sharp gasp tears out of you and your hands fly to his hair, gripping tight because you need something to hold onto. the groan he makes vibrates straight through your clit and you whimper, your hips bucking up involuntarily.
his tongue pushes inside you and you weren't expecting that—weren't expecting the wet heat of it or how deep he'd go or the obscene sound it makes when he does. your hips jerk up and he groans again, louder this time, like he's the one being overwhelmed.
you look down and oh god—
his face is buried between your legs, his jaw working as his tongue moves inside you, and his chin is already shiny and dripping with you. when his eyes flick up to meet yours there's something feral in them, something you've never seen before. this isn't calm, collected rafe who always has a smirk and a comeback ready. this is rafe completely undone, his pupils blown so wide his eyes look black, his mouth slack and wet and desperate as he stares at you like he's starving.
but that's not what makes you forget how to breathe.
his other hand is palming himself through his sweatpants, his hips grinding forward into his own hand in these short, desperate thrusts, and you can see the outline of his cock straining against the fabric—thick and hard and so obvious it's obscene. there's already a wet spot forming where he's leaking through and you can't stop staring, can't stop noticing how his shoulders are trembling, how his free hand is gripping your thigh so hard you know there'll be bruises, how his breathing is ragged and uneven against your pussy.
rafe was always so controlled, always the one with the upper hand, the one who stayed calm no matter what. but right now he looks frantic, completely gone, and it's because of you.
you want to touch him, want to wrap your hand around his cock and feel the weight of him and taste him and watch him fall apart under your mouth the way you're falling apart under his.
then his tongue drags up through your folds so slow like he's savoring the taste and the thought dissolves into nothing.
"oh—" you gasp and your hips buck up, seeking more. "oh god—"
he does it again—licks you from your entrance all the way up to your clit and then circles it with his tongue, teasing—and you whimper. your hands tighten in his hair and you pull him closer without meaning to and he groans like that's exactly what he wanted, like he needs you to use him.
"you taste—" he pulls back just enough to breathe and his voice is completely shot, wrecked in a way you've never heard before. his hand is still working himself, his hips still jerking forward. "so fuckin' good—"
then his mouth is back on you and his fingers push inside—two, then three—and the stretch makes you cry out because he's not gentle, he's messy and desperate, his tongue lapping at your clit while his fingers curl inside you. the wet sounds should embarrass you but you're too far gone to care, too focused on the way he's devouring you.
"listen to that—" his voice is muffled against you and you can feel his lips moving, can feel the vibration. "so fuckin' messy—"
his hand is still working himself and his hips are still grinding forward and you can see how badly he's shaking, can see his jaw tighten and his eyes squeeze shut for a second like he's trying to hold himself together. when they open again and lock on yours they're needy and pleading and desperate.
he's looking at you like he's memorizing you—his gaze drags up from where his mouth is on you, over your stomach, your tits, your mouth. he's staring at your face like he needs to see every reaction, every gasp, every time your eyes flutter closed, and the intensity of it makes your breath catch.
"rafe—" your voice breaks and you can barely get the words out. "oh my god—"
he pulls back just enough to breathe and his chin is dripping, his lips swollen and shiny and his pupils are so blown you can barely see the blue. "y'gonna cum for me?"
then his mouth seals around your clit and sucks hard and his fingers curl inside you and press against that spot and everything goes white.
"yes—fuck—yes—"
it hits you and your entire body convulses, your hands gripping his hair so tight it has to hurt but you're pulling him closer as your hips buck up against his face. you're sobbing his name and he doesn't pull away—he keeps his mouth on you through all of it, drawing it out, groaning against you like he can't get enough, his hips still grinding into his hand like watching you come is almost enough to make him lose it too.
when he finally pulls back his face is a mess—his chin is shiny and dripping, his lips swollen and red. his hand leaves his cock and you can see how hard he is, the outline obscene against his sweatpants, a wet spot spreading where he's leaking, and suddenly you need to taste him, need to make him fall apart the way he just made you fall apart.
"my turn."
you're pushing him before he can react and he's so surprised he lets you flip him onto his back, his eyes going wide as you move down his body, your hands already reaching for his sweatpants.
