—✩ hi! my name is ezra and my pronouns are she/they. im a 23 year old who writes for fun.
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✩— i typically write for f! or gn!readers. my works are angst or fluff. please read tags! and please, do not steal my works or copy them.
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—✩ ephemeral [mini series] ; jack abbot x reader
—✩ the soldier and his shadow [drabble] ; bucky barnes x reader
Your lives have always moved in parallel: close enough to touch, yet separated by an irreconcilable distance. Bucky is a prince and you are his sister's lady-in-waiting. But love ignores rank, and so does the kingdom's newest desire-inducing substance.
▸ PAIRING: Prince!Bucky Barnes x Lady-in-Waiting!Reader
▸ WARNINGS: NSFW 18+, dubcon because of sex pollen, so much yearning, slight hurt/comfort, public sex, porn with too much plot tbh, possessive!bucky, degradation, filthy talk that border on dubcon but know that she wants to be there as much as him, breeding kink, insecurities, both virgins, bucky is nasty and a lil mean under the influence, probably a lot of historical inaccuracies
▸ WORD COUNT: 16.1K
▸ A/N: "this will be a short pwp," i say, famous last words. thank you so much to @iamthatonefangirl and @barnesonly for organizing this collab. dedicated to @artficlly in honor of pursuit of jade episode 37 iykyk — i'm gifting you the sex pollen by the stream that we never got <3 hope you enjoy this baby of mine. if you do, please let me know your thoughts (even if they are incoherent) through reblogs, comments, and likes!!
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Princes James Buchanan Barnes has everything he could ever want. A palace fit for the king that he will eventually become. Mountains of jewels that shine brighter than the sun and all the stars combined. Bespoke dress uniforms made from the finest fabrics, adorned with elegant aiguillettes and medals of his valor in battles fought and won. Countless women and men alike throwing themselves at his feet for the opportunity of him even sparing them the briefest of glances.
But the only one he truly wants, the only person he truly wishes to hold, is the one thing he cannot have — and it’s you.
You’ve been destined to become Princess Becca’s helper since you were born. Your mother had served the family for two generations; you were born in the palace, raised in the hustle and bustle of the castle with all the live-in staff. You spent years refining your cooking skills in the kitchen that seemed to function twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, decades toiling away in the garden with the landscaper to take care of the queen’s prized roses, and occasionally sneaking into the palace library for a quick novel or two when your mother took her eyes off you.
It was a natural pathway for someone who wasn’t born to nobility yet was constantly surrounded by it.
Fortunately, growing up in this kingdom that is governed with kindness and compassion means that there are paths to advancement that you never anticipated, mainly becoming Becca’s lady-in-waiting. The two of you had been raised together, joint at the hip, to the point where you may not even distinguish which of you is the real princess. The king and queen had welcomed you as if you were one of their own.
Of course, you know that it’s far from the truth. Despite their accommodations and generosity, you’ve always known your place in society. There is a reason why Becca is the one covered in silver and gold, while you’re handstitching the holes in your clothes. She’s seated at a table for twelve with a wide array of dishes and pastries all created to her liking, while you join your fellow staff members for a family meal, cramped together in a table meant for half of you.
You’ve always drawn that line, regardless of how many times Becca tries to cross it.
“Come now, you must come with me to Viscountess Romanoff’s ball!” She huffs, stomping her feet as she always does when she does not get what she wants.
You let out a sigh and Becca’s face falls as she prepares herself for your disappointing response. “Princess—” she glares and you bite your tongue, “Becca, that is not my place.”
“Of course, it is! Many ladies-in-waiting go to these balls.”
“Ladies-in-waiting that were born into nobility,” you correct her with a look.
“It doesn’t matter. You’re my lady-in-waiting and I need you there to— to— fix my dress!”
You know it isn’t true — well, it is only true to the extent that Becca may become ridiculously inebriated and has to be stowed away before she can go as far as risk the royal family’s reputation, and you somehow have become the most reliable person for those circumstances.
However, there are many there that will surely keep her on her toes — literally, including her brother.
“Did you hear that? She needs you to fix her dress. You simply have to attend now.”
The interruption brings both of your attention to the door where Bucky is leaning against the doorway, a smirk curled on his lips. His eyes skip past Becca and land on you and — heaven almighty.
He drinks you in, you in your simple gown, yet his sapphire eyes warm all the same. They darken like the evening has arrived far too early and the moon is nowhere in sight. His smile dims slightly, if only for him to clamp down on the inappropriate sound that climbs up his throat.
Bucky has never been good at subtlety.
You drag your eyes away and back to the lady that you’re supposed to be waiting on. The lady who is currently huffing and puffing as she plops down on the sofa with a scowl. “Will you please convince her to come, Buck?”
He steps further into the room. The air is a little heavier, like his presence has sucked all the oxygen out of the space — but only for you. Your fingers twist quietly together in front of you as you force yourself to stand upright, force yourself to keep looking ahead when his arm brushes yours — an inappropriate proximity for a prince and a member of the staff.
Discreetly, you take one step to the side, just enough to put distance that allows you room to breathe, lest you risk Becca suspecting something transpiring between the two of you.
“You should come,” Bucky murmurs. His gaze is warm on your cheek. His blue eyes no doubt soft as they take you in.
You resist and instead address Becca. “That would be unacceptable, Pr— Becca. Please. The crown prince will be in attendance and the viscountess’ staff are more than capable. I’ve met many of them and you will be in good hands.”
“Well, the crown prince would appreciate his ability to drink the viscountess’ liquor supply for the night without worrying about whether his dear sister can control her alcohol,” Bucky chimes in, which earns a roll of the eyes from Becca.
“I can control my drinking, Bucky. Can you control your deviant desires in the presence of all the other women in the ton?”
Your heart skips a beat. A little nick in your chest to draw blood. You can practically hear the smile wipe off Bucky’s face, his face red as he grits his teeth. “You know that’s not true, sister dear. I’ve never once laid a hand on them.”
“Doesn’t mean you don’t try,” Becca shoots right back.
Another scratch, enough to peel back another layer to your bleeding heart.
It shouldn’t — doesn’t — matter. There has never been anything between you and Bucky. He is the crown prince and you were born to be a lady’s maid at best; it was only the queen’s philanthropy and Becca’s friendship that you were granted this promotion.
Bucky is meant to marry a princess from another kingdom, or at the least someone born to a proper, respectable family with titles.
Neither of which is you.
“Rebecca Marie Barnes.” Bucky’s voice is sharp; it slices through the air and straight towards Becca whose face goes cold the moment it lands.
Becca’s lips purse in annoyance. “I’m going to look for a dress for tonight.” Then she’s lifting her dress and stomping away.
You make a move to follow, only for Bucky to swiftly take your hand. You don’t turn. Bucky forces you to when he tugs you towards him, spinning you around so you land against his chest. You’re quick to flatten your palm on it to push yourself away, but instead, he catches your hand and presses it over his heart.
“It’s not true,” he murmurs. “I’ve never once shown any of them any interest.”
Don’t cry. You’d be a fool to cry over a prince. You steel your gaze as you look up at him. “It would be in your right to do so. A crown prince is meant to take a wife.”
Irritation flickers across his eyes. “There’s only one woman I wish to take as a wife but she seems to deny me that right at every turn. What say you to that?”
“A crown prince is meant to take a proper wife. One fit for the ton.”
“I don’t give a damn about the ton.”
“Bucky!” The chiding comes out on instinct, his name sliding on your tongue like water. Habit — one that you should’ve curbed a long time ago if it weren’t for the two of them always insisting that you call them by their names.
Bucky’s face thaws, mouth curving into a delighted smile. You try to extract yourself from his grasp again but fail to do so when he ducks his head, lips brushing the shell of your ear. A shiver snakes up your spine as he drags you closer to him. “I love when you say my name. I’d love it even more if you called me your husband.”
Your traitorous heart slams against your ribs. Foolish desires plague your very being. It’s been decades since you were first introduced to Bucky, ten years since you first defended Becca against Bucky’s teasing, and far too long since you first fell for the crown prince.
It’s not as if your feelings are not reciprocated; Bucky has made it clear from the start that he adores you dearly. Adores you in a way that is far from acceptable for a prince. But your mother has reminded you time and time again that, no matter how intimately acquainted you are with them, you will never be one of them.
And Bucky deserves a partner — an equal. Someone who can stand tall and proud beside him without the risk of gossip and mockery. You would only give him grief and he would certainly bore of you in the future once the thrill of the chase is done.
So you exert more effort this time to push him away. “Prince Barnes, I must ask you to maintain some semblance of decorum. If you’ll excuse me, I have to tend to the princess.” You do a small curtsy, ignoring the flash of pain in his eyes as you walk away.
This is how it’s supposed to be. This has always been your fate.
“You have to try this on. Please? For me?”
It begins as an innocent enough request. Becca was in the midst of selecting her gown for the evening and that meant that you were right by her side, providing her with the necessary words of affirmation for her to make a decision.
These are the most challenging questions that royalty have to deal with. Sometimes you dream of living such a comfortable life, pampered daily with the sweetest of treats and lavishing yourself with the praise of society. However, you know that things aren’t so simple. There are restrictions that come with being part of this family.
You saw firsthand how many classes Becca had to take as part of her education — in addition to the typical academic courses, she had to spend hours learning proper etiquette, how to sew, how to play a musical instrument, how to entertain and host a gathering. They had to prepare her for her future as a wife. While options are limited for women in society, they are practically a straight-line path for a princess who is not in line for the throne.
Her career, her future, her partner — everything is almost pre-destined.
One day, Becca will marry someone. While she dreams of a happily ever after, she also understands the political nature of matrimony. To maintain power, you have to seek power. She may not be here a few years from now when she’s officially married off to extend her father’s reign. Her parents have insisted that they would never force her to marry, but Becca has always had a strong sense of responsibility.
You both admire and hold sympathy for her.
Unfortunately, in this very moment, you would like to push her out of the carriage so you too could make your escape. Somehow, she has managed to rope you into going to the ball — in one of her dresses.
“This is completely inappropriate,” you hiss. “I should not be here.”
“I want you here.”
“Becca,” you exhale deeply, “if your parents knew about this.”
“It’s a masquerade ball! Nobody will know.”
“I’m coming with you! I fear that makes it quite obvious.”
“I’ll tell them you’re one of our very distant cousins — one from a land far, far away.”
You pinch your nose as the carriage rattles, the silk of your glove glides along your skin. Pulling your hand away, you can’t help but look at the delicate fabric on your skin.
When you first tried the clothes on, you could hardly believe your eyes. You didn’t even look like… you. Gone were your well-worn gowns. The tightness of the corset has you a little breathless, but the dress adorned with intricate sequins and embroidery sliding over your body like water. The silver shimmers underneath the moonlight that spills past the curtains of the carriage, white camellias sewn in a river down your shoulder to your waist.
You reach up to tuck your hair behind your ear, only for your fingers to brush over the diamond necklace that Becca has so thoughtfully loaned you. The gems catch light, winking at you as if they’re letting you in on a secret. Then your fingers catch on your mask, a combination of beads and lace trimming, the same flowers framing the corners of your eyes.
In all your life, you could never have even dared to dream of wearing such things. You never imagined that you would be swimming in such luxury.
If your mother could see you now, she would absolutely murder you. She would bury you six feet under before the royal guards could even get to you.
You know that neither the queen nor king would mind, but what would the rest of them think if they knew? What if they found out that you were no more than a girl born into somewhat fortunate circumstances? That your blood was redder than most of them. Common.
A hand lands atop yours. Becca peeks at you with a nervous smile. “Hey, it’ll be fun. You’ve never been to one of these. Please try to enjoy yourself. I promise that nobody will say a thing.”
“What if I stand out? What if they know that I don’t fit in with the rest of them?” You whisper.
Becca squeezes your hand. “If you stand out, it’s because you look far more beautiful than the rest of them. If you stand out, it’s because they are looking at you with envy. You could’ve easily been the diamond of the season.”
Warmth creeps up your neck as the carriage pulls to a stop. You can already hear the music filtering through the entrance; the sound mingles with the fast rhythm of your heartbeat in a symphony that echoes through your mind.
“Showtime,” she beams.
Now, as someone who has been directly involved in the planning, decorating, and organizing of the extravaganzas, you’ve seen your fair share of ridiculously opulent displays. The palace is, after all, renowned for hosting the grandest of balls, bringing together only the who’s who of society. The guest list is selective, both for security and exclusivity reasons. It is the most sought-after invitation of the season. So when you walk into the viscountess’ home, you didn’t think you would be impressed.
However, you have never been happier to be proven wrong. Every inch of this place has been meticulously swathed in a color scheme perfect for the summer. Florals in every shade of the sunset draped across banisters, hanging over the staircase leading down to the dance floor, and standing tall in structures that do not look humanly possible.
Butlers and maids dressed head to toe in fine fabrics float around the room carrying hors d'oeuvres that look more like miniature works of art. Macarons that match the colors of the flower arrangements, tarts with crusts that crumble perfectly on your tongue, bonbons in perfect spheres dusted in cocoa, and fruits plucked from the vines at their ripest, sweetest point.
The stars twinkle above you to complement the tiny candles that string across the railings to illuminate the room, only outshone by the chandeliers with flickering flames hanging above you. Guests in their Sunday bests drift around the room in excited chatter, spreading the newest gossip that will surely make the papers by morning.
Heads turn as you and Becca enter the room and, before you can duck behind her, she’s linking her arm through yours and pulling you forward into the crowd.
“Becca—”
“Breathe, this will be fun. Enjoy the treats and the wine. The viscountess has exceptional taste, she has gathered the best chefs in the kingdom in her kitchen. Mother simply adores visiting her for tea for the food alone.”
Becca walks through the room with the confidence of someone who owns it. Everyone knows her as the princess even hidden behind the mask, murmurs of awe rippling across the crowd. The men pay particularly close attention, eager to get hers. The women speak of her in resentful admiration.
Becca — the belle of the ball. You, her companion.
“They’re looking at you,” she giggles quietly in your ear.
“No, they’re looking at you, Princess.”
“I’ve been in enough of these rooms to know when people are looking at me. While some are focused on me, most of them are keeping a close eye on you.”
“Likely to see when they would have the opportunity to speak to you alone no doubt,” you mutter under your breath.
Becca frowns at you. “Must you be so cynical? You look absolutely stunning. If you gave the room a chance, you’d know how many of them are keen on dancing with you. In fact, why don’t we put it to a test?”
Right as you’re about to ask her what she means, Becca moves away from you, pretending to be drawn by the dessert that appears to be running away from her. Her name leaves your mouth but you don’t get very far when three men approach you. All of them impeccably dressed, all of them handsome — at least, from what you can see with the mask.
“My lady, would you grant me the honor of joining me for a dance?”
Your lips part in surprise, eyes darting around the room to search for the princess. Becca stands off in a corner, grinning proudly to herself as she nibbles on a cream puff. You bite down the urge to curse before politely turning to the men. “My apologies, I should be getting back to my companion. I can’t leave her for far too long.”
You take a step and one of them moves directly in your path. “I’m sure she’ll find the company of others just as pleasant. Please, you must grant each of us a dance. It would be a privilege for us.”
Although you’ve danced before, it’s mostly to help Becca with her training. You have no idea how these dances work during the balls — the coordination, the etiquette. Your heart begins to race as your throat closes in a panic.
“I can’t—”
“One. One song is all I ask.”
“Then mine next.”
“And then me.”
Your chest flares as you search around the room for Becca again but she is nowhere to be found. Your skin begins to burn as your survival instincts kick in. The last thing you need is for these men to notice and question how they’ve never seen you before at such events, and you would have to craft a convoluted fib that you would be forced to maintain.
Just as you are about to deny them again, a hand presses against the low of your back.
“My lady.”
The voice grounds you in a familiar presence. You look up to find Bucky — even through the mask, you’d know it was him. His favorite cologne clings to the threads of his jacket and his hair, thick and styled, is one you can practically feel on your fingertips. Those days spent by the riverbend, his head on your lap as you read him sonnets—
No. This is not the time to be sentimental.
“Your royal highness.” The men stumble over each other to greet him, their energy shifting to nervous jitters as they look amongst each other.
“I believe the point of the masks is anonymity,” he says smoothly. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind, I would like to invite this lovely lady to a dance.”
He doesn’t wait for your answer, he simply takes your hand and whisks you into the crowd. You don’t have time to think about the consequences of this, more relieved that you’ve escaped that sticky situation.
“Thank you,” you breathe out.
“I believe I should be thanking you for this dance,” he grins.
“How did you find me?”
“I could find you even if you were across the world, mon cher.” You roll your eyes and Bucky huffs a quiet laugh. “I don’t think you’re supposed to respond that way to the crown prince.”
“Perhaps if the crown prince didn’t use such predictably embarrassing lines.”
His lips curl again. “I noticed you the moment you walked into the room. Most beautiful woman tonight. Most beautiful woman I’ve ever known, in fact.”
“Haven’t you been taught that dishonesty is unbecoming on a man?” You snip back.
“You wound me,” he gives a little shake of his head, “Out of everyone, you know that you would be the last person I would attempt to bathe in false affirmations. I know you can see through those pretenses.”
“Then why try?”
“Oh ye of little faith. If you wanted praise from me, you could just say so—”
You balk, snapping back in surprise. “That was not my intention!”
Bucky squeezes your hand as he shifts you around the room. It is then that you realize he’s been guiding your movements all along, every one of your steps falling in line with the others around you. He’s always been a good dancer, far better than Becca who had resisted these lessons for the longest time.
“You look absolutely ravishing tonight,” he ducks his head to whisper in your ear. The smell of him infiltrates your senses, his warmth, the brush of his hair against your cheek. “Of course, you could’ve worn nothing at all and you would undoubtedly still be the most fetching person in this room.”
“If I wore nothing at all, then I’m sure I would fetch the eyes of everyone in this room,” you tease with a small quirk of your lips.
Bucky goes momentarily taut, stiff as he spins you and then pulls you in even closer. His hands tighten around you, like he’s fearful you would slip away at any moment. “Thank the heavens you opted for clothing today. I would rather not imagine anyone else seeing you in such a state. I’d have to dramatically increase this kingdom’s beheading rate. If I do that, what kingdom would I have left to rule?”
“Because you’d have to eliminate the witnesses to my humiliation of the royal family?”
“Because I have limited self-restraint when it comes to you.” You cock an eyebrow in question. “I would have to eliminate anyone who has ever seen you in such an intimate state. I’m a tad possessive you see, I’d rather be the only person alive who’s ever seen you in all of your raw beauty.”
Heat flushes along your skin, a sudden rise in temperature that rarely occurs at this time in the evening. “You’ve never seen me in such a state.”
“I would be the first and the last, my dear. I’ve never been very good at sharing.”
“I am not an object to own, your royal highness,” you bite out with a sour curl of your lips.
“You’re not,” Bucky murmurs softly, “but my heart belongs to you and I was hoping that yours to me — and your affection is the one thing I refuse to ration.”
You look up to meet his eyes. Earnest blue eyes that are far too honest for your liking. That gaze that’s dripping with the kind of affection he cannot counterfeit. Your movements nearly falter, your knees suddenly weak, but Bucky holds onto you even tighter.
“Bucky, I—”
Your gaze snags on the view behind him — a line of women watching the two of you, glowering green seeing your frame tucked against Bucky’s. Women who undoubtedly come from near and far in search of a notable husband to match or increase their standing in society. What better catch than a prince?
Instead of investing his time looking for a proper candidate for a wife, he is instead wasting these minutes with you. It’s been three songs, far from appropriate for two acquaintances, suspicious enough that you can hear the whispers of speculation begin to circulate the room. As the song comes to an end, you’re quick to curtsy in front of him.
“Thank you for the dance.”
You whirl around before he can say another word and disappear into the throng, leaving Bucky to be swarmed by women who are far better suited for him.
Becca stands by a corner, having watched all of this transpire. She’s barely paying any mind to the gentlemen suitors around her. When you come around to her, she’s immediately distancing herself and rushing towards you. Her gaze is eager, far too eager.
She’s had at least two drinks then.
“How was it? I saw you out there.”
“It was fine,” you mutter.
“You’ve only had one dance and it was with my brother. Methinks it’s time to expand your registry. How about the Duke? I hear he gets a little bit handsy and a little fun can do no harm.”
After your conversation with Bucky, you seriously doubt that. You would rather avoid this ball turning into a beheading festival tonight — or Bucky ruining his pristine reputation with society when he decides to do an execution in the middle of the dance floor.
Bucky is many things but he is not a liar. Whether he exaggerates is up for debate but that is not a theory you want to test tonight.
“Or shall we have a few more to drink in the meantime? Their champagne is quite lovely. I heard the viscountess had sourced all of the vintages from her favorite year.”
“Ladies.”
Speak of the devil. The two of you find yourselves in front of the viscountess. Even beneath the mask, her vibrant ruby hair is an easy identifier. She is cloaked in a glimmering black fabric with touches of red, breasts pushed up with the tight wrap aroung her waist. Spiders are stitched into her mask, crawling up the sides.
“Lady Romanoff,” Becca cheers, “what a lovely ball you’ve thrown. This is stunning, our chefs simply must learn from yours, otherwise I’d be tempted to sneak a few of those macarons up my sleeve before I leave.”
The viscountess laughs. “Princess, if you desire the macarons, I shall ensure that they are delivered to the palace by the morning. I believe your queen mother is also rather fond of the bonbons I source from France, I’ve already arranged for it to be sent tomorrow and I’ll make sure we include your macarons with that delivery.”
“You are most kind and gracious.”
Then she turns her eyes to you and you freeze. “And I do not believe we’ve met. Your name, dear?”
Your eyes flick to Becca momentarily before returning to her. You should lie. You should give her another name, but the viscountess has been known to be shrewdly intelligent. If you were caught in a fib, you would likely have your tongue cut out. There have been rumors of what she has done outside this kingdom, things that are far from proper; still, nobody has been brave enough to validate any of that gossip.
So you tell her your name.
“And I presume you are the princess’…” she trails off for a second and you go rigid once more, her gaze sharpens a fraction. “…cousin from far, far away?”
“Um, yes! She has decided to do an impromptu visit because she missed me so. I hope you don’t mind my bringing her, my lady.”
Lady Romanoff smiles like she knows — and you have a feeling she does. She simply doesn’t care. After all, she has always danced to her own tune, including how she’s wearing all black tonight that would be typically reserved for funerals.
“Not at all. I hope you enjoy your visit and my ball tonight. I would avoid Lord Smith, he’s in desperate search of a wife and may latch on to the one new face who appears unaware of the reputation of his temper.” Then she laughs.
“Fair advice, Lady Romanoff, thank you,” you murmur.
With one last squeeze of your arm, she brisks away from the two of you. As you follow her movements, you also spot Bucky as he makes his own escape with a few of the gentlemen you’ve seen come around the palace. He turns in time to catch your eye, his mouth curling into a smile as he winks at you from the distance, right as he disappears out the door.
“Now, shall we indulge in more treats?”
You’ve always been a quick study and there are three things that you now understand about the nature of these functions.
The first is to eat your fill — between the champagne and the specially mulled wines, intoxication is a friendly foe that rears its head far too fast. You have to learn to balance properly.
The second is that the marriage market appears dreary. None of the ladies are interested in the gentlemen, no matter how desperately they try. It appears that the women in the room aren’t too afraid of waiting a tad bit longer if it means they could find the one. This means that the gentlemen are far too preoccupied with harassing the help to keep themselves entertained, not that Lady Romanoff tolerates that behavior; she’s kicked out a number of them already.
Last but not least is that Becca is a social butterfly. While you’ve always been familiar with her friendly nature, seeing her out and about like this, crafting budding friendships with every single person in the room, you’re once again reminded of why the two of you were fast friends. Becca has always been more welcoming, conquering all five love languages on top of the three spoken and written ones that she’s already studying. However, following her around, you are also reminded that you are, in fact, not like her and these interactions are beginning to wear you down.
There are only so many ways you can talk about your dress before the discussions start to sound inane.
There are also so many times you can tolerate the way these women look you up and down. What happened to camaraderie? The catty looks are one thing you don’t expect. In your eyes, you’re a nobody who just happened to be playing dress-up thanks to a good friend. However, you can see how you seem from their perspective — close enough to the princess to attend this ball, apparently attractive enough for the crown prince to steal you for more than a handful of minutes.
You swallow the urge to scream, “I’m nothing more than the help!”
“The prince does have peculiar taste, doesn’t he?” One of them comments and you have to resist rolling your eyes, lest you offend her publicly.
“What do you mean?” Becca asks as she nibbles on her third tart of the night.
Expectedly, the girl’s eyes flick to you for a brief second before her lips stretch into smirk. “I assumed he would take a wife by now. Have an heir to continue the lineage. However, it doesn’t seem that anyone in this room suits his preferences. He hasn’t asked anyone to dance yet — and not for a lack of trying from our part.”
“He did have one dance—”
You clear your throat to interrupt Becca. She looks at you quizzically.
God bless her heart. Becca means well but sometimes she misses some of these cues; she’s too trusting, which is why you have to be the exact opposite.
“Apologies, I meant a dance that would count—” she smiles saccharine sweet. “—that would matter. You’re a visiting relative, right?” This question she directs towards you.
All eyes turn to you. The attention has your cheeks burning. “Correct.”
“She’s actually a very dear friend, but she’s practically family. She knows Bucky very well.”
“Is that so?” You don’t appreciate the way the woman’s gaze flashes with something akin to amusement. “Practically a sister then. I don’t believe I recall where you’re from. I haven’t heard anyone speak of you either.”
“I didn’t say.” Your lips twist up in an irritated smile.
Awkward tension falls upon the conversation. Becca looks nervously between the two of you; this cue is far too hard to miss. “That doesn’t matter! What matters is that we are here now. How about we get some lemonade? It’s quite warm here, isn’t it?”
As Becca busies herself with resolving the tension, which is the last thing a princess should be doing, you take this opportunity to slip away from the suffocating atmosphere of the room.
Perhaps the garden can be healing this time of night.
Bucky would rather be anywhere else but here. Let him correct himself — there is exactly one place he would rather be than here and it would be to be back inside. With you. Dancing. Fetching you drinks. Keeping those overly-excited, unworthy vultures away from you.
The moment you stepped through those doors, he knew he was in for a long night of suffering. Time and time again, you’ve rejected his advances. He knows you feel the same way, has felt you leaning into his touch before you would pull yourself away. Your stubbornness has always been endearing, but Bucky yearns for the day when he finally breaks through those walls.
It’s not an if, it’s a when.
Because Bucky has always achieved everything he’s dreamed of and you are his most important one.
However, for now, he is instead subjected to the debauchery of his peers. Dukes, viscounts, and fellow noblemen who have far too much time on their hands to be exploring substances that shouldn’t be explored. Sam is in the midst of lecturing their tight-knit group about this vial he procured while out in the countryside, some fermented liquid that supposedly produces the most vivid, imaginative visions that have you questioning reality.
The others ooh and aah in fascination but Bucky’s eyes continue to stray towards those double-doors where you stand on the other side.
“Your royal highness, I have something that may be of interest to you.”
To that, he does turn with a raised brow.
“I specifically obtained this one for you. I am sympathetic to your cause—” Sam teases and Bucky responds with a withering glare that does nothing to deter his friend. “—and when the time comes and you hope to last, this will be immensely beneficial.”
“His cause is hopeless if he doesn’t do anything about it,” Steve laughs.
“I appreciate your vote of confidence, Rogers. Believe me, it’s not for a lack of trying,” Bucky mutters as he leans back against the stone pillar.
Sam grabs his hand, slips it into his palm and closes his hand around a small tin. “Very potent. I wouldn’t recommend more than a pinchful at a time. A pinchful should last you through an hour, but what a delicious hour it will be.”
He doesn’t know how to tell him that Bucky doesn’t need this sort of chemistry to make him last. Every time he’s near you, his pants tighten like a schoolboy again. Thirteen and realizing that this desire to kiss you isn’t a result of friendship. As he got older, he realized that these urges aren’t those that should be held against his sister’s lady-in-waiting.
Urges that blossomed into far more when he feels his chest constrict, breath stolen from his lungs, whenever he catches a whiff of that perfume. Or how he can’t resist peeking at you from around the corner whenever you sneak into the library, wondering what book has absorbed you this time, how quickly he could read it to spark conversation with you. Or how desperately he tries to make you laugh just to hear that tinkling melody that loops like the nation’s best symphony in his mind.
There are days that Bucky wishes he wasn’t born into this family, that he could be normal, so he wouldn’t be forced upon societal standards that he has no desire to follow. He could pursue you and you wouldn’t constantly put this chasm between you.
But then if he hadn’t been born into this life, then he would’ve never met you. He would have never known what it means for love to consume his very soul, how one person could mean the world to him, to a point where he would give it all up — the riches, the rule — to be with you.
Fate is a funny thing.
“I don’t need this, Wilson,” Bucky grunts as he tries to push it back into Sam’s hands.
Sam raises them. “No, sir. Think of it as an early coronation gift. Perhaps once you can change the rules of the kingdom, you would be inclined to follow them too.”
“Think he’s a jester,” he mutters to Steve with a roll of his eyes.
“In another life, my prince, perhaps in another life,” Sam grins cheekily. “You simply have to breathe it in. Like the usual stuff. Again, very powerful so be careful. Otherwise, you’d be trapped in that state for hours on end and your only relief would be to…”
Bucky’s eyes rise to meet his. Sam only wiggles his eyebrows in response. He makes a face of repulsion. “That’s how you rid yourself of the effects?”
“The more you finish, the lighter the effects will be. However, if you don’t find any form of… relief, then it could last for hours and you’d be hurting everywhere — and I do mean everywhere. It’s the strongest form of desire that can be relieved if you fulfill it.”
Bucky looks down at the tin again. Unassuming. Small. How powerful could this little thing be? He tucks it inside his coat, if only to appease his friend, and lets them resume with the conversation.
By the time they adjourn, Bucky is sufficiently exhausted. All he wants is to go search for you. It’s only been an hour and he already misses you. What a fool he is — if only the kingdom knew that the crown prince’s only weakness is a woman who doesn’t even want him.
As the other men filter back indoors, Bucky moves to follow. That is, until your perfume tickles his senses. You’re outside. He whips around to try and find you but you’re nowhere in sight.
Perhaps this is his chance. The two of you would be in Lady Romanoff’s prized garden, far away from the prying eyes of the palace or the rest of the ton. He looks at Steve and Sam, waves them away. “Go on. I’ll enjoy the fresh air a little bit more.”
“Alright, don’t look too thrilled that all those women inside are waiting for their prince to return.”
Bucky winces. Of course, he’s felt their hungry gazes all night. All of them practically vibrating where they’re standing, fanning themselves a little faster, batting their eyelashes a little more rapidly. He has zero inclination to humor any of them because the one person he wants to dance with is the one who won’t even look at him.
With one final gesture, he begins to prowl further into the grounds, further away from the mansion, to find you.
Little does he know that the tiny tin rattles like a cry against his chest, lid loose as he walks at a pace that’s far from careful.
After exploring the gardens for a bit, you almost wish that Lady Romanoff would adopt you under her wing to understand her excellent taste in design and decoration. The architecture is as old as time. Each brick feels intentionally placed like it’s meant to be part of history. The stream that sits quietly further away from the palace brings a touch of natural life to the otherwise manmade masterpiece.
A boat sits swaying in the gentle evening breeze and you’re half tempted to paddle yourself out to the middle to find some form of peace. However, given how deep it is into nightfall, you assume you’d have to eventually make your way back to find Becca. She’s promised not to touch another drop of champagne for the evening so you trust her to make good decisions.
Just as you turn to begin your journey back to the mansion, the last person you expect is standing before you.
“Bucky, what are you doing here?”
In the darkness, he stumbles towards you, mumbling incoherently. You strain your ears to decipher him but it’s near impossible when his words blur together. He’s clearly intoxicated. You wonder how much liquor Steve and Sam have fed him and lord knows what else.
When he finally stands where the moonlight shines across the concrete, you see the flush that sprawls like an illness across his skin. His breathing is labored and his fingers continue to tug at the collar of his shirt, clawing almost desperately. With his mask long gone, you can see how his pupils are blown wide as they drink in the sight of you, a mix of relief and desire in the constantly shifting shades of his ocean eyes.
He breathes out your name like a prayer when he sees you. “Gods, you look…” he trails off again as he moves towards you, walking side to side as if his legs can’t bear the weight of him.
You catch him before he can topple over, his entire body draped over yours. You thank the heavens that you’ve done enough manual labor in your life that you’re able to prop him up, pushing him up against the wall. Your hands on his shoulders as you frown at him.
He doesn’t smell too heavily of liquor but there are strange particles on his coat that you suspect are the reason why he’s behaving like this. You bite back the urge to scold the crown prince of all people to be more responsible. When you look up at him, he’s looking down at you with a lazy smirk.
“Bucky, what did you take?”
“Y’smell…” he leans forward again, nearly tipping over but his nose ends up buried in your neck. You feel him inhale, deep, before a long, extremely indecorous moan rumbles against your skin. Heat slithers up your spine, pushing your blood south between your legs. “Fuck, you smell so good.”
Biting your tongue, you try to push him back against the wall but he’s faster. His arms wrap around you, holding you tight against his chest as his mouth trails warm against your skin. He whispers your name again — like a promise. “Bucky, please, I can’t help you like this.”
“Need—” he chokes then, whimpering.
“What do you need? Tell me.”
“You.”
You stroke his hair gently as he continues to mumble words you cannot hear against the pulse in your neck. “I know, I’m here. Tell me what you need.” Worry torments your heart as you press the back of your hand against his forehead. “Heavens, you’re burning up.”
“So hot,” he whines, “so, so warm.”
Without removing himself from you, he begins to shed off his tailcoat first, casting it aside. Then his fingers reach for the buttons of his waistcoat, fingers seemingly too uncoordinated to undo them.
“Please. Help,” he pleads.
How can you say no when he asks so sweetly? But at the same time, you really shouldn’t be doing this. “Bucky, this isn’t a good idea. I don’t think you should—”
“Help me.”
Gods, you’ve never been good at saying no to this man, not when he sounds like he’s in pain. Your gloved hands reach towards him as you begin to unbutton him slowly, revealing more and more of the linen underneath. Then Bucky pushes it off his shoulders.
“My shirt next.”
“Bucky!” you gasp, “That’s completely out of the question. I couldn’t possibly.”
“It’s so warm, mon couer. Please.”
He’s never played a fair game, but particularly when he addresses you so charmingly in French. You remember when he first started calling you those terms, practicing the foreign language on his tongue in a way that had you leaning in to listen for more. You asked him what they meant, and he said, “Only the truth.”
My love. My heart. Your heart feels like it’s been lit on fire when you read the translations.
You never questioned it further. Becca always took it as teasing, like Bucky’s being his usual charismatic, mischievous self. But every time he calls you that, you know that it is the truth. A truth you keep contesting for the sanctity of your mind.
Because if you accept that you are his love and that you are his heart, you don’t know how much of your resolve would be left.
And Bucky deserves more than that. He deserves the world, which he already has. You can’t be the reason that he loses all of it.
“We should head back. Becca’s going to be wondering where we are.”
“Becca can be patient,” he murmurs as he finally finds the strength to rip his shirt open, the buttons flying off as the fabric is torn off his body, leaving him bare in front of you. His abdomen ripples with the kind of muscles that come from the hours spent training, the hours you spent watching him practice.
Saliva pools on your tongue and you feel like a dog taught to drool at the sight of its master. You’ve seen him shirtless before, of course — god knows the man loves to be fully exposed to the sun in seasons like this. However, something about him is different this time. He’s practically soaked through his shirt, his body glows with a sheen layer of sweat.
“You have a fever, Bucky. You need help.”
“Need you,” he repeats, clearer this time. His brows then meet in the middle as he looks down at you. He tugs the mask off your face, letting it drop to the floor as he searches your eyes. Deep blue, bluer than the summer sky. “There you are,” he says softly.
Your heart stutters as you shy away from his gaze, his fingers catching your chin to tilt you to face him again. His eyes fall to your lips, your lips separate, sticky with whatever Becca had swiped onto you earlier.
Then he slants his lips over yours and you feel the fireworks explode inside your chest. Bucky’s moan spills down your throat as he kisses you deeper, harder. Ravenous is the only way you can describe it. He’s chasing after your lips like you’re the last drop of water for a parched man. He breathes the air from your lungs, an intimate exchange that has noises you’ve only made in the quiet of your room — alone — rising from your stomach.
It’s everything you’ve ever imagined, and so much more. You spent nights picturing what this could feel like in painstaking detail, hoping that it may happen one day — in the slightest of chances.
But then that anxiety seeps back in, creeping under your skin enough to wake you from this dream.
“Bucky—” He kisses you again, quashing whatever rational thought you’ve only just begun to formulate.
“Tastes so sweet, even better than I thought,” he murmurs. “So sweet, my love. Gods, I could kiss you for days and I’d never tire of it.”
“We shouldn’t—” Your protest once again dies in your throat as Bucky begins to kiss along your jaw, placing a wet trail of fire as he mouths down your neck, counting your racing heartbeat. Your palms flatten against his chest, damp and humid. He’s sweating bullets but you don’t get the chance to interrupt again.
“I need you,” he groans, “lord, I need you.” His fingers catch your hand and press it against his chest. Your heart pushes against your ribs. “You smell so good. I can’t stop thinking about you. Thinking about what it would be like to kneel at your feet, your leg over my shoulder, and bury my face in that pretty pussy of yours.”
A gasp wrenches from your throat as you jerk back. “Bucky, that is— oh my god, that is unacceptable!”
“It’s the truth,” he growls, “I can practically smell you between your legs, your sweetness on my tongue. I want you to press your hips against my face and let me feast like a king. Slip my fingers in there and feel how you resist me, how you act like you don’t want this but you’re dripping all over my fingers.”
The moan that climbs out your chest is involuntary and it’s all Bucky needs before he’s flipping you around and he’s pressing your back against the pillar. A gust of wind blows, providing some semblance of reprieve to the sudden sweltering heat that blankets you. It does nothing to soothe Bucky who looks at you like you’re the perfect prey, skin exposed to him with your hair twisted up like the forbidden fruit.
Bucky isn't a godless man, but in that moment he swears there isn't a higher power who could stop him from having you.
He silently asks the heavens to turn their gaze away from the sin he's about to commit. Because whatever happens next, he won't be seeking forgiveness.
He will only offer his thanks.
He kisses you again, tongue slipping past your lips just as he swallows your surprised sound. His tongue strokes against yours, licking up and pressing against it until you’re trembling against him.
You no longer have authority over your body, how every ounce of energy dissolves into thin air against him, knees nearly sending you crumbling to the ground if it weren’t for his own strength holding you up. One of his hands is ont he back of your neck, keeping you close, and the other on your hip. His mouth continues to move against you as if he’s savoring every inch of you.
Distracted by the taste of him and his seemingly contagious fever, you barely realize when Bucky peels back layer upon layer of your eveningwear. The weight of the fabric pools around your feet with a soft thump. His fingers are frantic as he pushes each piece off your shoulders, leaving you only in your shift and your stay. The corset is tight around your body and Bucky snarls to himself when he can’t seem to untangle the loops.
Then you hear it, the sound similar to clicking tongues as Bucky tears it off your body. When the haze clears just enough for you to realize what’s been done, you shove him away from you, but your power doesn’t throw him very far.
“Bucky, this is indecent. I can’t be—”
“We’re too far past decency, my love.” He stalks back towards you, capturing your lips in a languid kiss that eviscerates your objections into ash. “Beautiful. You had the eyes of everyone in that room tonight. I loathed seeing you surrounded by all those men earlier. Undeserving creatures who think that they have an opportunity with you.”
“I—I wasn’t interested in any of them,” you whine as he works his way down your neck, teeth and lips marking slow, deliberate claims against your skin. Ones that spell out mine.
“I know,” he murmurs against your pulse, smiling as if the answer was never in doubt. “You don’t need to fret. You’re mine. I wouldn’t let them near you. I wouldn’t even allow you to look their way.”
His mouth drags lightly over your skin again. Unhurried, certain.
“Only me. Always me.”
It’s not a question, nor an order. He’s stating a fact. For as long as you can remember, regardless of how many handsome bachelors walk through the palace doors — or even through the staff entrance, you haven’t spared any of them a second glance. Your heart and eyes have always belonged to him.
Bucky takes your hand and gently removes your gloves. He brings your hand up to his lips, placing one gentle kiss after another. First on your wrist, then up your forearm, to your bicep, until he’s on your shoulder. He moves this final layer to the side just enough for him to press wet kisses on your collarbones.
However, despite his attempts to divert your attention away from the actual matter at hand, you can’t help but worry. His temperature is a far cry from normal, you fear what would happen if he weren’t observed and provided the necessary remedies.
“You’re sick, Bucky. Please let me take you back to the palace. Let me fetch your carriage so we can at least summon the royal physician to assess you.”
“No, won’t help,” he grunts, “need to— need to—” and the next word that slips from his lips has your heart slamming against your ribcage— “fuck.”
Your mouth dries and your own desires begin to overwhelm you. This isn’t right. He’s not himself. He’s not in his right mind. What he needs is a doctor and a bed and—
“Sam said,” he exhales harshly, “I need to get it out. To stop this.”
“Get what out?”
“Need to finish.”
Finish. Fuck. Your throat suddenly feels like sandpaper.
He needs to climax.
“Don’t think I’ll be satisfied with finishing once,” he huffs honestly as his hands reach up to cup your breasts. He lets out a little pleased noise as he feels up your soft flesh, the shape of your breasts molding to his hand as he massages them. With only one barrier left between the two of you, it feels as if there’s nothing at all there. “My gorgeous girl with her gorgeous tits. I always knew you’d fit so perfectly in my hands. You don’t know how many times I’ve dreamt of this, putting my hands on them, pinching these lovely pert nipples—” he moans as he tugs on your nipple, electricity coursing through you in a zing straight down to your core. “How it would feel to have my cock tucked in between your tits.”
You don’t have the voice to argue, nor the mind. All you can think about is how delicious it feels for Bucky to be touching you. Your head leans back as your eyes slide shut, your mind lost in the sensations of his touch.
“Please, let me have you, my love. I need— I need you.”