"wait—"
"shut up." you yank his sweatpants down and his cock springs free and jesus christ—it's thick and flushed dark, curving up toward his stomach, pre-cum dripping steadily from the slit. you watch it drip down his shaft and your mouth waters because you need to taste him.
"fuck—" his voice cracks when your hand wraps around him and he's so hard, so hot in your palm, and when you stroke up his entire body jerks like he's been electrocuted. "oh fuck—"
you lean down and lick the pre-cum from his tip and the taste of him—salty and clean and him—makes you moan. his hips buck up and he whimpers, the sound high and broken.
"shit—wait—i can't—"
"yeah you can." you lick up his shaft, following the trail of pre-cum, and his hands fly to the sheets and grip tight, his knuckles going white.
you wrap your lips around the head and suck and the sound he makes is this half moan, half growl that goes straight between your legs. you take him deeper, hollowing your cheeks, and his cock throbs on your tongue, leaking more pre-cum.
"shit—" his voice is wrecked, barely recognizable. "fuckin' love your mouth—"
you pull off with a wet pop and stroke him with your hand, watching more pre-cum leak from the tip, watching the way his abs flex and his hips jerk up seeking more. "god, you're so easy."
"yeah? so fuckin' what."
you take him deep again, as far as you can, and his hips thrust up involuntarily, pushing him deeper. you gag slightly but don't pull off, just relax your throat and take him deeper, and his hands fly to your hair.
"fuck—sorry—i'm sorry—" but he's not pulling you off, his fingers are tangling in your hair and holding you there and you moan around him because you want this, want him to lose control.
you pull off, spit connecting your lips to his cock, and pump him with your hand—fast and tight and slick. you take him deep again and this time when his hips thrust up you meet him, taking him into your throat. the groan he makes is almost anguished, desperate and raw, and you set a rhythm, bobbing your head, taking him as deep as you can while his hips start moving, fucking up into your mouth in shallow thrusts.
"oh fuck—oh fuck—" his voice is breaking, cracking on every word.
but then his hands are pulling you off and he's gasping, his chest heaving. "fuck—wait—i'm gonna—"
"that's the point."
"no—" he's pulling you up his body and his hands are shaking, trembling as they grip you. "not yet—need to fuck you."
his cock is pressed between your bodies, hot and slick and throbbing, and you can feel more pre-cum leaking onto your stomach. you grind against him and he groans, the sound pained.
"god—" you reach between your bodies and wrap your hand around him and stroke, feeling how hard he is, how much he's leaking. "you're shaking."
"yeah—" his voice breaks and his hips jerk up into your hand. "yeah i'm fuckin' shakin'—you have no idea—"
you position him at your entrance and sink down slowly and the stretch makes you both moan because he's so thick, filling you so completely, and from this angle he's so deep you can feel him everywhere.
"oh fuck—" his hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise and his entire body is trembling beneath you. "oh fuck you're tight—so. fuckin'. wet—"
you start moving and the slide of him inside you is perfect—you can feel every ridge, every vein, the way he throbs when you clench around him. you brace your hands on his chest and his heart is slamming against your palms, fast and erratic and out of control.
"look at you," you manage, even though you can barely breathe. "thought you were gonna be in control."
he thrusts up hard and the argument dies in your throat, replaced by a gasp.
"yeah?" his voice is strained, barely there. "you were sayin'?"
but you can see the flush spreading down his neck, the way his shoulders are tensed like he's holding himself back, and you know he's just as ruined as you are.
you ride him harder, faster, chasing the feeling building in your core. the wet sounds are so fucking obscene—slap slap slap, squelch squelch squelch—and you can feel your arousal dripping down his shaft, coating his balls, making everything slick and messy.
"fuckkkk—" he's watching where you're joined and his voice breaks, his jaw completely slack as he stares. you grind down in a circle and he whimpers, the sound all high and broken. "topper's never gonna believe this shit." he laughs—breathless and broken—and you feel it vibrate through his chest.
"are you seriously thinking about topper right now?"
"tryin' not to." you clench around him and watch his head tip back, his throat exposed, a groan tearing out of him that sounds almost pained. "but shit—you owe him a fuckin' thank you card."
the angle drives him so deep you feel it in your stomach and suddenly you're not thinking about topper anymore—you're thinking about the drag of his cock inside you, the wet sounds that match your rhythm, how his fingers are digging into your hips hard enough to leave purple marks.
his hand slides between your bodies and finds your clit and the pressure makes your movements stutter, makes you lose your rhythm because you can't focus on anything except the fullness of him stretching you and the tight heat building low in your belly.
"oh my god—"
"there you go." he mutters, voice all low and shaky, and you can see sweat dripping down his temples, can see his abs flexing with every thrust up into you. "'s what i wanna see."
you grind down and take him deeper and his hips jerk up to meet you and you're both slick with sweat now, your bodies sliding together. you can feel the heat radiating off him, can feel his other hand find your breast and squeeze, his palm damp against your skin.
"so full—" you gasp it out because you can barely form words. "can feel you everywhere—"
"yeah?" he thrusts up harder and you watch his biceps flex as he grips you tighter, watch the way his muscles coil. "y'like feelin' how deep i am?"
"yes—fuck yes—"
you roll your hips and he whimpers and you realize you're the one making him sound like that, you're the one unraveling him. his composure is completely gone—he's gripping you like he's drowning, his fingers digging in, and there's something raw in the way he's looking at you. pupils blown wide, mouth hanging open.
"you're so fuckin' tight." his hands grip your ass now and his fingers dig in hard enough to bruise, hard enough to sting. "you keep squeezin' me like that and i'm gonna—gonna cum."
"already?"
"shut up—you're the one who's—look at you—you can barely—" his voice breaks when you clench around him again and his jaw goes slack, his eyes rolling back. he's right though—you're gasping and your movements are getting frantic and his fingers find your clit again and suddenly you're close, so close you can feel it building.
"rafe—" your voice breaks and you can barely get his name out. "i'm gonna—"
"yeah?" his hips are bucking up desperately now and you can feel him throbbing inside you, can feel how close he is too. "do it—wanna feel you—need to feel it—"
his fingers work your clit in tight circles and you come so hard you're seeing stars, clenching around him in waves, your body convulsing as his hips buck up against you, prolonging it.
you're still moving, still riding him through it because you can't stop, and he's falling apart beneath you—his grip on you tightening, his breathing ragged. then his hands are gripping your hips hard and he's flipping you and you barely process the change before you're on your stomach and he's entering you from behind in one brutal thrust that makes you scream into the sheets.
"fuck—"
his arm hooks around your neck and he's pulling you back against his chest, fucking into you so hard you can barely think, can barely breathe. his forearm is solid against your throat, the weight of it holding you exactly where he wants you, and his other hand finds your clit and rubs tight circles. you're squirming against him, trying to escape the intensity but he's holding you so tight you can hardly move.
the sounds are so nasty—the wet slapping, the squelch with every thrust, your moans and his grunts mixing together.
"rafe—" you're gasping, barely able to form words. "it's too much—"
his hips snap forward hard and you feel his teeth graze your shoulder before biting down, his fingers pressing harder on your clit. "nah—c'mon you can take it."
"fuck—pleasepleaseplease—"
his next thrust goes so deep you can't breathe and your body goes rigid for a second before your back arches involuntarily, your ass pressing back into him hard enough that he groans. the angle sends everything white-hot through you and your thighs clench.
"ah—ah—fuck—" the sounds punch out of you with every thrust and you can't stop them. he sounds so fucking good right now. the way he's rutting into you like he's been wanting to do this, like he's finally letting himself have you, makes you even wetter.
"every. last. inch." his voice is low and rough in your ear. "just like this—"
"that's it—" his arm flexes around your neck and pulls you tighter against his chest. you can feel his collarbone digging into your shoulder blade, the solid heat of him pressed against every inch of your back. "fuck yourself back on my cock."
you do it without thinking, meeting his thrusts, and the angle makes him go even deeper. "oh god—fuck—you're so fucking deep—" your thighs are shaking.
"you like this?" his breath is hot against your ear and his voice is wrecked, barely controlled. "like me fuckin' you like this?"
"yesyesyes—" it comes out broken between thrusts.