His hand doesn’t wait for an answer, they begin to bunch up your skirt, pinning them against your hip with his wrist as his fingers trail up your inner thigh. You fight against your shudder and he lifts his mouth back to your lips to kiss you, just as his fingertips make contact with your core.
You’re sticky down there already, a mess from the proximity and his scent and his feverish warmth. This is still Bucky — your Bucky — but he’s also different, like all of the chains that have held him back, that have granted him the patience all these years, have been shattered. This is the result of all the times you’ve rejected him again and again and again. All of the times that you have rejected these feelings within yourself.
Now the dam has been destroyed and all those times you’ve swallowed your pride and your wants, they’re finally being released and they completely drown you.
The moon reflects off the water, illuminating Bucky’s face in a shifting series of ethereal colors. Even with the glimmer, his eyes are dark. A fog clouding his judgment. His desire is unwavering. The more you touch him, the more you let him touch you, the stronger the effects of his fever.
If possible, he grows even warmer. His skin practically searing against yours but nothing burns more than his fingers between your legs, the delicate stroke of your lips, moist with the evidence of your lust.
“You’re drenched down here, my sweet girl,” Bucky moans, “is this all for me? Were you thinking of me the same way I was thinking of you?”
“Bucky, please,” you jolt, hips rising when he dips a tentative finger inside you.
It’s almost embarrassing how easily he slips himself in there, aided by the slick between your legs. He pushes a finger in as he gulps down your pleasured sound, a desperate little cry as his fingers stretch out your insides.
You’ve never had anyone else touch you like this. You’ve barely even touched yourself like this; even when left to your own devices with nothing more than your imagination and the lingering scent of Bucky’s cologne on your threads, shame still restricts how much pleasure you allow yourself.
However, out there, with Bucky in control, you relinquish that power to him. You let him determine how much pleasure you experience, how much gratification you can get under his ministrations.
Bucky’s fingers are skilled as they work you open, scissoring you open until your teeth sink into his shoulder. “My pretty girl, look at you. I want to hear you cry for me, want to know how good I make you feel.”
Obediently, your lips split open in a wail that shakes the air.
“Let me have a taste of you,” he murmurs and draws his hand away from you. The loss is almost instantaneous, a sudden chill where his touch had been, but it’s replaced by the fire that burns bright in your gut the moment he drags his wet fingers along his lips. He breathes it in like he’s memorizing the scent of you before he slides his fingers over his tongue. “God, you’re perfect. Sweet, as I expected.”
Then Bucky sinks to the ground and there’s something about the crown prince on his knees before you that has you faltering. Someone whose blood is bluer than the ocean shouldn’t risk scraping his knees for a mere maid — and yet here he is.
“Hold your skirt up for me, sweet girl.”
You want to protest. You want to say no. You want to remind him again that this isn’t a good idea but there’s determination in his eyes that have you whimpering, fingers reaching for the hem of your skirt to reveal yourself to him.
Bucky drags a finger along your slit again, collecting the moisture and wiping it on his tongue with another moan. He leans forward and your eyes slide shut, heart thrumming in anticipation with the steady pulse in your veins. He kisses you slowly at first, making his way up your thigh but his patience is thin and soon enough he’s burying his face between your legs.
His tongue strokes up your pussy, legs still clamped shut in your apprehension. Bucky looks a little irritated when he can’t seem to properly taste you so, with one hand, he holds one of your legs up by the thigh and opens up your leaking cunt to him. He curses under his breath when he sees you glisten in the flickering night.
The stars in the sky blend in with the ones behind your eyes when he finally lays his lips on you. He mouths at you hungrily, like he’s wolfing down his last meal. His tongue presses eager strokes along your walls that have your legs closing in around him again — only for his hand to pry them open once more to grant him access to the nectar between your thighs.
“So sweet, so soft,” Bucky groans against your pussy. His lips suckle eagerly, the lewd slurps ricocheting off the surfaces in this quiet night. In the distance, the music continues quietly, but here — you’re accompanied by the sound of your quickening heartbeat and Bucky’s delighted grunts.
Each time he licks you, he buries himself deeper and deeper, until his nose bumps against your clit and his face glistens with your arousal. Your fingers tangle in his thick hair, damp with the sweat from his fever. When you tug on it slightly, Bucky sticks his face in even deeper, moans even louder.
You can see how his erection only grows underneath his trousers, needy for attention, and yet satisfied all the same by your own pleasure. He tilts his face to reach new angles, his fingers pushing inside of you to keep you full while his tongue flicks that sensitive bundle of nerves.
It doesn’t take you long fall apart, walls closing in around his tongue and his fingers, spasming with your orgasm — the first of the evening.
For a moment, guilt enters your system and you’re forced to look down at Bucky remorsefully that he didn’t even achieve what he set out to do. However, you notice the shaking of his shoulders, a shudder wracking through him as his hips twitch upwards. A pulse down there.
“Y-you finished?”
Bucky nods, unabashed as he comes to a stand. “Do you see what you do to me? Cumming untouched in my trousers like a prepubescent boy who can’t even control himself.”
“I didn’t— I mean, you didn’t even touch it.”
“The mere thought of you finishing around my mouth like I’ve always dreamed is enough for me, my love.” He tucks a loose strand of your hair, one that have fallen loose from your updo, behind your ear. “However, I’m far from done. This fever — I can’t break it without you. I have to have you.”
Again, he doesn’t wait for your permission as he steals the air from your lungs with a passionate kiss. This time, you can taste the sweetness of champagne on his tongue along with something a little more unique. Something that belongs solely to you and now also belongs to him.
“I’ve been leaking for you all night, sweet girl,” Bucky mumbles, “I couldn’t stop thinking what you look like underneath this dress. How soft and supple your body would be. Apparently, everyone else had the same thought. I could see how they looked at you. I should have them all stripped of their titles and banished from the land.”
“Bucky,” you chide, warmth flaming your cheeks. “That would be incredibly rude. Nobody did anything.”
He rolls his eyes as he presses you back against the pillar, reaching down to his pants. You hear the fabric shifting as he holds you up and frees himself. You’ve never seen one in real life before, only those diagrams that Becca likes to tease you with.
And the real thing looks far more intimidating.
It stands upright, a thick vein running along the top as the head strains red. It looks almost as if that line pulses, encouraged by the purplish lines that sit underneath the surface. A new pearl sits at the tip of him, pearlescent as it rolls down the length of his cock, already sticky and stained creamy white from the mess in his trousers. It’s fat and it’s long and you can’t imagine that fitting inside you.
You must’ve voiced your fears aloud because Bucky is then saying, “Don’t worry, mon couer. We’ll make it fit.”
He lifts you up, drawing a squeal from your lips, as he wraps your legs around his waist. The head rests against your entrance, the sight of it already has your pussy drooling over the tip, like it’s preparing for his cock.
“She’s excited to have me,” he muses quietly, “she’s dripping. So eager to have me. You haven’t been filled before, have you? You’ve never had another man touch you?”
You must’ve taken a moment too long to respond, too preoccupied with the incredulity of the situation.
The low roar sounding from Bucky’s chest has you looking at him. Fury claws at his eyes, the usual bright blue shifting darker as he sneers. His hands tighten around your hips. “Has anyone else touched you? Who is it? Is it the stableboy? I’ve seen the way he looks at you. I’ve been meaning to replace him—”
“Bucky, god, no. Nobody!” You pant, “Where would I find the time?”
“You wouldn’t lie to me, would you? I know your good heart would want to protect them.”
Your lips curl. “No, I would have no reason to lie to you.
“Good, because I fear the dire action I would’ve had to take if you told me otherwise.”
“I’m not yours to own, Bucky,” you snap.
“That’s where you’re wrong, sweet girl. You’ve always belonged to me, whether you knew it or not. You’re mine and I’ll kill anyone who even dares to think about you.” Another surprised sound escapes your lips and Bucky only smirks. “This pussy especially. I’ll shape it to the size of me, you won’t ever know pleasure with anyone else. I’ll train her to only please me and only me.”
Before you can admonish him for acting so barbaric, Bucky notches the tip into you. You can already feel the stretch, your pussy resisting the entry of something so… large. So imposing. But he pays it no mind; instead, he uses your own juices to lubricate his entry as he pushes slowly into you, inch by inch.
He drives deep inside of you, swift and merciless the first time, to yank a gasp from your throat. Another expletive leaves his lips as his head rolls back, eyes slamming closed as he relishes in the feel of your cunt wrapping around him.
Your entire body is under a spell, experiencing something otherworldly that no language you know could describe. It burns like you’ve been placed on a stake to be set ablaze, like every atom in your body is being torn apart and rearranged. It’s divine deliverance in the pain, but one that provides you with the kind of relief you don’t expect.
“You feel so—” he chokes as he drags himself out before pushing back in, faster this time, the slide easier. The ache still screams between your legs but you let them fall apart anyway, allowing Bucky to take control over the situation.
His name falls from your lips — this time as a plea, but you can’t tell if you’re begging for him to stop or to go faster. You want to get past the hurt, want to feel the sort of pleasure that you’ve only heard whispers about. But at the same time, a small piece of you relishes in that pain — it reminds you that you’re human, that this is new, that this is real, and that Bucky is right here with you.
“So tight, so fucking wet. You’re completely soaking my cock, sweet girl. I always knew you were meant for me, this pussy was made for me. No one else can ever see you like this, do you understand me?”
Bucky jerks his hips forward, his arms under your knees, hands on your ass as he presses you against the wall. The surface is solid against your spine, holding you upright as he fucks up into you. His grunts are muffled into your neck as he breathes you in, like your scent fuels the fire in his veins.
When you don’t respond, too drunk off the sensations of Bucky driving into you at a pace that has you delirious, he punctuates one thrust particularly hard.
“I asked, do you understand me?”
A sob crawls out of your throat as you nod, tears leaking down your eyes. He doesn’t apologize for your cries, he knows you better than that. These tears are from the overwhelming waves of emotion, the heightened tension that grips your lungs until you can’t seem to find the capability to breathe.
“You feel like heaven, my love. I’ll fuck you to the shape of my cock, until you can’t take anyone else but me — until you won’t even consider taking anyone else. I’ll ensure everyone in this kingdom knows that I’ve defiled you, that you’ve taken my mark on your skin and inside of you. I’ll ensure that you will only be mine.”
The shame settles hard and fast in the pits of your stomach. If everyone could see you like this, pinned outside against a wall by the prince, fucked like a whore in heat with your pussy clamping down around him, you could never show your face again. A desecrated maid who couldn’t keep her legs shut for a prince.
Anyone would be lucky to have him, but no one in their right mind would let even the crown prince take them before marriage. They would rather die than be labeled a slut. A harlot. You would be the bane of your family, no one would speak of you again and you would be banished to the outerlands.
But this is Bucky and even the concept of him keeping you as his dirty little secret only sends thrills through your veins.
“Bucky, you can’t—”
He laughs, dark and sinister. Like the idea of him unable, unallowed to do anything is absurd. “I’m the crown prince, sweet girl. I am the future of this kingdom. What I say goes. If I say you are mine then it is true. No one will come within a foot of you. Not after I’m done with you. I’ll make sure everyone sees the marks of my affection for you. I’ll imprint them in places everyone can see and other places that nobody will ever see.”
His words have your heart clenching in mortification and a humiliating level of arousal. The debasement of your character, the degradation of your morality — apparently none of it means anything if it means you have Bucky between your legs and his cock buried deep inside your cunt.
“I’ve laid my claim on you. No one else will ever touch you. You—” thrust “—are—” thrust “—mine.”
Staying true to his promise, his fingers dig deep into your flesh. Deep enough that you’ll surely carry those bruises with you for some time. The litter of prints on your neck and above your breasts will have to be covered by your high necklines, gowns that would only raise suspicion in the summer.
But most of all — the taking of your virginity, your purity plucked from your hands and placed into Bucky’s — is the kind of mark you will never undo.
Bucky is too lost in his own pleasure, too focused on delivering you to your second peak of the night to recognize the telltale signs of your climax approaching. Your whines crescendoing, the stutter of your heartbeat as your fingers sink into his shoulders. His name spilling from your mouth in an uneven rhythm.
“I will cum in you, sweet girl. I’ll fill you up with so much cum, I’ll have you dripping all the way home, I’ll make sure you’re leaking all over the carriage before I take you again in my chambers. Gods, I’ll tie you to my bed, make sure that you’ll never deny me again.”
Your heart smashes into your chest, threatening to catapult out with his warning. For some godforsaken reason, the idea of being Bucky’s plaything — tied up with no other purpose than to serve his pleasure — has you gasping in desire, your legs closing in around him as you feel your senseless craving crescendo.
“You want that, don’t you? You just want to be my pussy. Keep your legs open, this pretty cunt dripping yours and my cum all over my sheets. My darling girl is nothing but a whore who wants cock to keep her plugged up at all times. You won’t have to worry about a thing ever again.”
“Bucky, please—”
“I’ll breed you until you carry my heir.”
That jars you awake and you’re scrambling, a conflicting concoction of pure, unadulterated want with the terrifying fear of the consequences to follow. “You can’t! Bucky, you have to stop. You can’t get me—” you hiccup, “—you can’t get me pregnant. Your heir has to come from a proper bloodline.”
“I no longer care about propriety and bloodlines. They have kept us apart long enough. I’m the crown prince and, what I want, I get. What I want is you and you alone. Why would I need some uptight, prissy noblewoman who doesn’t know how to cum around her husband’s cock?”
“Bucky!” You gasp as he fucks you hard and fast. His pace is unrelenting and every slide of his cock inside you scrambles every single sensible thought in your mind.
“And I have you — I can feel your pussy choking me. You — while you’re getting fucked outside with the risk of someone finding us. Yet, look at that, you’re squeezing me even tighter, my love. I always knew you were made for me. Every inch of my depravity, you take it even further. You complete me.”
Your stomach coils with something deep and tight, an unknown force set out to subject you to the strongest cut of humiliating pleasure. As a proper woman, you shouldn’t take such words, even from a prince. You shouldn’t stoop so low as to attain this form of high.
However, your mind and your body and your heart do not align. While your rational mind screams at you to put a stop to this, your adoration for Bucky — now forced to surface after years of stomping on it and swallowing it with guilt — and your pure primal need — what many consider to be your purpose — join and meld to push you to keep going.
To chase after this sought-after pleasure that few can even dream about. If the cost of is to reduce your dignity and pride, then so be it.
“And now, I will complete you,” Bucky murmurs sweetly before he shoves himself inside you over and over again until you’re a weeping mess, your legs quaking as your body slides up against the wall with every thrust. Tears leak down your face, destroying Becca’s efforts to make you look beyond yourself.
But all that physical destruction is worth it when your insides are being remade.
With one final thrust, Bucky spills inside you. Warmth coating every part of your walls, thick, clinging onto your skin like it’s marking you with a permanent mess. Your second climax twists inside your gut, rising up to your chest to constrict your lungs as your pussy curls tight around him. His need to complete you is complemented by your own need for the same. Your walls keep him in, trapped, until every single drop is milked from his cock and buried deep inside your cunt.
Bucky doesn’t let up, he fucks into you until he’s groaning sensitive against your neck. His breathing is even hotter than before, each exhale like a furnace in the middle of the desert.
“I’m not done with you yet.”
Those words no longer spark fear, but zealous anticipation.
Then Bucky takes you again — you on your feet, him behind you as he fucks you against the wall, your breasts in his hands to hold him steady as he cums into you again, the milky white seeping out from where you two are joined. But then he misses your face too much so he grabs your chin, turns you to face him, and devours you in a messy kiss that has your teeth clicking almost painfully.
Then he has you laid out over his clothes, your back on the floor, your knees and thighs against your torso, as he fucks deep inside you, promising you that it’ll take this time. That he’ll try as many times as he needs to until his seed takes.
Then you’re on your hands and knees as Bucky pounds into you from behind, his thighs slapping against yours, his fingers reaching around to your clit in intentional circles that have your body quivering underneath him, and he doesn’t stop until you’re cumming around his cock and he’s filling you up with another load.
Then you’re cleaning him up, the taste of his cum and your pussy a more potent substance than all the liquor in the nation combined. The thick liquid spurts down your throat like you’re being fed your dessert, a treat for having done so well.
And again and again and again.
For a while, you forget that Bucky is relentless only due to the poison in his veins, his depraved hunger only exacerbated by the delicious textures of your cunt around his cock. An addiction that he could never suppress.
When both your limbs finally give and enough of the toxins have been excreted — inside you, mind you, the two of you slump down on top of both your clothes. A mess of damp fabrics and fluids that even the best solvents in the kingdom could never remove.
Bucky turns over to you with a groan — the same sound that’s been rattling inside your mind, the same sound that will surely affix to every crevice inside your brain for weeks, if not months — and slumps an arm over your waist.
He nuzzles his face against your cheek, a small chuckle tickling your face. He hums, pleasantly exhausted. You’re a disarray of tangled limbs and gummy skin. You can’t help but laugh too.
“Why are you laughing?” He smiles, leaning down to press a kiss on your bare shoulder. Somewhere along the way, you’ve stripped yourself of your final layer too, leaving you completely nude.
The circumstances are far from believable. If you had told yourself that this was how your night would end, even your wildest imagination couldn’t have conjured up this conclusion. “I can’t believe we’re doing this in the middle of Lady Romanoff’s ball.”
“She would skin us alive if she knew,” he smirks.
“Yes, she would.”
The third, unexpected voice has the two of you jumping, your fingers immediately reach for more clothes to cover you up, at the same time Bucky also drapes his jacket over your body.
Lady Romanoff stands closer towards the land, where the water doesn’t extend. She then approaches, oil lamp in hand. You can’t unriddle whether her expression is contemptuous disgust or unpredicted amusement.
Meanwhile, the two of you are still clad in nearly nothing, only the moonlight to cast shadows that cloak you.
“Lady Romanoff, I apologize profusely. We didn’t mean any disrespect—”
Bucky’s quick to interject. “It was entirely my fault. I have been subjected to… urges that were outside my control. It was a substance, you see.”
His words have your heart palpitating in an uneven rhythm. The words land unexpected sharp, like a piercing wound straight through your beating organ.
Urges that were outside my control.
This was never meant to happen. You and Bucky. This night. All of it is a fever dream. A product of your desires catalyzed by a chemical compound. Bucky never would’ve done it otherwise; the two of you have always run in parallel lines, never meant to intersect.
All of his words — sweet nothings.
Just like this evening.
“I’m fully aware of the substance you speak of, I am frankly surprised that you would be so careless as to consume it at such a public place, your royal highness,” Lady Romanoff muses.
Bucky winces, scratching the back of his ear awkwardly. “I stumbled and the container had been loose. Unfortunately, I was forced to consume nearly all of it — at least, what didn’t end up on my clothing.”
Lady Romanoff only hums thoughtfully. “If I remember correctly, the aftermath to this substance would be a deep sleep. Rather fast, I’m afraid.” This time, she turns to look at you. “I shall set up a room for the two of you — you can enter through the back. Most of my regular staff is gone and I’ll arrange for my lady-in-waiting to prepare it. She is most discreet.”
“We can—” Bucky stops then, seeming caught off guard by the sudden dizzying spell. He sways slightly, words slurring together in a jumbled mess before he falls against you. His breathing even.
“It appears my memory serves me well,” she says, voice tinged with unexpected pride. “Come, my dear.”
As promised, most of the party has dwindled down to a few inebriated guests that Lady Romanoff organizes to be delivered home in their respective carriages. You and Bucky have been set up in a wing far from the prying eyes, this is where they’ve restricted most of Lady Romanoff’s staff, only the trusted are allowed.
Her lady-in-waiting and her most trusted butler had been sent to help carry Bucky back — of course, after you properly dress him. No explanation was provided beyond the crown prince getting “ill from the food”, but you assume that they suspect something else is at play, particularly when you yourself look like you’ve been mauled by a wild beast.
After Bucky has been settled into his room and you’ve been provided your own as a guest, which you insisted against, but Lady Romanoff insisted against your insistence, her staff is sent away. Bucky snores quietly on the bed, he’s been in and out. He was somewhat awake long enough to help the butler walk him back into the mansion, enough to plop himself down on the mattress.
Your heart is uneasy with worry but Lady Romanoff touches your shoulder. “He should be fine. He has most of it out of his system, I presume?” She cocks an eyebrow. Heat crawls up your neck as you nod. “Then he will recover by morning. He may be weary for a while but he’s in good hands.”
“Thank you for your generosity, Lady Romanoff,” you murmur, “I do apologize for the inconvenience and my… impudence.”
“No apologies needed. I spoke to Wilson and he’s received an earful from me about bringing untested substances — in unsealed containers, at that.” She pauses then turns to you, “You’ve been quite the kind… relative, for a distant one.”
She knows. You know that she knows. She knows that you know that she knows.
This is a mess.
“Yes, I’m rather used to caring for him,” you clear your throat, and then realize what you’ve just said. “In a way where he’s almost like my brother. We grew up together.” And that one isn’t a lie per se.
“I’m sure,” she says with a twinkle in her eye. “Well, take my words with a grain of salt, but I would like to ask you to proceed with caution. You seem to be a smart woman, I’ve seen you with Becca, how you manage to fit right in with society. While I am a romantic at heart, I am also a realist — and the truth is that the challenge will lie with you. As the crown prince, he will be untouched. Unharmed. The realm will protect him before it will protect a woman.”
“I understand that,” you nearly sigh, glancing back at Bucky.
It’s what you’ve always known — your position in society. It’s why you never accepted Bucky’s advances, nor your own feelings regarding him. It’s easier to pretend that it doesn’t exist, that you aren’t in love with the crown prince as a mere maid — even if it hurts.
“But his royal highness is also a good man. I’m sure he will choose wisely,” Lady Romanoff smiles. “Now, please rest. I will arrange for separate carriages to deliver you both home in the morning.”
“I should return now—”
“What you should do is rest,” she presses with a pointed look. “Furthermore, I believe he could use some tending to tonight — in case he wakes or has… remaining urges.”
She’s teasing you, and it’s working because your face feels like it’s been trapped in a heatwave all day. “I’ll make sure he gets through the night and will depart first thing in the morning. I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you any further.”
“No inconvenience. This has perhaps been the most entertaining occurrence this season.” Her eyes are practically twinkling in delight.
Your teeth sink into your bottom lip. “Lady Romanoff, please forgive me for overstepping, but if I could ask for your discretion regarding this matter—”
She waves you off with a reassuring smile. “You need not ask. I understand the position you are in and I would never trouble another woman more than necessary. I also would not enjoy making an enemy out of the palace and I doubt the crown prince would let things slide if anything were to happen to his precious lover.”
Your mouth opens to correct her, she gives you a look that tells you not to even attempt to lie to her. You technically wouldn’t be fibbing.
After all, it was only his urges that allowed him to do such things to you tonight. At the end of the day, you’re still nothing more than a maid — a member of the royal staff. A lover is what you are not.
“Have a good evening, dear.”
“You as well, Lady Romanoff.”
Once she leaves the room, you go to check on Bucky one last time before you move to your own room; it is an adjacent space, connected by a door should you need access to his room. That distance, while small, still feels much too large.
You pull the blanket up higher on his waist, brush the wet strands away from his face as you check his temperature again. His fever has come down plenty, he’s at least broken through it and now he’s simply sweating out the rest.
With that, you pull your hand away and ready yourself to move to your own room.
Except, you don’t get the chance, not when you feel those familiar fingers wrap around your hand before you could move. You whirl around to find Bucky drowsily looking up at you. His eyes glow in the moonlight spilling through the massive windows.
“Stay,” he murmurs.
“Your royal highness, I should return to the chambers Lady Romanoff has provided. If the staff were to return, I wouldn’t want to have to explain the circumstances.”
“How many times have I told you not to call me that?” He says, but there’s no bite to his words, only affection.
You swallow thickly, chancing another look at your door.
“Stay,” he insists again, “please.”
Who are you to deny the crown prince? Your frail heart can’t seem to do that, not when it could be your last evening with him.
So, you slide under the covers when he makes room with a giddy little smile. He tucks you into his chest and kisses the top of your head. “Sleep, sweet girl.”
And for once, you listen to him.
Come morning, the reality of the situation has carved itself deep into your bones. While you wake up in Bucky’s warmth, his arms around you and your legs on top of each other, you know that this is the last part of your dream. The epilogue. This will be nothing more than a memory, maybe even the figment of one.
You swiftly clean yourself up, ensuring that you are properly clothed and presentable before you make your way to where Lady Romanoff had directed you. She is nowhere to be found but a carriage has been arranged to take you back to the palace. The sun hasn’t even risen when you slipped out of bed.
With one last look at Bucky who’s still sleeping peacefully, you take your leave.
You’re back early enough that none of the staff are awake yet, but you also can’t bring yourself to sleep. The gown Becca had lent you hangs by your door quietly, a stark reminder of the evening you thought you had crafted in your mind. You turn over to ignore it.
However, slumber doesn’t find you and so you begin your duties early. The princess’ gown, the tea, everything a lady-in-waiting should do in the palace.
It’s expected that Becca has questions about where you went last night. She was frantic with worry at the thought of losing you somewhere, or if something had happened to you that she refused to leave.
“Lady Romanoff informed me that you and Bucky had returned earlier because he was ill,” she says, forehead creasing with lines, “I apologize that your night was ruined by my brother. I was hoping you would enjoy the remainder of the ball.”
“I enjoyed it plenty already, don’t worry,” you smile. “Thank you for giving me that opportunity.”
“Well,” she eagerly presses, “were there any handsome bachelors that caught your eye?”
Only one and he is the one you certainly cannot have.
“No, I believe we were out there to assess the men for your own relationship.”
Becca blushes, fanning her face. “No, no one of importance.” She’s never been a good liar. “Okay, there was one but Bucky would kill me if I tried. Have you ever noticed how attractive Lord Rogers is? He also has such a kind heart.”
If he had a kind heart, he would’ve stopped Bucky from taking that ridiculous substance, you think bitterly, unfairly.
“I’m sure he is,” you only say.
“How was your evening then? Did you really not see anyone to your liking?”
You smile softly at her. “Princess, even if there were, it would not be my place.”
“That’s rather unprogressive of you! I’m sure there are suitors who would care little about such trivial things.”
Naive, hopeful Becca. This is why you love her.
Before you can respond, Becca perks up and waves behind you. You turn and that’s when you see him — Bucky. He’s crossing the ground with long strides like a man possessed. He’s a man on a mission as he wastes no time at all in closing the distance.
He looks furious.
He also looks an outright mess — shirt unbuttoned, sleeves haphazardly folded, hair sticking up at odd angles. It looks as if he rolled right out of bed at the Romanoff house and came straight here. Here to this garden that you’re walking with Becca.
You have a feeling that that’s exactly what he did.
“Brother, you’re looking much better—”
“You left,” he instead speaks directly to you.
You grit your teeth, doing your best to avoid Becca’s look of utter confusion. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean, your royal highness.”
“I thought we’ve established that we’re past that level of formality,” he snaps, “I’m not letting you escape this conversation. If you’ll excuse me, sister dear, I need to have a little chat with this one.” His hand covers yours, none of the gentleness from last night, instead he squeezes it tight like he’s afraid of you slipping away again.
Becca doesn’t follow, she’s too busy gaping and slowly piecing things together.
All the while Bucky is dragging you stumbling and tripping over your own feet towards a more secluded part of the gardens, away from the curious eyes.
You’re trying to pry his fingers off you to make your escape. “Bucky, stop. Stop this.”
He does stop dead in his tracks but he immediately spins around to face you. “No, you stop,” he growls and the sound shoots straight for your chest. “After last night, after everything that’s happened, you simply – what — leave? I woke up and you were nowhere to be found. Lady Romanoff was the one who had to tell me that you departed earlier.”
“I had to return to my duties first,” you say brusquely, “I have responsibilities to tend to, your royal highness. It also would have been inappropriate and highly suspicious if we arrived at the same time.”
“Damn propriety,” he barks, eyes glowering, “I think you should cross that word off your vocabulary after last night.”
Said last night flashes before your eyes, like paintings that could force a priest to pray. You’re warm all over now, the ghost of his touch on your skin, his mouth mapping out every inch of you like he’s memorizing the dips and curves of your body. The feel of his cock, hot and wet, sliding inside you, spilling evidence that took you far too long to clean last night.
Even now, you can almost still feel it dripping down your legs.
“You left,” Bucky presses.
“You weren’t yourself last night. Like you said, they were urges as a consequence of the substance you accidentally took. It was nothing more than a fulfillment of the circumstances.”
He scoffs, “I said that to Lady Romanoff, not to you. I did not want her to hold you responsible for the state we were in. To me, last night was— last night was everything.”
The lump in your throat only grows, tears prick your eyes. He can’t do this. Not now. You’ve made your decision to let that dream go.
“It shouldn’t have happened,” you whisper.
“Shouldn’t have happened?” He echoes, aghast. “Is that regret I hear in your voice?”
“Bucky…”
“Because I don’t regret it. Not a single damn thing. I want you, I’ve always wanted you. I’ve made it very clear that I love you and there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you. If I had to give it all up, I would — if that meant that I could finally hold you.”
“You can’t say such things!” You hiss, “You are the crown prince!”
“And sometimes I wish I wasn’t! Because it would make this easier, wouldn’t it? You wouldn’t have to restrain yourself every time you speak with me. You wouldn’t have to call me such ridiculous titles when all I want is for you to say my name. Because I know you love me, I know you do. You can’t look at me the way you do and expect me to believe that you don’t feel anything for me.”
Your heart splits down the middle, parts of it chipping away. “I— it doesn’t matter how I feel or what I want. You have a long line of noble ladies waiting for you to make your choice—”
“I’ve already made my choice and damn anyone else who gets in my way. I’ve already had a taste of you, my love. I’m never letting you slip through my fingers again. I’ll speak to my parents—”
“Don’t!” You interrupt. “Please don’t. It’s— it won’t be you who would suffer the consequences. If they know of what… we did, if they know that it goes far beyond the previous evening, it wouldn’t be you they punish. My mother and I…” Your sentence trails off as your voice cracks.
Bucky cups your face, presses his forehead against yours. “I wouldn’t dare let a thing happen to you.”
“It’s not your choice.”
“It is. If they want me to be their heir, this is my choice. They have to make theirs.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“No, that’s love.”
You swallow thickly as he leans back only slightly, pained like he can’t even bear this amount of distance between the two of you.
“I love you. I love you and that’s a fact truer than the sun that spills light onto this earth. I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise to care for you, to cherish you. I promise to be a man fit for you. I won’t be perfect because god knows nobody in this world could deserve you, but I’ll always try my damndest to make you happy.”
“Bucky,” you breathe out..
“Say yes. Say you’ll be mine. You’ve made me wait all this time. All these years wasted. Don’t let us forego anymore.”
Could you really do this? It would be a risk — not only to you, but to your mother, to the staff. They would be questioned if they’ve ever encouraged your entanglement with the prince. Becca — oh god, what would Becca even think? It would be an incredibly selfish decision.
“Don’t do that,” Bucky murmurs as he tightens his fingers around your face, “don’t think about anyone else. Think about you and what you want.”
You want him. You do.
“You’re mine regardless, sweet girl. I’ll protect you no matter what you decide. My heart is yours.”
“Yes,” you whisper and the answer comes easier than you think, “yes. I’m yours.”
Bucky lets out a wet laugh, blue eyes glistening as he presses his lips against yours. “You’re mine. I’ll protect you, I swear it.”
“I’m scared.”
“I know,” he rasps, “I know. Thank you for trusting me. I promise to do right by you. No matter what happens, know that my entire life is yours. I’d burn the kingdom down before I let anyone lay a finger on you.”
“Becca might get to you first,” you choke out a laugh.
Bucky swipes the tears from your cheeks with the pads of this thumb. “Then maybe I will have to take your protection first.”
“Deal.”
+ sam: my google searches from this are so embarrassing but hey i tried. i havent written bucky in a hot second but this one took me by the throat so i hope you enjoyed it!!! i love hearing thoughts so please share them if you liked it <3
You get injected with an unknown toxin and now your loyal teammates are determined to help ease your suffering.
— pairing: Task Force 141 × fem!141!Reader
— cw: 18+ | sex pollen; dubcon/fuck or die; dd:dne; medical & military inaccuracies; pining; hurt/comfort; angst; fluff; cum and orgasms as the antidote; wc: 12k+
author's note: This has been in my drafts for two years 💀 And she would've said yes to all of them.
"We need some answers, Kate. Now." Captain Price's voice booms inside the spacious briefing room.
He's practically pacing in front of the desk like some anxious K-9, arms folded over his plate carrier as he keeps his sharp eyes trained on Laswell and the two scientists sitting behind their laptops, staring at their respective screens.
Meanwhile, the rest of his team is still as geared up as their Captain—all waiting for orders or further instructions, scattered around the room and listening with bated breath while Price grows more agitated with each shaky exhale he can hear coming from you.
You're currently sitting on one of the tables, boot-clad feet dangling off the edge as you stare at the ceiling, right into the fluorescent lights above, ignoring the way your eyes begin to sting from their brightness.
You've been putting on a brave face since getting stabbed with the needle a few hours ago and you've kept the façade up since hopping off the helo back on base, but it's getting harder to mask the panic rising inside you as your body starts to feel funny.
You swipe the back of your gloved hand over your sweaty forehead, catching the cold perspiration on your feverish skin with the rough fabric, and out of your peripherals, you notice the way your teammates' heads snap in your direction—different-coloured pairs of eyes assessing you with worry, concern, and a hint of curiosity.
Soap and Gaz are standing to your left and right respectively, sneaking glances at you whenever you shift on your spot, while the Lieutenant is still as a marble statue a little offside, arms crossed over his bulky tac vest.
Laswell begins to explain calmly, clutching a thick folder to her chest.
"We're still waiting on anything concrete, John, but the research papers your team managed to extract have offered a great insight on that—whatever that bioweapon is."
Bioweapon.
Your eyes widen as you sit up straight, the word making your heart race and your skin crawl with fear. Both Soap and Gaz take a step closer—two strong pairs of arms outstretched and ready to catch you if you faint.
"Easy there, John—" Laswell says firmly, unbothered by his tone as she takes a step towards the captain and gestures at the two scientists watching the scene unfold with wide eyes from behind their laptops.
"They said she won't die. The amount of injection was too low… apparently."
Apparently?!
You inhale sharply and open your mouth to announce your imminent panic, but you're interrupted when one of the scientists speaks up first.
"That is correct, sir. She won't die."
Professor Doctor Boswel, as the name badge on his white lab coat states, chimes in. Price stops pacing at once, though his sharp eyes scream you better start explaining now, or one of you will be made responsible for this.
"Bringing the syringe back to base was the decisive factor. Our team at the lab is still working to decipher and translate the medical reports and research papers your team recovered, but we can confirm that this bioweapon is most likely a toxin."
A low murmur of various curses goes through the briefing room as you try to ignore the odd tingles in your limbs—like they're going numb from sitting in a bad position for too long—and process the doctor's words instead.
"You're saying I've been poisoned, doc?" You butt in crudely, letting out a humourless laugh as you begin fidgeting with your hands, clenching and unclenching them to get rid of those tingles while a cold drop of sweat trickles down your left temple and is swiftly wiped away by Soap's gloved thumb.
"Fuckin’ hell, lass. Ye dinnae look too good," Soap mutters under his breath, exchanging a concerned glance with Gaz, who then looks to the captain for guidance with a serious frown.
When Gaz turns around abruptly, you get a whiff of his scent, and you're ashamed to admit to yourself that you inhale it deeply—musk and sweat and gunpowder smoke, a hint of his fancy body wash lingering underneath all the grime. A perfect concoction of what is entirely Gaz.
It's intoxicating. Mouth-watering.
And absolutely inappropriate, because he's one of your best friends and a comrade.
What the hell is happening?
Of all the injuries and wounds you've already acquired during missions and deployments, this must be the fucking worst. You'd rather get shot or stabbed than sit here, feel strange as hell and be ogled like a failed science experiment.
Price's eyes flicker to Ghost, who hasn't said a word since sitting you down on the table with a gruff order to stay seated, and then to his three sergeants, lingering on you heavily before he turns back.
"What kind of bloody toxin?"
"It seems to be some sort of aphrodisiac, but… uh, well—about fifty times worse than that."
The other scientist, Professor Doctor Adebayo, answers tentatively, as if explaining it out loud makes him uncomfortable.
"The reports say it turns men—"
Dr. Adebayo hesitates, clearing his throat and looking between Laswell and Captain Price, until the latter lets out an exasperated sigh.
"Turns them what, doc?"
It's Laswell who says it eventually, "Turns them aggressive, John. Feral with lust, as ridiculous as that might sound."
The CIA agent finally looks in your direction before approaching you slowly while Dr. Adebayo seems to heave a sigh of relief as soon as she takes over.
"A high dose of it can be used to lower one's inhibition levels to a point where even the most honourable man would resort to sexual assault to ease his urges."
Her factual yet grim explanation makes the tension inside the briefing room spike tenfold. Every man present tenses up, visibly uncomfortable—Ghost especially, who's practically vibrating with strain.
Using a toxin like that—a bioweapon—on soldiers in the field could lead to even more and worse war crimes, and everyone here is aware of that.
"Wait—what? What the fuck?" Gaz utters, bristling next to you while you grip the edge of the table, gritting your teeth as the tingles intensify and wreck through your body in waves that leave you shuddering with each one.
"'Scuse me, what now?" You scoff. "Does that mean I'm gonna turn into a fuckin' nympho any second?"
Multiple pairs of eyes snap towards you at your choice of words. Some look intense and laced with worry. Price scolds you with one glance. Others look mildly amused—the latter being Soap, who lets out a snort but tries to cover it up with a fake cough into his fist.
Laswell surveys you intently, though her voice softens when she addresses you directly.
"How are you feeling, Sergeant? Are you in pain? Nauseous?"
A beat of silence follows. Your eyes flutter briefly as you meet Kate's blue gaze, and you exhale a long breath through your nostrils before you answer curtly.
"I feel weird."
You feel like you're about to get your period, but you keep that information to yourself for now and try not to wrap your arms around yourself self-soothingly.
Your lower abdomen is starting to tighten and cramp. Your gut twists like you just chugged a steaming bowl of soup and your limbs keep tingling—from your toes to your fingertips, and up to the tip of your nose. Tiny vibrations along with hot and cold flushes that make you quake and squirm in your seat on the table.
Kate squints at you, though she doesn't press further.
"What kind of effect will this stuff have on her?" Price enquires gruffly, more level-headed this time, his gaze shifting from the two scientists over to you and then back.
Meanwhile, as you crank your sore neck from left to right to get a good crack in, your eyes catch sight of Soap's muscular forearms and—to your horror—they linger.
The sleeves of his combat fatigues are rolled up to his elbows, exposing dark coarse hair and thick veins and that damn SAS insignia tattoo.
You want to trace the black lines with your tongue and imagine the salt of his skin on your parched taste buds.
And your eyes widen when a sudden rush of mind-numbing, pulsating heat makes you squeeze your thighs together as you clench your jaw to keep the lewd sound bubbling up in your throat from escaping.
Soap shoots you a quizzical look, one eyebrow raising as you avert your eyes from him swiftly, heat crawling up your neck and prickling beneath your skin.
"Fuck," you breathe, doubling over with a groan as the muscles in your thighs and lower abdomen begin to cramp up painfully while you can practically feel your pussy start convulsing around nothing, leaking with arousal and soaking into your underwear.
In a matter of seconds, your team—Ghost included, like a solid wall of quiet reassurance—are by your side, keeping you upright, asking questions, though their deep, accented voices are muffled as your quickening heartbeat begins to thud in your ears.
Their every touch seems to burn through the thick layers of your kit.
"Kate—Kate," Price is by her side in a few long strides, ducking his head to get on eye-level with her as he points at the two scientists accusingly, though Kate is already on her smartphone, contacting the lab again.
Price huffs like an angry bull trying to protect his herd as he turns his attention back to Dr. Boswel and Dr. Adebayo, who seem to be in a frenzied discussion, watching the way you're cramping and writhing.
"What the fuck is happening to her?" He barks at them, demanding an answer yesterday.
"It's—it's the toxin," Dr. Boswel stammers obviously, blinking up at Captain Price from behind his glasses. "She didn't get the full dose, but it's still—" He pauses, eyes flickering nervously under the captain's glare. "—bad."
Another gut-wrenching moan from you echoes through the briefing room as you squirm in Gaz's embrace, and Price must restrain himself from directing his wrath towards the two men in front of him—it's not their fault, after all.
It's his.
"Oxytocin might help… neutralize the toxin in her body," Dr. Adebayo remarks, clicking his pen nervously as he stares at his laptop screen before meeting Dr. Boswel's eyes, who is waiting for an elucidation.
"The hormone," Dr. Adebayo clears his throat again, clearly uncomfortable, "—not the drug." He clarifies, clicking his pen a few more times.
Laswell lowers her phone and shares a look with Price, holding an entire conversation with one long, meaningful glance, the one learned and perfected over more than a decade of working together, when Gaz's voice breaks through the chaos, calling for attention.
"Cap'n! What do we do?!"
You're not brought back to the barracks but Captain Price's private quarters.
Your squad makes sure to keep you out of sight in your condition; away from prying eyes while Ghost sneaks through the shadows with your quivering form cradled against his chest, carrying you bridal style like you're something fragile, something vulnerable he must protect.
Once safely inside the captain's flat, the curtains are drawn before your heavy gear is stripped from you, all while you don't even bother paying attention to who is grabbing or holding you at this point.
All that matters is someone touching you.
Your brain is mush, reduced to your most simple and carnal desires. No shame nor worry about the needy noises you're making whenever one of their big, strong hands strips another layer of clothing.
"Shit, I think she has a fever," Gaz mutters, cupping your face with both hands as he investigates your hazy, unfocused eyes while you let out another pathetic whimper. "She's completely out of it."
"Get her into the guest bedroom. Down the hall, first door on the left," Price orders gruffly, trying to keep his eyes from wandering up and down the length of your trembling, half-naked body.
"I'll call the senior consultant."
Ghost grumbles a low curse under his breath when your hand brushes over the front of his crotch—by accident or voluntarily this time, he doesn't dare imagine—and leaves the guest bedroom while Gaz and Soap manoeuvre you onto the king-sized bed.
Meanwhile, you don't care about the effect your uncharacteristic behaviour has on your teammates and superiors.