"yeah?" he thrusts harder and you can hear how wet you are with every movement, can hear the obscene squelch. "listen to that—so fuckin' messy—drippin' all over me—"
your nails dig into his forearm and you feel the flex of muscle beneath your fingers, the way his tendons shift with every movement. his hips slow and grind deep instead of thrusting and you feel every inch of him, the pressure maddening, his cock dragging against that spongy spot inside you with every slow roll of his body.
"tell me i was right." his voice drops lower, more guttural, and his rhythm falters before he regains control and fucks into you with renewed desperation. you can feel the tension in his shoulders, the way his whole body is coiled tight.
"i—" you sob it and tears stream down your face because it's too much, because you can't think. "fuck—"
"say it." his hips slam forward hard enough to push you into the mattress. "say it. need to hear you say it."
"i was wrong—" you sob it out, your voice breaking. "okay? i was wrong—"
"that's not what i said." his arm flexes around your throat and his hips grind deep, so deep you feel it everywhere. "tell me i was right."
"god—fuck, you were right." you're clenching around him with every thrust, your body betraying you. "you were right about everything—"
"yeah i fuckin' was—" he groans against your neck and his control finally cracks, his hips snapping forward brutally now, chasing his release, his rhythm completely gone. you feel his arm tighten around your neck as he pulls you back onto him with each thrust and the angle shifts and suddenly he's hitting so deep you see stars. "you gonna remember that? gonna remember how good i fuck you?"
"yes—yes i'll remember—i'll never—forget it."
and just like that you're coming again, clenching around him so tight it's almost painful, gushing around him and soaking everything. and even still he's fucking you through it, his arm around your neck holding you in place.
"keep fuckin' takin' it—"
"i'm taking it—" you sob, tears streaming down your face. "fuck i'm taking it—"
his rhythm is erratic now and desperate and you can feel him getting harder inside you, the way his cock swells right before he comes, and you want it, need to feel him come inside you.
"wanna feel you—wanna feel you come inside me—"
then he's pulling out suddenly and flipping you again and you're on your back and he's on top and he's slamming back inside in one brutal thrust that makes you both cry out.
"look at me." his hand grips your jaw and forces you to meet his eyes and there's something desperate in them, something that feels vulnerable and unlike anything you've ever seen on his face. your heart clenches at the sight of it and you don't look away, not for a second. "need to see you."
he's pushing deep, deeper than before, and you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer.
"fuck—" his voice breaks and cracks. "fuck i'm gonna—i'm—"
then he's spilling inside you, his entire body locking up. you feel it—the first pulse of his cock, then another, then another. the heat of his cum flooding inside you, filling you, and it's so much. he's groaning your name against your neck—a sound that's almost anguished—and you can feel every pulse as he empties himself inside you, his hips jerking forward with each spasm like he can't help it, like his body is trying to get deeper even though there's nowhere left to go.
the sensation triggers something in you and suddenly you're coming again, clenching around him, milking him, taking every drop. you're sobbing as you come and rafe is holding you so tight, his arms wrapped around you, his fingers digging into your back.
you can feel his cum inside you, hot and thick, can feel it leaking out around his cock because there's so much. your pussy clenches again and he whimpers against your neck, the sound vulnerable and raw.
his movements slow and become gentle but you can still feel him throbbing inside you and the aftershocks running through both of you. his full weight settles on you and you can feel his heartbeat slamming against your chest—fast and erratic. sweat is cooling on your skin but inside you're still burning, still feeling the heat of him.
"je—" his voice is rough, barely there. "jesus fucking christ—"
he stops like there's something he was about to say and swallowed it. his face is buried in your neck and his arms are wrapped around you so tight you can barely breathe. you can feel his pulse against your collarbone where his throat presses into you.
you wonder what he was going to say.
you're both gasping for air and your legs are still wrapped around his waist, holding him close.
he's not pulling out—he's staying inside you and softening but still there, still connected. his full weight is pressing you into the bed and you can feel his cum leaking out around him, dripping down your thighs, making everything even messier. the sheets beneath you are soaked.
you can feel the honey packet still working through your system—the warmth that hasn't faded, the need is still there simmering under your skin.
you shift slightly and you feel him getting hard again almost immediately. he groans against your neck and the sound is surprised and almost pained.