Whenever they try to make you drink or take an easy bite of food—whether it's a chewy protein bar or an overripe banana, because Price has no proper groceries at his place—you twist in whoever's embrace you're in, turning your scrunched-up face away like a petulant toddler.
"I don't wanna," you whine and hiccup, protesting each time Gaz tries to lift the rim of the water bottle to your lips, your speech now slightly slurred, glossy eyes averting their gaze as you breathe shallowly, squirming while Soap keeps you propped up with your back resting against his chest on the bed.
Gaz, who has been trying again to make you drink a sip of water for the past twenty minutes, looks back at his Lieutenant and Captain helplessly.
"Doc said we need to keep her hydrated," Price announces, rubbing his bare hand over his tired face. "Keep flushing that bloody poison outta her system and—"
Suddenly, Ghost's deep, gravelly voice interrupts the captain's speech with a harsh bite to it. "Johnny."
Soap, who has been trying his best to ignore the way you keep grinding your arse against his crotch in this position, ducks his head at the sharp and sudden warning.
"What? 'M not doin' anythin'," he grunts before sucking in a sharp breath as his cock keeps stirring and twitching in his combat trousers, "Fuck, lass, please—"
Soap tries to keep you from moving; his ungloved hands get a firm hold of your hips, but you're practically panting and mewling in his lap, making it harder for him not to crumble under the pressure building up in his dick.
Then Gaz is swift to pluck you out of the Scot's embrace with a disdainful frown, like you're some toy that was stolen from him.
"Don't be a fuckin' perv, Soap," Gaz snaps, cradling you into his arms, where you immediately begin pawing at his black compression shirt, determined to get your palms under it and on his bare skin.
"She can't consent!"
It's Price who approaches the bed then, while Ghost stays leaning against the doorframe, keeping a keen eye on the situation.
"Enough! Both of you," Price barks, eyes flashing before his shoulders drop with a rough sigh. He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Doc said it might help if—"
John stops mid-sentence, clenching his strong jaw. He can't believe what he is about to say, and he crosses his arms over his chest again, feigning control while he internally braces himself for his next words.
"Those doctors said it might help if she… climaxes."
His words hang in the air like a thick fog that no one can quite see through nor think in, and everyone seems to be holding their breath while you finally manage to tug Gaz's shirt out of his waistband, making him cuss under his breath when you go on to lick a long, wet stripe over his exposed abs like some feral lioness, utterly hungry for a taste.
"Shit—Babygirl, no, d-don't—" Gaz stammers helplessly while a rush of heat goes straight to his neck and cock simultaneously, overwhelmingly so.
He pushes you away by your shoulders—and hates himself for how reluctant he is at it—and he winces when your blunt nails claw into his bulging biceps, digging into his skin even through his shirt with another whimper.
"Please, Kyle… Let me—" you mewl, batting your eyelashes up at him. "It—It fuckin’ hurts."
Soap pushes his fists into his eye sockets, heaving a deep breath that turns into a frustrated groan. "Steamin' Jesus, lass, ye’re fuckin’ killin' us here."
"Take a bloody walk, MacTavish," Price orders, pointing his thumb at the door over his shoulder, and while Soap climbs off the mattress, grumbling to himself with an obvious erection pressing against the seam of his zipper, Price addresses Gaz.
"And you, Garrick, take—" He hesitates again, balling his hands into fists at his sides, trying to keep his own body in check at the sight and sounds of you, before he nudges his chin towards the door of the bathroom.
"Take her to the shower to get the fever down and… help her."
The captain's last words are nothing more than a strained grumble.
Gaz gapes at his superior. Soap freezes in his steps at the end of the bed, openly gawking and blinking like he didn't just hear right. Ghost visibly stiffens and shifts his stance, still leaning against the doorframe of the guest bedroom. No one can see the way he grits his teeth so hard he might chip a tooth behind his balaclava.
"But sir—"
Price shakes his head; brows set in a stern frown as he holds Gaz's widened gaze.
"She'd want you to take care of her if she could actually consent to it. And that's an order, Sergeant."
Ghost wants to disagree, but keeps his mouth shut and exhales a sharp huff of contempt instead.
The rest of the men try to distract themselves around Captain Price's flat while Gaz takes you to the en-suite bathroom like he was ordered to.
Not asked, ordered to.
He keeps repeating that in his head as he walks you towards the bathroom door with his arm around your waist, your body listing into his side like you've forgotten how to hold yourself upright. His jaw is set so tight his molars ache.
He's been ordered to do a lot of things in his career. Clear rooms. Hold positions under fire. Drag wounded men through mud while rounds cracked overhead. He's followed every order without hesitation, because that's what good soldiers do—they trust the chain of command and they execute.
This doesn't feel like any of those things.
He keeps the bathroom door unlocked—just in case you faint and he needs help—and lets out a huff when you fling yourself into his body suddenly and the air is knocked from his lungs.
"Easy," he pleads with you while his head dips down, and he inhales your familiar scent before he can stop himself. Sweat and the remnants of whatever lotion you put on this morning underneath your gear before the mission, something warm and sweet that he's caught whiffs of a hundred times before in passing and never let himself think about for longer than a second.
"Easy there, love," he tries again, his trembling hands wrapping around your midriff tentatively.
Gaz hates these circumstances. Hates how the mission ended in such a bloody mess. Hates how excited he is to undress you to your underwear, and he despises that this is how he'll get to have you for the first time.
This is not how he'd imagined it.
He never imagined it. Not in any concrete, detailed way. Not like he'd planned it in his head, step by step—the restaurant he'd take you to first, somewhere nice but not so nice you'd take the piss out of him for it. The way he'd tell you after the second drink, maybe the third, that he'd been thinking about you. Casually. Like it hadn't been eating him alive for months.
He hadn't planned any of that.
Fucking liar.
You make a sound against his chest, somewhere between a sob and a moan, and your fingers twist into the wet fabric of his compression shirt, tugging weakly.
"Kyle… Kyle, I need—"
"I know," he murmurs, and his voice comes out rougher than he intends. "I know, love. C'mon."
He manoeuvres you towards the shower, reaching past you to turn the dial to lukewarm. The water sputters, then hisses to life against the tile, and steam begins to curl at the edges of the glass.
You're still in your underwear—plain, standard issue, nothing designed to be sexy—and it doesn't matter, because the sight of you trembling and desperate in front of him with water beginning to mist across your skin is doing things to his head that no amount of mental discipline can counter.
He starts to dismantle his assault rifle in his head.
You stumble into the shower cabin and he follows, still fully clothed. The water hits his chest and soaks through his compression shirt in seconds, plastering the fabric to his skin, and the cold shock of it helps. Briefly.
Bolt. Firing pin. Cam pin.
"C'mon, Babygirl," he coos at you as he turns your quivering body in his embrace until your back is flush against his chest. One arm wraps tightly below your breasts, forearm pushing up against the swell of them through the soaked fabric of your bra, and he tries, and fails miserably, not to take a long look over your shoulder.
Buffer tube. Buffer spring. Buffer.
You melt against his body and his cock throbs in his combat trousers, straining against his briefs uncomfortably. The water is doing nothing for the heat radiating off your skin. If anything, you're burning hotter, pressing back into him with small, involuntary rolls of your hips that make his breath stutter.
Lower receiver. Trigger assembly. Trigger—
"Please," you whimper, and his entire train of thought derails.
Your head lolls back against his shoulder, exposing the column of your throat, and he can see the way your pulse hammers beneath the surface, rapid and frantic. Your hips buck against his hand when he finally—finally—lets it trail down over your lower belly, his calloused fingers dragging across the wet skin, feeling the muscles jump and twitch beneath his touch.
"Yes—yes—yes—" you chant breathlessly, and your hips cant forward, chasing his hand with a desperation that makes something crack open in his chest.
Fuck—fuck—fuck—fuck.
He cups your pussy through your knickers and the heat of you against his palm nearly makes his knees buckle. He can feel you through the thin, soaked fabric and he's not sure if the wetness is from the shower stream or if it's all you.
His chest is heaving when he finally gathers enough courage to dip his long fingers beneath the waistband of your underwear. His jaw clenches and his mind grasps desperately for the drills again—clear left, clear right, move to the next room, check your corners—anything to stay anchored while you let out a moan that echoes off the tile walls and punches straight through him.
You're so wet, so swollen, it's obscene. His fingers slide through your folds with zero resistance and the groan that rips from deep within his chest is involuntary, guttural, ashamed. He can feel your arousal ooze from your entrance, slick and hot, and he can already tell how tight you'd feel clenching around his fingers, how you'd—
No. He's not going there.
"Fuck," he curses under his breath, more to himself than to you. "I'm only doin' this for you, Babygirl. This is only about you."
He says it like a prayer. Like if he repeats it enough, it'll be true.
His fingers press on your clit, pulsing and twitching already, and he starts rubbing small, firm circles over it, adjusting the pressure when your breath hitches or your thighs clamp around his wrist. He reads your body like he reads a room. Methodically, attentive, and cataloguing every reaction.
You writhe and squirm in his tight grip, your nails digging into the arm he has banded around your ribs, and every sound you make, every whimper, and stuttered gasp of his name, chips away at the wall he's trying to keep standing between following an order and wanting this.
"M-more, Kyle, please!"
Gaz curses himself, but he gives you more.
Two fingers pressing into you, slow and careful despite every instinct screaming at him to give you what you're begging for. You clench around him immediately, hot and tight and silky, and his cock kicks in his trousers so hard he must bite the inside of his cheek to keep from groaning.
He curls his fingers, searching for the spot that makes your thighs shake, and when he finds it, you keen so loudly the sound bounces off every hard surface in the small bathroom.
"That's it," he murmurs against your temple, his lips brushing your skin without quite kissing. "That's it, love. Let go for me."
He's not sure when he started talking to you like this. Somewhere between the first touch and the second, the clinical detachment he'd been clinging to crumbled and something else took its place—something tender and fierce and terrifyingly honest.
Your first orgasm hits you hard enough to make your entire body seize in his arms, your back arching away from his chest as a strangled cry tears from your throat. He holds you through it, fingers still working, still pressing and giving, because even as the tremors wrack through you and your legs give out, he can feel your body already winding up again, the toxin refusing to let you rest.
"Shh, shh, I've got you," he breathes, adjusting his grip to take your full weight when your knees buckle entirely. "I've got you."
You cum again two minutes later, and then again after that, and again, and Gaz loses count somewhere around the fifth or sixth time, when his fingers are cramping and his arm is trembling from holding you upright and the water has long since turned cold.
Each time, he thinks it'll be enough, and each time, your body coils tight again within minutes, the toxin driving you right back to the edge with a cruelty that makes him want to put his fist through the tile.
He doesn’t want to imagine what a full dose would have done to you. To anyone.
When you tell him that you're hurting—repeatedly, begging him to make you cum in that desperate, broken tone of yours—the young Sergeant is sure something dies inside him on the spot.
"Kyle—Kyle, I need more, I need you to—please—Fuck, please!"
He knows what you're asking for. You're grinding back against his cock, which has been rock-hard and aching for what feels like hours, and every roll of your hips sends a jolt of white-hot arousal through him that he must physically brace against.
"I can't," he grits out, and it takes everything in him. "Christ. I can't do that to you. Not like this."
"Please—"
"No, Babygirl." His voice cracks on the word, and he presses his forehead against the back of your head, squeezing his eyes shut. "Not like this."
He drops to his knees instead.
The tile is hard and unforgiving under his kneecaps and the now cold water from the shower hits the back of his neck, but he barely registers any of it as he turns you to face him and hooks one of your legs over his shoulder.
He looks up at you once—your hazy, unfocused eyes, the way your chest heaves, the water running in rivulets down your body—and then he leans forward and drags his tongue through your folds in one long, broad stroke.
The sound you make is devastating.
Your hands fly to his head, fingers scrabbling for purchase on his wet hair, and your hips jerk forward so violently he must grip your thigh to keep you steady. He groans against you, he can't help it, and the vibration makes you cry out again, blunt nails raking over his scalp.
Gaz eats you like he's starving for it, because the truth he can't say out loud is that he is.
He's thought about this. Dreamed about it. Wanked to the idea of it in the dark of his bunk with his fist shoved against his mouth to keep quiet. And now he's here, on his knees in his Captain's shower with cold water running down his back and your taste flooding his mouth, and it's everything and nothing like what he imagined because you're not choosing this—you're not choosing him—and that knowledge sits in his chest like a brick.
But he doesn't stop.
Gaz licks and sucks and fucks you with his tongue until his jaw aches and your thighs are shaking so badly you can barely stand, even with his hands gripping your hips. He makes you cum on his mouth twice, then thrice, pressing his face into you each time your body locks up, working you through it with relentless, single-minded focus because if he stops to think about what this means, about what happens after, he'll fall apart.
When he finally pulls back, his lips are swollen, his chin is slick and his cock is so hard it genuinely hurts. You're still whimpering, still reaching for him, still not done, and the toxin is still pumping through your veins with no sign of stopping.
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and exhales a shaky breath, pressing his forehead against your hip.
"I need—" His voice is wrecked. He swallows hard, then tries again. "I need a minute."
Not because he's tired, or his fingers are cramped and his jaw is sore and his knees are bruised from the tile. No.
But if he stays on his knees in front of you for one more second, he's going to give you what you're begging for, and he will never forgive himself for it.
He stands on unsteady legs, turns the shower off, and reaches for the towel hanging on the rack outside the cabin. His hands are shaking as he wraps it around, and you cling to it loosely, swaying on your feet.
"C'mon," he says, guiding you towards the door with one hand on the small of your back. His voice has steadied, but his eyes haven't. "Let's get you dried off."
You're protesting. He's cursing under his breath. There's shuffling, a stumble, and then he grabs the door handle and swings it open—
And Soap nearly falls backwards into the bathroom.
"Soap!"
The Scotsman catches himself on the doorway, one hand gripping the frame as he glances over his shoulder with a look that's not even remotely sheepish enough for a man who was clearly pressing his ear to the door thirty seconds ago.
Gaz is still wearing his clothes, though they're completely drenched—his compression shirt is a second skin, his combat trousers heavy with water, boots squelching on the tile. He's holding you by the forearm as you stand next to him, loose towel wrapped around your body, still trembling, still making those small, desperate sounds in the back of your throat.
"The fuck, mate? Did you eavesdrop on us?"
Soap shrugs as he straightens up, adjusting his stance in a way that's clearly meant to disguise the state of his trousers. "Was jus' checkin' on ye."
"Checking on—" Gaz's jaw works, nostrils flaring. He wants to snap, wants to shove Soap back into the hallway and slam the door, but he's running on fumes and you're leaning into him again, your face pressed against his soaked chest, mumbling incoherently.
"She needs—" Gaz starts, then stops. Looks down at you, back up at Soap. Something heavy passes between the two men, unspoken but understood.
"She needs more than I can give her right now," he finishes quietly, and the admission costs him more than any of them will ever know.
Soap's expression shifts. The boyish smirk drops, replaced by something sobered, and he gives Gaz a short nod—the kind they exchange in the field when one of them is spent and the other takes point.
"A'right," Soap answers, surprisingly steady, rolling his broad shoulders. "Ah’ve got 'er."
Gaz transfers you into Soap's waiting arms with a gentleness that borders on reverent—one hand on the back of your head, the other guiding your shoulders—and he doesn't let go until he's sure Soap has you secure.
Then he walks past them both, water dripping from every inch of him, and doesn't look back.
He makes it to the kitchen before his hands start shaking badly enough that he has to brace them flat on the counter. He stands there, head bowed, water pooling on the linoleum beneath him, and breathes.
Ghost is leaning against the opposite wall with his arms crossed, and he doesn't say a word.
There is no need to.
Soap carries you back to the bed like you weigh nothing to him; one arm under your knees, the other around your back, the towel slipping loose and neither of you caring, and he lays you down with a surprising gentleness that contradicts every tightly coiled muscle in his body.
He's been hard since the briefing room, balls throbbing uncomfortably. Over two hours of it. The kind of persistent, throbbing ache that sits low in his gut and pulses in time with his heartbeat, and he's been dealing with it the way he deals with most discomfort.
By ignoring it aggressively and hoping it fucks off on its own.
It has not fucked off unfortunately. Truth be told, he’d be worried about himself if it did.
"Right then," he mutters, kneeling on the mattress beside you as he cracks his neck and rolls his shoulders again like he's about to breach a door. "Let's sort ye out, hen."
And that's the thing about Johnny MacTavish—he doesn't agonise. Not the way Gaz does, all quiet guilt and moral calculus. Soap's moral framework is simpler, blunter, built from different materials. You're his teammate, you're hurting, and he can help. Everything else is noise.
That doesn't mean he's unaffected; doesn't mean his hands aren't shaking when he settles between your legs and pushes the towel fully away from your body, or that his breath doesn't hitch hard enough to hear when he gets his first proper look at you fully naked, spread out on the white sheets with your chest heaving and your thighs trembling and your eyes half-lidded, glassy, barely tracking him.
Christ, you're beautiful.
He's thought about this. Fuck. Of course he has. He's not a bloody monk, and you're you.
He's thought about it in the gym when you spot him on the bench press and your face hovers above his, upside down and grinning. He's thought about it on long transports when you fall asleep against his shoulder and he stays perfectly still for hours so you won't wake up. Or when you laugh at his shite jokes that no one else finds funny, when you steal chips off his plate in the mess, when you call him Johnny instead of Soap and don't even notice you've done it.
He's thought about it a lot.
But not like this.
"You with me?" he asks, tapping your cheek lightly with two fingers. Your eyes roll towards him, struggling to focus, and you make a sound that's part whimper, part plea.
Close enough.
"A'right, sweetheart. I've got ye."
He doesn't ease into it the way Gaz did. Where Gaz was methodical, with careful touches, measured pressure, and constant checking, Soap is instinct. He reads you through vibration and sound, adjusts on the fly, follows the frequency of your moans like he's tuning into a signal.
He dips his head between your thighs and licks into you without preamble, broad and hot and greedy, and the noise that tears out of you rattles something loose in his chest.
"Fuck—tha's it," he groans against you, the vibration making your hips jolt, and his big hands grip the backs of your thighs to keep you spread open and steady. "Tha's my bonnie girl."
He's not quiet about it, either. Soap eats pussy the way he does most things. With enthusiasm, commitment, and absolutely zero self-consciousness. Wet, filthy sounds fill the bedroom, punctuated by his own groans and your increasingly incoherent cries, and he doesn't give a single shit that the door is open, and his team can hear every obscene noise he's wringing out of you.
Let them hear.
His tongue works over your clit in fast, tight circles, then broad, flat strokes, alternating rhythm and pressure every time he feels your thighs start to shake. When you try to close your legs, he pins them open with his forearms. When you try to squirm away—overstimulated, oversensitive, too much and not enough at the same time—he follows relentlessly, dragging you back by the hips with a growl that rumbles against your soaked flesh.
"Nuh-uh. Stay still f'me."
He makes you cum with his mouth in under five minutes and then doesn't stop.
Your fingers twist into the sheets, into his mohawk, clawing at his scalp as your back arches off the mattress and a wrecked sob punches out of your lungs. Soap groans in response, the sound reverential, like your pleasure is a hymn and he's on his knees in church.
He keeps going. Lapping at you through the aftershocks, sucking your clit between his lips until you're keening, pressing his tongue inside you just to feel you clench around it, and when you cum again with his name breaking apart on your lips—Johnny, Johnny, fuck yes, Johnny—he nearly blacks out from how hard his cock throbs in response.
His hips have started moving on their own. Small, involuntary rolls against the mattress, his aching cock grinding against the sheets through his combat trousers, and he knows he should fucking stop, should pull his hips back, should focus on you and not the desperate friction building between his body and the bed.
But he doesn't stop.
He is physically incapable.
You taste like honey and salt and something almost medicinal underneath—the toxin, probably, working its way out of your system through your sweat and your slick—and he's drunk on it. Drunk on the way you say his name, how your thighs tremble against the sides of his head, drunk on the wet sounds of his tongue on your cunt and the way you keep pulling his face closer, harder, more.
"God—fuck—lass, ye taste so fuckin' good—"
He's rutting against the mattress in earnest now, his hips snapping in sharp, desperate little thrusts, and the friction is nowhere near enough and exactly too much at the same time.
The sheets are going to be ruined. He doesn't care. Can't. He’s a weak man, and his entire world has narrowed to the taste of you on his tongue and the ache in his junk and the way your body keeps arching into him like he's the only thing keeping you alive.
"Please—please, Johnny, I need—I can't—"
"I know, hen, I know—" he pants against your inner thigh, pressing a biting kiss there that makes you yelp, "—jus' one more, c'mon, give me one more, aye?"
He flickers his tongue, seals his mouth over your clit and sucks, hard, and you shatter. Your thighs clamp around his head, your hands fist in his hair so tightly it stings, and the scream that rips from your throat is ragged and raw and so fucking beautiful that he comes.
Inside his combat pants.
His hips stutter against the mattress and a guttural, muffled groan vibrates against your pussy as his cock pulses and spills, hot and wet, soaking through his briefs and into his trousers. His arms shake, his vision whites out for a second, and he has to press his forehead against your inner thigh and just breathe through it, chest heaving, while you whimper above him, still trembling from your own orgasm.
He pulls back slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and the reality of what just happened settles over him like a cloth soaked in ice water. He stares down at himself, at the damp patch darkening the front of his trousers, and lets out a long, defeated exhale.
"MacTavish."
Ghost's voice comes from the doorway; flat and sharp, dripping with contempt.
Soap closes his eyes, disappointed in himself, exhaling through his nose. "Aye. I know."
"You know?" Price's voice joins Ghost's, closer, much heavier. The captain is standing just inside the bedroom now, arms folded, jaw set. He looks at Soap the way a father looks at a teenage son caught doing something monumentally stupid.
"Get yourself sorted. Now."
Soap doesn't argue. He climbs off the bed on unsteady legs, not meeting anyone's eyes, and adjusts his trousers with a grimace as he shuffles past Ghost in the doorway.
Ghost doesn't move to let him pass. Makes him squeeze by, shoulder to shoulder, just to make it uncomfortable.
"Disgusting," Ghost mutters, low enough that only Soap hears it.
"Fuck off, LT," Soap mutters back, and there's no heat in it. Just shame.
You don't notice the shift at first.
One moment there are hands and mouths on you, voices and pressure and friction. The next, everything is quieter. Stiller. The mattress dips on one side and stays dipped, a solid weight settling beside you but not on you, not against you, not close enough to touch.
You whine at the loss of contact, of heat, of anything, and reach blindly for whoever is there.
A large hand catches your wrist. Gentle and firm, holding it in place.
"Don't."
One word. Low and gravelly, scraped raw like it was dragged over broken glass and wire mesh on its way out of his throat.
Ghost.
He's sitting on the edge of the bed with his back straight and his boots still on, because taking his boots off would mean he's staying, and staying would mean—he doesn't finish the thought.
Price asked him to sit with you while Gaz and Soap pulled themselves together. Asked this time, not ordered, because Price knows that ordering Ghost to do something he doesn't want to do is about as effective as ordering the tide to turn. Ghost agreed with a single nod, and now here he is, and every muscle in his body is locked so tight he might snap a tendon.
You're lying on your side, curled in on yourself, wearing nothing but your sodden underwear again and the ghost of everyone else's touch on your skin. The towel is long gone. Your body is still trembling, still feverish, still caught in the grip of the toxin, and the soft, pained sounds you keep making are doing things to him that he absolutely cannot allow.
He's hard. Has been since you doubled over and moaned and he had to watch your body betray you in front of everyone. His cock is straining against his trousers, thick and heavy and insistent.
Ghost pretends it isn’t. He's very good at pretending things don't exist.
"Simon…"
His jaw clenches beneath the balaclava. You rarely use his first name—none of them do—and hearing it now, in that voice, breathy and desperate and small, is a kind of cruelty he wasn't prepared for.
"You need to drink something," he murmurs, and reaches for the water bottle on the nightstand without looking at you.
"Don't want—"
"Wasn't bloody askin’."
He unscrews the cap and turns to you, and the mistake—the critical, tactical, unforgivable mistake—is that he looks at your face next.
Your eyes are glassy and wet, your lips parted around shallow little breaths, and you're looking up at him like he's the only solid thing in a world that's been spinning for hours.
Not with lust—not the way you looked at Gaz and Soap—but with something quieter. Something that reaches past the toxin and grabs hold of something deeper.
Trust.
You trust him. Even now, reduced to your basest instincts, your intoxicated, unhinged brain still recognises him as safe.
Something fractures behind his ribs, and he shuts it down immediately, brutally, the way he shuts down everything that threatens to breach the walls.
"Sit up," he orders, and his voice is soft yet steady even if the rest of him isn't. He slides one hand behind your head—just his palm, just enough to support your neck—and lifts the bottle to your lips.
You drink. Slowly, reluctantly, with small sips that dribble down your chin, but you drink. He holds the bottle still and watches the column of your throat move with each swallow, and when a drop of water runs from the corner of your mouth and trails down your neck, dark eyes track it all the way to your collarbone before catching himself and looking away.
"More," he says curtly, bringing the bottle back.
You manage a few more sips before turning your head away with a pitiful sound, and he lets you, setting the bottle aside. His hand lingers on the back of your head a moment too long—his thumb brushing once against the nape of your neck—before he pulls it back like he's been burned.
You reach for him again. Fingers closing around the fabric of his sleeve, tugging weakly.
"Stay. Please. Don't—Don't go."
"'M not goin’ anywhere." The words come out before he can vet them, gruff and low, and he immediately resents himself for saying them so quickly, so easily, like a confession slipped out under duress.
He lets you hold onto his sleeve. That much he can allow. That much won't cross a line he cannot uncross.
You shift closer, seeking warmth, and your body curls towards him until your forehead is pressed against his thigh. He goes completely rigid, every muscle locking and nerve firing, and his hands hover in the air on either side of you, not touching, not pulling away, suspended in the unbearable middle ground of a man who wants desperately but won't take.
Another small whimper from you. Not desire this time but pain. The cramps rolling through your body in waves, the toxin still doing its vicious work even after everything Gaz and Soap wrung from you. You're shaking, and not just from arousal. You're exhausted. Dehydrated. Your body is at war with itself.
Ghost is not a gentle man. He knows this about himself the way he knows his blood type and his boot size. It's a fact, unalterable, built into the architecture. He doesn't comfort. He doesn't soothe. He handles.
But.
His hand comes down on the back of your head, and it stays.
Heavy and warm through the leather of his glove. Not stroking just resting, a solid weight against your skull, and you let out a breath that sounds like it's been trapped in your lungs for hours.
You stop shaking. Not entirely. The tremors are still there, running through you in small aftershocks, but the worst of it eases under the steady pressure of his palm, like he's an anchor and you've been drifting.
"Ghost?" Your voice is small, barely a whisper.
"Yeah."
"It hurts."
He closes his eyes behind the mask. His hand presses down just slightly—a fraction more weight, a fraction more warmth—and his throat works around words that don't come.
He knows it hurts. He knows Gaz and Soap's efforts weren't enough. He knows what the doctors said—what Price said—and he knows what would fix it, and he can't.
Not because he doesn't want to. Because he wants it too fucking much.
Simon Riley is not a man who trusts himself with things he wants.
Wanting, in his experience, is the first step towards destroying, and he has destroyed enough for one lifetime. Touching you now the way his body is screaming at him to would not be careful or measured or controlled or gentle.
It would be all consuming, and he would take too much, and he would never be able to look you in the eyes again.
So he sits on the edge of the bed with his boots on and his cock aching and his hand on the back of your head, and he holds himself perfectly, agonisingly still. Just a solid shadow in a bedroom.
You press your face harder against his thigh and he lets you. Your fingers tighten on his sleeve and he lets you. Your breath evens out incrementally but still too fast, still too shallow, though calmer now, and he lets that happen too, guarding it like a perimeter, daring anything to disturb it.
He doesn't know how long you stay like that. Long enough for the light under the curtains to shift and for his leg to go numb beneath the pressure of your head. Long enough for Gaz to appear in the doorway, freshly changed into borrowed civvies, and stop dead at the sight of them.
Ghost meets his eyes over the top of your head. His expression is unreadable behind the mask, but his hand doesn't move from your hair, and that says more than his face ever could.
Gaz nods once and backs out without a word.
In the kitchen, Price is pouring two fingers of whisky into a tumbler and staring at the far wall like it owes him money. Soap is sitting at the table in a pair of Price's joggers, his soiled trousers balled up in a plastic bag at his feet, looking like a scolded dog.
"She's calmer," Gaz says quietly as he enters, and both men look up. "Ghost's with her."
Price takes a long drink. Sets the glass down. Rubs a hand over his beard.
"It's not enough, is it."
It's not a question and Gaz doesn't answer it.
"She's still in pain. She keeps—" He stops and swallows thickly. "She keeps asking. Saying she’s in pain."
The captain stares at the whisky in his glass. The silence stretches, tense and heavy, pressing in on the walls of the small kitchen.
"She needs more than fingers and a mouth," Soap says bluntly, because someone fucking has to, and delicacy has never been his strong suit. Gaz shoots him a look, but Soap holds it, unapologetic.
"He's right," Price agrees suddenly, and the words taste like bile. He pushes away from the counter and stands to his full height, shoulders squared, and for a moment he looks every inch the officer. Burdened, resolute, carrying a decision he'll second-guess for the rest of his life.
"Gentlemen's agreement," he says. His voice is low, steady, absolute. "What happens tonight stays in this flat. No one treats her differently when this is over. No one brings it up unless she does. No one holds it over anyone, including himself."
He looks at each of them in turn—Gaz, then Soap—and holds until he gets a nod from both.
"And we tell Ghost."
Ghost doesn't agree.
He listens to the terms of the gentlemen's agreement from the doorway of the kitchen, arms crossed, stance wide, radiating the kind of stillness that makes lesser men instinctively check their exits. When Price finishes, Ghost holds the silence for a long, loaded beat.
And then: "No."
Price doesn't flinch. "No to which part?"
"All of it. My part." Ghost's voice is flat and final, stripped of everything except the decision itself. "I'll stay with her. I won't fuck her."
Soap opens his mouth—probably to say something spectacularly unhelpful—and Gaz kicks him under the table without looking.
Price studies his Lieutenant for a moment. Then he nods once, heavy with an understanding that doesn't need to be spoken.
"Fair enough." He rolls his sleeves up to his forearms. The mechanical motion of a man preparing for something he cannot delegate. "I'll go first."
No one dares to argue.
Unlike Soap, Price closes the guest bedroom door behind him and stands there for a moment with his hand still on the knob, just breathing. It smells of sex and pheromones, but wrong.
The room is dim. Someone turned off the overhead and left only the bedside lamp, casting everything in low amber light that softens the edges of the furniture and the shape of you on the bed. You're curled on your side, knees drawn up, one hand clutching the pillow beneath your head. The sheets are wrecked; damp and twisted, pulled loose from two corners, and your skin glistens with a thin sheen of sweat.
You look small.
That's the thing that hits him first and hits him hardest.
You're one of his soldiers. He's seen you clear buildings, haul wounded men twice your size to extraction, take a round to the vest and get back up swearing. You are not small. You have never been small or fragile.
But you look it now, trembling and fever-damp and reduced to a version of yourself that he never should have had to witness, and the weight of that sits on his shoulders like a ruck full of stones.
He crosses the room in a few strides and sits on the edge of the mattress. The frame groans under his weight.
"Sergeant."
You stir, your head lifting, and your eyes find his face. They're glassy and unfocused, but there's a flicker of recognition—Captain—before it's swallowed by the next wave rolling through your body. You let out a sound that's half sob, half moan, your thighs pressing together, and your hand reaches out blindly until your fingers catch the fabric of his shirt.
"It hurts," you whisper. "Still hurts. Why does it still—"
"I know." He catches your wrist, holds it. His thumb presses against your pulse point to check, and it’s rapid, thready, way too fast for simply lying on a bed. "I'm going to help you."
He says it the way he says we're moving on that compound at 0300 or I need eyes on that ridgeline. Leaving no room for ambiguity, because if he allows ambiguity into this room, he'll start thinking about what he's doing, and if he starts thinking, he'll stop, and if he stops.
You'll keep hurting. Under his command.
He stands long enough to strip his shirt over his head and remove his belt, and then he's back on the bed, propped against the headboard with you between his legs, your back against his bare chest; coarse salt and pepper hair rasping against your tacky skin. One arm wraps around your midsection, heavy and secure, anchoring you.
"Easy," he murmurs against the top of your head. "I've got you, love."
His free hand trails down your stomach, and your muscles jump and twitch beneath his rough palm. He catalogues every reaction. The hitch in your breathing, the way your hips tilt up to meet him, the small, desperate noise you make when his fingers dip below your navel. The same way he catalogues threat patterns and exit routes.
This is a mission. He is completing the objective. He is taking care of his wounded soldier.
He keeps telling himself that as he peels your underwear down your thighs and off, tossing them aside. As he runs his hand up the inside of your thigh and feels you shake. As he finally cups you and discovers just how wet and swollen you are, dripping on his fingers, he has to close his eyes and clench his jaw against the visceral punch of arousal that knocks through him.
This is the job. You gave the order. See it through.
He works you with his fingers first, because he needs to know what you can take. Two thick fingers pressing into you slowly, carefully, and the sounds you make guts him.
"That's it." His voice is lower now, rougher. "There you go, sweetheart."
He doesn't call his soldiers sweetheart. He has never, in twenty-odd years of service, called anyone under his command sweetheart. The word falls out of him like a loose round, and he can't take it back.
Your sopping hole clenches around his fingers and his cock, already hard and straining against the front of his trousers, jerks so violently he must bite back a groan. He curls his fingers inside you, finds the swollen spot that makes your spine arch and your breath stutter, and works it with a patient, devastating precision.
You cum and gush on his fingers with a broken cry, your body locking up in his arms, and the aftershocks roll through you in long, shuddering waves that he holds you through without a word.
It's still not enough. He knows it won't be for a while longer.
Price reaches for the condom on the nightstand—Gaz found them in Price's bathroom cabinet, a half-empty box, almost expired, shoved behind the toiletries like an afterthought—and tears the foil with his teeth while you keen and squirm against him, already spiralling back up.
He undoes his trousers and pushes them down just enough to free himself, because keeping them on feels like maintaining some essential boundary, some last scrap of separation between Captain Price doing what needs to be done and John wanting what he shouldn't want.
Rolling the condom on is a particular exercise in self-control. His cock is thick, flushed dark when his foreskin slides back, weeping pre at the tip, and every brush of his own fingers against the oversensitive skin makes his abs clench.
He lifts you with ease, one hand on your hip, the other gripping himself, and positions you above his lap.
"Sergeant," he grunts through gritted teeth, "look at me."
Your head lolls back against his shoulder, eyes half-open, and you meet his gaze as best you can. He searches for something in your expression—recognition, maybe awareness, you—and finds enough of it to quiet the loudest of the voices screaming in his head.
"If it's too much, y’tell me. That's a bloody order."
You nod hazily. He doesn't know if you actually processed the words, but he needed to say them. Needed that on the record, if only between himself and God.
He lowers you onto him slowly.
The sound that comes out of him is not one he's ever made before.
You're scorching hot and soaked. Your body takes him inch by inch, clenching and fluttering around him as gravity and his guiding hand ease you down, and by the time you're fully seated in his lap, he's seeing stars and his fingers have left dents in the flesh of your hip.
"Fuck," he breathes, and the word is ragged at the edges, torn from somewhere deeper than his chest.
You moan shamelessly, and the relief in the sound nearly undoes him. Like something that's been wound unbearably tight has finally been given slack. Your body relaxes against his, tension draining from your muscles for the first time in hours, and the change is so visible, so immediate, that it almost justifies this.
Almost.
He starts to move. Rolling his hips up into you, slow and deep, both hands gripping your waist to control the pace. He keeps it measured; long and deliberate strokes that drag against your inner walls and make you whimper with each one, because if he lets himself go, if he fucks you the way his body is begging him to, he'll lose himself entirely.
And he hates—Christ, he hates—how fucking good you feel.
He hates the way you fit around him like you were made for it, and the way your head falls back against his shoulder, how your lips part and you breathe his name—not his rank, not Captain, but John—and the sound of it rushes through him hot and electric and wrong. Hates the wet, obscene sound of your body taking him repeatedly; that his hips are moving faster now, snapping up into you with a force that makes the headboard knock against the wall.
Hates that he doesn't want to stop.
Your eyes squeeze shut, your head tips back as you cry out. "John—John—oh god—"
His arm tightens around your ribs, crushing you back against his chest, and his mouth finds the curve of your shoulder—not kissing, just pressing there, teeth grazing skin, breathing you in. His other hand slides down between your thighs and rubs tight circles on your clit in counterpoint to each thrust, and you come apart so violently in his arms that he has to hold you through it with every ounce of strength he has.
You clench around him like a vice and he follows you over the edge with a bitten-off groan, his hips stuttering, his cock pulsing deep inside you as the orgasm tears through him with a ferocity that whites out his vision.
For a few suspended seconds, there's nothing left. No rank, no mission, no guilt. Just the pounding of his heart and the aftershocks rippling through both your bodies and the impossible, terrible warmth of you around him.
Then reality seeps back in, cold and unforgiving, and Captain John Price opens his eyes and begins the long process of hating himself for every second of the last twenty minutes.
He pulls out carefully, disposes of the condom, and fixes his trousers. When he leans you back against the pillows, your eyes are already glazing over again, your body winding up for more, and the sight of it makes something weary and furious crack behind his chest cavity
He cups your jaw, tilting your face up. "Stay with me, Sergeant. Stay with me."
You whimper, and your hips shift restlessly against the sheets.
Price stands and walks to the door on legs that feel like they belong to someone else.
"Garrick. You're up."
Gaz and Soap take you in turns after that, and it's different this time.
Where the first round was clinical in its own way—Gaz with his careful guilt, Soap with his missionary zeal, Price bearing the weight of command—this his round is rawer.
The boundaries have been breached, and the gentlemen's agreement hangs over the room like a ceasefire that everyone knows is temporary.
Gaz is gentler than Price was. He lays you on your back and settles between your thighs with a tenderness that borders on devotion, pressing his forehead against yours as he pushes inside you.
He goes slow and gentle, and whispers things against your temple that no one else can hear, private things meant only for the space between your mouth and his.
"I've got you," he murmurs repeatedly. "I've got you, Babygirl, I'm right here. I will be here."
He comes inside the condom with a shudder and your name bitten into the skin of your shoulder, and when he pulls out and rolls onto his back beside you, he stares at the ceiling for a long time without blinking, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes.
Soap goes after. He's not gentle—can't be, doesn't know how to be, not with the way you claw at his back and wrap your legs around his waist and beg him harder, please, harder—but he's present.
He hooks your knee over his broad shoulders and fucks you deep, watching your face with a focused intensity that's almost clinical in its own right, cataloguing every reaction, every gasp, adjusting angle and depth and rhythm like he's zeroing a scope.
"Tha's it, sweetheart, take it—fuck, yer so—fuck—"
The condoms run out after Soap's first round.
Gaz discovers this when he reaches for the box on the nightstand and finds it empty, and the look on his face—the quiet oh, shit—would be funny in any other context.
"Cap'n," he calls, voice strained. "We've got a problem."
Price, who has been standing in the hallway staring at nothing, appears in the doorway. Gaz holds up the empty box. Price closes his eyes.
"Then pull out," the captain says flatly. "That's an order."
It should be simple, and it’s anything but.
Gaz tries. He genuinely, sincerely tries, but you're clenching around him so tightly and making those sounds, those desperate and wrecked, grateful sounds, and when your orgasm hits and your walls contract around his cock in rhythmic, milking pulses, his hips stutter and he buries himself to the hilt and spills inside you with a choked groan before his brain even registers what his body has done.
"Shit—shit, I'm sorry, I—fuck—"
He pulls out too late, watches his cum leak from you onto the sheets, and drops his head against your sternum with a devastated exhale.
Soap doesn't even pretend he's going to manage it.
"'M not gonna be able to pull out," he announces with a frankness that makes Gaz want to strangle him. "Jus' bein' honest, Cap."
"You'll pull out or I'll pull you out myself, MacTavish."
And yet Soap does not, in fact, pull out in time.
Price has to physically haul him back by the shoulder, and even then, Soap's cock jerks and pulses as it slips free, painting your inner thighs and lower belly with hot, thick ropes of cum while the Scotsman lets out a string of Gaelic curses that would make his mother disown him.
The room smells like multiple people fucking and sweating and something medicinal—the toxin, working its way out of your pores at last—and you're finally, finally, starting to slow down.
The desperate edge has dulled. Your whimpers are quieter now, tired rather than urgent, and your body has stopped arching off the bed every few minutes.
You're still reaching, though. Still searching for contact, for warmth, for a body against yours.
Ghost enters the room without being asked.
He's stripped down to his black t-shirt and trousers. The balaclava is still on, but his gloves are off, and the sight of his bare, scarred hands is somehow more intimate than anything else that's happened in this room tonight.
He doesn't look at the other men or acknowledge the state of the sheets or the smell or the heavy, post-coital guilt saturating the air.
He simply moves to the bed, sits down, and gathers you against his chest with a practised efficiency that suggests he's been rehearsing this moment in his head for the last two hours.
You go willingly. Boneless, exhausted, trembling with the last dregs of the toxin and the cumulative aftermath of more orgasms than your body was designed to handle in one night. Your face presses into the crook of his neck, your fingers curl loosely in the front of his shirt, and you let out a breath that sounds like surrender.
Ghost pulls the duvet up over both of you. One arm settles around your back securely. His other hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, fingers curling into your hair, and he holds you against him like he's shielding you from blast radius.
"Go to sleep," he says quietly. An order and a request and a plea all compressed into three words.
You make a small, incoherent sound against his throat.
"I know." His hand moves over your hair, slowly and gentle. "Sleep."
Price watches from the doorway for a moment. Then he pulls the door halfway closed and leaves the Lieutenant to his vigil.
In the kitchen, the captain pours himself another whisky—three fingers this time—and drinks it standing up, staring at the drawn curtains. Gaz is in the shower. Soap is sprawled on the sofa in the living room, one arm over his eyes, dead to the world.
Price's phone buzzes. Laswell.
How is she?
He stares at the screen for a long time. Types and deletes three different responses before finally settling on one.
Handled. Debrief in the morning.
He sets the phone face-down on the counter and finishes his drink.
Hours later, you wake up slowly, like surfacing from deep water.
The first thing you register is warmth. A wall of it, solid and breathing, pressed against your back. An arm draped over your waist, heavy with sleep. Fingers loosely tangled in yours against your sternum.
The second thing you register is that you are naked, sore in places you don't want to think about, and your mouth tastes like the inside of a boot.
The third thing is the balaclava.
You can feel it, the knitted fabric against the back of your neck, and the slow, even exhale of breath warming your skin through the cloth. The chest behind you rises and falls in the deep, steady rhythm of genuine sleep, which means the Lieutenant trusts this room enough to have let himself go under.
Which means something, though you're too foggy to figure out what.
You shift slightly, testing your body. Everything aches. Your thighs, your hips, your abs, your jaw for some reason, and there's a deep, bone-level exhaustion settled into your muscles that reminds you of the tail end of a bad flu.
The cramps are gone, though. The tingling, the feverish heat, the desperate, clawing need—all of it has receded, leaving behind a hollow, wrung-out emptiness.
And memory. Fragments of it. Arriving in pieces like delayed radio transmissions.
Kyle's hands shaking as he touched you. I'm only doin' this for you, babygirl. Johnny's mouth on you, hot and relentless. The sound he made against your thighs.
The shower. The water. Voices.
John.
Your eyes open wide and your body goes rigid, and the arm around your waist tightens reflexively. Ghost pulling you closer in his sleep, an unconscious response to a perceived threat, even though the threat is just you waking up and remembering.
You lie very still.
The flat is quiet. Early morning light edges around the curtains, pale and grey, and somewhere in the distance, you can hear the muffled sounds of the base waking up—vehicles, a distant shout, the rhythmic thud of boots on tarmac.
You don't move, don't speak. You stare at the wall and breathe and try to organise the wreckage in your head into something you can process.
Behind you, Ghost's breathing changes. Shifts from deep and even to something shallower, more aware. His arm tenses around you, a brief contraction of muscle, there and gone, and you know the exact moment he wakes up, because his entire body goes perfectly, absolutely still.
Neither of you says a word.
His hand is still tangled with yours against your bare chest. His thumb rests against your knuckle. But he doesn't pull away.
The silence stretches. Not uncomfortable, exactly. Heavy. Full of things that need to be said and won't be. Not now, certainly not yet, and maybe not ever. And there is a fragile, terrified understanding that what happened in this room changed the molecular structure of something that can never be unchanged.
Finally, after what feels like an hour but is probably two minutes, Ghost speaks.
"How do you feel?"
You consider the question. Really consider it, not the reflexive I'm fine that sits on your tongue out of habit.
"Like shit," you answer honestly. Your voice is wrecked, raspy, and it hurts to talk.
Then, so quietly you almost miss it, he answers, "Yeah."
His thumb moves once. A single, slow stroke across your knuckle.
Then he lets go of your hand, carefully disentangles himself from around you, and gets up without another word. You hear his boots being pulled back on. The soft click of the door.
You lie in the bed that smells like all four of them and none of yourself, and you stare at the wall, and you breathe.
Summary: In which you save the realm by fucking your husband
TW: SMUT, Voyeurism
WC: 13K
The royal box had been an exquisite torture.
All day, you had sat among the lords and ladies of the Reach, the velvet cushion beneath you doing absolutely nothing to comfort the restless ache that had taken root deep in your belly. The sun had beaten down on the tourney grounds, the air thick with the smell of trampled grass and churned earth and the distant roasting meat from the feast-fires, but you had barely noticed any of it. Your attention had been fixed entirely, hopelessly, on the black knight.
Your husband. Every time his black destrier thundered down the lists, every time his black armor caught the sunlight and gleamed like polished obsidian, every time his lance shattered against an opponent's shield in an explosion of splinters, you felt it in the pit of your stomach, a clench, a slow molten roll of heat that had nothing to do with the summer sun. Your fingers gripped the arms of your chair. Your thighs pressed together beneath your gown, shifting against the wetness that had gathered there. Your breath came shallow and quick.
He had unhorsed three men before midday. Three, and each time he rode past the royal box you could have sworn he lingered just a moment longer when his eyes found yours. Blue and brown. The gods had given him one eye the color of a summer sky and the other the rich dark of freshly turned earth, and you were absolutely certain they had done it specifically to ruin you.
You shifted in your seat for the dozenth time, squeezing your thighs together in a vain attempt to relieve the throbbing pressure that had built between them. Lady Webber, seated beside you, leaned over with concern in her broad, honest face.
"Are you quite well, Your Grace? You look rather flushed."
"Perfectly well," you managed, not looking away from the grounds. Valarr was circling his horse at the far end, preparing for another pass. The way he sat in the saddle, the way his thighs gripped the horse's flanks, thick muscle flexing beneath dark steel, the easy confidence in his posture, the way he tucked his helm under his arm and ran a gauntleted hand through his hair, that silver gold streak on the left side catching the light—
"The heat," you added, gripping the arm of your chair until your knuckles went white. "It is only the heat."
But it was not the heat. It was remembering how those thighs felt when they were gripping your hips instead of a saddle. It was knowing exactly what that controlled violence looked like when it was unleashed in your bedchamber, when he was buried deep inside you and that same focused intensity was bent entirely on drawing scream after scream from your lips. It was the way his armor hugged his body and the way you knew every inch of what lay beneath, the lean muscle and warm skin, the trail of dark hair below his navel that you loved to follow with your tongue, the scattering of scars from a lifetime of training, the way his stomach tensed and jumped when you dragged your nails across it. It was knowing exactly what that body could do, the sounds it could wring from you, the positions it could fold you into, the seemingly endless stamina that left you wrecked and trembling and begging for more. And being forced to sit in polite company, smiling and nodding and making idle conversation, while he displayed all that power and grace and leashed violence before half the Reach—
By the time the final tilt was called and the tourney began to wind down for the day, you were fairly vibrating out of your skin. Your smallclothes were soaked through. You had imagined, in vivid and increasingly creative detail, at least seven different ways you wanted him to fuck you—bent over the railing of the royal box, on your knees in the shadow of the stands, on your back in the trampled grass with the roar of the crowd still echoing in your ears—and you had reached the point where you no longer trusted yourself to speak to anyone without your voice cracking.
So when the crowds dispersed and the lords and ladies began drifting, you did not drift with them. You walked straight toward the black and red pennants that marked the Targaryen tents.
His squire was a boy of perhaps five and ten, all gangly limbs and anxious eyes, and he was already struggling with the straps of Valarr's vambraces when you swept through the canvas flap.
You did not break stride. "Out."
The boy's eyes went wide as saucers. "Your Grace, I was just—"
"Now."
He fled. The tent flap barely had time to settle before you turned to face your husband.
Valarr stood in the center of the pavilion, still armored, his helm already discarded on a nearby table. His odd eyes found you immediately, and the corner of his mouth curved into a slow, knowing smile, the smile of a man who knew exactly what he had been doing all day.
"My wife," he said. His voice was slightly hoarse from shouting commands over the din of the lists, and the roughness of it sent a shiver straight down your spine, straight to the aching place between your legs. "You dismissed my squire rather abruptly. Have I done something to offend?"
You crossed the space between you in four strides. The tent was warm, lit by a half-dozen candles that cast dancing shadows across the canvas walls. The air smelled of leather and oiled metal and the faint, clean undertone of his sweat, that particular scent of him that made you want to press your nose to the base of his throat and breathe him in until you were dizzy with it.
"You have been offending me all day," you said, stopping so close that the steel of his cuirass nearly brushed your bodice. Your voice came out low and rough, barely more than a growl. "Parading around on that horse. Riding like that. Looking like that. Do you have any idea what you put me through? Do you have any idea how many times I had to press my thighs together just to keep from moaning aloud in front of half the nobility of the Reach?"
His brows lifted slightly, but the smile did not leave his lips. It deepened, if anything, the corner of his mouth curling in a way that was positively smug. "I was competing in a tourney. It is generally what one does at a tourney."
"You know exactly what you were doing. Every time you rode past the royal box, you looked at me. You knew I was watching."
"Enlighten me," he said, his voice dropping into something darker, more dangerous. "What was I doing?"
You reached up and pressed your palms flat against his breastplate. The metal was warm from the sun and from the heat of his body beneath, and you could feel the faint vibration of his heartbeat through the steel, steady, strong, slightly faster than it should be.
"You were magnificent," you said, your voice dropping to barely a whisper. "Every pass. Every impact. When you unhorsed Lord Ashford's cousin, when that lance hit true and he went flying, I thought I might scream. Do you know what it does to a woman, watching her husband ride full tilt with a lance in his hand, fearless, perfect, everyone in the stands cheering his name? Do you know what it does to me, Valarr, watching you dominate every man who dares ride against you, knowing that same ferocity is going to be focused on me the moment we're alone?"
His mismatched eyes had gone dark, his breath had changed, grown shallower. He did not move. "Tell me."
"It makes me wet," you said, blunt and shameless, your eyes locked on his. "It makes me ache. It makes me want to drag you off that horse by your hair and have my way with you in the dirt in front of everyone. I was ready to climb over the railing and ride you right there in the royal box. In front of Lord Ashford. In front of Lady Webber. In front of the gods and every noble house of the Reach. I would have let them all watch. I was so far gone I would not have cared." His breath caught. Through his breeches, you could see the growing evidence of his arousal, the thick outline of his cock pressing against the fabric.
"You are playing a dangerous game, wife."
"I am not playing." You pressed closer, your breasts flattening against the hard steel of his cuirass, your lips nearly brushing his chin. "I have been sitting in soaked smallclothes for hours, thinking about your cock. Thinking about how it feels when you first push inside me. Thinking about how you stretch me, how you fill me so completely I forget my own name. Thinking about the sounds you make when you're close—that raw, broken groan you try to swallow. I have been thinking about it all day, Valarr. And I am done thinking."
He kissed you. It was deep, hungry and consuming, his mouth slanting over yours with a ferocity that matched everything you had been feeling all day. His tongue swept into your mouth, claiming, demanding, and you moaned into the kiss as his free hand found the small of your back and pulled you hard against him. Your body pressed flush against the unyielding plane of his armored chest, the contrast of cool steel against your heated breasts making your nipples tighten to aching peaks. You gasped into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound, his tongue sliding against yours in a rhythm that was pure filthy promise.
You fisted your hands in the collar of his gambeson, pulling him impossibly closer, and he made a sound low in his throat that vibrated through his chest and into yours. You could taste the salt of his sweat, the faint sweetness of the watered wine he must have drunk between tilts, the heat of him. Your body was on fire. Every inch of your skin felt electric, alive, aching. The slick heat between your thighs had grown almost unbearable; you could feel it on your inner thighs, could feel how ready you were for him.
"Help me," you gasped against his mouth, your fingers fumbling with the buckles at his shoulders. "The pauldrons. Get them off. Get everything off. I need to feel your skin. I need your cock inside me before I lose my mind entirely."
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his chest heaving, his lips red and slightly swollen from your kisses. His eyes were blazing with a hunger that made your knees weak.
"Tell me what you want," he said, his voice a rasp that sent heat pooling low in your belly. "Exactly. Tell me every detail, and I will give it to you."
"I want you on your back in this tent." You wrenched one pauldron free and let it drop to the ground with a heavy thud. "I want to feel every inch of you against me without this damned steel in the way." The second pauldron followed. "I want to strip you bare and put my mouth on every part of you. Your throat. Your chest. Your stomach." Your fingers moved to the buckles of his cuirass as you spoke, your voice growing breathier with each word. "I want to take your cock in my mouth and feel you get harder on my tongue. I want to taste you, Valarr. I want to taste your release when you spend down my throat. And then I want you on top of me, driving into me so hard I cannot walk tomorrow. I want to feel you come inside me, hot and deep, filling me up until I can feel it dripping down my thighs. I want you to ruin me, Valarr Targaryen, until neither of us can remember our own names."
He stared at you for a long moment, his breathing ragged, his eyes burning. The bulge in his breeches was straining against the fabric now, thick and unmistakable. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse.
"You," he said, the word barely more than a growl, "are the most infuriating, intoxicating, utterly maddening woman I have ever known."
"Less talking," you breathed, reaching for the final buckles of his cuirass. "More undressing. I want to see what I do to you. I want to see how hard you are for me."
You made quick work of the breastplate, your fingers moving with a speed born of pure, desperate need. The steel plate hit the ground with a clang that echoed through the tent, and then you were pressing yourself against his gambeson, the padded fabric still damp with his sweat, the heat of his body seeping through to meet your own. Your hands slid down his chest, over the hard planes of muscle, down his stomach, lower—
"Gods," you whispered, your forehead dropping to his chest as your palm pressed against the thick ridge of his erection through his breeches. He was hard as iron, hot even through the fabric, and he twitched against your touch. "Do you feel what you do to me? Do you have any idea how much I want you?"
His hands—still gauntleted, curse him—slid down your sides, over your hips, and settled on the curve of your backside. He pulled you flush against him, grinding his hardness against your belly, and there was no hiding what this was doing to him. The thick length of him pressed against you, and you whimpered at the feel of it, at the promise of being filled.
"I have some idea," he murmured against your hair, his voice strained. "I have been half-hard since the first tilt, watching you watch me. Do you know how difficult it is to ride with a cockstand?"
"Then why are you still wearing so many clothes?"
You dropped to your knees. His hands hovered in the air where you had been standing, and he looked down at you with an expression that was equal parts shock and raw, naked want. His cock was at eye level now, straining obscenely against his breeches, and you could see the damp spot where his arousal had already begun to leak through the fabric.
"You are kneeling in front of me." His voice was barely a whisper, rough and desperate. "In a tourney tent. Where anyone could walk in. Where anyone could hear you when I make you scream."
"Then you had better be quick about deciding what comes next." You pulled one greave free and started on the other, your fingers brushing deliberately against the inside of his thigh as you worked. He shuddered. "Though I should warn you—I'm not feeling particularly quiet tonight. And I'm not feeling particularly quick. When you finally put your cock inside me, I intend to take my time."
The second greave came off. You stayed on your knees, your hands resting on his armored thighs, your face tilted up to meet his gaze, your lips parted and your eyes heavy-lidded with want. The candles flickered. The shadows danced. And Valarr Targaryen looked down at you like you were the most terrifying, wonderful thing he had ever seen like he wanted to devour you whole.
"Stand up," he said, his voice rough as gravel.
"Make me."
He reached down and pulled you to your feet in one motion, his hands under your arms, and then his mouth was on yours again and you were being walked backward toward the cot in the corner of the tent. Your back hit the tent pole, and he pressed himself against you, one armored thigh sliding between your legs and grinding against your aching cunt through the layers of your gown. The pressure was maddening, not nearly enough, and the sound you made was absolutely shameless, a desperate, keening moan that would have been heard three tents away if anyone had been listening.
"Yes," you gasped, arching against him, rolling your hips to grind against his thigh. "Yes, please, yes, right there, gods, Valarr—"
He kissed down your throat, his teeth grazing your pulse point, his tongue soothing the sting, and you dug your fingers into his shoulders through the gambeson, your nails biting into the fabric.
"I want you," you said, the words tumbling out of you like a prayer. "I have wanted you since the first tilt. I have wanted you since I woke up this morning wet and aching from dreams of you. I want you all the time, Valarr, every moment of every day. I want your mouth on my breasts. I want your fingers inside me. I want your cock so deep I can feel you in my throat. I want you to fuck me until I cannot remember my own name, until my voice is hoarse from screaming yours, until I am so full of your seed that it takes days to stop feeling it drip out of me—"
He stopped. His mouth stilled against your collarbone. His thigh stopped its maddening pressure between your legs. His hands, which had been sliding down to the small of your back, went still.
"What—"
"My love."
The tone made you freeze. It was tender. Affectionate. Entirely too calm for a man whose cock had been pressed against your belly moments ago, hard and wanting.
You looked up. His eyes were soft now, the hunger banked, replaced by something warm and unbearably fond. And lurking in the corner of his mouth was that quirk, that maddening, insufferable little quirk that meant he was about to say something you did not want to hear.
"I am so very tired."
The words did not register at first. You blinked, your body still humming with unspent desire, your cunt still clenching around nothing, your lips still tingling from his kiss. "What?"
"The armor. You cannot imagine. I have been carrying it all day in this heat. Every muscle in my body aches. My shoulders. My back. My..." He gestured vaguely downward. "...everything."
"I will soothe your muscles. I will soothe every part of you. That is precisely what I am trying to do." You pressed your palm against the hard length of him through his breeches to emphasize your point. He was still rock hard. Still twitching at your touch. "This does not feel like a man who is too tired."
His smile widened. He was enjoying this. You could see it in his eyes, the way the blue one sparkled with mischief and the brown one warmed with suppressed laughter. He was enjoying this entirely too much.
"You are very sweet," he said, and leaned down to press a kiss, soft, chaste, utterly infuriating, to your forehead. Then he gently removed your hand from his erection, his fingers wrapping around your wrist with infuriating tenderness. "But I fear I would be poor company. I can barely keep my eyes open. A man of two and twenty is not so spry as he once was. The spirit is willing, but the flesh..." He heaved a dramatic sigh. "The flesh is very, very tired."
"You are two and twenty. And your flesh is very clearly willing."
"An old two and twenty. The joints begin to protest. It is a terrible thing. The maesters have warned me about overexertion."
"Valarr Targaryen, I swear to every god in the Seven Kingdoms, if you do not put your cock inside me right now—"
"Perhaps tomorrow, my love." He stepped back, "After a proper night's rest. When my strength has returned. Then I will be able to give you the attention you deserve." His voice dropped, his eyes sweeping over your flushed face and heaving chest and the visible stiffness of your nipples through your gown. "Every. Single. Bit. Of it. I will take my time with you. Make you scream until you cannot remember your own name—wasn't that what you wanted? But I will only do it properly when I am not about to collapse from exhaustion."
He was already moving toward the armor stand, where a simple dark tunic and breeches lay waiting. You stood frozen in place, surrounded by the pieces of his discarded armor, your body still humming with unspent desire, your soaked smallclothes clinging to your heated flesh, your lips still tingling from his kiss.
"You cannot be serious."
He pulled the tunic over his head with deliberate, unhurried movements, covering the sweat-damp linen of his gambeson. He turned back to you, looking for all the world like a man without a care, his hair still tousled and that silver streak falling roguishly across his brow. The bulge in his breeches had—through what must have been monumental effort of will—begun to subside.
"I am always serious," he said, utterly failing to keep the mirth from his voice. "I shall send for wine. Something cool, to help with the heat. You look rather flushed, my love. And your breathing is quite... irregular. Have you been sitting in the sun? Perhaps you should lie down. In the cot. Alone. To recover your strength."
Your mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
"I have not been sitting in the sun. I have been sitting in the royal box watching my husband ride like a god of war and thinking about how much I wanted him to bend me over the railing and—"
"Careful," he said, raising a finger, his expression one of mock concern. "The canvas walls, remember? And I am so very weary I might faint at the details. Think of my delicate constitution."
You picked up the nearest object—a gauntlet—and hurled it at his head.
He caught it. One handed. Without looking away from your face. The man had been trained by knights of the Kingsguard since he could walk, and he caught it like it was a ball tossed by a child. He turned the gauntlet over in his hands, his smile widening into something that was pure, unrepentant mischief.
"Tomorrow, my love," he said, his voice dropping into something lower, something that promised and teased in equal measure. His eyes swept over you, lingering on your parted lips, on the flush that extended down your throat, on the way your hands were still clenched into fists at your sides. "I give you my word. Tomorrow, I will make you forget your own name. Tomorrow, I will have you in every way you described and several you have not yet imagined. Tomorrow, you will be so thoroughly satisfied that you will not be able to look at a tourney field without blushing for the rest of your life."
"Tomorrow," you repeated, your voice flat with disbelief and frustration and—gods help you—reluctant amusement.
"Tomorrow," he confirmed. And then he was at the tent flap, lifting the canvas, pausing just long enough to look back over his shoulder. His eyes raked over you one last time, and there was a flash of heat in them—a glimpse of the hunger he was so carefully restraining, a promise that he was suffering too, that every moment of this tease was costing him as much as it was costing you.
"Dream of me," he said, his voice a low, rough murmur that sent one last shiver down your spine. "Dream of what I'm going to do to you. In detail. I want a full report in the morning." And he winked.
The canvas fell closed behind him. You stood alone in the silence of the tent, surrounded by candlesmoke and the scent of him, your body still aching and your pride still smarting and your heart still racing and your cunt still throbbing with the orgasm he had denied you.
"Tomorrow," you muttered to the empty air, already beginning to smile despite yourself—a slow, predatory smile that promised retribution. "We shall see about tomorrow, my prince. You have made a grave tactical error. You have given me an entire night to plan." And somewhere outside the tent, you could have sworn you heard him laugh.
—
You woke to heat, a deep, liquid heat that was already pooling low in your belly, already drawing your thighs apart with an urgency that bordered on involuntary, already dragging you up from the depths of a dream you couldn't quite remember, a dream full of shadows and steel and a voice murmuring promises against your skin. Your body was responding before your mind could catch up, back arching slightly off the furs, fingers twisting in the linen sheets, a soft, confused sound escaping your lips that was half whimper, half question.
And then you felt it. The slow, deliberate, devastating drag of a tongue through your most intimate folds.
Your eyes flew open with a gasp that tore from somewhere deep in your chest. The world was waking up around you, ordinary and routine and utterly indifferent to the fact that beneath the furs, between your legs, was a head of brown hair with a distinctive streak of silver gold threading back from the temple like a bolt of lightning frozen in time.
"Valarr—" His name came out as a croak, half confusion, half moan, because his tongue had just circled the sensitive bud at the apex of your sex with devastating precision and your hips bucked entirely without your permission, your thighs clamping briefly against his ears before he pressed them back open with firm, unhurried hands. "What—what are you—isn't it—oh gods—"
He did not lift his head. He did not stop. He did not even acknowledge that you had spoken beyond a low, pleased hum that vibrated against your cunt and made your eyes roll back. His tongue flattened and dragged upward through your folds with a languid, unhurried thoroughness that spoke of a man who had all the time in the world and intended to use every single moment of it to reduce you to incoherence. One of his hands was splayed across your lower belly, holding you steady, pinning you to the cot with a casual possession that made your blood sing. The other was hooked under your right thigh, fingers dimpling your flesh, keeping you spread open for his attentions with an implacable gentleness that was somehow more devastating than force.
"Good morrow," he murmured against your cunt, the words shaped directly into your slick, heated flesh, and the vibration of his voice made you gasp and clutch at the furs beneath you.
"Isn't it—" You lost the words entirely as his tongue slipped inside you, just briefly, a teasing thrust that curled upward and made your hips roll in a helpless, seeking rhythm. "Isn't it a jousting day? The—the lists—you should be—you should be preparing—"
He hummed against you, a low sound of consideration, and the vibration coupled with the slow circle his tongue was tracing around your pearl nearly made you forget your own name, let alone your question. "The jousts have been suspended."
Your mind, hazy with pleasure and sleep and the insistent, expert pressure of his mouth, struggled to process this information with anything resembling coherence. "Suspended? Why would they—oh, right there, don't stop, please don't stop—why would they suspend the jousts?"
"The Bright Prince," Valarr said, pausing just long enough to press a hot, open mouthed kiss to the inside of your thigh, his stubble rasping against your sensitive skin and leaving a trail of pleasant friction in its wake, "has demanded a trial of seven."
"Who—Aerion?" You propped yourself up on your elbows, looking down at him through the disheveled curtain of your hair. His mismatched eyes gleamed up at you from between your thighs, one the deep blue of sapphires, one the warm brown of aged whisky, both filled with a lazy, predatory satisfaction that made your stomach flip and your cunt clench around nothing. "Aerion demanded a trial of seven? Against whom? Why? What in the seven hells happened while I was asleep?"
Valarr sighed, a warm exhale against your slick, swollen folds that made you shiver from your crown to your toes. "A hedge knight. Ser Duncan the Tall. He struck Aerion to defend a puppeteer girl, and now my dear cousin demands blood and calls it justice." He pressed another kiss to your mound, the tip of his nose nudging against the thatch of curls there. "He has accused the hedge knight of assault and the knight has demanded a trial by combat. Aerion, being Aerion, has escalated it to a trial of seven."
"That's—that's absurd, Aerion is—" You gasped sharply as his tongue dipped back into you, long and slow and curling, cutting off your outrage with a wave of pleasure that made your elbows tremble. "Valarr, I'm trying to—to care about this, it's important, you must let me—"
"I am between your legs," he said, his voice muffled against your cunt, his tongue tracing idle patterns through your folds that made rational thought nearly impossible, "with my tongue inside my wife, and she is asking about my cousin."
"You cannot simply—wake me up like this and expect me not to—to have questions about a trial of seven when—oh, gods—"
He had found your pearl again, circling it with the very tip of his tongue, a feather light touch that somehow managed to be devastating in its precision. Your elbows gave out. You collapsed back against the pillows with a moan that was frankly indecent, one hand flying to his hair, your fingers threading through the brown strands and brushing against that distinctive silver streak that marked him as surely as a banner marked an army. He made a sound of deep, masculine approval against your flesh and redoubled his efforts, his tongue working you with a rhythm that was devastatingly precise, alternating between broad, flat strokes that covered your entire cunt and focused, pointed flicks against your pearl that made sparks dance behind your closed eyelids.
"I am trying," he said between strokes, his voice low and rough with satisfaction, "to apologize for yesterday. For my behavior. For my cruelty."
"You are trying," you managed, your voice breathless and trembling and utterly lacking the sharp edge you wanted it to have, "to distract me from being angry with you. You're trying to lick your way out of the trouble you caused."
He paused, just for a moment, and looked up at you with an expression of mock-innocence that was entirely undermined by the slickness glistening on his lips and chin. "Is it working?"
Your hips were rolling against his mouth now, your body chasing its pleasure without any input from your pride, without any regard for your dignity. "No. Absolutely not. I am still—I am still furious with you—"
He sucked your pearl between his lips, gentle at first and then not, a sudden increase in pressure that bordered on overwhelming, and the sound you made was absolutely humiliating, a keening, desperate cry that you would deny to your dying day.
"You sound furious," he agreed, releasing you with a wet, obscene pop, his voice dripping with satisfaction and something deeper, something hungrier.
"You left me," you gasped, your fingers tightening in his hair, pulling just hard enough to make him hiss. "You left me aching and desperate and so wet I was dripping down my own thighs, and you winked at me like it was a game, like I was a piece on a cyvasse board you'd already captured—"
"It was a game." He dragged his tongue through your folds again, slow and thorough, from your entrance all the way up to your pearl, savoring you like a man savoring the finest vintage. "A very enjoyable game. One I intend to play again."
"For you."
"For both of us." He pressed a kiss to your mound, then another just below your navel, his stubble scraping pleasantly against your skin, leaving a trail of tingling sensation. "I believe the terms of our game included a promise for tomorrow. And tomorrow, my sweet wife, has arrived. I woke before dawn thinking about this. Thinking about you. Thinking about how you looked when I left you—flushed and furious and so gods-damned beautiful I nearly turned around and took you right there on the floor of my tent."
You yanked his hair. Not hard enough to truly hurt, but hard enough to pull his mouth away from where you desperately, desperately wanted it. He looked up at you, his lips glistening with your arousal, his chin wet, his eyes dark and amused and slightly reproachful at being denied his prize.
"I have not forgiven you," you informed him, proud of how steady your voice sounded despite the fact that your thighs were trembling and your cunt was clenching around nothing and every nerve in your body was screaming for him to put his mouth back where it belonged.
"So you've said." He tried to lower his head again, but you tightened your grip, keeping him in place. A flash of something dangerous crossed his features, annoyance, yes, but also interest. He liked this. He liked you fighting back. It was, after all, why he had married you.
"You teased me," you said, and now your voice was steadier, fueled by the righteous indignation that had kept you awake half the night. "You worked me up until I was practically begging—until I was saying please and Valarr and I need you—until I would have done anything, anything you asked, just to feel you inside me. And then you patted my head like a well-behaved hound and sent me to bed alone, aching and empty and so frustrated I thought I might scream."
"I kissed your forehead."
"Worse." You glared down at him, though the effect was somewhat undermined by the fact that you were still flushed and panting and spread open beneath him, your slickness still visible on his face, your nipples peaked and visible through the thin linen of your shift. "It was a forehead kiss. The forehead kiss of a man who knows exactly what he's doing and is enjoying it far, far too much." You leaned up slightly, your grip still tight in his hair. "Do you have any idea how long I lay awake last night after you left me? Do you have any idea what I did, alone in your tent, thinking about you?"
His smile widened, slow and wolfish. "Tell me."
"Hours." You released his hair, letting your hand trail down the side of his face, tracing the sharp line of his jaw, the proud cheekbones, the slightly too full lips that were still wet with you. "Hours, Valarr. Thinking about what I was going to do to you today. Planning. Scheming. Touching myself in the dark while I imagined all the ways I would make you pay for your cruelty."
His eyes darkened further, the pupils swallowing the irises. "You touched yourself."
"I did. Twice. It wasn't enough." You let your hand drop back to the furs. "Nothing I did to myself was enough. That's what you did to me. You ruined me for my own fingers, and then you left me alone."
"Planning and scheming," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your hip bone that was almost reverent. "And touching yourself in the dark. That sounds very industrious. What did you decide? What punishment have you devised for your wicked husband?"
"I decided you need to suffer the way I suffered." You watched his face carefully, saw the flicker of interest, of anticipation. "I decided I would make you want me so badly you couldn't think straight, and then I would deny you. I decided I would tie you to this cot and touch myself in front of you and let you watch, and watch, and watch, and never once let you inside me. I decided I would make you beg the way you made me beg."
He was very still now, his breath warm against your hip, his eyes fixed on your face with an intensity that made your heart race. "That would be a cruel punishment indeed."
"You taught me cruelty. You should be proud."
"I am." He nipped at the sensitive skin just above your hip bone, hard enough to make you jump and gasp. "I am so very proud. My wife, a quick study in vengeance." His tongue soothed the sting of his teeth. "But I notice you are not tying me to the cot. You are not touching yourself. You are not denying me anything. You are lying here, spread open, wet and wanting, letting me taste you."
You smiled. It was not a sweet smile. "Where is your armor?" you asked.
Valarr blinked. The question was so incongruous, so utterly unrelated to the situation at hand, his face still wet with you, your thighs still spread, his cock visibly straining against his smallclothes, that for a moment he simply stared at you.
"What?"
"Your armor. The black plate. The gauntlets. The gorget. All of it. Where is it?"
"In the tourney tent, I imagine." He spoke slowly, warily, as if you were a strange beast that might bite him. "My squire would have cleaned and laid it out for inspection, as he does every morning before a day of—" He stopped. His eyes narrowed with suspicion and something that might have been dawning comprehension. "Why?"
You released his hair and sat up slowly, pushing yourself back against the pillows, drawing your knees together with a deliberate, pointed movement that made his eyes flick down to your thighs with undisguised regret. You looked at him with an expression you had been perfecting since last night, sweet on the surface, sharp beneath, like honey hiding a blade.
"Take me there."
"To the tourney tent?" His voice had gone very careful, very controlled.
"To the tourney tent. Where your armor is. Where your squire has laid it out so carefully."
His brows drew together, a furrow appearing between them. "You want me to stop—" he glanced meaningfully at your thighs, at the evidence of his attentions still glistening on your skin, at the obvious, aching hard on tenting his smallclothes— "this, and walk across the tourney grounds in full view of half the realm, to my tent, because you want to see my armor?"
"I want you to put it on."
The words hung in the air between you like a challenge, like a thrown gauntlet.
Something flickered in his eyes. "You want me to put on my armor."
"Not all of it." You let your voice drop into something lower, something darker, something that made his pupils dilate and his breath catch almost imperceptibly. "Just enough. Just the pieces I want."
He was silent for a long moment, studying your face, reading the intention there. Then he sat back on his heels, still kneeling between your legs, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The gesture was casual, almost lazy, but his eyes had gone very dark.
"You want me to fuck you in my armor." It was not a question.
"I want you to finish what you started yesterday." You sat up fully, drawing your knees together, letting the shift fall down over your thighs, letting him see that you were still in control of this situation despite the fact that your thighs were still slick and your heart was still racing and your cunt was still aching with the emptiness he had left. "You were in your armor yesterday. Every time I looked at you—on the field, in the tent, standing over me with your gauntlets dripping water—you were in your armor. Every fantasy I had last night, alone in this bed with my fingers between my legs, you were wearing your armor. I imagined the sound you would make when you walked toward me. I imagined the cold of the metal against my bare skin. I imagined you taking me in your armor, still sweating from the tourney, still smelling of leather and victory." She paused, watching his face, watching the way his jaw had tightened and his hands had curled into fists against his thighs. "And then you took it off piece by piece and left me standing in the wreckage of it while you walked away in a plain linen tunic like a common hedge knight."
"Like a hedge knight." His voice was flat, but there was an edge to it now, a sharpening.
"A hedge knight would have stayed and finished what he started. A hedge knight would have put his mouth to better use. A hedge knight would have fucked me until I couldn't walk straight instead of patting me on the head and sending me to bed." You raised an eyebrow at him, letting the challenge hang in the air. "So yes. I want you in your armor. I want to feel the steel against my bare skin. I want to hear it creak and clank while you move inside me. I want to remember exactly who I married—the prince who rides like a god of war and fucks like one too, not the man who is too tired and too smug and too busy playing games to bed his wife properly." You tilted your head, letting your gaze drift pointedly to the obvious bulge in his smallclothes. "Unless, of course, you are still tired. Unless yesterday's exertions were too much for you. In which case, I am sure there is a cot somewhere you can nap on while I find other, more satisfying ways to amuse myself at this trial of seven."
The threat landed exactly as intended.
His jaw tightened until you could see the muscle jumping beneath the skin. His hands flexed against his thighs, the knuckles whitening. His breath came faster, his chest rising and falling beneath the thin linen of his tunic. And when he spoke, his voice was a low, dangerous rumble that seemed to vibrate in the very air between you, a sound that sent a shiver straight to your core and made your nipples tighten to aching points.
"Get dressed."
You smiled. Sweetly. Innocently. The smile of a woman who had just won the first tilt of the day and was already planning the second.
"As my prince commands," you murmured, and swung your legs over the side of the cot with deliberate, unhurried grace.
He caught your wrist before you could stand. The movement was so fast you barely saw it—one moment he was kneeling on the bed, the next he was pressed against your back, his chest against your spine, his mouth at your ear, his fingers wrapped around your wrist like a manacle of warm, living steel. You could feel every inch of him through the thin linen of his tunic, the hard planes of his chest, the ridged muscles of his abdomen, and pressing insistently against the curve of your lower back, the hot, rigid length of his cock, still trapped in his smallclothes, still achingly hard.
"You are going to regret this," he murmured, his lips brushing the sensitive shell of your ear, his breath warm and uneven, his voice a promise and a threat and a prayer all tangled together. "When I get you in that tent, surrounded by my armor, with no one to hear you scream and nowhere to run and nothing between us but steel and need—you are going to regret every single moment of bratty defiance you have given me this morning. Every sharp word. Every wicked look. Every time you pulled my hair and stopped my tongue and denied me what is mine."
His free hand slid around your waist, palm flat against your belly, fingers splayed wide, pulling you back against him so you could feel exactly how hard he was, exactly how much he wanted you.
"I am going to bend you over my shield," he continued, his voice dropping to a whisper that was somehow more terrifying than a shout, "and fuck you until you cannot remember your own name. I am going to take you against the armor stand and let the whole camp hear you scream. I am going to put you on your knees in the middle of my war gear and use that clever mouth until tears are running down your cheeks and you are begging me—begging me, the way you made me beg with your eyes yesterday—to let you come. And I am not going to let you. Not until you have apologized. Not until you have taken back every insolent word. Not until you have admitted, out loud, that you are mine and that no one else—no hedge knight, no high lord, no god on earth or in the heavens—could ever satisfy you the way I do."
His teeth grazed your earlobe, a sharp, bright spark of sensation that made you gasp and arch against him involuntarily.
"Do you understand me?"
You turned your head just enough to meet his eyes. Blue and brown. Burning with a fire that matched your own. The dragon's eyes, you thought, and felt a thrill of something that was half fear and half desperate, aching want.
"Prove it," you said, your voice steady despite the trembling in your thighs. "Put on the armor. Show me the prince I married. And then maybe—maybe—I'll let you have what you want."
You pulled your wrist free with a sharp twist, stood, and began to dress with hands that only trembled a little. Behind you, you heard him exhale, a long, slow breath, the breath of a man steadying himself for battle.
—
Valarr walked a half-step behind you the entire way, close enough that the heat radiating from his body seeped through the thin fabric of your gown like a fever you couldn't shake, close enough that when you passed through a narrow gap between two pavilions his hand found the curve of your backside and squeezed hard enough to make you stumble mid stride, his fingers digging into the soft flesh with proprietary confidence before delivering a sharp, stinging slap that echoed in the confined space. You shot him a glare over your shoulder, heat flooding your cheeks. He smiled back, utterly unrepentant, his eyes glittering with dark promise and the kind of smug satisfaction that made you want to slap him and kiss him in equal measure.
The camp churned with the news of the trial of seven like a kicked anthill. Everywhere you looked, men and women clustered in tight knots, speaking in low, urgent voices that hummed with equal parts dread and morbid fascination. You caught fragments as you passed, snippets of conversation that floated past your ears barely registered—"Aerion Brightflame," spoken with the particular revulsion reserved for mad dogs, and "the hedge knight, seven feet if he's an inch, and the Reachmen have flocked to his banner," and "who in the Seven Hells will stand for the accuser against a prince of the blood?"—but the words washed over you like water over stone. Your focus had narrowed to a single point, a lodestone pulling you inexorably forward: the black and red pennants of the Targaryen tourney tent, snapping and twisting in the morning breeze ahead, their fabric tongues of dragonfire against the pale blue sky.
His squire was waiting outside, a gangly boy of perhaps fifteen with anxious eyes that darted about like startled sparrows and a perpetually worried expression etched into the soft planes of a face still waiting for its first proper shave. He straightened so abruptly when he saw you both approaching that he nearly tripped over his own feet, relief flickering across his features like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.
"Your Grace—"
"Leave us," Valarr said, not breaking stride, not sparing the boy so much as a glance. "Stand guard. No one enters this tent. Not the hand himself. Not the High Septon. Not the Stranger incarnate. Do you understand?"
The boy's eyes went very wide, the whites showing all around the dark irises. He swallowed audibly, his prominent Adam's apple bobbing. "Yes, my prince. No one. Absolutely no one. I will guard the tent with my life. I swear it on my mother's—"
"See that you do."
Valarr held the tent flap open for you, the heavy canvas lifted high on his forearm, and you stepped inside, the cooler shadows of the interior washing over your flushed skin like a balm.
The space within was exactly as you remembered it from yesterday, you walked to the center of the tent, the trampled grass soft beneath your slippers, and turned to face him with deliberate slowness, letting him see the curve of your smile, the arch of your brow.
"Well, my prince," you said, your voice pitched light and teasing, a silk-wrapped needle, "shall we begin?"
He was already reaching for the gambeson draped over the stand, the padded linen garment rustling as he lifted it. "You wanted to put me in my armor. Put me in my armor. Every piece. Every buckle. Every strap."
"I want you to tell me," you said, stepping close enough that the hem of your gown brushed against his boots, taking the padded garment from his hands with deliberate slowness, your fingers dragging across his knuckles, "what you're going to do to me. Every detail. Every moment. While I dress you piece by piece."
His eyes darkened, the pupils swallowing the violet and the black alike. "You want a story?"
"I want a promise." You shook out the gambeson, holding it open for him. "I want to hear exactly what's waiting for me. Consider it... motivation to survive the day."
He slid his arms into the padded sleeves, and you stepped behind him to help guide the garment over the broad expanse of his shoulders, your fingers brushing the bare, warm skin of his arms, the corded muscle that flexed beneath your touch like a living thing. The gambeson was still cool from the night air, but beneath it, his skin was furnace-hot, radiating warmth through the padded linen. You moved around to his front and began to lace the garment closed, starting at his sternum and working your way down with excruciating slowness, your knuckles pressing against his chest with every pass of the cord, feeling the steady, accelerating thunder of his heartbeat beneath your touch.
"When I have you," he began, his voice dropping to that low, rough register that vibrated in your bones, "the first thing I am going to do is put you on your knees."
You sank down before him, not in obedience but to reach for the sabatons, kneeling at his feet to fasten the articulated steel shoes around his boots. The position was not lost on him; you watched his hands flex at his sides, the tendons standing out against the skin, watched his jaw tighten as he looked down at you kneeling before him with your hair spilling over your shoulders and your face level with his hips. "On my knees," you repeated, your voice soft and feigned innocent. "And then?"
"And then I am going to watch you take my cock out of my breeches. Slowly. No rushing, no tearing at the laces like you're unwrapping a gift. I want to see your hands on me—both hands, your fingers wrapping around my length, your thumbs tracing the ridge of the head. I want to see your face when you first feel how hard I am for you, how much I've been aching for you since I opened my eyes this morning." His voice dropped to something barely above a growl. "I've been half-hard since I woke up thinking about the sounds you made last night. Since I tasted you on my tongue. Gods, I can still taste you—salt and sweet and something I can't name but can't forget. It's been driving me mad all morning."
You fastened the second sabaton, your fingers steady despite the molten heat building low in your belly, spreading outward like wine spilled on silk. You reached for the first greave, the shaped steel plate cool against your palms. "Go on," you said, and your voice emerged steadier than you felt. "Tell me more."
"Then I'm going to put my hand in your hair—" he reached down and suited the gesture to the word, his fingers threading through the hair at your crown, tightening just enough to tilt your head back, to force your gaze up to meet his, "—and guide your mouth to me. And you are going to take me as deep as you can, until your lips meet the base of my shaft and your nose presses against my belly. I want to feel the back of your throat. I want to feel you swallow around me. I want to see tears in your eyes—not from pain, but from the effort, from wanting to take all of me, from being so full of me you can barely breathe." He paused while you buckled the first greave around his shin, your fingers working the leather straps through the buckles, pulling them snug against the padded linen beneath. "But I'm not going to let you finish me that way. Not today."