"oh my god. already?"
your hips roll without meaning to and you feel him thickening inside you and he shudders, his arms tightening around you. you can feel the tension returning to his shoulders, the way his muscles coil.
"yeah."
you clench around his hardening cock and he makes this sound—half groan, half whimper.
he pulls back just enough to look at you and his hips press forward—a slow thrust that's all the way in that makes your breath catch. there's this look on his face, something softer than before like something changed between you. his hair is damp and sticking to his forehead and there's a flush spreading down his neck.
"told you."
but the teasing sounds different now—less about winning, more about something else. something you're not quite ready to admit yet.
you want to argue but he's grinding into you in slow circles that make your eyes flutter closed and your body is already desperate for more.
"oh fuck you."
but you're smiling. your legs wrap around his waist and pull him deeper and he laughs—soft and ragged—before his mouth finds yours.
he's kissing you—actually kissing you for the first time tonight. his lips are softer than you expected and he tastes like sweat and a little sweet from the honey. his tongue licks into your mouth, messy and urgent and perfect, the warmth of it making you melt into him. you're already grinding up into him and your hands are in his hair pulling him closer.
his hips start building a real rhythm again, slow at first but building, and you're so sensitive that every thrust makes you whimper into his mouth. his hand slides between your bodies, his fingers gently beginning to work your clit and you gasp into his mouth.
he pulls back just enough to look at you, his forehead pressed against yours, his voice low and rough.
"gonna fuck you all night."
𝐚/𝐧: i hope you guys like this one!! i'm ngl i'm kinda scared this one's gonna flop because i know people usually aren't as into the best friends to lovers trope as they are older!bf. i usually write things that have some kind of taboo element, and i really enjoy writing power imbalances and other weird shit like that, so this was definitely a step out of my comfort zone. i kept trying to figure out a best friends premise that didn't feel generic or boring, and i wanted to write a version of canon rafe that felt a little different without making him feel out of character. i hope you guys enjoy this version of him :) sometimes i like imagining season one rafe if he wasn't actively losing his shit lol.
No thoughts just ghost getting a text from a number he doesn't recognize, right?
He usually ignores them, has no interest in much of anything besides when he'll be sent back to base and what he'll eat the next day. But the words that only flick across his screen have him pausing, opening the text.
Unknown number: dad? Cam you pick me up(? My frriends dirched me and I feel weirf
And the thing is, ghost is no vigilante, hardly even a good person. But he knows too well what sort of situation this is. Has seen it, has played it, has been bystander to it. So he grabs his keys, checks his knife, texts back
You: where are you, kid?
He receives a location pin in return. Shit. Bad part of town for whoever this kid is to be in.
Ghost turns a thirty minute drive into a ten, though it doesn't feel fast enough. Rolls to a stop outside of some club, and spots you.
You, clearly more than drunk, supporting yourself against a fence while two men lean over you.
Ghost will make sure to call price about the bodies. Tried hard enough to make it look like a robbery gone wrong...the smashed in heads may prove that hard to believe. Whatever, not his problem, he's legally dead.
No, ghost is more concerned about you, blinking up at him without a hint of recognition "dad? ...m sorry."
"It's fine, kid," ghost grunts, pulls you by the hand until you can support yourself against him. "Let's get you someplace safe, yeah?"
In retrospect, putting the stranger who was definitely drugged alone in his bedroom without a note wasn't his brightest idea. Ghost doesn't exactly have a guest room, and having you sleep on what is functionally a concrete couch just seems cruel. So he spent the night covering up some impulsive decisions, then panicking when he realized he had no actual food in his apartment and running to the closest 24/7 shop.
Which is how he ends up dropping eight grocery bags on his apartment floor in the attempt to dodge a frying pan.
All credits to you, it leaves an extremely impressive hole in the wall. Lot of force for someone hungover and coming out of being drugged. You glare, wide-eyed, terrified and looking far younger than you had last night "who the hell are you?!"
Ghost, grunts, puts himself on the other side of the room, "I'm dad, apparently."