"No?" You looked up at him through your lashes, your hands pausing on the second greave.
"No." The word was a growl that seemed to originate somewhere deep in his chest, rumbling through the air between you. "Today, I want to be inside you when I spend. I want to feel you come around my cock, feel you clench and pulse and cry out my name so loudly that the whole Red Keep knows who you belong to. I want to fill you up until it drips down your thighs, the way you said you wanted yesterday, the way you whispered in my ear when you thought you were being scandalous. Every word you said to me yesterday—I remember all of it. Every filthy, beautiful, desperate word. And I intend to make every single one of them come true before the sun sets."
You rose, your body humming with anticipation like a plucked harp string, and reached for the cuirass. The black steel was cool and heavy against your palms as you lifted it from the table, the three-headed dragon crest seeming to watch you with knowing ruby eyes. You pressed the breastplate into place against his chest, and he held it there while you moved around behind him to begin fastening the side buckles. His eyes tracked you in the polished reflection of the armor, never leaving your face as your fingers worked methodically down his sides, pulling each strap through its buckle, testing each fastening with a sharp tug.
"Then I'm going to bend you over the armor stand," he said, his voice a low, dark rumble that vibrated through the steel beneath your hands, through your fingertips, into the marrow of your bones. "And I'm going to push your skirts up around your waist—slowly, so I can watch the fabric slide up the backs of your thighs, so I can see the curve of your arse inch by inch before I bare you completely. And I'm going to take you from behind, standing up, with my armor still on. You'll feel the cold steel of my cuirass against your back, hard and unyielding. You'll feel the chill of my greaves against your calves. You'll smell the metal and the leather mixed with the scent of us. But inside you, I'll be hot. Hot and hard and so deep you'll feel me in your throat, in your chest, in the very core of you."
Your breath caught in your chest like a trapped bird. Your fingers fumbled on the last buckle, the leather slipping through your grasp before you caught it again, and you heard him exhale, not quite a laugh, but something darkly satisfied, something that said he knew exactly what his words were doing to you.
"Then," he continued, relentless, merciless, "when I've had my fill of watching myself disappear inside you from behind, I'm going to carry you to the cot and put you on your back. And I'm going to take off my gauntlets so I can feel your skin with my bare hands. I'm going to hold you down, one hand between your breasts, pinning you to the mattress. And I'm going to fuck you slowly. So slowly you'll feel every inch of me, every ridge, every pulse. So slowly you'll beg me to go faster. And I won't. Not until you apologize for every bratty, insolent, maddening thing you said to me this morning."
You finished the last buckle of the cuirass with hands that trembled ever so slightly—you knew he could see it, could feel it in the minute vibrations transmitted through the steel—and reached for the gorget. The throat armor was shaped to cradle his neck, to protect the vulnerable hollow where his pulse beat visibly beneath the skin. "Apologize?" you managed, your voice emerging breathier than you intended, a half-octave higher than your usual register. "For what, precisely?"
"For pulling my hair when you knew it would drive me to distraction. For denying me what we both wanted because you were enjoying the game too much to end it. For threatening to find satisfaction elsewhere." His eyes burned into yours, twin flames of violet and shadow, and his voice dropped to something barely above a whisper, something that was somehow more commanding than any shout could be. "You are going to say 'I am yours, Valarr, and no one else's. My body is yours. My pleasure is yours. Everything I am is yours.' And then, and only then, will I let you come. Not a moment before. No matter how much you plead."
You swallowed hard. Your throat was dry as parchment left in the sun. "And if I refuse? If I'm stubborn and willful and refuse to give you the satisfaction?"
His smile was slow and wolfish and altogether dangerous, the kind of smile that would have made a lesser woman run for the hills. "Then I'll keep going until you don't. I can do this all day, sweetheart. I can bring you to the edge again and again and again until you forget your own name, until you forget why you were resisting in the first place, until the only word left in your vocabulary is 'please.' And then I'll make you wait a little longer, just because I can."
The gorget was in place, the final buckle secured beneath his left ear. Only the gauntlets remained on the table, and the helm—a sculpted thing of black steel with a dragon crest sweeping back from the crown like frozen fire. You reached for the gauntlets, the articulated steel fingers clicking softly against each other, but he caught your wrists in his bare hands before you could lift them.
"Leave them," he said, his voice rough as stone dragged over gravel. "I want to feel you. I've been waiting all morning to feel you."
And then his mouth was on yours. The kiss was a conquest and surrender woven together into a single act. His hands slid into your hair, tilting your head back to expose the vulnerable column of your throat before his mouth descended. His tongue swept into your mouth with a hunger that bordered on violence, tasting of the wine he'd drunk before you arrived, tasting of want and need and barely leashed desperation. The steel of his cuirass pressed cold and unyielding against your breasts through the thin fabric of your gown, and the contrast of sensations, cold metal against your front, hot mouth against your lips, hard steel against your soft flesh, soft tongue sliding against yours, made your head spin like you'd drunk an entire flagon of the Arbor gold on the table.
You kissed him back with everything you had, with every ounce of frustration and desire and desperate wanting that had been building since yesterday, since this morning, since the moment you'd first laid eyes on him. Your hands fisted in the fabric of his gambeson where it showed above the cuirass, pulling him closer, closer, until the steel was pressed so tight against you that you could feel the steel imprinting on your skin through your dress.
"Gods," you gasped against his mouth, pulling back just far enough to drag air into your burning lungs, "I want you. I want you now. Right now."
"Then have me."
He walked you backward with the steady, unstoppable momentum of a tide, his armored body a wall of heat and steel pushing against your softness, until your spine hit the armor stand. The wooden frame rattled violently, a pauldron clattering to the trampled grass with a dull thud, a vambrace following it a moment later, and then his hands were on your hips, the heat of his bare palms searing through your gown, lifting you onto the edge of the campaign table with effortless strength. Your skirts bunched around your thighs, the fabric rucking up past your knees, past midthigh, until the cool morning air kissed skin that was already flushed and feverish. His armored body pressed between your legs, the steel of his cuirass shockingly cold against the heated, sensitive skin of your inner thighs, and you wrapped your legs around his waist with a desperation that surprised you, pulling him closer, the ridges of the armor pressing into your soft flesh in ways that would leave marks, and you didn't care, you didn't care at all.
"Tell me you want this," he said, his voice ragged, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath coming in harsh pants that mingled with your own. "Tell me you want me. I need to hear you say it. I need to know this isn't just—I need to know you want this as much as I do."
"I want you," you breathed, the words spilling out of you like water from a cracked dam, unstoppable and honest and raw. "I want you all the time, every moment of every day, until it drives me to distraction. I am yours, Valarr Targaryen. I am yours and no one else's, now and always, today and tomorrow and every day after. My body is yours. My pleasure is yours. Everything I am is yours."
He kissed you again, harder, more desperately, the careful control he'd maintained all morning finally snapping like an overwound harp string. One hand left your hip and you felt him fumbling between your bodies, working at the laces of his breeches with urgent, unsteady fingers, and then he was free, and you felt the hot, hard length of him pressing against your inner thigh, leaving a trail of slick moisture against your skin.
The first press of him against your entrance made you gasp into his mouth. You were still slick from his attentions this morning, your body still aching and empty from the interrupted promise of the night before, still desperate and ready despite—or perhaps because of—everything. And when he pushed inside you—one long, slow, relentless thrust that filled you completely, that stretched you in ways that walked the perfect line between pleasure and exquisite ache—you cried out so loudly you were certain the entire camp must have heard, certain the squire outside the tent must be blushing to the roots of his hair, certain the news would spread through the tourney grounds faster than word of the trial itself.
"Yes," you sobbed, your head falling back, your nails digging into the back of his neck hard enough to leave crescents in his skin, your inner muscles clenching around the sudden, overwhelming fullness of him. "Yes, yes, yes—"
He took you with a ferocity that drove the breath from your lungs in sharp, punched-out cries, each thrust hitting deep enough to make your vision blur at the edges. His bare hands gripped your hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh hard enough to bruise, pulling you onto him with every driving thrust, meeting your body with his own in a rhythm that was more storm than song. The armor stand rattled and creaked beneath you with the force of his movements, the remaining pieces of armor clanking against each other like discordant bells, and you had to brace one hand behind you on the table to keep from being driven backward onto the scattered steel.
The sound of it was utterly obscene, and you were past caring. The clank of steel against steel. The creak of leather straps straining. The wet, rhythmic slide of your bodies joining and parting and joining again. The raw, desperate, animal sounds tearing from your throat with every thrust, moans and gasps and half-formed words that might have been his name or might have been prayers. You wrapped your legs tighter around his waist, your ankles locking behind the small of his back, and the slight shift in angle made him hit a spot deep inside you that sent white lightning arcing up your spine, that made you scream, that made your inner muscles flutter and clench around him in involuntary spasm.
"That's it," he growled against your ear, his voice dark with satisfaction and unspent hunger. "Let them hear you. Let the whole camp hear who you belong to. Let the gods hear. I don't care. I want everyone to know."
"Valarr—Valarr—I'm going to—I'm so close, I'm going to—"
"Come for me." The command was a growl, a plea, a demand all at once. "Now. I want to feel you."
The command shattered what little control you had left. Your orgasm crashed over you like a wave in a storm, white-hot and blinding, starting somewhere deep in your core and radiating outward in pulses of pure, incandescent pleasure. You screamed his name so loudly your voice cracked and broke on the second syllable, your head thrown back, your spine arching, your body convulsing around him in rhythmic, milking pulses that drew a guttural groan from somewhere deep in his chest. The world went white at the edges, then gray, then nothing at all for a suspended moment of pure, perfect oblivion.
He followed you over the edge moments later, burying himself to the hilt inside you with a final, deep thrust, his face buried in the curve of your neck, his breath hot and ragged against your sweat-damp skin, his body shuddering with the force of his release. You felt him pulse inside you—once, twice, three times, four—felt the hot, flooding spill of his seed filling you, felt it begin to drip down your thighs even before he pulled out, a slow, warm trickle that traced paths down your trembling skin.
For a long moment, neither of you moved. The tent was filled with the sound of ragged, desperate breathing, yours, his, indistinguishable from each other, two sets of lungs working in tandem. The armor stand creaked beneath you with a final, settling groan. The fallen pauldron gleamed on the grass, its polished surface now smudged with fingerprints. Somewhere in the distance, a crier was calling something about the trial of seven, his voice high and thin and utterly irrelevant, a fly buzzing at the edge of a world that had shrunk to the space between your bodies.
Valarr lifted his head from your shoulder slowly, as if it weighed more than his helm, and looked at you with those eyes still hazy with the remnants of pleasure, still dark with hunger despite everything you'd just done, still burning with something that looked terrifyingly like devotion and his lips were kiss-swollen, and there was a mark on his neck where your nails had raked across the skin, and he was the most beautiful thing you had ever seen.
"I believe," he said, his voice hoarse and scraped-raw, the words emerging between still-labored breaths, "that I owed you a proper apology. For my behavior. For my presumption. For everything."
You laughed, a breathless, exhausted, utterly satisfied sound that bubbled up from somewhere deep in your chest and emerged as something between a giggle and a sigh. The movement made him shift inside you, still half-hard, and you gasped at the oversensitive friction. "Accepted," you managed, your own voice barely more than a whisper. "Though I should warn you—if that's how you apologize, I may need to find reasons to be cross with you more often."
—
Outside the tent, the squire stood at rigid attention, his spine so straight it was on the verge of snapping, his face the color of curdled milk, his eyes fixed on the distant treeline with the desperate intensity of a man who was trying very, very hard to be somewhere else entirely. His name was Edric, he was fifteen years old, he had been in Prince Valarr's service for exactly eight months, and he was fairly certain that nothing in his life had prepared him for this.
He had heard everything. Everything. The first moan had been bad enough, a high, breathy sound that had made his ears turn pink and his gaze drop to his boots. The second moan had been worse, drawn out and trembling, followed by a rhythmic creaking that could only be the armor stand, the armor stand, gods preserve him, the very armor stand he had polished that morning, taking a structural battering it had never been designed to withstand. And then there had been words. Words. The princess had said things—things he was fairly certain he should not repeat even under threat of torture—and the prince had responded in a voice so low and rough and possessive that Edric had actually taken three involuntary steps away from the tent flap.
Now there was screaming. Not the bad kind of screaming but the kind of screaming that made his entire body flush with heat and his throat go dry and his brain very pointedly refuse to form coherent thoughts.
He was going to die. He was going to die of embarrassment right here, outside his prince's tent, and the maesters would have to invent an entirely new category of death to explain what had happened to him.
Maybe I should have become a septon, he thought miserably. Septons don't have to stand outside tents listening to—
A particularly sharp cry rang out from within, followed by the unmistakable sound of something wooden and structural creaking in rhythmic protest. Edric squeezed his eyes shut and began mentally reciting the names of all seven aspects of the Seven. Father, Mother, Warrior, Maiden, Smith, Crone, Stranger—
The Stranger, he felt, was particularly appropriate. He was fairly certain he was about to die of embarrassment.
"VALARR—yes—right THERE—"
Edric opened his eyes and fixed them on a cloud that was drifting lazily across the morning sky. That was a nice cloud. Clouds were safe. Clouds did not make sounds that would haunt his dreams for the rest of his natural life.
He was so focused on the cloud—and on mentally reciting every prayer he knew, and on wondering whether it was possible to un-hear something through sheer force of will—that he did not notice the approach of the man until a shadow fell across him and a voice spoke from approximately two feet away.
"Where is my son's armor?"
Edric jumped approximately three feet into the air and spun around with a strangled yelp that he would deny to his dying day.
Prince Baelor Breakspear stood before him.
"Y-y-your Grace." Edric's voice cracked on every syllable, pitching upward like a boy of twelve instead of a squire of fifteen. "Prince Valarr's armor is—ah—it is—it is inside the tent. Yes. Inside. The tent. Where the armor is."
Baelor's eyes, the same deep blue as his son's left eye, narrowed slightly. "Are you quite well, lad? You look rather flushed."
"I am perfectly well, Your Grace. Perfectly. It is only the—the heat. The morning heat. Very hot this morning. Unusually hot. I was just—standing here. Guarding. As one does."
Baelor studied him for a long, uncomfortable moment, then seemed to decide that squires were simply peculiar creatures and not worth further investigation. "Good. I have need of the armor before—"
His hand was already reaching for the tent flap and Edric's soul departed his body.
"Your Grace, wait—"
Baelor stopped, his fingers an inch from the canvas. He had heard something.
A sound. A distinctly human sound. "Oh, Valarr—" The voice from within was high and breathy and unmistakably feminine, stretched taut with something between ecstasy and desperation. "Right THERE—don't stop—gods, don't you DARE stop—"
Baelor Breakspear's hand froze in midair. His fingers curled inward, retreating from the canvas as though it had suddenly burst into flame.
Edric wanted to die. He wanted the earth to open up and swallow him whole. He wanted to be anywhere else in the Seven Kingdoms—the Wall, the deserts of Dorne, the smoking ruins of Valyria itself—anywhere but standing next to his prince's father while said prince was audibly, enthusiastically, thoroughly fucking his wife twenty feet away.
"I—Your Grace, I am under—under very strict orders—" Edric's voice was barely a whisper, his face now achieving a shade of crimson that would have impressed a painter. "No one is to enter the tent. Not anyone. Not for any reason. Those were—those were Prince Valarr's exact words. His very exact words. He was quite specific."
Another sound from within, a rhythmic creaking, the unmistakable clank of steel against something wooden, a low, rough, guttural male groan that was absolutely, undeniably, catastrophically Prince Valarr's voice.
Baelor stood frozen outside his son's tent with his mouth slightly open and his cheeks slowly, inexorably turning the color of a summer rose.
"Valarr! VALARR—I'm—I'm going to—I'm—"
A scream. Female. Ecstatic. Utterly, comprehensively unmistakable. It was the kind of scream that left nothing to the imagination—the kind of scream that painted a very detailed picture of exactly what was happening inside that tent, a picture that Edric desperately, desperately did not want to be seeing in his mind's eye.
And then, as if the scream had not been damning enough:
"VALARR! YES! YES, RIGHT THERE—FILL ME UP—DON'T STOP—"
The silence that followed was deafening.
Baelor Breakspear stared at the tent flap as though it had personally insulted his entire bloodline. His hand, still raised, slowly lowered to his side. His jaw worked soundlessly for a moment—opening, closing, opening again—like a fish that had been unexpectedly yanked from the water and was still trying to process its new reality.
"I..." He cleared his throat. "I... see."
"The armor," Edric whispered miserably, staring at the ground as though it might offer him salvation, "is... occupied, Your Grace."
Baelor's voice, when he finally found it, was remarkably steady for a man who had just been forced to confront the fact that his son was, at present, engaged in activities that would make a Dornish courtesan blush. "Occupied."
"Very occupied."
"Yes—like that—exactly like that—oh, gods, I can feel you so deep—"
"Extremely occupied," Edric amended, his voice barely audible. "Thoroughly occupied. Could not be more occupied if they tried."
A long, agonizing pause. From within the tent came the unmistakable sound of bodies shifting, the creak of the cot—the cot, gods, they had moved to the cot—and a low, breathy laugh that was definitely the princess.
"Well," Baelor said, and his voice had acquired a slightly strangled quality, as though someone had their hands wrapped around his throat, "it is... it is good that they are... that the marriage is... that they are clearly very..." He paused, searching for a word that would not make this situation worse. "...compatible.""
"Harder—HARDER—I want to feel you for DAYS—"
Baelor closed his eyes. He drew a long, slow breath through his nose. He opened his eyes again and looked at the sky as though beseeching the Seven themselves for intervention.
"Right," he said, to no one in particular. "Right. Well. I suppose... I suppose I shall find armor elsewhere. Ser Humfrey Hardyng may have something suitable. He is roughly my same proportions. Give or take. Or perhaps Lord Ashford keeps spares in the armory. For... for emergencies." He paused.
"VALARR, I'M GOING TO COME AGAIN—"
Baelor turned on his heel with the rigid, mechanical dignity of a man who had decided that the only way to survive this encounter was to pretend it had never happened. His movements were stiff, precise, the movements of a soldier retreating in good order from a battle that could not be won.
"I shall go now," he announced to the world at large. He took three long strides toward the main thoroughfare of the camp.
"Your Grace!" Edric called after him, his voice cracking with desperation. "Shall I—should I—do you want me to tell Prince Valarr that you came looking for him? When he is—when he is finished with his—with the armor?"
Baelor did not break stride. He did not slow down. He did not look back. If anything, he appeared to walk faster.
"You may tell my son," he said, his voice carrying back over his shoulder with a strained composure that was honestly quite heroic under the circumstances, "that I wish him joy of his morning. That I am pleased—very pleased—that his marriage is so... vigorous. That I am profoundly, deeply, inexpressibly glad that I did not walk into that tent. And that if either of them ever—ever—speaks of this in my presence, I shall deny it happened until my dying breath."
He paused, just for a moment, and added in a tone of immense, bone-deep exhaustion: "The Seven give me strength."
And then Prince Baelor Breakspear, the finest knight of the realm, disappeared around the corner of a supply tent with the speed of a man who had suddenly remembered an urgent appointment on the other side of the known world.
Edric stood alone, staring at the spot where his prince's father had been, listening to the sounds still emerging from within the tent—a rhythmic thumping now, another rising moan, and something that sounded distressingly like the cot beginning to splinter—and wondered if it was physically possible to die of embarrassment.
It was, he concluded, probably not possible. Which meant he would have to live with this memory for the rest of his natural life.
"Oh—oh—VALARR—"
The rest of his natural life was looking to be very, very long indeed.
pairing: camboy!bobby franklin x f!reader
summary: you're two months behind on rent and terrence knows a guy. the said guy is annoyingly pretty and cocky. it's only downhill from there.
contents/warnings: 18+, explicit smut, discussions of sex work/adult film industry, financial desperation, power dynamics, oral sex (f receiving), breast sucking <3, spitting, vaginal sex, dirty talk/praise, hair pulling, filming during sex, bobby franklin's mouth (this is its own warning lol).
notes: Inspired by this ask, and the 20+ of you who flooded my inbox asking for more. Can be read as a standalone but could also be read as alt universe to my better bobby series.
✶ better bobby series.
"So Terrence told you what I do."
It's not a question.
Bobby Franklin sits across from you in a vinyl booth at Moreno's, which is the kind of diner that serves coffee the colour of motor oil and bacon that's either raw or carbonised and nothing in between. It's 9 AM on a Thursday. You're eating eggs because eggs are cheap and the rent was due six days ago.
He'd walked in with a swagger that bordered on offensive. Bobby Franklin doesn't strut. Because that would require effort and effort would compromise the relaxed swagger.
He moves through space like it's already made room for him. Like rooms rearrange themselves slightly when he enters. Leather jacket despite the California heat, sunglasses pushed up into sandy hair that's a mess in a way that probably took zero minutes to achieve, a thin chain necklace catching the light at the hollow of his throat, and—you'd spotted this immediately, against your will—a small silver hoop in his left ear. He'd slid into the booth across from you with the ease of someone who's never once wondered whether he belongs somewhere.
You'd been here for twelve minutes already. Sitting. Sweating. Running through a mental list of reasons this was a terrible idea and arriving at the same conclusion every time: the rent. the rent. the rent.
"He mentioned it." You push the eggs around the plate. They're overcooked. Everything at Moreno's is overcooked. "He said you were—that you make films."
Bobby's mouth twitches. "Films." He takes a mouthful of the motor-oil coffee. Doesn't flinch. "Yeah. I make films."
He's watching you. You can't help but notice that Bobby doesn't stare the way other men stare, heavy and obvious.
He watches. There's a difference. Staring is passive. Watching is a skill.
You can see it in the way his eyes move: cataloguing, framing, composing. Those eyes. Pale blue, sharp, amused in a way that suggests he's always in on a joke nobody else has heard yet. They land on your face and stay there with an intensity that makes you want to look away and also makes you want to never look away and you're not going to think about that right now. Even in a shitty diner booth with fluorescent lighting and a crack running through the formica, Bobby Franklin is looking at you like he's already thinking about angles.
"And you're—Terrence said you do everything yourself? Shoot, edit, all of it?" you croak out, forcing yourself to swallow a mouthful of coffee.
"I don't trust anyone else with the camera." He says it the way other people say they don't trust anyone else with their car keys. Flat. Non-negotiable. His fingers are wrapped around the coffee mug and you notice—you're noticing too much, you need to stop noticing—the veins on the back of his hands, the way the leather jacket sits on his shoulders like it grew there, the silver hoop catches light every time he tilts his head. "It's a one-man operation. Well." The twitch again. Almost a smile. "Usually two-man. One behind the lens, one in front."
You nod. Push the eggs. Your fork makes a sound against the plate that's louder than it should be because neither of you is talking and the diner is mostly empty. The jukebox in the corner is broken and has been broken since Reagan. Your knee is bouncing under the table. You press your palm flat on your thigh to stop it. It only partially works.
"How behind are you?" Bobby drawls.
Your head snaps up. "What?"
"On rent," he clarifies patiently. "Terrence said you were in trouble. How behind?"
He leans forward when he asks it and the chain shifts against his collarbone and you catch a breath of him leather and something underneath, warm, clean, just skin—and your stomach coils.
You're nervous. You're nervous and attracted and the two are braiding together into something that makes it hard to hold your fork steady.
This would be easier if he were sleazy. If he looked like what you'd imagined when Terrence first explained the arrangement. Some greasy guy with a moustache and a waterbed. Instead he looks like this. Sharp jaw and piercing, amused eyes and an earring, a chain and a full mouth that does that little twitch and you're in so much trouble.
You put the fork down. Two months. You're two months behind because the temp agency dried up and the waitressing gig fell through and you've been living on ramen and the leftovers your neighbour leaves outside her door in tupperware containers that you're pretty sure are meant for the stray cats but you're not proud enough to care anymore.
"Two months," you admit, staring down at the eggs. Not looking at him. Looking at him is becoming a problem.
Bobby whistles. Low. Through his teeth. "Well shit. Landlord breathing down your neck?"
You scoff, swallowing down the bitterness. "He's past breathing. He's at written notices."
Bobby leans back in the booth. The vinyl creaks beneath him. He's got one arm stretched along the back of the seat and the other hand wrapped around the coffee mug and the morning light from the window is hitting the side of his face and you think, abstractly, the way you'd think about a painting in a museum: he's beautiful. Sharp angles. Pale eyes. Cali tan and an ease in how he slouches in his seat.
"The money's good," he says suddenly, tongue poking his cheek as he drags his attention back towards you. "That's the first thing. I'm not gonna bullshit you. It's not Hollywood money, obviously, but for Santa Clara? For a couple hours of work?" He tilts his head. "It'd cover your rent. Easy. One shoot."
You stare, unblinking. Sceptical. "One shoot."
"One shoot."
You pick up the fork again. Put it down again. Your fingers won't stop moving.
"Look—" Bobby leans forward. Elbows on the table. The leather jacket he's wearing creaks with the movement, and he's closer now and the watching has intensified into something that feels less like a camera and more like a hand on your skin. "I'm not trying to pressure you into shit. Terrence vouched for you because I asked him if he knew anyone and he said he knew a girl who was real smart and broke and—"
He stops. Mid-sentence. The watching goes still. There's a shift in his expression. A loosening, a slip, the mask of professional detachment developing a crack.
"Shit," he says softly. Almost to himself. "You're pretty. Real pretty."
You bristle. The flinch is automatic. A full-body tightening that starts in your shoulders and works down, because you know this game, you've played this game, the compliment that's actually a crowbar, the flattery designed to pry you open. Men in diners don't tell you you're pretty because they mean it. They tell you you're pretty because they want something and that something is usually between your legs.
"Don't do that," you say sharply. Your voice is harder than you intended.
Bobby blinks. The crack in his expression widens and what's behind it isn't a game. It's surprise. Genuine, unperformative surprise, the kind that creases the corners of his eyes and makes him look younger than however old he is.
"Do what?"
"The—flattery thing. The buttering up. I don't need you to tell me I'm pretty to get me to agree, I already—" Your throat tightens, and you knot your fingers in your lap, setting your jaw. "I'm already here. I'm already desperate enough to be sitting in this diner talking about—so you don't need to—"
"Hey." His hand comes up. Not touching. Just a gesture. A pause button. "I wasn't buttering you up. I was just—" He runs a hand through his hair, clipping his sunglasses. He looks, for a half-second, almost flustered. "I was looking at you and it came out. That's it. That's the whole thing. You're pretty and my mouth moved before my brain did and I'm—" He picks up the coffee. Takes a long sip. Sets it down. "Sorry. Professional hazard. I notice faces."
You stare at each other in silence.
He wasn't mocking you.
The realisation lands with a warmth that starts in your chest and spreads to places you weren't expecting.
He wasn't mocking you. He was sitting across from you in a vinyl booth and the light caught your face and he thought you were pretty and he said so because his mouth was faster than his filter. And now he's drinking burnt coffee to cover the fact that he's embarrassed about it.
"Okay," you say quietly.
He pauses, cup halfway to his mouth. "Okay?"
"Okay, tell me the terms."
Bobby sets the coffee down. The professionalism clicks back into place but the tips of his ears are still pink and you file that away somewhere warm and private.
"I shoot everything at my place. My equipment, my setup. VHS. I've got two cameras, one static, one handheld. The handheld's the one that matters. That's the one I operate." He taps the table with his index finger. Rhythmic. A habit. "I edit everything myself. I distribute through a guy I know in the valley who handles the duplication and the mailing list. You never have to talk to him. You never have to talk to anyone. Your face, your name, none of it goes on the packaging unless you want it to."
"What name do you use?" you ask, curious despite yourself.
"For me? Bobby." He shrugs. "I'm not creative about it."
"And for—"
"Whatever you want. Pick something. Pick nothing. Some girls just go by a first name. Some make something up. One girl I worked with went by the name of her landlord's dog. Said it felt like revenge." The almost-smile again. "Point is: it's yours. The whole thing is yours. You say stop, I stop. You say no to something, it's no. I don't push. I don't coerce. I don't do anything you haven't agreed to beforehand and if you change your mind halfway through, the camera goes off and we're done. No questions. No attitude."
He says all of this in the same tone he'd use to explain how a camera works. Methodical. Clear. Like he's said it before and means it every time.
"How much?" you ask.
He tells you.
You put your fork down carefully because the number he just said would cover two months of rent and groceries and the electricity bill that's been sitting on your kitchen counter turning into a small paper monument to your failure.
"One shoot," you say again, making sure.
"One shoot," he echoes with a nod. "Couple hours. You walk out with cash."
Hope and desperation surge up your spine, working your tongue. "Cash?"
"I don't do checks. Checks leave paper trails and paper trails make people nervous." He drains the last of the coffee. Grimaces. Apparently even Bobby Franklin has limits and Moreno's coffee has found them. "You don't have to decide now. Think about it. Call me."
He pulls a napkin from the dispenser and writes a number on it in handwriting that's surprisingly neat for someone who looks like he's never filled out a form in his life. Slides it across the table.
You look at the napkin. Look at him. then back at the napkin.
You pick it up, folding it neatly.
"Tomorrow," you say. "I can come tomorrow."
Bobby's eyebrows rise. Just slightly. Then he nods slowly. "Tomorrow works."
He pays for your eggs. You don't argue. You should argue but the rent was due six days ago and the eggs were $2.15 and the pride you'd normally spend on "I can pay for my own breakfast" has been liquidated to cover more pressing debts.
At the door of the diner he holds it open for you. Not performatively. Just does it. And when you pass him your shoulder brushes his chest and he smells like that warm thing again, the underneath thing, and his pale eyes track your face one more time and he says "See you tomorrow" in a voice that's dropped half a register and the warmth in your chest migrates south and you walk to your car thinking fuck, fuck, fuck, what am I doing?
You're covering rent. That's what you're doing.
That's all you're doing.
His apartment is above a furniture store.
You stand on the sidewalk for four minutes before you go up. The building is nondescript. Beige stucco, iron railings, a set of stairs on the outside that lead to a door that needs painting. There's a cat on the landing that looks at you with the serene judgment of a creature that has never once had to worry about rent.
You envy the cat greatly.
You're wearing a sundress because you didn't know what to wear and the sundress felt like a compromise between "trying too hard" and "not trying enough." You changed three times.
The first outfit was too casual. The second was too much. The sundress is yellow and you hate that you care what colour it is.
You knock.
Bobby opens the door and the first thing you register is that he's not wearing the leather jacket.
T-shirt. White, thin, cropped in a way that shows the shape of him underneath and is making it difficult to maintain eye contact. Jeans slung low on his hips. Bare feet on the hardwood. His hair is damp from the shower and pushed back off his face and without the sunglasses holding it up you can see the full architecture of him.
The jaw, sharper in natural light than in the diner's dimness. The earring. The chain, sitting in the hollow of his throat, rising and falling with his breathing.
He looks good in his own apartment. Relaxed in a way he wasn't at Moreno's, the professional edge softened into something more lived-in.
He leans against the doorframe and says, "Hey. Come in" and the drawl is thicker in the morning.
You're going to be professional about this. You're not going to think about his forearms, which are now visible because the t-shirt sleeves are short and his arms are lean and tanned and there's a vein running from his wrist to his elbow that you're staring at. Stop staring at it.
The apartment is small and clean and full of light. Not the fluorescent light of the diner but real light, California morning light, pouring through windows that face east.
There are photographs on the walls, black and white, and you realise after a second that he took them. They're good. They're better than good. A bridge in fog. A woman's hands. A street at night, wet, reflecting. He has an eye. You knew that from the diner, from the way he watched, but seeing it on the walls makes it real.
Bobby Franklin has an eye and he uses it for this and also for what you're about to do and the cognitive dissonance of "artist" and "adult filmmaker" is something you're going to have to sit with.
"Coffee?" he asks, padding toward the kitchen. Bare feet on linoleum.
The t-shirt rides up slightly when he reaches for a mug on the top shelf and there's a strip of skin above his waistband and the muscle that cuts along his hip and you look away so fast you nearly give yourself whiplash.
"Please."
He pours you a cup. You stand in his kitchen and drink it and it's good. Your hands are shaking and the cup rattles against the saucer and you set it down before he notices except he's already noticed.
"Hey," he calls out, leaning against the counter. Arms crossed. The t-shirt pulling across his chest. His stare is piercing, amused, reading you the way they read you at the diner except now there's nowhere to hide behind a menu and a plate of eggs. "We don't have to do anything today. We can just talk. Get you comfortable. No pressure."
"I'm fine," you force out.
He gives you a sceptical once over. "You're shaking."
"I'm fine and I'm shaking. Both can be true."
His mouth the twitches, the almost-smile that you're beginning to understand is Bobby's version of a laugh. A contained one. Controlled. Like even his amusement is something he runs through a filter before letting it out. But his eyes crinkle at the corners and the amusement reaches them and it's warm, genuinely warm, and some of the tightness in your chest loosens.
You talk.
He asks you questions. Mercifully not invasive ones, not the peeling-back kind. Surface questions. Where you grew up. How you know Terrence. What music you like. And you find yourself answering, not because he's charming (he is) but because he's easy. Bobby Franklin is easy to talk to in a way that contradicts everything about his sharp jaw and pale stare and the fact that there are two video cameras set up in his bedroom that you can see through the half-open door.
He listens the way he watches: completely, with his whole attention, like whatever you're saying is the only thing happening in the world. And he's funny. Dry, quick, a deadpan that sneaks up on you.
You laugh at something he says about Terrence and his face creases in a way you haven't seen before. Surprise. Pleasure. Like your laugh was an unexpected pleasure.
He tucks it away fast, smooths the expression back to amused neutrality, but you saw it. You saw it and it made your stomach warm.
An hour passes. Your hands stop shaking. You've stopped noticing the cameras through the doorway. You've started noticing other things.
The way he gestures when he talks about photography, loose and animated, the only time his cool composure fully drops. The way he licks his bottom lip when he's thinking. The way the chain shifts against his throat when he laughs. The pale eyes that keep finding your face and staying there a beat longer than conversation requires.
You're attracted to him. This is no longer a thing you can file under "irrelevant." This is a thing that is happening in your body, in the kitchen, in the warm light, and it's making the prospect of what comes next feel less like a transaction and more like something you might actually want and that's more frightening than the cameras.
He shows you the bedroom eventually.
It's not what you expected. No red lighting, no satin sheets, no sleazy backdrop. Just a bed—queen, white sheets, a quilt that looks like it came from someone's grandmother—and two cameras. One on a tripod in the corner, aimed at the bed. The other on the dresser, smaller, a different angle. Both VHS. Both off.
"The one in the corner is the wide shot," Bobby explains, standing in the doorway behind you. Professional. Tour guide. "It runs the whole time. Catches everything. The one on the dresser is for close-ups. I adjust it as we go. The handheld—" He nods toward a third camera sitting on the nightstand. "That's the one I use. That's the one that makes the money."
You nod, staring at the bed. The white sheets. The grandmother's quilt. The two dark eyes of the cameras. Your pulse is loud in your own ears.
"I'm sorry," you blurt out, not looking at him, still staring at the bed. "I'm being weird about this. I've obviously never—I haven't done anything like this before and I don't know how to—"
He kisses you.
His hand is on your jaw first, angling your face toward him. Gentle but sure, the confidence of someone who knows the effect he has and is choosing to use it kindly. And then his other hand comes up. Both hands cupping your face now, his palms warm against your cheeks, his thumbs resting along the line of your cheekbones, and his mouth finds yours.
The first press is soft. Almost chaste. Just the warmth of his lips settling against yours, testing, asking. You inhale sharply through your nose, and he catches it. Absorbs it. Tilts your face up with those hands and kisses you deeper.
Bobby's mouth opens yours. Coaxing, slow.
His bottom lip drags against yours, the faintest graze of teeth, and then his tongue follows. Warm, unhurried, curling against yours in a way that makes your knees actually weaken.
You've kissed people before. This is not that. This is Bobby Franklin kissing you with both hands cradling your face like you're worth holding and his tongue moving against yours with a patience that suggests he could do this for hours. Just this. Just the wet slide of his mouth on yours and the taste of good coffee and the way your breath mingles when he tilts his head and changes the angle and finds something deeper.
His thumb strokes your cheekbone. Back and forth. This light, rhythmic brush while his tongue curls against yours, while his bottom lip catches between your teeth and he makes a sound—small, low, a vibration you feel more than hear—and your hands are on his chest. When did your hands get on his chest?
You can feel his heartbeat through the white t-shirt, fast, faster than his relaxed composure suggests, and the knowledge that Bobby Franklin's heart is hammering while he kisses you makes you dizzy.
He tilts his head the other way. Your noses brush. The tip of his against the side of yours, a small warm nudge, almost playful.
He kisses the corner of your mouth. Your bottom lip. Takes it between his and sucks, gently, and your fingers curl into the fabric of his t-shirt and pull and the sound you make is swallowed by the warmth of him.
He pulls back.
Not far. An inch. Maybe two. His hands still on your face. His thumbs still on your cheekbones. His forehead nearly touching yours and you can feel his breath on your lips and his eyes are right there. Those pale, watchful, bright eyes, scanning your face. Reading you. Making sure.
Your lips are tingling. Your whole body is tingling. You're standing in a stranger's bedroom being held by the face and kissed like you've never been kissed before.
"Was—" Your voice is thin. Wrecked. He kissed your voice right out of you. "Was the camera rolling?"
Bobby smirks.
Up close, from two inches away, with his hands still warm on your face. One corner of his mouth lifting in that lazy, crooked, insufferable way. His eyes half-lidded. And it goes trough you like wildfire, flooding your nervous system with liquid heat.
"No," he answers huskily, his thumb tracing your cheekbone one more time. "Just felt like doing that."
He holds your gaze. One beat. Two. Three. Letting the smirk settle. Letting you feel the weight of it—the fact that he kissed you off-camera, off-clock, for no professional reason.
The fact that his heart is still hammering under your fists and his pupils are blown wide and he kissed you because he wanted to. Because you were standing in his bedroom apologising for being nervous and he looked at you and his mouth moved before his brain did. Again.
"Still okay?" he asks, softer now. The smirk gentling into something warmer.
"Yeah." Breathier than you want it to be. Your hands still in his t-shirt. "Yeah, I'm okay."
"Good." His hand drops from your jaw. Trails down your arm. Fingertips only, light enough to raise goosebumps, tracing the inside of your wrist where the pulse jumps. "I'm going to undress you now. Slow. Before the cameras go on. Just us. That alright?"
You nod.
He starts with the straps of the sundress. Easing them off your shoulders one at a time. Not pulling, guiding. His knuckles graze your collarbone and you shiver, his eyes tracking the shiver down your body with an attention that makes you feel like the only light source in the room.
"You wore yellow," he notes conversationally. Like he's remarking on the weather while his fingertips trace the neckline of your dress. "Looks good on you. Warm. Shows off your skin."
The dress pools at your feet. You're standing in his bedroom in your underwear and the morning light is on you and Bobby is looking at you the way he looked at you in the diner when his mouth got ahead of his brain.
"Pretty," he murmurs. Like he can't help it. Like the word just falls out of him when he sees you. His thumb traces your hip bone above the elastic of your underwear. "Real pretty."
This time you don't bristle.
He reaches past you. Flicks on the tripod camera. A tiny red light. Then the dresser camera. Another red light. Two eyes, open, watching.
"Don't think about them," Bobby says, his mouth near your ear. His hands settle on your waist, warm palms on bare skin. "Don't think about the cameras. Don't perform. Just feel me. Can you do that?"
You jerk your head. "I can try."
"That's all I'm asking." His lips brush your ear. Down. Along your jaw. The corner of your mouth. His hands slide up your ribcage and his thumbs trace the underwire of your bra and you exhale, shaky, and he catches it. "There you go. Just like that. Stay with me, yeah? I got you."
He unclasps your bra with one hand. Practiced, efficient, but the way he peels it away is anything but. Reverent, almost, easing the fabric off like he's unwrapping something valuable. The air hits your skin and your nipples tighten. Bobby's gaze drops and his jaw flexes and for a moment, just a moment, the professionalism wavers. His throat moves on a thick swallow.
"Lie down," he instructs, a little rougher than before. "On the bed. On your back."
You lie down. The sheets are cool beneath you, the quilt soft. on your skin
The light from the window falls across the bed in a warm band and you're naked except for your underwear and Bobby is standing over you still fully dressed and the power imbalance should feel wrong but it doesn't because his eyes are eating you alive and his hands are clenched at his sides and you realise, with a jolt that goes straight through you: he's holding himself back.
This is Bobby exercising control. This is what it looks like when he wants to touch something badly and is making himself wait.
He picks up the handheld camera. Lifts it to his eye. And something shifts in him. Visibly. The control locks in, the professional takes over, and he's Bobby-behind-the-lens. Steady. Composed. Seeing everything.
"Touch yourself," he says. Director voice. "Just your skin. Nothing heavy. Just run your hands over yourself. Get comfortable."
You do. Your own hands on your own body, palms skating over your stomach, your ribs, the swell of your breasts, and it feels strange and exhibitionistic but then Bobby says "gorgeous, just like that, you're doing so good" and the praise lands in the pit of your stomach like a lit match. Your back arches. Barely. Just enough.
"Yeah," Bobby breathes from behind the camera. "That's it. That's perfect. Look at you."
He films you touching yourself for what feels like hours and is probably three minutes. Then he sets the handheld down on the nightstand. Red light still blinking, and he crawls onto the bed.
Not between your legs. Beside you. Lying on his side, propped on one elbow, his face level with yours. Close enough that you can see the flecks of darker blue in his irises and the faint scar on his chin and the way his throat moves when he swallows. Still dressed. T-shirt. Jeans. Bare feet.
"Keep going," he murmurs, watching your hands on your own body. "Don't stop on my account."
Your hands move. Over your stomach. Up. And Bobby's hand joins them. One warm palm laid flat against your sternum, between your breasts. Not groping.... just resting. Feeling your heartbeat through your ribs.
"Fast," he notes. His thumb strokes the valley between your breasts and you shiver. "Slow down. You're rushing."
You do as he asked, your hands sliding over your skin with less urgency and more intention. Bobby's hand follows, learning new terrain, the dip of your waist and the flare of your hip and the soft give of your stomach where you've always been self-conscious and he presses his palm there like he's making a point.
Like that spot, specifically, is worth his hand.
Then his mouth replaces his palm.
He starts at your throat. A kiss. Open-mouthed, warm, the press of his lips and the faintest edge of teeth. Then your collarbone. The notch at the base of your throat where your pulse is hammering. Down. The flat of his tongue dragging along your sternum, tasting the thin sheen of sweat that the California morning and your own nerves have produced.
His mouth is unhurried. Exploratory. He's not kissing you so much as he's mapping you with his lips, charting the terrain the way he'd scout a location before a shoot. Finding the light, finding the angles, finding what works on you.
His mouth finds your breast. Kisses the swell of it. The underside, where the skin is softest. And then his lips close around your nipple and he sucks—not hard, not gentle, somewhere in between, a warm wet pressure that sends a bolt of sensation from your breast directly to your cunt and your back arches off the mattress.
"Oh."
Bobby hums against you. A sound of satisfaction. His tongue circles your nipple, flattens, flicks.
His free hand slides up your ribs and cups your other breast, thumb rolling across the peak, and the dual sensation—mouth and hand, wet and dry—makes you reach for him. Your fingers find his hair. Sandy strands, still slightly damp from the shower, thick between your fingers. You grip. Pull.
Just... needing something to hold onto while his mouth does this to you.
The pull makes Bobby groan. The sound vibrates through your nipple and into your chest and your hips lift off the bed involuntarily, pressing into nothing.
He feels it and his mouth tightens. Pulls harder. His teeth graze the sensitive peak and your fingers clench in his hair and you tug, genuinely tug, trying to pull him up, pull him to your mouth, because you need to kiss him, you need—
He doesn't let go.
His mouth stays locked on your nipple, sucking with a focused intensity that borders on stubborn, and you're pulling his hair and he's groaning and he will not come up, will not release, and the wet heat of his mouth is making you clench around nothing.
Your thighs press together, your hips rocking against air, seeking fullness, friction, anything, and Bobby—Bobby, who is supposed to be a professional, who is supposedly in control of this situation—reaches down with his free hand and cups you between the legs.
Just cups you. His whole palm, warm, pressed against the soaked cotton of your underwear. Just holding the heat of you in his hand while his mouth works your nipple and your fingers twist in his hair and the sound that comes out of you is breathy and too high.
"Bobby—please, I need—"
He releases your nipple with a wet pop that you feel in your spine. Glances up at you, his lips swollen. His eyes heavy-lidded and dark and his hand still cupping you, pressing against the damp fabric, feeling the heat seep through.
"Need what, baby?" Low. Rough. His fingers flex against you, palm grinding just slightly against your pulsing core, one small movement of pressure through the cotton. "Tell me."
"Touch me," you plead, trying to press closer. "Actually touch me."
His fingers slide under the elastic. Find you bare. Find you soaked. And the sound he makes—a sharp exhale through his nose, almost a hiss—is the sound of a man who knew what he was going to find but is still wrecked by the reality of it.
"Jesus." Barely a whisper. His fingers parting your folds. Not penetrating yet, just circling your clit. Just petting. Long, feather-light strokes through the slick of you, up and down, spreading the wetness with an aching patience that makes your hips chase his hand. "So wet, baby. This all from—was this from my mouth? From me sucking on you?"
You nod. You can't speak. His fingers are petting you like he's got all the time in the world and no intention of giving you what you need. Long strokes. Root to tip. Parting you with two fingers and letting the middle one drag between, barely touching your clit, just enough to make your thighs shake.
"Pretty little pussy," he murmurs, and the words shouldn't work.
They're filthy and crude and you've heard variations in the tapes you've watched that made you cringe, but Bobby says them the way he said "you're pretty" in the diner. Like a fact. Something he can't help observing. Like your body laid out in morning light is a view he needs to narrate. His fingers keep petting. Lazy. Wet with you, making you drip onto his grandmother's quilt.
Then his mouth starts traveling south.
He kisses down your stomach. Your hip bone. The crease of your thigh. Hooks his fingers into your underwear, drags them down, tosses them off the bed without looking. Parts your thighs with both hands, spreading you open, and the sound he makes—not a groan this time, something lower, something guttural, a sound that vibrates in his chest—is not for the camera.
You know this because the camera is on the nightstand and he hasn't touched it and he's not angling for a shot. He's just peering down at you. Spread open in the morning light. And that sound is coming out of him because he can't stop it.
"Fuck," he whispers, his thumbs pressing into the crease of your thighs. "Okay. Okay."
He lowers his mouth to you.
Bobby eats you out the way he kissed you earlier. Unhurried, thorough. Long strokes of his tongue that start at your entrance and drag upward, tasting the length of you, and you feel his groan against your cunt when the flavour hits and your whole body shudders.
He circles your clit with a pressure that's devastating in its patience. He's not trying to make you come fast. He's tasting. Exploring. Learning what makes your hips jerk and what makes you gasp and what makes your fingers find his hair again.
You fist both hands in those sandy strands and pull and the sound he makes—rough, grateful, hungry—vibrates against your clit. Your hips buck and his hands tighten on your thighs. Holding them apart, his thumbs stroking the soft skin in counterpoint to the filthy things his tongue is doing.
He's found a rhythm now. Flat, wide strokes punctuated by the pointed tip of his tongue flicking your clit in a pattern that your hips start chasing, lifting off the bed, grinding against his mouth, and he lets you. Lets you ride his face with his hands gripping your thighs and his eyes closed and his entire world narrowed to the taste and the sound and the wet.
"Bobby—oh my god—"
"Mm." Against you. His mouth full of you. His tongue pressing flat, licking you open in a broad swipe that makes your vision swim. "Taste incredible. Could stay here all fuckin' day."
He could. You believe him. He looks like he means it. Settled between your thighs like he's found the only place in the world he wants to be.
You tug his hair again and his moan is muffled against your cunt and you feel it everywhere, the vibration traveling through your pelvis and up your spine, and you pull harder and his tongue presses harder and the feedback loop is building. Your hands in his hair and his mouth on you and the wet sounds and the moans and you're close, you're getting close—
He pulls back with a wet, slick sound.
You whimper. The loss of his mouth leaving you throbbing, aching, empty.
"Not yet." His chin is wet, his lips swollen. Bobby's eyes are glazed and dark, the professional gone, replaced by something feral that's been living underneath the cool-boy surface and is now looking at you like it's deciding whether to devour you. "Not yet, baby. Want to be inside you when you come. Wanna feel you, yeah?"
You moan in response, dizzy. And your moans are real. That's the thing that's changing the temperature of the room.
You're not playing them up, not pitching them for any microphone, not performing the breathy exaggerated sounds you've heard in the tapes you've watched out of curiosity and mild horror. You're just reacting. And it's affecting him. His breathing has changed. His hips are pressing into the mattress in a grind he can't seem to control and you realise he's hard.
He's been hard for a while. He's been eating you out with his cock straining against his jeans and he hasn't touched himself once.
Bobby sits back on his heels. Pulls the t-shirt over his head in one motion. His chest is flushed. Lean, not bulky, the body of someone who lifts camera equipment for a living and forgets to eat regularly. The belt buckle. The zipper. The happy trail of hair dipping dangerously beneath the belt buckle. He pushes the jeans down and kicks them off and he's—
your mouth goes dry.
Bobby Franklin naked is a problem. Bobby Franklin hard is a crisis.
He sees you looking. The smirk returns. That lazy, insufferable lift of one corner of his mouth. "See something you like?"
"Shut up."
You sit up. Grab his hips. Pull him toward you and the surprise on his face—genuine, unperformed, the mask cracking again—is worth everything.
He stumbles forward on the mattress, knees sinking into the sheets, and your hands are on his stomach, his ribs, dragging your nails lightly down his sides and he hisses. His cock twitches and you feel powerful in a way that has nothing to do with cameras or money.
"How do you want me to fuck you?" His voice is gravel. Wrecked. He's peering down at you with his hands cupping your face, thumbs on your cheekbones, and the professionalism is a memory. "Tell me."
"From behind." No hesitation. The words tumbling out before your brain can edit them. "I want—on my stomach, I want you behind me, I want—"
Bobby's eyes go wide. His whole face flushes harder. Cheeks, ears, the V of his throat. He drops his head against your shoulder and laughs. A real laugh. Rough and bitten-off and disbelieving.
"Shit, baby." Muffled against your skin. "Can't say stuff like that to me. Can't just—" He lifts his head. The flush is gorgeous on him, spreading down his neck. "Yeah. Fuck yeah. Turn over."
He flips you. Firm and purposeful. His hands on your hips guiding you onto your stomach, lifting your hips until your ass is raised and your face is in the pillow and you feel exposed in a way that's terrifying and thrilling.
"Look at you." His hands on your hips, sliding up. Over the curve of your ass. Both palms cupping you, squeezing, spreading, his thumbs tracing the cleft while he breathes hard through his nose. "Every angle. Every fuckin' angle. 'S not fair."
His hand draws back. Comes down on your ass. Not a slap, not quite, a firm pat that's more proprietary than punishing and the sound it makes in the quiet bedroom is obscene. Your hips jolt. He does it again. Lighter. Smoothing his palm over the spot after, kneading with a hum.
"Could cover you like this," he mutters, stroking the curve of your ass with both hands, spreading you again, looking at you from behind with an expression you can feel even though you can't see it. "Just—stay right here. Just like this. Prettiest goddamn thing I've ever shot and I haven't even started the camera yet."
He reaches for the handheld. Turns it on. Red light. Frames the shot—you on your stomach, your hips raised, the curve of your spine. His hand still on your ass. Claiming. Warm.
He sets the camera on the mattress, angled up. Reaches for himself. You hear it. The wet sound of him spitting into his palm, the slick stroke of his fist over his cock, and then he's behind you. The hot thick length of him pressed against you, nestled between your folds, and he groans and you groan, and he doesn't push in.
He rolls against you.
Long, grinding strokes, his cock sliding through the slick mess of you, dragging across your clit with every thrust. The head catching at your entrance and pulling away. Over and over. Using the length of himself to stroke you, to tease you, to coat himself in you until the sound of skin on wet skin fills the room and your fingers are clawing at the sheets.
"Feel that?" His chest pressed against your back. His mouth against your ear. "Feel how hard you got me? Been like this since the diner. Since you sat down in that booth and looked at me with those fuckin' eyes. Thought about this. Thought about what you'd feel like."
His hips roll. The head of his cock catches your entrance again, presses, almost, almost—
"Bobby, please—"
His cock throbs against your core. "Tell me."
"Fuck me. Please." You suck in a shaky breath. "I need you to—"
He spits again. You feel it, warm, landing where his cock meets your cunt. His hand stroking himself once, twice, spreading the slick. And then he notches himself at your entrance and pushes in.
One long stroke. All the way. Your body opening around him and his groan matching yours. Colliding, two raw sounds meeting in the air and becoming something bigger than either. He bottoms out and holds you in place, and you feel every inch of him, the stretch, the heat, the fullness, his forehead dropping against the nape of your neck and he breathes "oh fuck" against your hair and his whole body shakes.
"God—you feel—" He can't finish. His hips twitch, involuntary, the tiniest thrust that pulls a gasp from both of you. "Baby. Baby, you feel—"
He starts moving. And the control lasts about thirty seconds.
Thirty seconds of measured strokes. Finding the angle. Professional. Thinking about the shot, the camera on the mattress, the red light.
And then you push back against him with a greedy sound, meet his thrust with your hips, grinding onto him, taking him deeper, and you moan. Really moan, the sound that's been building since he put his mouth on your nipple and refused to let go, and something in Bobby snaps.
His hand grabs your hip. His other hand braces on the mattress beside your head. And he fucks you.
Not the controlled version. The real version. The Bobby Franklin that exists underneath the smirk and the camera and the professional detachment. Hips driving into you with a force that shoves you into the mattress, that punches the air from your lungs, that turns your vision white around the edges. Sweat beading on his chest and dripping onto your spine. His breathing ragged, broken, gasping against the back of your neck in hot bursts.
And you're both gasping, coiling, pushing into each other blindly. Your hand reaches back, finds his hip, his thigh, pulling him deeper, harder, your fingers digging into the muscle and he groans like you've wounded him.
His hand finds yours, laces your fingers together beside your head, pressing your joined hands into the sheets, and the intimacy of it cracks something deep in both of you.
"So good," he's babbling against your spine. His mouth open, dragging wet kisses between your shoulder blades. "So fuckin' good, squeezing me so tight—can you hear that? Hear how wet you are? Hear what you're doin' to me?"
You can hear it. The obscene wet sound of his cock driving into you, the slap of his hips against your ass, the creak of the bed frame that he's going to have to explain to the furniture store below.
"Bobby—" Your voice is gone. Shattered, croaking. "Bobby, I'm gonna—I can't—"
"Yeah you can." Growled against your ear. His teeth grazing your earlobe. Biting down. "Cum for me. Wanna feel it. Wanna feel you squeeze my cock so tight I can't fuckin' think—"
He lets go of your hand. His fingers fist in your hair. Gathering the hair, wrapping the strands around his fingers. And he lifts your head from the pillow, arching your neck back, turning your face toward the camera on the mattress that's still rolling, red light blinking, catching everything.
"Show them," he murmurs against the shell of your ear. "Let 'em see how pretty you look when you cum for me."
You fall apart.
The orgasm rips through you. An earthquake, seismic and structural that starts where he's buried inside you and radiates outward.
Your mouth opens on a moan that you don't recognise as your own voice, wanton, cracked, genuine. There's no performance, no production, it's pulled from somewhere primal and raw inside you. And Bobby feels it. Feels the clench and the shake and the sound and his rhythm breaks, shatters, his hips slamming into you without finesse, chasing his own end through the aftershocks of yours.
He comes with a loud, greedy moan, a gruff sound of laughter caught in his throat. This breathless, incredulous sound, muffled against the back of your damp neck, like he can't believe what just happened to him. His hips jerk again, pressed flush against your ass. His hand loosens in your hair, fingertips grazing your scalp.
His body shudders against yours in waves that slow and gentle and eventually still.
His lips find the shell of your ear. Warm. Spent. Still inside you.
"With a moan like that," he rasps, kissing the curve of your ear, "and a pussy that grips me that tight?" He laughs against your skin. Loose. Golden. The real laugh, the unfiltered one. "Shit, baby, you're gonna be famous."
You laugh too. Into the pillow. The sound surprising you. The lightness of it, the ease. The fact that you can laugh, right now, naked and sweating and thoroughly ruined in a stranger's bed with two cameras rolling.
You're laughing because he's funny and because the sex was extraordinary and because you came to this apartment expecting something transactional and clinical.
Instead you got Bobby Franklin's mouth telling you you're pretty like he couldn't help it and Bobby Franklin's hands holding yours while he fucked you and Bobby Franklin laughing against your neck like making you come was the best thing that happened to him all week.
He pulls out, slowly, carefully, making you shiver at the loss, and collapses next to you. Reaches over and clicks off the handheld. The red light dies. The static camera in the corner is still running and neither of you moves to turn it off.
Bobby lies on his back, chest rising and falling. Staring at the ceiling with the expression of a man whose professional boundaries have just been comprehensively violated by his own want.
"So," he says to the ceiling. "Same time next week?"
You turn your head on the pillow. He turns his. Pale eyes. Flushed face. Hair wrecked. That almost-smile.
"Same time next week," you agree, still breathless.
The static camera runs for another four minutes before Bobby remembers to turn it off.
In the footage—which he will watch later, alone, ostensibly for editing purposes—you can see two people lying side by side on white sheets, not touching, not talking, just breathing, and at the 2:47 mark the girl in the yellow sundress starts laughing again and the boy with the camera reaches over and takes her hand and doesn't let go until the tape runs out.
✿ despite your warnings, aerion drinks a powerful stimulant, and then seeks your help when nothing else seems to fix him (or, a sex pollen fic with the dragon himself)
✿ 18+
✿ wc: 7.7k
✿ cw: fem!reader/healer!reader, no y/n, reader is undefined and smart asf, sex pollen, SMUT, oral (m!receiving), face-fucking, unprotected piv, multiple orgasms, hyperspermia!!, reader gets bent over her shop counter, rough sex, dirty talk, cw for aerion being himself (he's lowkey mean, mentions of frequenting brothels, slight degradation, etc), strong language, ser donnel mentions <3
a/n: inspired by this ask
Your shop is rather small, but you love it.
Behind the sturdy wooden counter—which itself is laden with misshapen plants sprouting from old teacups and half-filled bottles of sparkling powder—sits rows upon rows of shelves. The shelves are stocked full of your natural remedies and creations, vials big and small, pouches of linen and pouches of ribboned silk. You have everything, perfectly organised, by remedy and in alphabetical order.
For years, you’ve operated out of your little shop in a narrow side-street in the heart of King’s Landing, just a stone’s throw from the main thoroughfare. You’ve helped countless travellers and residents with a range of issues: from sedatives for unruly hounds and salves to treat festering hoof-rot, to fast-acting contraceptives and bitter-tasting hallucinogens.
You can make anything.
And because you can make anything, you’ve become familiar with many a noble and knight in your time.
The door to your shop opens as you’re serving a little old lady, handing her a parcel of dried mushrooms. A cool breeze smelling faintly of winter rain and freshly baked bread sweeps into your shop, jostling the bundles of herbs you have hanging from your ceiling. You wave goodbye to the elderly women as you look up, smiling politely as you catch the unmistakable glint of midday sun against white armour.
“Ser Donnel,” you greet with a small bow of your head as the older kingsguard enters your shop, his gleaming armour making him appear like a pearl in the sand amongst your dim wooden shelves. “How is your finger? I trust the salve I made you helped the wound heal?”
Ser Donnel approaches the counter, offering you a small smile as he lifts his hand. He flexes his fingers, eyes lingering on the index, which he had sliced open a week prior.
“It did, thank you,” Ser Donnel says, his eyes lingering now on the shelves behind you.
“What can I do for you?” You ask, drumming your fingers on the solid wood of your counter, watching as the older knight spins slowly on his heel, taking in the other shelves and tables packed into your small shop.
“Don’t suppose you have something for horses?” He asks, back to you. When he turns, however, he gives you a rueful smile, then laughs. “Of course you do.”
“Of course I do,” you mimic, rounding your counter and leading the older knight across the room. You find a shelf near the shop’s far side, gesturing to an array of small vials, many labelled “Dog – Rash” or “Cat – Sneezing” and even “Chicken – Eggbound.” Ser Donnel looks at the array of small vials with complete amazement as you turn back to him. “What’s wrong with your palfrey, ser?”
Ser Donnel points to his own eye for emphasis. “Got something in her eye. All red and weepy and that. Not pleasant.”
“I see,” you say, then turn to your shelf. It takes you less than a second before you’re plucking a vial with dark brown glass off of the shelf. You hold it out to Ser Donnel. “Sounds like conjunctivitis. Very common, and, lucky for you, easy to treat. Just a few drops of this, morning and night, and she should be all better in a couple of days.”
Ser Donnel looks at you, visibly pleased, as you gently press the small vial into his palm. “You’re an absolute darling, you know that?”
“I try,” you reply, smiling as you return to your counter. Ser Donnel follows you, dropping the vial into a pouch and pulling out his coin purse at the same time. He drops several stags onto the counter, and you gape at him as they clatter loudly against the wood. “Ser Donnel, this is too much—”
“For the eye-drops,” Ser Donnel insists, pushing the stags towards you. “And for your services, okay? Now, I don’t want to hear another word of it.”
You bite your lip, hiding your smile as you reluctantly scoop up the stags and slip them into the coin pouch on your belt.
“Well, can I at least give you something for your generosity?” You ask, ducking beneath the counter before he could even open his mouth to reply. You snatch up a small pouch and get to your feet, offering it to the knight, who peers at you as if you had grown another head. You sigh through your nose, amused. “Sourleaf. Fresh in this morning.”
Ser Donnel offers you another kind smile, taking the pouch of painkillers and slipping it alongside the pouch with the vial.
“Thank you,” he says, bowing his head, just as the door to your shop opens and another gust of wind blows in.
The cold breeze sweeps through the store, and the door bangs harshly against the side wall, creaking on its hinges from the force. You startle, and Ser Donnel whips around. Composing yourself, you’re quick to sink back, making yourself appear smaller, as Aerion Targaryen bursts into the room with eyes spitting embers.
“How long could it possibly take to buy an ointment for a fucking horse?” The prince seethes as he steps into the shop, looking around with genuine distaste. His eyes linger on a murky liquid in a large bottle on the wall beside him, before they drag through the dim to Ser Donnel. He makes a face, eyebrows raising like he’s expecting something. “Well? Did you get it?”
You hear Ser Donnel release a short, quiet breath.
“Yes, your grace,” he says, glancing back over his shoulder sympathetically before stepping towards the prince. “We may be off now.”
Aerion scoffs, allowing Ser Donnel to brush past him, but his eyes lift and land on you. He peers at you, as if just noticing your presence, his gaze burning holes right through the centre of your face. He looks at you half with distaste—probably due to the leaves in your hair and the powder dusted across your arms and apron—and half with interest, like a merchant admiring a newly minted coin.
“So you are the woods witch Ser Donnel speaks so highly of…” Aerion comments, eyes unwavering in their stare. You shift your eyes to the floor. Aerion huffs, partially amused. “I expected an ugly old thing, but this—”
“Your grace,” Ser Donnel warns with a sternness akin to a strict father.
“—is unexpected,” Aerion continues, unphased. He traipses into the shop, cloak swishing behind him like a pair of raven’s wings. His eyes scan the walls of bottles and vials and jars, and he plucks a small one from the closest shelf. Spinning it between his fingers, he speaks with considerable disinterest, “How exactly do you know how to make all of this?”
You lift your head slowly, hands clasped in front of you. “My… my mother taught me, your grace.”
The vial he holds holds a sticky green liquid, the colour of forest moss. He peers at it strangely. The liquid inside sticks to the glass, viscous and slow-moving as he turns it.
“What’s this for?” He asks, and you know he doesn’t actually care. You lock eyes, and you realise he’s testing you.
“Eases infant colic,” you reply straight away.
Aerion drops the vial on the floor and it shatters against the wood. You flinch, startled by the sudden noise. You hear Ser Donnel protest with a gruff call of the prince’s title, but Aerion is undeterred, slipping behind the counter and appraising the towering shelves behind you. He takes another vial, the liquid inside a deep, mustard yellow.
“And this?”
“Inflamation caused by pox,” you answer. “Soothes the skin.”
He huffs, and drops that vial too. It shatters, but this time, you don’t flinch. You watch the syrupy yellow liquid leech between the floorboards, glass shimmering in the ghostly light streaming in through the only window near the door.
Aerion walks further behind the counter, and you shift until the small of your back is pressed to the solid wooden lip. The prince closes in on several vials on the very top shelf, and he has to stand on his toes to reach one of them. Your heart leaps into your throat, and you open your mouth to say something, but no words fall.
Aerion’s pale fingers snatch a small bottle from the top shelf. The glass is clear, and it’s labelless, but you know exactly what it is. The substance inside resembles wine: a deep, blood-red that bubbles a little on the surface as the prince sloshes the liquid around. There’s a small, oil-like sheen to it as he holds it up, violet eyes finding yours.
“What’s this?” He presses, and you wonder if he catches the fear in your eyes.
You clear your throat. “I, uh, it’s—”
He uncorks it, and you raise an arm.
“It’s a stimulant,” you blurt out, stopping yourself from pulling the vial from his hands. Aerion continues, unphased, as he lifts the bottle to his nose and sniffs. You can almost smell it yourself: overripe grapes, crushed honeysuckle, and what smells uncannily like the perfumed skin of an expensive courtesan. Aerion pauses, something flashing in his eyes as you continue shyly, “To… increase desire and maintain… maintain a man’s excitement.”
Aerion stares at you, slowly lowering the little bottle from his nose.
He holds it carelessly, and as Ser Donnel sends another warning from across the room, you attempt to prise the bottle from his fingers, your touch slow and gentle.
“Please be careful, your grace,” you utter, fingers skimming the cool glass of the vial. “It’s incredibly potent in large doses—”
Aerion jerks away, and you snap your hand back as though you’d been burned.
The prince hisses at you, serpent-like as the pointed ivory of his teeth glint in the grey light. “Don’t you fucking dare.”
You withdraw. “Your grace, please—”
“You’re trying to scare me,” he seethes, shaking the bottle enough for a few droplets to flick out and onto the pale skin of his fingers. It stains like mulled wine. He continues, staring you down. “How dare you even—”
“Your grace,” Ser Donnel’s voice booms through the small room, and you find yourself cowering back against the counter, stuck between two brewing storms. Ser Donnel sighs loudly. “Listen to her. She knows a lot more than you do, believe me.”
Aerion lets out a bitter laugh. “Don’t mock me.”
You chime in hesitantly. “Please, your grace. It’s a concentrated mixture. I wouldn't want you to—”
“I can do what I want,” Aerion spits out, and before you can even react, he downs the entire vial in two quick mouthfuls.
You gasp out. “Your grace—!”
Aerion drops the vial and it shatters right at your feet. You jump back, avoiding the splash of broken glass, as the prince turns on his heel and makes for the door. You scramble after him, but you’re stopped by Ser Donnel, who places a gentle hand on your shoulder.
At the door, Aerion turns and gives you one last look, eyes trailing up and down your figure, before he rolls his eyes and vanishes back onto the street.
You’re breathing deeply, overcome with guilt. Ser Donnel strokes your shoulder gently, calming you.
“It’s alright, it’s his own doing,” Ser Donnel assures you, hand shifting up to pat you comfortingly on the cheek.
“But—he just—the entire thing.”
“Will it harm him?” Ser Donnel asks. His voice is firm and it almost makes you want to cry. “Will it kill him?”
You quickly shake your head. “No, ser! It—it will be very intense, and very, uh, difficult to remediate without—without help, but it will not harm him, no.”
“Can a cure be made?”
You feel yourself warming beneath your clothes, and you clear your throat, soothing your hands over your apron and your skirts.
“I suppose I can give you something to ease the racing heart,” you say quietly, ducking off to the side to pluck another small vial from a nearby shelf. You hand it to Ser Donnel. “Mix with hot water and it will ease the fast-moving heart, but I’m afraid… I’m afraid the other symptoms will have to be cured… in other avenues.”
Ser Donnel chuckles, taking the vial. “I suppose I’ll be taking him to the Street of Silk later tonight then?”
You offer Ser Donnel a sympathetic smile, nodding and trying to ignore the warmth in your belly. You put it down to the shock of the whole thing, and you give Ser Donnel a polite wave as he leaves your shop without another word.
You sigh, turning and examining the broken glass and spilled liquid across your floors. You grab your broom from near the door and set to work.
—✿—
Later that night, you’re setting a new set of vials on a shelf across the store, extinguishing the wall-mounted candles as you move. You hum to yourself, skirts brushing the dusty floor, the street beyond the small window empty and pitch-black as night falls across King’s Landing. A crescent moon hangs, thin and pale, above the horizon.
You take your apron off and place it neatly on a hook near the door behind the counter—the door which leads up a narrow flight of stairs to your home above. As you do this however, there’s a thud at the locked door. It rattles the old wood where it settles on its hinges, and your heart flutters a little in fright as you look over, spying a shadow through the stained glass. Taking a knife from a block behind you, you approach the door with your hand obscured behind your back.
There’s another thud. More like a knock this time.
“Are you alright?” You ask through the stained glass, the outer pane caked in grime kicked up from the street. You gently unbolt the door and open it a crack, peering out at the shadowed figure that hunches in your alcove. “I’m closed for the night, but if you are ill—”
“Let me in,” comes a familiar voice, and you squeak in fright when you recognise it.
Quickly, you pull open the door, still holding your knife, and the shadowed figure slips into your shop. You close and bolt the door behind you, turning with your back to the surface as the figure drops his hood, and subsequently, his cloak, and you watch as Aerion Targaryen turns slowly as the thick black fabric pools at his feet.
“Your grace,” you mutter, dropping into a polite bow. Worry clenches tightly in your chest as the prince looks at you with narrowed eyes, features appearing gaunt in what remains of the shop’s fading candlelight. You spare a glance through the stained glass of the door, then through the pane of the window adjacent. “Your grace, I’m not sure if—”
“What have you done to me?” Aerion interrupts you, his question slicing through the nervous quiet like the blade you clutch. He takes a step forward and you suck in a startled gasp, slipping around him and hurrying towards your counter. You just want to put as much distance between him and you as possible. He groans when you breeze by him, slowly turning as he speaks, “You’ve poisoned me.”
You’re behind your counter now. “I’ve done no such thing.”
“You have,” Aerion hisses, and he takes another step forward. You notice he’s slightly wobbly on his feet, pitching forward chest-first as though his legs are too heavy. He catches himself on a nearby shelf, bottles clinking together as the wood trembles. “This is your fault. You’ve poisoned me. You’ve—you’ve cursed me.”
Your eyes grow wide. You shake your head. “Your grace, please, I would never.”
In the low candlelight, sweat sparkles like broken glass on Aerion’s forehead. His white-blond hair clings to his skin, damp near his temples, and there’s a dip in his brow that casts a dark shadow over his eyes. But when he cocks his head, staring you down, you see them flash violet in the ochre light, his pupils slowly expanding.
“Ser Donnel informed me of what I had taken, and what it would do to me,” Aerion mutters, his voice hoarse as he pushes himself off the shelf. His palms slam down on the counter directly across from you, and you take a step back, fingers tight on the bone handle of your knife. Aerion huffs, “So I drank your little tea for my heart, and I fucked a couple of whores, but nothing is working.”
You swallow, heart in your throat.
“I tried to sleep,” Aerion says, dragging himself around the counter. You mimic his actions on the other end, slipping to the other side to avoid him. He continues, one of his hands shifting to the thin buttoned tunic he’s wearing. He pops open the top button. “I tried to bathe, I tried to pleasure myself, and I went back to that fucking whorehouse twice more and nothing—” He groans, and undoes another button. “—is working. What have you done to me?”
Slowly, he exposes the pale, unblemished skin of his chest. He’s damp with sweat as you round the counter, skirts flowing around your ankles. Your heart hammers wildly in your chest as he advances on you lazily, eyes drawn to the movement of your body like a falcon.
“You drank the stimulant,” you tell him as gently as possible.
You’re at opposite ends of the counter now. He pauses, undoing another button.
“So it’s my fault?” Aerion hisses out.
You watch as he pushes his hips against the lip of the counter and he groans, hoarse and animal-like from the back of his throat. It strings across a whimper, and heat floods your belly. You curse yourself, watching as the prince—the Targaryen prince Aerion Brightflame—ruts himself slowly against your counter. You can see the stimulant’s effects on him: the tent pitched in the front of his trousers, the beads of sweat that trek down beneath his now open-tunic, rolling between the grooves of his abdomen.
“Yes,” you say boldly, holding the knife. “You shouldn’t have drank it.”
Aerion huffs out, then groans again as he looks up at you, hips pressed firmly to the edge of the counter. “You’re a witch. Fix me.”
You release a shaky breath, then approach him. You move behind your counter, and he watches you with serpent-like concentration as you slowly place your knife onto the surface. He smirks at that, moving behind the counter too.
“You…” Your heart is wild beneath your ribs, and you can smell him as he nears. He smells expensive: smoked oud, honey-washed skin, patchouli incense from the Street of Silk. You smell sweat and wine too when he gets within a foot of you. You continue, “I cannot fix you, your grace. The easiest fix is to find… find a woman, or a man, I suppose, and engage in sexual intercourse until the effects wear off.”
You hope you sound confident enough. You fear you may faint as he looks you up and down, bare chest rising and falling, smoke trapped beneath shifting scales.
“This is your doing,” he says, seemingly ignoring your previous statement. One of his hands finds your hip and you seize up. “You will fix me. You will fix this.”
You find yourself shifting then as he pushes you up against the counter, the print of his hard cock pressing between your thighs as he pins you. You frown as he groans, the hand on your hip tightening while the other slowly rises to take your chin between his thumb and forefinger.
“I can’t fix it,” you whisper as he forces your eye contact. You’re trapped beneath him, but there’s a heat in your belly you can’t deny, and the pounding of your heart travels south, settling between your thighs despite your racing mind. “I, well, I can try and make a cure—”
“I don’t want an elixir or a salve or a bunch of dried fucking herbs,” Aerion utters as his fingers tighten on your jaw. He ruts his pelvis against your thigh, and you watch as something flits through his eyes, the black of his pupils having engulfed the violet of his irises. “I want you to fix me.”
You swallow. “Your grace—?”
“I want your mouth on my cock, and I want you bent over this fucking counter,” Aerion interrupts with a voice strewn through gravel, dark and hoarse. Something twists deep in your belly as he bends his head, dipping his nose against the curve of your jaw. He grunts when he inhales, lips vibrating against your skin when he speaks again. “Will that fix me?”
Your hands are tight around the edge of the counter. “Yes, your grace, but—”
Aerion hums, teeth just skimming the skin of your jaw before he pulls back. “Good. Then get on your knees.”
The heat of his body leaves yours then, and you blink up at the ceiling. Aerion Targaryen was telling you to get on your knees? Aerion Targaryen was currently pulling apart the knots of his trousers, panting like a wounded dog as he dips his hand into his breeches to fist himself? Your mind was a mess.
But you did what you were told. You could have easily overpowered him in this state. Simply leapt from his reach and locked yourself in your room. But you didn’t want to. There’s a heavy fire kindling in your belly, fanning out over your womb as blood pumps hot between your thighs.
You sigh gently, slowly pushing yourself off the counter and sinking to your knees, your powder-dusted skirts flowing out around you. The wooden ground is hard but well-worn from years of footfall, and you settle on your knees as the prince takes a step forward, his trousers gathered just beneath the curve of his arse. The print of his cock strains against the white linen of his breeches, the front wet with pre-cum, and the way his fingers tremble when he attempts to unknot them makes you whine.
“My prince…” you whisper, reaching your hands to take hold of the strings of his breeches.
He stills above you, muscles in his abdomen clenching as you pull the knots apart. While you do this, one of his hands comes to rest on the back of your head, and he pulls you to him. Adrenaline is thick and viscous in your veins, but you let yourself be guided despite the hammering of your pulse up the side of your neck. You’re dizzy with both need and fear as you open your mouth and press it, hot and wet, to the front of his breeches.
He bites down a hiss. “That’s right.”
You kiss over the line of his cock, open-mouthed and messy against the soft linen. You smell perfume and imagine the skilled hands of trained sex workers pulling the prince’s breeches down for him. You squeeze your thighs together at the thought, and you finally manage to pull apart the knots beneath his navel.
“Kiss me, that’s it,” Aerion groans out, holding your head firmly as your lips move across his covered cock. He’s burning hot and rigid beneath the fabric, and your hands find his thighs as you lave your tongue. That earns you a groan, and your eyes flit upwards to find him already looking at you. His tongue darts out to wet his lips. “That’s it, fix me… fix this.”
Your head rocks beneath his hand as you mouth at his covered length. You feel him twitch beneath your lips, tip drooling out onto the fabric as you run the point of your tongue across it. Aerion hisses, hips bucking so harshly he knocks against your nose. Tears well along your waterline as he pulls you away then, just long enough to shove his breeches down.
He pulls his cock out, pale fingers wrapped tightly around the shaft. He groans at the raw contact, and you can’t help but gape as he clutches himself, tip a bruising red and wet with pre-cum. Pearlescent beads roll down the dip of his frenulum, and down his length as he slaps it against your cheek, then the other. He groans again when he pushes the tip across your lips, your eyes glassy as you watch him.
“Didn’t think witches could be as pretty as you,” he says suddenly as he ruts his cock along the warm lines of your face: over the curve of your cheekbones, rolling beneath the angle of your jaw. You kneel there, breathing hard, as he rubs himself over your skin. His words have heat flooding from your belly to your chest. The prince continues, “Might take you back to the Keep with me, huh? Keep you locked away…”
He tapers off when he groans, his balls drawing up tight. He grips the back of your head as he slides the head of his cock across your wet lips. He manages to bite out a quick “open” and you listen, opening your mouth and letting him slide just the tip in before he’s spilling in thick, hot spurts. Aerion groans, a shaking timbre from his chest as he rubs the head of his cock against the front of your tongue and spills into the warmth of your mouth. Some hits the back of your throat, and you squeeze your eyes shut, willing yourself not to choke as he releases, fingers firm on the back of your head.
After a moment, his cock jerks, but doesn’t soften. A loud, frustrated groan rips from Aerion’s throat as he pulls out and smears the remnants back over your cheek again.
“You did this to me,” he growls out as he shoves himself back into your mouth, barely giving you enough time to swallow. You open your eyes when he feeds himself into you, cock a velvet warmth against your tongue. He releases a stuttered breath, his other hand finding the back of your head as well. “So you’re going to take it.”
You gag when his hips rock forward and the leaking tip nudges down the back of your throat. You swallow, huffing out of your nose, and he groans loudly enough for it to echo. His hands tighten on your head and he physically starts moving you, pulling your head back and forth and fucking his cock down your throat. You try your best to lax your jaw, minding your teeth as you slide your tongue along the underside—you find a prominent vein easy enough, and you squeeze your thighs together as he whines, the muscles in his abdomen shifting.
The velvet of his trousers is plush beneath your fingers as you grip his thighs. They sit low on his hips, ties swaying as he pitches his hips, pulling your head back and forth. Every other thrust, he’s pushing you deep against him with a guttural groan, forcing your lips to the very root as the tip knocks against the back of your mouth. Your nose finds the neat white hair at the base, and the smell of perfumed oil should be a turn off, but it isn’t.
You whimper around him, cheeks hollowing. Your eyes are glassy and there’s a thin rivulet of saliva running from the corner of your mouth as he fucks your throat. Heat settles deep in the marrow of your bones, fluttering heart between your thighs. The feeling of spit rolling down your chin makes you whimper again, and suddenly, his eyes are on you. They’d been closed in, what you can only assume, is ecstasy as he chases another high. But now, he stares down at you with a subtle pinch in his brows. Like he can’t quite believe you’re there.
“If I knew you’d take my cock like this,” Aerion utters, petting the back of your head as he stretches your lips apart. “I’d’ve skipped the fucking whores and come straight here.”
You moan, something like a protest, but it’s shoved right back down your throat by the leaking head of his cock. You choke and splutter when he rolls his hips and he, somehow, goes even deeper. Aerion pulls back with a groan draped across a chuckle, letting you suckle the head as you catch your breath. His balls twitch as he slowly ruts back in, and once you blink the tears from your eyes, you reach a hand up to cup them.
He hisses out, “Fuck, fuck, oh gods—”
You let him press you to his pelvis, nose between the prominent lines of his hips. Your fingers and thumb work gently, rubbing over smooth skin as the grip on either side of your head tightens as he thrusts once, twice more before he begins to lose his rhythm.
“That’s it, that’s it, take it,” the prince moans, still looking at you, eyes black with lust as his hips slow and he forces you right down onto his cock again. He moans again when he spills—another thick, hot release that splatters down the back of your throat. You squeeze your eyes shut, practically holding your breath as his cock jerks, balls drawing up beneath your fingers. When your eyes close, Aerion lets out a quiet, “Look at me.”
It’s surprisingly soft. You blink up at him. His hand finds your warm cheek then, petting you two times like he’s trying to be gentle, and the effort puts a pit in your stomach. But it doesn’t last: his cock, still hard, dribbles as he pulls it from your mouth, taking a step back but still holding your head in one hand. His other hand finds the base of his slick cock and he moans as it pumps hot against his palm.
His bare chest is flushed, as are his cheeks. He pants like a dog too, and as he grips his cock, you watch with lowered lids as cum beads against the slit, then strings out like a spider’s web. It drips onto the floor as he groans, his lip curling up in a frustrated snarl.
“Why isn’t it working?” He asks you, fingers on the crown of your head.
You flick the point of your tongue across your teeth before you speak, tasting his release in the grooves. Overripe grapes linger in the back of your throat.
“You drank six doses worth,” you whisper, hands caressing his thighs.
“Fuck,” Aerion curses, and he watches with dark eyes as you lean forward, testing the waters, and press a wet kiss to the tip of his flushed cock.
You continue speaking as you slowly kiss down his shaft. “A single dose will usually allow a normal man three or four releases, if he’s lucky.”
Aerion grunts as you lick over the vein on the underside. It’s throbbing and hot against the flat of your tongue.
“But you, my prince…” Your tongue lowers and you lick a stripe from root to tip, and the sound that leaves him is more animal than human. You hide your smile. “Are not a normal man, are you?”
“Fucking witch,” Aerion seethes, but he’s preening. Like a cat being praised, a small groan lifts from his chest like a purr, and something flashes across his eyes. Pride. His hand pets your hair softly despite the venom in his tone, and he watches you in awe when the tip of your tongue darts out to collect a welling bead of pre-cum. He grunts then, pulling his cock away from your mouth with great effort. “Stand up.”
You do as you’re told. You clamber to your feet, and you feel slightly silly as you wait for him to kiss you. Of course he doesn’t—he spins you around with a grunt and pushes you roughly against the table. It hits your tummy as you bend, and you exhale a little “oof” as his hands make quick work of flipping up your skirts. He gathers them at your hips before he’s ripping your smallclothes away from your core.
“Cunt this wet from sucking my cock?” Aerion plasters himself to your back, leaning over to whisper in your ear as he runs the length of his cock from your arsehole to your pussy. You whine as he spreads you apart, slick webbing between your folds before they snap where he runs his cock through you. He groans at your heat, head dropping to rest between your shoulder blades as he rocks back and forth. “Gods, you’re dripping, sweet girl.”
The pet name has you reeling.
You hadn’t been expecting it, and it seems like he hadn’t been either. The length of his body stiffens behind you, as if his words were involuntary beneath the haze of his pleasure. With a grunt, he pulls back, taking the flat of his palm and muscling you down from between your shoulder blades until your tits are pressed tightly to the surface of the counter.
“Fucking witch,” Aerion seethes, still holding his cock as he drags the flushed tip through your folds. You suck in a breath, mewling when he slaps it against your clit. He makes a pleased sound, squeezes it out between clenched teeth, before he circles the tip at your entrance. “You did this to me. You did this to yourself.”
He pushes in with a low moan. There’s no slow stretch. There’s no slow.
The prince shoves himself in like it’s all he can do, the thick of his cock pulling you apart from the inside out. There’s a sting low in your pelvis and a dull kind of ache that festers like a bruise in the base of your womb as he bullies himself into you. A deep, keening sound is pushed involuntarily from your chest as you clutch the counter, followed by a gasp of “my prince” as he bottoms out, hips flush with your arse.
Your pussy is slick and warm around him and you squeeze tight when he pauses.
He’s panting. You can feel him straining behind you, his hands gripping your hips so hard it’s like he’s anchoring himself to you. The walls of your cunt hug around the thick of him in such a way that he’s completely lost himself.
You press your cheek to your counter, attempting to look back at him, but the angle is awkward and you can only just make out the look of pure awe on his face. His dark eyes focus on the tight pull of your cunt as he slides out, shaft slick with you. A small whimper—he covers it quickly with a grunt—falls from his parted lips when his head notches at your hole.
“Maybe you belong in a whorehouse,” he whispers after a moment of tense silence. He rolls his hips and shoves himself back in, ears picking up the wet schlick as he slides home, balls coming to rest against the curve of your arse. He hums, pulling out again, then pushing back in. “Men’d pay good coin for a cunt like this.”
The prince sets a rhythm that rocks you against the counter. It’s sharp, desperate. You clutch onto the edge as if he might push you over, his cock rutting in and out of you at such a pace you’re becoming dizzy. He’s panting, frantic, the speed of his hips filling your small, dark shop with the echoing sounds of skin-on-skin.
His previous words settle and then he hisses like he’s offended himself. A disgruntled jeer as he grips your hips and fucks you back onto him.
“Too bad you’re here,” he utters. His thighs are a firm bracket behind yours as he fucks you. The way he speaks is dark and smooth. Dangerous flashes through your mind as you moan, a solid heat collecting in the very depth of your belly. He continues, “Too bad you’re here. With me. Too bad no one’ll stuff this cunt like your prince.”
You gasp around a small moan at his words. They hit you right in the stomach, churning something erotic inside you. You grip the counter, bottles nearby clinking at the movement, and you try to turn your head to look at him again.
“My prince—”
“Shut up and take it,” Aerion interrupts with a bite. A gnashing of ivory as he fills you over and over, the head of his cock finding that spot inside you that has you arching for more.
Your body trembles, shaking against the counter as he folds you over it. The fat of your arse shifts with each of his thrusts, his fingers a bruising hold on your hips. Sweat builds beneath your dress, damp along the dip of your spine as you grow hotter and hotter. It’s an unbearable sort of heat that sparks in your womb, then spreads. It spreads up and out, flaring like a pair of glowing wings.
“Fuck, I can feel you, sweet girl,” Aerion says, his pace slowly losing it’s pattern. He’s scrambling now, sweat tracing down the back of his neck as his heart clatters against his ribs. Your pussy flutters around him like she doesn’t want to let him go. He groans, eyes slipping up your body, before resuming on where you take him. “Let me have it. Give it to me.”
You gasp out. “My prince, I—”
“Don’t fuss,” he snaps, hips stuttering. “Don’t fucking fuss and do what you’re told.”
There’s a heaviness in his tone that pins you down, but you expect nothing less. You instead focus on those gold-guilded wings spreading out inside you—filling your tummy, fanning heat through your chest as your tits squeeze almost uncomfortably against the wooden counter. The flames of pleasure are crawling down your spine now too, and with four more heavy thrusts of his cock against that perfect spot inside you, it reaches your core.
You can’t help what happens next: you call for him, his name, a sickeningly sweet “Aerion!” as you come around him, pussy pulling tight as the warmth overwhelms you. Your release is bulky as it takes hold, dragging you into ecstasy as his cock drives you through it. Your eyes squeeze shut, body shaking, as it takes over.
He mutters something under his breath then, hips rolling as he slowly begins to lose focus. You feel his cock jerk inside you as he slams inwards, tip nudging up towards the plug of your cervix. The feel of him is muddled in your brain and you feel sick with need as your orgasm begins to fizzle out, embers flickering.
“Yes, yes, yes,” Aerion groans.
He spills then, with his cock flattened deep inside you and his fingers vice-like on your hips. He curls forward, dewy forehead finding your shoulder blades as his cock twitches, filling you in hot strings. It’s thick and viscous and makes you moan, and Aerion matches the sound with his own, feeling the clutch of your pussy tighten around him.
Some long seconds pass and he’s still spilling. Your eyes fly open as his cock, still pulsing and hard and hot inside you, jerks with his release. Spurts of it, again and again. You whine at the feeling. Too full, too full, you want to mutter, but you can’t. Your tongue is heavy in your mouth, throat dry as the prince rolls his hips, rutting himself against you with his face in the laces of your dress. You writhe, and he groans, open-mouthed and pained as he holds your hips, unwilling to let you go.
“No, stop, fuck,” he hisses out, muffled in the material of your dress. “Don’t fucking move—don’t—ah, ha, fuck, fuck.”
You still immediately, freezing like a scolded puppy. The prince breathes heavily against you as his cock jerks and jerks inside you. He whines into your dress. The sound has your heart fluttering.
“Gods above…” Aerion whispers after another long moment.
His cock stills now, but he’s still hard. And he doesn’t pull out. He does, however, lift himself from you gingerly. His hands tremble on your hips, but you pretend not to notice.
“I can’t…” He tapers off, breathing heavily.
There’s a searing pleasure in his abdomen that’s almost painful now, and his cock aches something fierce—like he needs to release again, like he’s edged himself for an hour. But he hasn’t. He’s spilled more times than he can count, but the pent-up need is making him nauseous with desire. His heart is beating too fast in his chest, and his skin feels too hot against his flesh.
He swallows thickly as he plugs your pussy full of his seed. His cock twitches and, much to his horror, he feels the hot press of tears behind his eyes. “I can’t… I need…”
“I know,” you whimper.
The change in his tone, in his demeanour, is a slap across the face. It’s abrupt and unexpected. You almost feel sorry for him—sorry for the man he’s become as he slowly rolls his hips, his cock barely moving inside of you—but you don’t. He’s done this to himself.
“One more,” he whispers, pulling out until only his flared head rests inside you.
“One more,” you repeat after him.
He groans, pushing back in once he’s caught his breath. You moan quietly, body pliant and spent beneath him now. There’s a prickle of overstimulation in your belly, but you don’t complain. His cock knocks right back up against that perfect spongy spot inside you and you shut your mind up with a string of whimpers.
The prince builds his pace again. His cheeks are pink with the effort, and strands of his white hair cling to his forehead as he ruts into you. A thin white ring builds at the base of his cock as he thrusts, his seed drooling through your folds as he bends and fucks you. It’s wet and loud, and paired with the little whimpers you’re trying to hide, it’s better than any sex he’s ever bought. And he didn’t spend a single coin on you.
“No one else took me like this,” he utters as thoughts of you, you, you clatter around his skull. You’re a witch. You’ve poisoned him. He grunts, almost mad at himself. “You take me like you were made for it.”
“Aerion,” you whisper, eyes drooping, another orgasm encroaching on you. This one is even heavier than before. You can feel it in your bones, seeping into your marrow as he fucks you and rambles all the while.
“Made for me,” he continues. “Made for the dragon.”
His thrusts are loosening, and he chases his release with his cock barely leaving you. He rolls his hips, sliding against you as he huffs and bends. To your surprise, he places a kiss between your shoulder blades, teeth tugging briefly at the laces of your dress before he pulls back. He rocks and rocks, a thick moan fighting its way out of his throat as the counter trembles. A glass vial topples with the force, rolling off and onto the floor. It shatters, but neither you or Aerion flinch, too consumed in your pleasure to pay it any mind.
“Ah, fuck, fuck, oh fuck, sweet girl—” Aerion rambles, and then he’s spilling again.
He moans loudly as he ruts himself through it, cock shuddering inside you as he comes in more thick spurts. Back dipping, you feel him fill you even more than before, and you feel the heat of it seep like honey into your womb. It makes you dizzy, and it makes your own orgasm reveal itself from the ashes of the first.
You come with his name on your tongue again, holding onto the counter as you stiffen up. He groans when your pussy tightens around him, fluttering as the tension releases like blood pouring from an open wound. He falls over you as you tremble, sweat-slick chest finding your back as his cock gives one last jerk while your orgasm tapers off, slipping back into the shadows. He pants behind you, hands still on your hips, cock still inside you—but it’s softening.
The prince moans in relief as his cock slowly softens, his seed leaking from your spread pussy as he slowly, slowly pulls himself from you. A quiet moment passes before he exhales, presses one last almost imperceptible kiss to the covered space between your shoulder blades, then rights himself.
“I trust you have something to deal with… this,” Aerion mutters, and you feel two thick fingers drag through your folds before pressing inside you. Despite his words, obviously slightly concerned with the fact you’re filled with him, he plugs you, knuckles against your core.
You release a shaky breath. “Yes, my prince.”
“Good,” he huffs, still catching his breath.
You’re still bent over the counter. And his fingers are still inside you. He sighs, more to himself than to you.
“Thank you,” he whispers, sounding the most unlike himself of the entire night.
That’s all he says, and you know he doesn’t want a reply.
—✿—
Three days—and several cups of moon tea and other fast-acting contraceptives—later, you’re restocking the shelf behind your counter when the door opens. You cast a glance over your shoulder, finding Ser Donnel entering, white armour gleaming as his mass fills the doorway. You turn and greet him properly.
“Ser Donnel,” you say, bowing your head respectfully. “How is your horse?”
Ser Donnel smiles. “Fine. You fixed her right up.”
You smile back, busying your idle fingers by stuffing a small pouch with crushed willow bark. “That’s great to hear. What can I do for you?”
The knight clears his throat, looking around the empty shop for a moment before speaking. “He requires your presence. At the Keep.”
“I beg your pardon?” You cock your head. “Who?”
“The prince,” he says pointedly.
You frown, tying a knot around the little pouch and placing it to the side. Nerves spike in your chest as you wait for Ser Donnel to continue. He does.
“He’s earned himself a nasty gash—” Ser Donnel gestures to his own bicep for specification. “—during training. And he’s, uh, refusing the help of his maesters. He wants you.”
You gape. “But I’m not a maester—”
“But you can help him, can you not?” Ser Donnel interrupts you before you spiral. “You’re a smart wee thing. You can fix anything.”
You bite your lip, nervous. “Ser Donnel, I don’t think—”
“Unfortunately, it wasn’t a request,” he says as gently as possible. “He won’t be taking no for an answer. I’m here to escort you.”
“Right…” You sigh, turning back to the shelf and gathering some supplies.
You shouldn’t have expected anything less from Aerion Targaryen.
✿ baelor is ‘blessed’ by a travelling herb-woman, and after two weeks away from his wife, he is desperate to have her (or, a sex pollen fic with the hand of the king).
✿ 18+
✿ wc: 5.6k
✿ cw: fem!reader/secondwife!reader, reader is not physically defined but she sexyyy, no y/n, sex pollen, SMUT, unprotected piv, unintentional rough sex initially, clothed sex (kinda), baelor is desperate asf, pet names (sweet girl, little dove, etc), praise, lowkey hyperspermia, strong language, baelor being the people’s princess <3
The red and black banners of the royal Targaryen caravan draws a significant crowd, and when Baelor, heir to the Iron Throne and Hand of the King, dismounts his black stallion, the crowd ripples with voices. It’s a great clamour: common people reaching for him, calling his name, begging for his attention as he’s flanked by his loyal kingsguard.
He has been away for two weeks. Travelling from Kings Landing to Sunspear and back again, stopping in various towns and villages on his way. He spoke kindly with vendors, purchased goods from travelling merchants, discussed the state of the realm with minor lords who frequented trailside inns.
He was a man of the people, but in truth, he only wanted to be the man for one person. He wanted to be your man, and he had been away for two weeks too long.
His pretty wife, no doubt sitting alone within the walls of the Keep. Waiting for the return of your dear husband, biding your time lost between the pages of Valyrian literature or nosing around the quiet observatories.
He smiles to himself as he thinks of you.
One of his guards, Ser Donnel, stoops low to whisper in his ear as he waves to the surging crowd, who respond with shouts of praise.
“We need not stop here, your grace,” Donnel informs. “We are but three hours from the royal residence. We can make landing before midday if—”
Baelor swishes his hand through the air, polite but dismissive. “Do not fret, ser. I will only spend a moment here then we will depart once more.”
Donnel says nothing more as Baelor approaches some of the commonfolk. He extends his arm and shakes the hand of a young man, no older than his eldest son. The boy beams at the prince, his handshake firm and confident.
“Seven blessings, your grace,” the young man says, dipping his head as he shakes Baelor’s hand. Baelor smiles softly at him, and the young man brings a hand to his chest in a display of respect. “I have the means to become a knight.”
Baelor smiles still. “Then I wish you all the best. We are always in need of good men and good knights.”
The young man continues to beam as Baelor moves through the crowd, flanked by the shining white armoured men that comprise his kingsguard.
The village is small and very simple. A scarce few buildings stand amongst crudely made wooden houses, but nevertheless, Baelor winds his way through the wide streets, greeting people who peer out their windows and doors curiously.
Once he has done a lap of the village, shaking hands and offering kind smiles, he returns to where he had started. With one final wave to the people, he mounts his steed and the royal caravan presses on. Cantering beside him, Donnel, his white armour gleaming in the mid-morning sun, casts him a sidelong look.
Baelor meets his gaze. “Yes, Ser Donnel?”
“You assume everyone you meet has good intentions, your grace,” Donnel speaks plainly, and this makes Baelor shake his head, chuckling softly.
“I’d rather assume the good intentions of the people than the bad,” Baelor replies, the Targaryen procession winding through the countryside now, surrounded by endless rolling hills, coloured a patchwork of brilliant greens. “If I assume everyone has bad intentions, Ser Donnel, I would not make a good prince.”
Donnel huffs. “You’d make my job significantly easier.”
Baelor tuts, humoured. “Well, we wouldn’t want that, would we?”
An hour passes beneath the bright sun, and Baelor finds his lower back growing stiff with his continued straight riding posture. But he does not complain, nor does he ask for a break: he has kept his entourage from their homes for long enough, and on the distant horizon, King’s Landing juts from the hills, the ocean glittering beyond.
The well-ridden path ahead of them stretches and coils between the rolling hills like a serpent, and way ahead, the guards alert Baelor to a fully-stocked wagon pulled by a gangly old mule. A shawled figure walks beside the mule, and Baelor smiles to himself as he sees the figure patting the creature gently, heading away from King’s Landing.
“I intend to dismount,” Baelor tells Donnel, who can scarcely react before the prince’s horse sidles up beside the wagon.
The shawled figure, revealed to be an elderly woman of perhaps seven and ninety, stops at the sound of thundering hooves. She leans into a stiff bow as Baelor leaps from his stallion, stretching his hand to stroke the nose of the old mule.
“Your grace,” the woman greets kindly, her eyes darting nervously to the two imposing kingsguard who dismount their own horses and stand beside the prince. Their hands rest on the pommels of their swords, and they eye both the woman and her wagon skeptically. She gestures to the wagon, which is draped in dark blue material and smells of lavender. “I am a travelling herb-woman.”
Baelor assesses the woman with his mismatched eyes. “Well, it has been many years since I have met someone of your specialty.”
The woman smiles, and the kingsguard bristles as Baelor continues to pet the mule. The prince speaks with a disarming kindness that constantly has them on edge. He was considerably more difficult to guard compared to his younger brother, who spoke to no one unless he really needed to.
“I have been travelling for far too long,” Baelor continues, allowing the mule to butt his hand in search of more strokes. “Might you have something to ease my aches?”
Donnel clears his throat behind him. “Your grace, I don’t recommend—”
The woman splits into a deep smile and turns to her wagon, her dark cloak moving around her like the blackness of night. She smells rich of lavender and road dirt, and Baelor shoots Donnel a pointed look as he waits. The woman peels back the covering of her wagon and rifles through the contents she can reach. After a moment, she spins around with a small vial. She holds it up, the liquid inside a milky-white.
“A tannic tea made from the bark of the white willow,” she says, holding it out to the prince. “Used to relieve muscle and joint aches.”
Baelor goes to reach for it, but Donnel beats him to it, snatching the vial from the woman, who jumps slightly at his roughness. Baelor peers curiously at his guard, who inspects the bottle thoughtfully.
“You cannot take something of which you do not know its origins,” Donnel says in response to Baelor’s stare. “It could be poison.”
The woman gawks. “Oh, no! No, your grace, I do not—I do not carry poisons. I am a simple herb-woman, gods believe me, and—”
Baelor lifts his hand, and the mule snorts in discontent at the lack of contact. “Please, you owe us no explanation. Ser Donnel is simply being thorough,” Baelor says the last part pointedly, and casts Donnel a sidelong glance that makes Roland, on his other side, snort around a poorly hidden laugh.
Donnel frowns. “Your father would not forgive me if I allowed you to drink strange liquids from strangers. Not to mention, your wife—”
Baelor gently takes the small vial from Donnel, interrupting his tirade. The prince carefully uncorks it, smells it—it smells of willow tannins, something he is familiar with from his many travels across the realm—and then drinks the entire small bottle. It’s bitter to the taste, with a subtle honey-sweetness used by many experienced healers to remedy the acridness of many bark-based tannics.
The woman smiles softly, taking the vial back. “It should begin to work within the hour.”
The prince returns the smile, allowing the old woman to clasp one of his hands in two of hers. The kingsguard watches her like a pair of hawks as she retreats, but not before exclaiming aloud, pulling a small pouch from within her thick cloak.
“May I bless you, your grace?” She asks.
Donnel frowns. “No—”
Baelor ignores his guard, stepping forward and presenting himself to the herb-woman, thus putting some space between him and his guards. She smiles, opening the pouch. Between her thumb and forefinger, she produces a pinch of bright pink powder.
“How long have you been from your wife?” the woman questions, tucking the pouch back within her cloak and sprinkling the powder onto her outstretched palm.
Baelor chuckles softly, watching the woman. “Too long. Weeks now.”
“You must desire her embrace then, I assume,” she says, and Baelor ignores another poorly-hidden laugh from Roland at the woman’s open words.
“Desperately,” Baelor speaks plainly, also ignoring the fact he could feel Donnel’s scowl pressing into the back of his head.
“Well,” the woman begins, running her finger through the pink powder on her palm and drawing a circle in it. “I bless you, your grace, with the passion and the desire to make up for such lost time.”
The woman raises her hand and blows the pink powder directly into Baelor’s face. He closes his eyes, the dust settling across him like a mist, tickling his skin as it settles. It takes a second for the smell to calm around his head, but as he inhales, everything he smells is strikingly familiar. He smells his childhood in Dorne: hot, sun-bleached sand, rain-soaked yew trees, spiced wine and pomegranate juice; he smells the ash of Dragonstone, fresh wax seals, blood on Valyrian steel beneath a stormy sky; and then he smells you.
That makes him freeze.
You, as if he had his nose pressed to the crook of your neck.
The musk of your skin, the rose-water of your baths, the cinnamon in your perfume. He smells the lilacs you pick in the gardens, and the ink you so often spill across your fingers as you write. He smells the honey wax soap you wash your hair with, and the rich apple cider you so often treat yourself to during times of celebration.
Baelor opens his eyes and gapes at the woman. “What is—?”
“Blessed be you and your wife, your grace. Travel safely,” she says with a knowing smile, dipping into another stiff curtsy before taking the rope at her mule’s neck and leading him on, pulling the cart away.
Behind the prince, Donnel places a hand on his shoulder. “Your grace, are you—?”
“Let us continue,” Baelor interrupts, slightly too loud. He quickly mounts his horse as Donnel and Roland exchange a strange look. Baelor beckons his knights. “Come, sers. We must not delay our arrival any longer.”
He can’t wait to see you.
Your face flits through his mind and he has to physically press the back of his hand to his mouth to stop himself from groaning as he nudges his horse into motion. When he pulls his hand away, he can see something iridescent dusting across the black leather of his riding glove, but it quickly melts into the hide, leaving behind only a dull shimmer.
He doesn’t feel as though he has been poisoned, but now more than ever, with King’s Landing looming in the distance, his mind is plagued with thoughts of you. Thoughts, which were once wholesome, now diverge—images of you spread out on his bed, a hand between your legs; or the whiny little breath you suck in each time he enters you.
His thoughts are unbecoming of a man of his standing.
But he cannot rid his mind of them.
Images—memories—of you hiking up your skirts as you perch on the edge of his desk, cunt glistening as his mouth lowers, or the way you arch and bend yourself over the edge of your tall bed, gripping the soft furs and sheets, begging him to take you.
“Your grace, are you well?” Donnel asks, catching the light glaze falling across the prince’s eyes.
Baelor nods, clearing his throat. He’s fine. If he ignores the way his cock is currently twitching in his breeches, he’s fine.
“I am,” he replies convincingly. “I must admit, my back feels better already.”
Donnel scoffs, but says nothing more.
If not for the horde of people around him, Baelor would have taken off. No doubt he would have gotten to the Keep in record time, even if he did run his poor stallion into the ground.
—✿—
The sun hangs high in the sky as Baelor hurriedly dismounts his steed and waves Donnel and Roland away. The Red Keep is alive with servants and workers, but amongst the sea of people he does not see you.
The hours that went by were torturous, and on several occasions the prince found himself screwing his eyes shut and willing himself not to burst through the seam of his trousers. Your scent clogged his sinuses, and he could almost feel some phantom of your touch trailing along the back of his neck, rustling the cropped hair of his beard, fiddling with the clasp of his cloak.
He strides purposely through the glowing halls of the Keep, pulling his riding gloves off and tossing them to a servant who hurries after him. He unclasps his cloak too, letting it drop to the ground behind him. The servant squeaks, scooping the cloak up before sprinting forward in an attempt to keep up with the heir.
The servant clears his throat nervously. “Your grace, your presence is requested in counsel at the turn of the hour, and the Lord of Riverrun is awaiting your letter in reply to—”
“I have been absent for weeks,” Baelor snaps, but although his tone is short, he is not cruel. “It will not hurt to miss one more meeting. And as for the Lord of Riverrun, he can wait even longer unless he’d rather a reply from my brother, who he is not fond of.”
The servant nods. “Of course, your grace, but—”
“Where is my wife?” Baelor voices, his doublet too hot and too restrictive around his chest. The halls of the Keep seem particularly warm today.
“Your chambers, as far as I’m aware,” the servant replies. “But—”
“Thank you, you are dismissed,” Baelor says as he rounds a corner, the door to your shared chambers coming into close view. His heart leaps in his chest envisioning you waiting patiently for his arrival.
The servant, arms struggling to hold onto Baelor’s thick, luxurious cloak, frowns deeply. “Your grace—?”
Baelor whirls around, and the servant yelps as he is forced to an abrupt stop. The prince gestures to the closed door of his chambers with a quick flick of his hand.
“Please make it aware to all of the workers that I am not to be disturbed for the rest of the day,” he says, voice low. “Tell the entire Keep for all I care, but under no circumstances is anyone to call for me, understood?”
The servant nods.
Baelor spins and pushes his door open, closing it and bolting it behind him with a resounding clank. He rests his forehead on the rough wood for a moment, catching his breath. His heart hammers wildly in his chest, as if his journey through the Keep had been miles longer than it actually was. It almost pains him, the way it clatters against his ribs as his breaths grow more ragged. His head is swimming too, a dizzy sort of euphoria overwhelmed by everything relating to you.
You.
He groans, eyes screwing shut as his cock presses painfully to the front of his breeches. He has half the mind to simply stick his hand into his trousers and jerk himself into the linen.
“Baelor?”
Your voice is angelic in the quiet of the chambers, and it makes another groan split from between Baelor’s lax jaw.
He turns, eyes opening, blinking blearily as he stares into the sunlight streaming through the windows. You sit up in the large canopy bed, your white chemise sitting loosely on your shoulders, revealing the curve of your neck. The furs and sheets pool around you in a mass of browns and blacks, and you rub at your eyes with the heel of your hand as you take in the sight of your husband across the room.
“You’re home,” you smile lazily at him, pushing yourself from the bed and padding your way over to him.
Your voice is so soft that it makes Baelor fold forward, the weight of his arousal dragging him towards you. You have him on an invisible leash, tugging him across the room until you can wrap your arms around his waist and press your face into his chest.
“No one informed me you were returning today,” you tell him, voice muffled against the thickness of his doublet. He presses two trembling hands to your lower back, pulling you tighter against him. You nuzzle him, the feeling making his stomach swoop. “I’ve missed you.”
“And I you,” he responds quietly, and he stiffens when he feels you go still. His voice is throaty and hoarse, hauled through gravel.
Slowly, you look up, and he realises you can feel the press of his clothed cock against your stomach. He groans, a pathetic little bellow as you gape up at him, eyes sparkling as they take in the state of his fevered face. You raise a hand, placing it against his cheek. He closes his eyes, and like a puppy, leans into your touch with a small sound of pleasure.
“You…” You begin, but falter. Your fingers trail along the neat line where the hair of his beard meets his cheek. He wonders, as he finally opens his eyes, if you can see every one of his pores glistening. He wonders too if the sweat that collects along his forehead is tinted pink. You frown. “You smell of… well, I’m not sure.”
He whines at the timidness in your voice, his hands circling to your hips. He grips you tightly, pulling your pelvis flush to his. It takes all power within him not to grind his cock against you. He doesn’t want to scare you off.
“I’ve missed you so much,” he says before you can open your mouth. Your hands continue to flutter over his face, and it makes his cock jump in his breeches when your thumb slides over the bow of his top lip. “Being away from you has been torture.”
You hum, slightly distracted. Your hands continue to shift across his face, and your brows knit together once more when you slowly pull one of them away. Baelor watches you examine your fingertips before your eyes find his again. He can feel the hot pressure of tears behind his eyes—not because he is sad, but because he needs you so badly he feels his heart will implode against his sternum.
“Gods, I need you,” Baelor declares gently, strong hands lifting to cup your face. He leans forward to press his lips to yours, but you resist, turning your head so his mouth lands against your warm cheek. He whines, frustrated, as he scatters kisses over your cheekbone. “No, no, sweet girl, please don’t—”
“You’re sparkling like a silk-street whore,” you quip, voice light with humour, but Baelor doesn’t hear it that way.
“No, no, never,” he rambles, nose pressing to your cheek. “I’d never, sweet girl, gods no. I’d first open my throat before I ever—”
“Baelor,” you stop him with a small, breathless chuckle, slightly overwhelmed.
He’s burning hot against you, he knows it, and you’re just as warm against him. It makes his head swim as he inhales, your skin slightly tacky with sweat from your midday nap, but smelling of roses and cinnamon.
“I’ve been blessed,” he says quickly, trying to turn your face, but you resist. He kisses your chin instead. “A herb-woman blessed me.”
“Ah,” you reply, knowing what he’s referring to. Not only have you met a few of these travelling healers in your time, but you’ve also read much about them.
Baelor leans his weight into you, and you stumble back until you collide with one of the thick posts of your canopy bed. He groans, pinning you to it as he kisses along your jaw, strong hands cupping your face. Your fingers find the hem of his doublet and you rub along the dense seam. As you do that, his hips rut forward and you gasp at the thick print of his cock against you, hot and hard in his trousers. Your hands drop, finding the cool metal of the clasp.
You hear him suck in a breath as he kisses the tender skin beside your ear. Then, he whispers, “Yes, take them off. Please take them off, little dove.”
You unbuckle the clasp.
He groans. “Yes, yes.”
Your fingers peel the front of his trousers open, and he finally manages to pull your mouth up to his. His hands are burning hot against the side of your head as his mouth slots against yours. The kiss is tender to start with, but one beat of your heart later and he’s whining against you, tongue sliding across your lips.
“Let me in,” he pleads against your mouth, before delving back in.
You do, opening your kisses for him to press his tongue in, finding yours. Everything about it is warm, your proximity burning hotter than a Dornish summer sun.
The tent of his cock nudges your palm as you finally shuck his trousers down. You feel for the ties of his breeches next, pulling at the knots as his tongue skims across your teeth. When he feels his breeches begin to loosen around his hips, he breaks away to groan, head tilting down slightly, your foreheads bumping together. He watches your fingers draw his breeches undone before they drop alongside his trousers.
You hesitate.
Baelor groans. “Touch me. Touch me, please, I need you to—”
You clasp the base of his cock with a warm, gentle hand. He groans again: this time, louder, and he lifts your head with his guiding hands and slams his mouth back to yours. There’s a subtle bitterness on his tongue, like a medicine of some sort, but it’s overwhelmed by an apple flavour that has you searching for more. Your tongues tangle as you grasp his cock, giving it a few tiny strokes as he pulls you away from the canopy post and pushes you down onto the mattress.
The kiss disconnects and you yelp as you fall flat onto the furs. Your husband’s hands find the hem of your chemise now and push it quickly up your body.
“There’s my pretty girl,” he utters, finding you bare of any smallclothes beneath your sleepwear.
He stares down at your cunt with a misty gloss across his mismatched eyes. His hands drag down your sides, then onto your thighs, massaging the fat there before he’s prying them apart.
One of his hands grips the base of his cock, replacing your own. “You have no… no idea how badly I need this.”
Baelor steps forward and tugs you towards him at the same time. You yelp once more as your arse practically hangs off of the bed as he settles between your spread legs. The thick head of his cock presses right against your clit, and you yowl his name as he taps it there roughly. His eyes snap up to take in your expression, and that’s when you notice a tear slip from his dark-hued eye.
“Oh, Baelor,” you whisper, pussy fluttering around nothing at the unbridled need in his face. There are a million butterflies in your tummy too.
He whimpers deeply, then drags his cock through your silken folds. He collects the slick that gathers there with a small moan before he speaks. The tear disappears into the hair of his beard. “My sweetest girl, please let me have you.”
You’re nodding straight away.
Baelor sucks in a breath, and you see something like regret flicker through his eyes. “Gods, I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t,” you tell him, noting the rapid rise and fall of his chest as his eyes rake down your body. They linger on the peaks of your nipples through the thin material of your chemise. “You could never hurt me.”
“No, no, sweet girl, I can’t—” Baelor slurs, then cuts himself off with a low whine as he notches the head of his cock at your hole.
You’re wet and glistening for him, but his mind is split in two: conflicted, overrun with the effects of whatever he had been ‘blessed’ with, but still anchored to his princely values.
He huffs, desperate as he rubs the tip of his cock in tight circles around your entrance. “Oh, fuck.”
You angle your hips and the leaking tip sinks into you. He chokes on his moan, the apple in his throat bobbing as he swallows around it. He watches, eyes nearly the same colour with the way his pupils dilate, as your pussy splits apart for him and sucks the head in. Then, his entire body trembling with need, he pushes even further, shoving his cock all the way inside you, giving you no room to adjust.
It punches a pained noise from your chest that you tried to keep at bay, and you can’t help but wriggle away from him at the intrusion. It’s instinctive, your body reacting to the sudden pressure that fissures both pain and pleasure deep in your gut. Your body writhes against the furs as you whimper, somehow feeling the tip of his cock all the way in your chest, the sensation of being filled suffocating after over two weeks without him.
Your body flees his, and the moan that leaves his mouth is nothing short of heart-breaking. It’s stretched and whiny and nothing you’ve ever heard before.
“No, no, no, please, don’t run from me,” Baelor stammers, eyes wide, hands tight on your hips. He tugs you back down, spearing you on his cock and you howl as he buries himself to the hilt inside you. You fist the sheets, wriggling. Baelor whines. “Stop, s-stop, no, I’m sorry, sweet girl, please don’t—please don’t cry.”
You hadn’t even noticed a few hot tears slipping from your eyes. He bends then, kissing them from your face. His eyelashes flutter against you and the hair of his beard scratches against the skin of your cheek. He whispers to you as he rolls his hips, stretching your pussy around him.
“M’sorry, need—fuck, tell me to stop and I will.” His lips ghost across your earlobe as he pins you beneath him, the angle slightly awkward, hips trapped beneath his.
You gasp softly as he ruts his hips again. “Don’t stop, jus’ keep going.”
“Thank you,” Baelor says, kissing your cheek once more before he rights himself. He holds your hips tightly, pulling himself out and then back in. The drive is deep, and he’s moaning louder than you as he bottoms out again and again. “Thank you, thank you, thank you—”
His trousers and breeches rustle against his thighs as he fucks you, your arse hanging off the bed, the wood of the canopy creaking with his feverish movements. You take it, the sting of the stretch slowly dissipating with each thrust. Your cunt clenches around him as he thanks you repeatedly, growing more and more desperate as he moves. You can see the sweat on his forehead, and you can only assume he’s drenched beneath his doublet and tunic.
The sounds of your union bounce through the chambers, moans and whimpers and curses ricocheting off the stone. He’s murmuring your name like a prayer, strung beautifully between rambling sentences of High Valyrian as he ruts into you.
Not only is this little blessing working, but the white willow tea surely did. His back no longer pains him, and he feels like he could go on forever as he fills you. His eyes linger on where your pussy takes him, sloppy and wet and so fucking loud that his ears burn red. And you’re loud too, whimpering and gasping as your body is rocked roughly against the silken sheets and plush furs.
With a long-winded groan, Baelor takes one of his hands and presses it down on your lower belly. The added pressure has you keening, eyes almost rolling.
“That’s it,” Baelor speaks in a tone heavy with pleasure. “That’s it, little dove. Feel me filling you. Feel the way you take me.”
His words are so foreign yet so familiar. In bed, he’s no stranger to telling you how well you’re doing, how well you take him, how good of a girl you are. But this? The pink powder is thick between his teeth, clogging up the blood vessels in his brain, and he’s spitting out sentences that have you clenching tight around him. He groans as your pussy flutters, and the knot of pleasure in your tummy grows tenfold. A heavy pressure begins to build in the base of your cervix too, hips twitching as he slams into you.
He must see it in your face, because he’s panting now, eyes taking in every little expression that flits before him.
“I know, I know,” he affirms gently, noting what you could not articulate into words. “I know you’re feeling good. I know you’re feeling real good, little dove, but you just need to h-hang on—don’t want you coming u-until I do.”
You whimper, pouting a little.
“Can you do that for me?” Baelor pants, forcing your hips down. By the way he’s moving, the speed in which he fills you and the whines that begin to replace his groans, you know he’s close. But the pressure in your tummy is so heavy that you can’t answer him. He coos at you. “You can do it, sweet girl. I’m almost there. Just hold on for me.”
You moan his name, arching off the bed as the knot in your stomach pulls taut. He responds with a moan of his own, leaning forward as if he’s beginning to lose his balance. He ruts into you like a starving man, the bed shaking, his body silhouetted by the window behind him. His mouth is agape, his breathing erratic and strained.
“Baelor,” you call for him. You’re teetering on a very high cliff, your entire body alight with your impending orgasm. There’s a scream trapped in your throat and your legs pull painfully tight either side of him.
“Okay, okay, okay,” he rambles, his knuckles white where he holds you. “Okay, fuck, s’okay, little dove. You can come for me. M’right here, m’right here.”
You whine, almost pained.
“S’alright, sweet girl,” Baelor continues to coo down at you. “Let me feel you. Want to feel you come around me while I fill you.”
His cock jerks heavily inside you, and his thrusts falter just as you release around him. Gripping the sheets, you sob his name as the knot of pleasure splinters apart. Your release is intense: you shake beneath the warm hold of his big hands, legs seizing tightly as you wrap them around him. His name and his title tumble from your lips, and they only increase when you feel his cock nudge up against your cervix as he spills inside you.
Baelor groans your name. His hips stutter to a stop as he spills, and he’s panting and shuddering as his pleasure peaks. It’s the strongest release he’s ever experienced, his eyes snapping closed as his entire body shakes and his heart leaps into his throat.
And he’s still spilling. Thick ropes of seed that seem never-ending as he hunches over you, cock jolting over and over until the point of pain.
He whines deeply, then pulls out, just for a few hot spurts of cum to splatter across your mound and your lower tummy.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Baelor whimpers, and you gasp out as he rests his cock against you. You feel it give one last jerk, dribbling at your navel, before you watch it slowly begin to soften, blood steadily seeping away from the head. Baelor notices the mess he’s made when his vision finally clears, still slightly dizzy with pleasure though. “M’so sorry, little dove, I didn’t—gods, I didn’t mean—”
You lift a tired arm and seize him by the doublet, tugging him down beside you. You capture his mouth in a heated kiss, and he melts into it straight away. His hands smooth down your sides as your fingers comb through his beard.
When you pull apart, you kiss the tip of his nose. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”
Baelor frowns slightly, and you can’t help but raise your head to kiss the divots in his brow. He huffs. “I… I was too rough, I shouldn’t have…”
There’s a slight ache deep in your womb, but nothing significant. All you’re focusing on, anyway, is the way his seed leaks from you like honey from its dipper.
“Please, Baelor,” you interrupt him softly, stroking his face. “Like I said, you could never hurt me.”
He goes to speak again, but you kiss him to shut him up.
“I missed you so much,” you say against him, and he grunts, agreeing. You laugh, pulling back a little, examining the bright pink in his cheeks. “And although I… enjoyed this, I must implore you not to take strange blessings from strange people—”
Baelor rolls his eyes, and now it’s his turn to kiss you to shut you up.
warnings/tags: female reader. smut, biting, cursing, oral (m+f receiving), hair pulling, piv, no mention of condom (don't do that gang be safe), minor dom/sub vibes, pain kink?, so much talk of teeth (I am who I am), nickname pup (get it. shark pup. idk dont judge me you know what you’re here for), maybe size kink? idk he's big man what can i say, possibly cnc (she say’s she doesn’t want it but they have a safe word established that she never uses so she does actually want it), animal analogies. ogilvie being annoying. canon typical medical discussion, mentions of chronic illness (reader and patient).
words: girl idk a lot I was not putting this in a word doc.
Brendon Park, otherwise knows as Park the Shark to his PTMC coworkers, has a reputation. If the nickname doesn't give it away, the way he eyes everyone as if they’re prey, the snap of his jaws when someone questions his judgment, or the sheer brawn of him, does. So when people call him Shark, it’s not entirely inaccurate.
You’re heavily inclined to agree with the nickname knowing what you do about him. You've gotten to know him better than anyone else in the hospital, both professionally and personally. All by being the nice, energetic and witty ED Doctor who Park, for some reason, doesn’t bite at. Verbally, that is.
Although, when needed, that kind demeanor of yours quickly shifts into something sharp and deadly. It’s what got you the nickname of Wolf down in the ED. Cute and sweet until you see the massive paws with claws to match, the bloodied maw growling in your face.
You always meet Park where he’s at. Both of you flashing your shiny rows of teeth in violent displays but never clamping down on the other’s jugular. It became a sort of dance between the two of you. Circling to see where any weak spots are. Whenever you disagree on a case, if you don’t like how he handles himself in front of a patient or vice versa.
The second the carcass is devoured though, you two go right back to easy conversation. Something PTMC staff didn't think Brendon Park was capable of. The pictures of civility. Which is also something people didn’t know Park the Shark was capable of.
Brendon outwardly intimidates those around him. Never smiling. Never giving you a flash of those pointed canines except for when he snarls. He moves through the world proud to show off his threatening demeanor. You think it secretly gets him off.
You, on the other hand, show all your teeth in every smile. Proudly display your most lethal weapon, canines sharp and shining. It's not scary upon first glance. The way you grin as you compliment another’s work, encouraging look on your face as you guide the student doctors through a new procedure. That makes it worse. When you do snarl and dig your claws in, it makes it all the more horrifying seeing the shift. How quickly you go from that sweet, docile, belly up puppy to a violent, raging, snapping dog.
Everyone sees Park as an ominous figure, it’s all he offers them a glimpse of. It's all they've come to expect. So they act accordingly. Everyone has been in the jaws of the Shark before and don't plan to find themselves back in it. Most people only hear stories of your lethal side. It’s enough for them to never want to see it, to never want to feel your teeth in their neck.
Ogilvie though, must not give a shit as he tries to take over presenting your patient to the infamous Park the Shark, his voice cutting off yours. You're in the middle of discussing next steps with Robby, preparing to give Park the rundown.
“Dr. Park!” Ogilvie is chomping at the bit to impress the man. “Patient is a 49 year old female, dislocated clavicle with a severe fracture to the ulnar and radius. Claims to have complex connective tissue disord-”
“Is this your patient?” Park cuts him off, tone short and annoyed like he’s already done with the conversation. He is.
“I’m on the case, yes, but-” Ogilvie pauses. Hesitant. Realizing his slip-up. Park raises his eyebrows as if to say “but?”
“But I’m the lead.” You cut in smoothly. Sharper than you usually are. Ogilvie senses it immediately. Stiffening in his place as if it will make you forget he’s here.
“Then why don’t you let her present me the case? I didn’t realize incompetence got you through med school nowadays.” He doesn’t bother to give Ogilvie as much as a side glance, eyes focused entirely on the scans in front of him.
You don’t hesitate to take over presenting. “49 year old female patient with a dislocated clavicle and multiple fractures to both radius and ulnar. Presenting with severe pain. She's unable to move her fingers, has lack of feeling below the elbow.”
Park begins to softly touch at the patients arm, assessing the damage while you continue.
“Mrs. Henderson has a complex connective tissue disorder, hypermobile Ehlers Danlos specifically." A glare directed at Ogilvie by you. "This presents more of an issue as she has a history of clavicle dislocation and asked us to not address it with surgery.”
You gave Mrs. Henderson nitrous oxide about 20 minutes ago. Wanting to help ease her pain but knowing Park likes patients conscious to assess their injury when possible. The gas leaves her loopy and slightly out of it, conscious but not fully aware.
Park asks, “Why no fixing the collarbone?”
“She’s had it dislocate multiple times previously and doesn’t want a plate put in because she’s been advised that it won't guarantee no more dislocations. She can handle the pain of one collarbone dislocated. Not two.” You recount. Before letting her fall into the soft lull of pain medicine, you took the time to understand her wishes and reasoning.
Park looks back up at you then. Eyes moving away from his hands that were feeling over the patient’s swollen flesh. To anyone else it would’ve seemed like he was thinking, but you know better. So does he.
He knows why you’re so interested in leading this case. Knows that you of all people understand the gaslighting that comes with connective tissue disorder. Months ago you’d explained to him your own condition, exposing your vulnerability to a predator. It's one of the things that made you so ferocious about a patient's wishes and lived experience. God help anyone who came between you and patient advocacy.
So right now, God should help Ogilvie as he opens his mouth to say the dumbest thing you think he's said yet.
“But it makes more sense to do the collarbone plate while we’re in there. Dr. Park I’d love to scrub in, I’ve never seen one done before.”
The room goes silent as the atmosphere shifts. Robby takes a step closer to the wall, leaning against it. Nurses and other doctors find anything to do other than look at the scene in front of them. They're all aware of the beast Ogilvie just woke up.
The only people who don’t look away are Ogilvie and Park. The former because he doesn’t realize the mistake he’s made and the latter because he knows he’s about to see something that’ll fuel his wet dreams for months.
“Dr. Ogilvie, do you have a hearing impairment or is your brain just so full of self centered thoughts that you can't hear anyone other than yourself?” You ask, brows furrowed in curiosity.
Ogilvie stares, unsure of what to say. You push on. "I'm genuinely curious as it affects my teaching you. Answer." You know the answer. Everyone in this room knows the answer. The ED has protocols and systems to help hearing impaired staff. Ogilvie isn't one of those staff members.
He's meek, glancing around trying to catch someone's eye. Decipher the situation. Get help. Something. "No."
“Then I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but this is my patient. You have no right trying to present the case to an attending without my explicit approval. Quite frankly, you don’t have the right to even touch the patient unless I say so.” Ogilvie gulps as he watches you. You’re seething. Anger barely keeping itself contained, pressing against the seams of your composure.
“The patient explained her wishes to us and we do everything in our power to respect those wishes. We don’t just do whatever’s easier. If you want easy I suggest you go twiddle your thumbs across the street in the park where that overinflated ego you’re dragging around like a limp parachute won’t be a trip hazard for the rest of us.”
Robby sighs from the wall, hand on his forehead. He knows this has been a long time coming for almost everyone who’s interacted with the new med student. The only reason he isn’t stopping you is because he knows Ogilvie needs a reality check before he kills someone. Who better to teach him submission than the Wolf?
“You are not special for putting in hard work. Everyone in this room has worked their ass off to be here. Do not discredit their efforts, my efforts by assuming superiority over us and trying to slack off and do the easy thing. This is someone's life. Their autonomy. Their body and choices."
You’re not yelling, your voice barely raising in volume as you reprimand him. That makes it all the more threatening. "The next time you want to try and play alpha and disregard my patient’s clearly stated wishes and consent, I suggest you remember who the fuck you’re talking to.”
Park has to remind himself he’s in public, with a patient, as he starts to feel blood rushing to places it shouldn’t be. The way your words cut deep and the rise and fall of your chest consuming his attention.
Ogilvie stands there gaping, mouth opening and closing like a fish. “You can’t-”
“Can’t what? Reprimand my student for trying to perform a procedure on a patient that they didn’t consent to and that isn’t medically necessary?" Your eyebrows shoot up, smug look on your face as you ask, "Who do you think the board will favor? You and your failed attempt at dominance or me and not getting sued for inexcusable patient care?”
Park’s voice cuts in, steadier than he feels watching your successful attempt at dominance. “I know who I’m vouching for.” There's a faint smirk on his face when he looks at you.
Ogilvie puts his head down, nodding and looking like he’s about to vomit. “You’re right, Doctor. I apologize.”
He sounds sincere enough, so you accept it and move on. You're certain he could make a good doctor, he just needs to get over that god complex of his and listen. As fun as it might be, berating him more will only lead him to shutdown. He isn't your first student like this and he won't be the last.
Ogilvie almost gets whiplash from how quickly you’ve gone back to being a gentle mentor. Explaining how you adjust based on vitals and scans in this scenario. Showing him how to prep the patient with a compliment and a “good job”. He wonders if he accidentally inhaled some of that nitrous oxide and hallucinated the last five minutes.
Before he leaves the room to assist McKay with another patient, Park stops Ogilvie with a hand on his arm. “If you ever disrespect your superior like that again, you’ll have a lot more to worry about than her just chewing your ass out.” This time, Park does flash his teeth. Not with one of those blinding smiles he gives you when no one is looking. With a look of distaste as he delivers the vague threat to Ogilvie. The ambiguousness makes it scarier.
Risking a glance at Park through the clear Trauma doors, you find him already looking at you. His eyes burning your skin before he walks away.
Hands ripping off the bloodied gloves and scrub gown, you check the board. Every patient is being seen and chairs is somewhat under control for once. Which means you get to take five minutes for yourself to pee without rushing for the first time today. Or all week. As you walk to the staff bathrooms, you think back on your first month at the PTMC.
Your coworkers came to the assumption that Park doesn't bite at you because the first time he did, you bit back. Harder. Deeper.
He tried to question your call on a pediatrics case and began to make passive aggressive comments about your skills. A warning bite. A challenge. So you went for blood.
You said nothing in front of the patient, not wanting to add more stress onto the young boy's already bad day. The second you cleared those curtains though, you asked Park to take a minute and speak with you. He barely acknowledged your request and began to brush you off. So you grabbed him by his massive bicep and dragged him behind you to a less crowded hallway. You can still recall the way your fingers unconsciously dug into the muscle.
You figured the hallway would be away from prying eyes and ears. But if there was anything the PTMC emergency department staff liked more than their jobs, it's gossip. Princess saw you dragging the large, brutish man behind you and immediately started smacking Perlah's arm to get her attention. When they subtly moved to the end corner of the hallway to listen in, their jaws nearly dropped at what they were hearing.
"You made a bad call-" Park's usual short tone, this time more heated.
"Fuck you." Their jaws did drop at that. "My call was perfectly within reason and it was what's best for the patient. You just don’t like the fact that it wasn't your call. That you didn't think of it first." The anger was evident in your voice. Peeking around the corner they see you standing no more than 5 inches from Park, forefinger stabbing into his chest.
"But that's not the point right now. The point is that you belittled me in front of a patient. You didn't question my medical choices, you questioned my person. There's a very big difference there. One that I’d imagine a man who is so full of himself because of his big brains and biceps would be able to notice."
Park scoffs at that, mouth ready to retort. "Who do yo-"
"I'm not done. Don't interrupt me."
Perlah is confident she has never seen Park shut his mouth the way he just did. So quickly and forcefully Princess thinks she heard it.
"I am more than happy to hear professional criticism but what you're doing is being a dick. If that's what you need to do to get by with the fact that you're so clearly lacking in other departments, then be my fuckin' guest. But don't you dare ever pull that bullshit with me again." You give him a once over, taking him in as he's almost pressed against the wall by your smaller frame.
"I know how good of a doctor I am and I don't need to make people feel like shit to prove it. Maybe if you got over whatever macho, hero complex you have, you'd be a fun guy to be around. Be sure to let me know if that ever happens." Your chest is heaving, out of breath from you verbal lashing. Face set in determination while he scowls at you. Not backing down.
"Now can we make nice or are we going to stay at each other's throats for the rest of our employment?"
Perlah and Princess are in shock at the scene in front of them. There's no way the entire hospital won't have had this recounted to them word for word by the end of the day.
Park's crossed his arms over his chest, looking down at you like he's ready to rip your head off. The bystanders have half a mind to try and save you from what they know is about to come. He opens his mouth and they prepare for what they know is going to be a bloodbath.
"May I speak now?"
What. The. Fuck.
You nod. "Yes, I'm done."
He starts. “If I don't agree with your medical opinion I'm not going to hold my tongue."
"Never asked you to." You quip.
"Good. I won’t."
"Good."
There's a long stretch of silence where neither of you say anything. Simply standing there looking at each other, both still coming down from the fuming anger that's trying to dissipate from your bodies.
Taking a step backwards, you make space so Park can leave. He takes a step forward, closer than you had gotten seconds ago and leans down to whisper in your ear, voice low and gravely. "Trust me, sweetheart, I'm not compensating for anything."
You don't say anything, only gasp lightly at the comment. The brush of his breath against your cheek making your heart race. Perlah and Princess couldn't hear what he said. His voice quiet enough for only your ears to pick up.
They do hear him bellow out as he walks away, not even turning back to look at you. "You're welcome to figure that out for yourself."
Rushing back to the nurses station, they conversed about the interaction in hushed whispers. And by end of day, everyone knew of the way you chewed out Park the Shark in a hallway. It's when the nickname Wolf started being thrown around.
Based off of that interaction, it gave some people the idea that Park respected you for your confidence. That you standing up for yourself so brazenly earned you some of his esteem. Which is partially true.
When someone else tried their luck with that method, it unfortunately didn't turn out the same way. Whitaker was the unfortunate sacrifice that allowed everyone to figure that out.
Maybe the way your lips quirk up at the memory of Dennis looking like the shell-shocked solider meme after learning that is a bit evil. You have to pee too much to care. Course headed for the staff bathrooms by the on-call rooms, you're quickly dragged into an empty on-call room and away from your bladder's salvation.
"What the fuck man!" You don't even turn to look and see who it is. Eyes still wistfully looking towards the bathroom that's being hidden from sight by the closing of the door.
It only takes a second for you to know who it is. The scent of his cologne, the familiar feeling of his hand on your arm, the warmth you dream about. Brendon.
"Is that any way to greet your superior?" You can hear the smirk in his voice.
"You're not my superior. You just work superiorly." He's technically got no rank over you. But he does have a fancy office upstairs above your department.
"I do a lot of my best work there, don't I?" He teases, hands moving to grab your hips as his face goes into your neck from behind. Laughing, you lean back into his warm body and the feeling of him kissing your shoulder.
"Perv."
"Good work with that hypermobile patient." His lips brush your neck, not trying to start anything but unable to hold himself back from getting a taste of your skin. The moment is incredibly sweet. Or it would be if not for your bladder.
"I'm going to piss on you."
Brendon pulls away quickly at that, turning your body to face him.
"Excuse me?"
"I haven't had a chance to pee since this morning and I feel like I'm about to burst." You whine.
Smiling he rolls his eyes as he opens the door, pushing you out towards the bathroom. Looking up and down the hallway to make sure no one is out there, he follows. "I'll see you at home."
Because that's the thing, Doctor Park the Shark does bite at you. When no one else is around. Physically.
Walking into Brendon’s house you find him in the kitchen.
“Honey, I’m home.” You call dramatically.
Something else that would send your coworkers brains reeling, Park the Shark is funny.
“How was your day at the potato factory?” He muses, not looking up from the vegetable he’s chopping. You’re not even sure what started this bit of yours, but it’s entertaining nonetheless.
“Long and horrible. The factory is falling into disarray.” He hums as if you’re recounting a serious topic and not some bullshit.
Wrapping your arms around his waist from behind, you appreciate the feeling of his strong core beneath your hands. “I got accosted in an on-call room by a coworker too. I might need you to beat them up for me. He tried to make me pee my pants.”
“Oh, is that so? Not what I heard happened.”
You busy yourself with placing kisses on his neck and jaw, leaning up to reach the exposed skin. After you make a noise of acknowledgement, he continues.
“I heard that you yelled at some innocent kid and jumped your boyfriend’s bones in the on-call room.”
Pulling away, you smack at his back knowing it wouldn’t hurt him (it’s a lot more gentle than you normally are) and gasp in offense.
“Ogilvie is nowhere near being an innocent kid. He’s been an arrogant asshole since he got there and someone needed to say something.” You defend.
Brendon places down the knife and turns to you, amused look on his face as you ramble on. “As for jumping my boyfriend’s bones? Yuck. Ew. I’m disgusted at the implication.”
“Oh?” He raises his brows.
Crossing your arms over your chest and rest your weight in one hip. Brendon’s eyes drop down at the movement. “I had to pee, I was sweaty and stinky from having to do CPR not even 20 minutes beforehand and we were at work.” You challenge.
Eyes slowly dragging back up to your face, Brendon challenges, “So?” He looks too damn hot for his own good.
That shouldn’t make heat start building in your stomach the way it does when you’re trying to act mad. Rolling your eyes, you stomp away. “I’m showering!”
“I don’t get a kiss from my stinky girlfriend?” He calls out after you.
Flipping him off, you hear his laugh follow you into the bathroom. It wraps around you while you shower. Plays on a loop in your head as you dress in a pair of shorts from the drawer he cleared out for you months ago and one of his t-shirts.
Walking back into the kitchen, he’s facing the stove. Hands slowly mixing ingredients and making sure nothing burns in his scrubs. They look good on him, his large muscles and bulk filling out every crevice in the fabric.
“I’ll watch this so you can go shower.”
It’s the routine at this point. He starts dinner and lets you shower, then you finish and plate while he takes his own.
“Thanks.” Placing a quick kiss on your cheek he rushes off, knowing better than to try and push his luck when he’s still in scrubs and you’re freshly clean. It doesn’t stop the hungry way his eyes roam over you before he turns. Mouth upturned in a way that tells you he’s going to be trouble.
As you’re putting the last of the dishes in the cabinet, freshly washed and dried, Brendon comes up behind you. His position similar to the one he had you in earlier in the on-call room. This time his hands slide under your shirt and begin to feel the bare skin beneath it. You can smell his soap and the faint lingering of damp heat on him. The scent pressing into your skin with his fingers.
“Dinner will get cold.” You reason as his hands begin to work their way up. Claiming more and more expanse until they cup your breasts.
“I’m not hungry.” He argues, mouth focusing on the soft spot behind your ear, teeth grazing the sensitive skin.
You let your head fall back against his shoulder, hand coming up to grip at his hair as you sigh. “I am, though.”
You’re torn. The on-call room stunt he pulled has had you fantasizing about this all day, recounting the heated look in his eyes from outside the Trauma room. But you also haven’t eaten since lunch and the food he made smells amazing.
“I’ll heat it up after and feed it to you by hand while you’re naked in bed.”
Decision made.
“What about you? Don’t you need to eat?” You ask. Unable to get rid of the urge to take care of him. Not sure of when he’d last had a chance to feed himself.
“Trust me, I’ll be eating.” The comment makes you laugh, your hand tightening its grip on his hair as you feel his teeth push into your skin.
Mouth open in a gasp, your knees start to weaken when you feel Brendon’s canines sink into the flesh of your shoulder. Not too hard, certainly not compared to some bites he’s left before, but enough to make your brain go fuzzy.
Kissing up your neck, he turns you with hands on your waist to find purchase on your mouth. There’s no hesitance to grant him access, letting his tongue brush into your mouth and bring the heat of him with it.
Your hands dig in to anything and everything they can. The hair at the base of his neck. His biceps and forearms as they wrap around you. The firm line of muscle on his stomach that leads down to his gorgeous thighs.
As the kiss deepens, one of those gorgeous thighs pushes its way between your legs. He’s so broad and massive compared to you you’re practically sitting on him like this.
The pressure of his thigh against your core has you breaking from the kiss to catch your breath. His large hands rock your hips as he taunts.
“Someone should really teach you not to speak to your superior like you did today.” Brendon’s voice is low in your ear, mouth brushing the shell of it before gently nipping at the cartilage.
Taking a moment to clear the fog in your brain that he’s creating, you decide play coy. “I have no idea what you mean. I’m the picture of innocence.” Batting your eyelashes, you look up at him sweetly.
You feel him twitch where he’s pressed against your hips as he cups your face with one of those giant hands of his.
“Not sure that’s the word I’d use.” Brendon’s voice is deeper, almost breathless as he leans in to reconnect your mouths.
Not wanting to pull away from each other, you stumblingly make your way to the bedroom. Not without a few pitstops against a wall or two, though.
With the backs of your knees against the mattress, Brendon wastes no time in sliding his hand underneath your shirt to pull it off. Leaning down, he kisses at your chest until he reaches your nipple, the other being covered by his hand.
Running your fingers through his hair, you reach your hands down the neck of his shirt to scratch up his back. His resulting groan vibrates through your chest from where he’s switched to offer the same attention with his mouth to your other nipple.
“Off.” You plead, hands dragging him up to paw at his shirt.
Complying, you’re graced with the sight of his bare chest, hands immediately running over the newly exposed skin. Thumbs digging into the muscle over his chest and shoulders. You’ve seen him naked plenty, but you never tire of the sight.
Trailing down the front of his chest, your hands take special appreciation of his v-line. It’s always made your brain melt in the best way possible. The sharp cut of muscle and faint trail of hair that gets exposed to you when he shifts the right way. The sight of it like this that only you get to see. It makes your mouth water.
Fingers sliding beneath the waistband of his shorts and boxers, you begin to slowly peel them down. Looking up Brendon gives you a faint nod, so you speed up your movements. Finally having him completely bare before you, you drop to your knees.
He’s already hard as you wrap your hand around the base of him while you bring your tongue out to gently lick at his tip. Lips pursing around him, Brendon curses from above you, his hands gently scooping your hair away from your face.
The taste of him drives you crazy, mind forgetting anything but the feeling of him against your tongue. Taking him as deep as you can, you hear him groaning as his hold on your hair tightens. When you swallow around him, he lets out a sharp hiss.
Using his grip, he pulls you off, a thick string of spit connecting your lips to his tip. "C'mere."
Big hands immediately pull you up, pushing you onto the bed as he places himself above you. He's so big. His body caging you beneath him. His arm bracing his weight beside your head shows off his bicep, the veins bulging down his forearm. It makes drool pool in your mouth with your desire to lick. So you do.
Turning your head, you drag your tongue across the skin, letting your teeth scrape gently with little kisses. The question in it is evident when your eyes flutter open to look at his, gaze searching. Free hand coming down to grab your throat, he pulls you up to meet his mouth in another sloppy kiss.
"Do your worst, pup."
That stupid fucking nickname shouldn't have you clenching around nothing like it does.
It's something people whispered about you when they noticed how lax Brendon was with you. Saying you were his shark pup. Like he was taking you under his wing. Whenever you heard someone refer to you as such it made you roll your eyes. But when Park first heard it, he just looked at you smugly and started using the name himself.
In public. At work.
Using it to call you across the room. After praising your work. When he was casually talking to you. You hate the name, think it's stupid and lame and inaccurate. Inappropriate.
But the way he says it, voice low and teasing. The other times he says it when you’re not at work…maybe it's grown on you a bit. It still pisses you off though.
In retaliation you let your teeth sink into his forearm. The muscle firm and delicious in your mouth. Feeling the smooth skin and slight prickle of his hair in your tongue. Brendon’s jaw clenches at the feeling. You have a habit of always clamping down a bit harder than him. He can take it.
"Sure you can handle my worst?" You challenge.
For the most part, Brendon takes control in the bedroom. It’s not without a fight. You don’t just willingly submit and give into whatever he wants. Even if you want the same things. You make him work for it, fight tooth and nail before giving in. Even then, you still like to make it difficult.
Your favorite moments are when he gets so fed up with it he pushes you down into the mattress with his entire body weight and uses his fingers in your mouth to silence you while he makes you cry out over and over and over.
There are also some magical times when you outlast him and have him pliant under your touch. He doesn’t admit how much he likes those times.
Leaning back on his haunches, he grabs at your shorts to pull them down. The action leaves you bare except for your underwear. "I can take anything you give me."
"Funny. I was gonna say the same thing."
Smirking, you reach your hand out to stroke him, thumb pressing down on his slit. His hips stutter forward into the feeling and his the muscle in his jaw ticks.
Running his hands up your thighs, he stops just short of your underwear. He looks up at you, challenge in his eyes. Your hand doesn’t stop its pace, languidly stroking him.
His warm fingertips brush just underneath the seam of your underwear, right over your hipbones. The touch makes your breathing pick up, antsy to feel him where you want him. It’s never that easy though.
Not when you have two apex predators fighting for dominance.
Smoothing over your skin, he watches you pull your hand back before relaxing into the mattress. Arms behind your head as if you were sunning at the beach. As if his hands weren’t less than two inches away from your soaked core.
Brendon moves the lazy drag of his finger closer and closer until he’s barely ghosting over where you want him. Cotton dampening even more when his fingers press just barely into your clit. Fingers hooking in the waistband of your underwear, he drags them down your legs before spreading you out.
You keep yourself relaxed on the mattress. Trying your best to seem uninterested despite the wetness seeping from your hole giving you away. Even going so far as to sigh out and close your eyes like you’re bored. That’s the final straw.
Bending down, you feel Brendon’s breath fanning over your exposed core as he says, “Hey, baby?”
Disarming. Luring. Setting the trap.
Humming, you casually lean onto your elbows to look down at him. The movements slow and drawn out as if it pains you to even bother moving.
The snare pulls taunt.
You answer boredly. “Wha-”
The second you meet his eyes, open your mouth to reply, he’s digging his teeth into the sensitive flesh of your inner thigh and pushing a thick finger inside you.
Your words are cut off at the feeling, head thrown back with a curse at the pleasure.
“Fuck.”
Brendon often makes comments about how his hands are his livelihood. Times like this, you think they’re your livelihood, unsure how you existed so long without feeling his hands on your body.
Curling his finger how he knows you like, he releases the skin of your thigh from his teeth, moving instead to sloppily mouth at your clit. Adding another one of his fingers, you keen into him, hands coming down to hold at the back of his head.
Moaning his name out, you can feel his smirk against you. Any other time you’d pinch him for being so cocky, right now you’re lost in the feeling of him working you closer to that beautiful edge. The most you can do is dig your nails into his scalp as you tug at his hair.
He feels you clenching tighter around his fingers and doubles down, sucking in place of the long stripes he’d been licking into you. The gush of wetness that meets his tongue tells him it’s working exactly how he’d hoped.
Your breathing starts to falter, muscles beginning to shake. He knows your body almost better than you do. You’re on the edge, barely holding on. When you feel yourself tipping over, your back arches with a cry of his name body tensing in anticipation.
He pulls back abruptly, taking with him your release. Asshole.
“Fuck you.” You whine, not even bothering to look at him, hands coming to cover your face in frustration.
Crawling up your body, he pulls your hands away from your face. Cradling them, placing a soft kiss to each wrist before holding them down against the bed in one of his own. Gently kissing your lips, he muses. “I plan to.”
Lining himself up he pushes in slow. Giving you time to adjust and feel every delicious inch of him slide in. His grip on your wrists tightens for a moment, muscles flexing as he breathes through the feeling of your tightness around him.
No matter how many times he sheaths himself inside your warmth, he can never get used to the feeling. He doesn’t know what it is, you drive him crazy every time.
When he’s flush against your pelvis, you pant at the feeling of fullness. You can never get enough of it. The weight of him on top of you. The ache in your hips as they spread wide to accommodate his large frame. Light pricklings of his happy trail and hair on your sensitive skin. The feeling of him so deep inside you that you can hardly breathe.
Bucking up into him, you try and get him to move, gently urging him with your hips. He’s steady above you. Staying still and looking down at you with that intense gaze that makes you bear down around him.
Brendon stays like that, unmoving atop you while you try and rock yourself into him, silently begging him to move. Minutes pass and you’re starting to feel deranged. Rabid.
You try and pull your hands free, but he’s not letting up, pressing more weight into your wrists to keep them pinned. You try and kick your legs, but the wide stretch they’re in makes it difficult. When you do manage to get a knee into his side, he just grabs it with his free hand and holds it still.
All his weight is being supported by the press of his knees in the bed and the grip on your wrists. The position makes him push deeper into you and the whine that comes out of your mouth is pathetic.
You’ve sounded desperate before. This is just sad. He looks at you with a sadistic grin on his face, waiting for you to say it. Waiting for you to submit. Show your belly. Expose your neck.
Your gums ache, the desire to sink your teeth into him so strong it hurts. There’s nowhere for you to go, he’s got you trapped completely beneath him. If you said the word, he’d be off you instantly, retreating and soothing you with gentle hands. Buttermuffin.
You don’t want that though. You want him to stay right here. Pushing you, forcing you into submission.
He coos at you, “C’mon sweetheart. Don’t you want it?”
He’s trying to ease you into it, make it less humiliating for you. Out of anyone he knows how hard it can be to be vulnerable, to give yourself up to someone else’s hold. No matter how much he loves watching you fight against it, see the way you thrash and snap at him with all your might, he still has some kindness in him to make it less humbling. Sometimes.
“No.” You snarl at him. Not wanting to give in. Trying to push him off you with your hips. It’s futile. You’re not even making a true effort.
“No?” He questions, tilting his head. Not in the cute way puppies do when they’re confused. In a deeply predatory manner, like he’s sizing up the kill. “So you don’t want this?” He mocks confusion before slowly dragging himself out and pushing back in just as slow.
“No.” You groan. But the way your body sucks him back in admits the truth. The heaving breaths you started taking the second he began to move speak volumes. The way you’re not saying it, Buttermuffin, tells him everything he needs to know.
“So, you don’t want me to do this then?” He pushes the knee he claimed up towards your head, the stretch in your thigh making you hiss as he grinds into you. Making you feel him so much deeper.
Your head smacks against the pillow beneath it and you let out a quiet curse, desperate to feel the drag of him. It’s been at least ten minutes like this, maybe three hours since he slid into you, you’re not sure. Time stopped mattering when you felt him where he belongs.
“Just-”, you stop. Throat tightening around the words even though you know they’re going to be your release. “Just fuck me.”
Brendon’s mouth quirks up at that, just slightly. His hand moves from the crook of your knee up to your jaw, thumb brushing your bottom lip. He’s staring at you with brows raised. Waiting. You know what he wants.
It’s a struggle to get it out of your throat, so he helps you. Big hand sliding down to rest over the delicate skin, gently pressing into the muscles on either side of your neck. It’s not enough to cut off oxygen or blood flow but it’s enough that he feels the wetness around him increase while your walls clench down involuntarily.
“Say it.” He taunts, fingers squeezing to prove a point.
You’re delirious now, eyes blurring and mouth falling slack. You want him. No matter how much you hate saying it. No matter how demeaning it feels. There’s nothing you’ve ever wanted more than him. You know he loves you. That he feels the same way. That he’d sooner walk through hell than not worship you. So you give in.
“Please.” It’s quiet, meek. More of a whimper than a word. On a different night, he’d be meaner. Make you say it louder. Over and over again. But not tonight.
Tonight, he smiles wickedly, giving you no time to prepare as he starts a brutal pace. Each time he slides home it’s deep. So deep, you feel like your choking on it, throat constricting on an exhale with each thrust.
You can’t speak, you don’t even know what you’d say. You’re not sure your mouth even works right now for anything other than moans and whines. Your brain certainly isn’t working.
Brendon drops his face to yours. Placing sweet kisses over your cheeks, down your jaw and neck as he destroys you. Breaks you apart and turns you into something better.
Fingers clenching, you want to grab at him. To feel his warm skin that you’re sure is damp with effort beneath your hands. He doesn’t give you the ability to, hand still keeping yours planted to the mattress. Keeping you restrained and open for him to do whatever he wants.
He does give you something better through, placing his neck in front of your mouth. You don’t know if he did it on purpose or not, but you’re taking the opportunity.
He’s groaning above you. From the occasional stutter in his movements, the feeling of his dick twitching inside you, you know he’s close. Not an issue, considering you’re right there with him.
Leaning up to close the small gap between him and your mouth, you bite down on the juncture where his neck meets shoulder. Teeth sinking into the firm muscle, feeling it jump beneath your tongue. Brendon moans out at the sting, the sound causing you to let out your own needy moan.
When your teeth dig in deeper, he tightens his grip on your knee and angles his head to nip at your bicep. When you feel his teeth on you, it brings you that much closer to the edge. Delirium sets in as you begin to beg. “Please, please, please, please.” Over and over with a whine, tears forming in your eyes from how badly you want it.
Anyone else would think you’re begging for release, but Brendon knows better. Leaning down to push his face into your neck, he saves you the embarrassment of making a comment about your pleading. Letting go of your knee he positions his arm in a way that your teeth can make their way back into his flesh.
The second his teeth begin to sink into your neck, you do the same to his forearm. The sensation has you tightening around him so much it’s hard for him to keep his thrusting steady. Hard for him to push back inside the slick heat of your core.
Sensing your incoming release, from the increased pressure of your teeth on his arm and the tightening of your walls, he fully bites down on your neck. That does it for you. The pain of his sharp canines. The overwhelming presence of him everywhere. His skin between your teeth. The feeling of consuming each other.
Groaning into his muscular forearm clamped between your teeth, your walls spasm around him. The pleasure making everything fuzzy, warmth flooding your body as your eyes unfocus.
You have to release him from your jaws to pant, trying to catch your breath and not pass out at the intense feeling taking over your body. Brendon loses himself in the feeling of your body sucking him in and follows after you. The added heat of his release only prolonging your high.
There’s nothing but the sound of breathing for a while. Minds catching up and body’s relaxing. Releasing your hands, Brendon gently massages the muscles of your shoulders and arms as he helps guide them back down.
His hands go to your hips next, digging into the flesh to soothe your muscles as he slowly pulls himself from you. Helping ease the ache as you readjust to a less spread out position. He’s mindful of the way your joints crack and pop back into place.
Brendon’s face twists in pain at a particularly loud pop, muttering a small apology. It doesn’t matter how many times you assure him it’s fine, that it’s worth it to be with him, he still feels guilty.
After another quick shower, this time together, he keeps true to his promise. Hand feeding you while you both lounge naked in bed.
Well, he’s naked. You’ve taken one of his massive button ups to keep you warm. Brendon complained, saying he was all you needed to keep warm but compromise was made. The buttons were left open.
“You think anyone knows we’re together?” You wonder aloud, mouth still finishing a bite of the delicious dinner he’d made.
“No way.” Comes his easy reply. “They all know you’re too good for me.” He places a kiss on your bare hip, looking up at you with a softness in his eyes that warms your chest.
“Or that you are way too hot to go for someone like me.” You reason. The soft kiss on your hip turns into a playful nip before he shakes his head.
“No way.” It’s the same reply. Different intensity now. You stare at each other for a long moment, seeing who goes belly up first. This time, he’s the one to submit. “I love you.”
Running your fingers through his hair, you brush your thumb over his cheek and he leans into the touch. “I love you too, my big, scary shark.”
Placing a kiss to your palm, you both laugh and finish eating. Then you lie tangled in each other, skin pressed together tightly. Two natural predators sharing space.
summary: an accident with a familiar, brooding ortho surgeon has you exploring an unlikely connection.
contents: 18+ minors DNI fm reader, no use of y/n, power imbalance (nurse reader/attending ortho surgeon), unspecified age gap, mentions of head trauma/concussions/medical procedures, jack abbot using pet names, swearing, drinking, oral (f/m receiving), unprotected p in v, creampie, dirty talk, reader has a praise kink, use of the pet name ‘bunny’, slight choking, reader is fairly nondescript besides mentions of having long-ish hair. nasty and self indulgent bc i need that big mean man!!
wc: 7.6k
dividers by @saradika-graphics 🫶🏼
a/n— this is not yet proofread, please excuse any typos pls!
You were almost certain this wasn’t the right hallway.
Realization crept in somewhere between the identical looking beige walls and the third “Authorized Personnel Only” sign you’d passed in the last two minutes. Everything looked the same. Same floors, same lights. Directional signs all ran together, and suddenly your head was spinning.
You’d been working at PTMC for right at a year, but venturing out of the ED was rare. Each time you had to do it ended up the same— an extra ten minutes added onto whatever trip you were taking because you got lost. You were far more familiar with small, rural hospitals.
Your ID badge bounced lightly against your chest with every hurried step, teeth gnawing at the inside of your cheek. A familiar nervous habit. It didn’t help that it was nearing four in the morning and the familar buzz of caffeine in your system from the energy drink you’d chugged thirty minutes prior had you moving a little faster than normal. You were jittery and starting to panic a little and oh! Familar double doors came into view and you immediately thanked your lucky stars you hadn’t had to ask anyone for help to get back to the ED, shoulders dropping as you visibly relaxed.
Picking up your pace, you nervously tugged at your badge reel. Surely Abbot was about to send out a search party for you if you didn’t return in the next five minutes.
Hurrying through the wooden double doors, you turned down yet another corridor, finally familiar with where you were. Your eyes fell to your feet for just a moment. Only one more door until—
WHAM!
You’d been walking too fast to hear the click of the handle, or register the large stairwell door swinging open.
You only feel the sudden, stinging impact of metal meeting your head, followed by a delightfully ungraceful stumble backward that somehow manages to be both dramatic and deeply humiliating. You’re on your ass in less than a second, your right hand flying to your face as a string of profanities spew from your chapped lips.
“Jesus Christ.” A familar voice mumbles, and then he’s on his knees next to you, tugging to pull your hand away from your face to check for bleeding. “You alright?” He asks, voice tense. Park.
Certainly there were other people you’d have rather hit you with a large metal door than him. But it wasn’t everyday that something brought the six-foot-something ortho surgeon to his knees.
You blink hard, trying to orient yourself through the pain, your ears suddenly ringing. “Do I look alright?” You hiss, snatching your wrist from him, hot tears suddenly threatening to fall. You manage to meet his eyes, his expression emotionless as usual. Lacking any visible concern or regret.
“You look like you’re about to pass out, actually.” He replies sarcastically, gripping a shoulder to steady you as you sway a little. And admittedly, you are a little more dizzy than you’d like to be because this could definitely be a concussion or intracranial hemorrhage or—
“Hey.” Park’s voice cuts through your racing internal monologue and fuck you’re annoyed. He’s painfully aware of the panic in your squinted eyes and the way you’re growing paler, cheeks burning red from embarrassment. “Can you stand up? You need to get checked out.”
“Yes, I can stand up.” The words come out harsher than you mean them to, and as big and bad as you sound, your actions unfortunately don’t hold their end of the bargain. You’re slow to fully stand, clumsily swaying as you smack a hand against the wall for leverage. And there’s the nausea.
“Alright, up you go.” Park huffs, sweeping you into his arms in a quick motion, surprisingly not earning any protest from you— only a pained sound. “Don’t even think about vomiting on me.” He says quickly, carrying you with ease through the short corridor until a door opens and you’re met with the familiar sounds of the ED.
You slump against his broad chest, the beaming fluorescent lights only making you feel sicker. That and the strong smell of antiseptic.
Park is desensitized to the looks of fear he usually gets when he marches into the ED for a consult. But these— the ones he receives when he enters with a nurse in his arms.. were very different.
“What the fuck?” Abbot calls, slinging his stethoscope around his neck as he rushes over to Park. “What happened?”
“She walked into the door I was opening— smacked her head pretty hard.” Park grumbles, clearly unamused. He’s still cradling you, his expression almost cracking when you sniffle, clearly in a lot of pain.
“What the hell, hun?” Abbot taps your leg but you avoid his eyes, stuck somewhere between pure embarrassment and searing pain. “Let’s get her to a room.”
So, Park follows, avoiding the many eyes on him as he carries you with ease through the bustling ED.
As soon as you’re sat on the stretcher, you whine. “I feel sick.”
“Okay, okay.” Jack’s voice is soothing as he reaches for a emesis bag, handing it to you quickly before he snaps a pair of gloves on. Your heavy eyes meet his own as he leans over you, fingers prodding at the growing bump on your forehead. “She lose consciousness?” He asks Park who’s leaned against a nearby wall looking annoyingly nonchalant as he mumbles a quick ‘nope’.
Jack reaches for his penlight, retrieving it from his shirt pocket in a quick motion. “Let’s see those eyes, sweets.” The nickname settles deep in your stomach, nearly making you smile a little. You wince at the bright light, following his instruction as he raises a finger and urges you to follow it with your eyes. He shakes his head after, dropping the light back into his pocket as he looks at you. “Pupils are a little sluggish. I don’t like that.” He clicks his tongue. “Let’s get you a head CT, yeah? Make sure nothing is happening that we can’t see.”
You groan, letting your head fall back onto the stretcher, and regretting it immediately when pain shoots through your skull.
“I’m gonna handle this consult real quick.” Park speaks up, starting for the door. “Let me know how she does.”
Jack nods, sitting on the edge of the stretcher as the monotone surgeon exits the room. He glances over his shoulder to make sure Park is gone, then back at you with a goofy look on his face.
“Didn’t think I’d ever see him walk into my ED with one of my nurses in his arms.” Jack chuckles, and you muster a weak laugh that turns into more of a whimper.
“I hate him.”
Jack smiles. “He means well. And I don’t think you hate him.. You don’t look at him like you hate him...”
“Jack, don’t.” You huff. “He seemed more inconvenienced than worried.”
“Yeah, well, that’s just Park.” Jack pats your shoulder, sympathetic.
The next few hours blur together. Between the steady pounding in your head and the way you keep replaying the painfully embarrassing accident in your head, it’s hard to focus on anything. It’s nearing shift change when your head CT results finally return, and thankfully Abbot says you’re all clear. No fractures, no bleeding, no swelling. Just a gnarly bruise forming on the right side of your forehead— and on your ego too, probably.
All is well for a while. You’re accepting the day off tomorrow that Jack mentions you’ll have out of precaution. The embarrassment eventually starts to ease, along with the pain. You’re waiting to be discharged, curled up on the stretcher when you hear footsteps. Heavy footsteps. You almost flinch because you know it’s Park. It’s almost as if he sensed your moment of peace and had set out determined to ruin it.
You meet his eyes, and when he doesn’t talk you give him a look that says ‘I’m waiting’..
He steps closer, letting the door close. “CT clear?”
“Yeah.” You mutter, turning towards him a little. “Thankfully you didn’t give me a brain bleed.”
You notice the way his jaw clenches. “I could’ve left you on the floor you know. Walked away.” He seethes. “I’m not responsible for you not watching where you’re going.”
Rolling your eyes, you fake a smile. “Thank you for saving me in my time of need Dr. Park.”
“Everytime I’ve seen you down here you’ve always been so cheerful. Interesting to see your true colors now.” He nods, returning the sarcastic smile. And you think it’s the first time you’ve seen any sort of expression besides a blank stare from him.
You let out a frustrated sigh. “I’m just having a bad night.”
“And you’re taking it out on me?” He asks, leaning up against the wall.
“Coming from the person who is constantly a dick during consults.” You retort.
Thankfully, Abbot entering the room ends your playful pissing match. He’s holding a few papers, and raises a brow at the sight of the two of you clearly having some sort of moment. “Right— you ready to go?”
You start to slowly sit up. “Dying to.”
“Well, you two be safe and I’ll be texting you to check in.” Jack says, pointing a finger at you.
You blink. “You two?”
“Park is taking you home right? He offered.” Jack smiles a little. “Surely you didn’t think I’d let you drive with a possible concussion, sweets.”
Something bubbles up in your chest. It’s not anger, but rather something you can’t exactly put your finger on. You close your eyes for a second, looking up at Park next with furrowed brows. He shrugs. “You were too busy fussing at me— I didn’t get the chance to mention it.”
“I can take an uber.” You protest, shaking your head.
“Let me take you home.” He sounds annoyed, but then again— that seems to be his normal. “It’s the least I can do since apparently I intentionally hit you with the door, right?”
And you unfortunately laugh a little at that. The sound eats Park alive, and he’s suddenly mentally cursing himself at the feeling. He’d always seen you. Noticed you more than the other nurses or residents. Not only were you clearly quite a bit younger than him, but you were bubbly— a stark contrast to himself. You seemed fearless, and maybe that alone intrigued him a little. Though, having only spoken to you a handful of times, he didn’t truly know you. And he didn’t expect that to change.
So, at the sight of you climbing into his SUV, he’s interested. Observant. You take in your surroundings, straight faced as your eyes rake over the spotless interior of his Porsche Cayenne. He hands you his phone without a word, clearly wanting you to put in your address.
You glance at him after, smiling a little when you hand it back to him. “This is somehow exactly what I pictured you driving.”
“Yeah?” He looks both ways as he turns a corner in the parking garage.
“Mhm.” You hum, eyeing his side profile before you turn your gaze forward.
“How are you feeling now?” He eyes you for a second next, and you’re genuinely surprised the typically cold surgeon is making small talk. You’d pictured a silent drive, uncomfortable even. But then again, he was probably just asking questions out of pity.
“Better.” You confirm, voice soft. “Head still hurts a little but that’s to be expected I guess.”
“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry you weren’t paying attention and I opened the door fast.” Park says, and is he smirking a little?
You chuckle, shaking your head. “You’re such an ass.”
“So they say.” He half-smiles, long fingers moving to flip the turn signal. Your eyes shamelessly rake along his hands. His livelihood. Large and thick. Prominent veins on top. You blink, averting your eyes back to the road yet again and leaning your head on the headrest.
“Thank you for driving me.” You speak up, following a few moments of silence, your apartment building coming into view.
“Where should I park?” He asks, slowing the car. Your hands are busy gathering your belongings, and you don’t even look his way when you mutter “You can just stop at the front, I’ll get out there.”
“Where should I park for a few hours, genius.” He corrects, meeting your eyes.
You shoot him a confused look. “Hours?”
“I’m not leaving you alone with a concussion.”
“Possible concussion.” You correct, just wanting to be in your bed already. “I probably don’t even have one and I’m fine. You don’t have to stay. Plus I have very nosey roommates.”
“Abbot told me not to leave you alone.” Park stares at you blankly, convinced he’s going to win this. He’s pulled the car to the curb now, one hand still on the steering wheel.
Fucking Jack Abbot— he absolutely did this shit on purpose.
You sigh, exasperated. “I’ll be fine.”
“Either you let me stay, or you go pack a bag and you come stay with me.” He commands, and you’re about to bust a fucking blood vessel.
“Okay, okay.” You huff. “You can’t stay here. We don’t have an extra bed and someone’s crashing on our couch for the weekend.”
“So go pack a bag.” He says simply, shooing you. “Do I need to walk you up?”
“I’ve got it.” You grumble, carefully climbing out of the car and hoisting your bag over your shoulder, trying not to slam the door even though you’d love to right now.
It isn’t until you’re in the elevator that you fish your phone from your pocket, cursing into the empty space as you type a message to none other than Abbot.
You: Why did you tell this man not to let me stay alone!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I HATE YOUUUU
He replies almost immediately.
Jack: Well that’s easy. Because you don’t need to stay alone 🙂
You: I think I’m gonna block you 🤭
Jack: Have fun sweets!
It was well past seven in the morning now, and closing in on seventeen hours that you’d been awake. Not to mention the head trauma. You had minimal energy left and you weren’t gonna spend it arguing with Park. You’d get a few hours of sleep and then he’d take you to pick up your car. It seemed manageable.
And so, you watched with sleepy eyes a half hour later as his black SUV pulled into the driveway of a large brick house, nestled in a quaint neighborhood outside of the city. You could tell he was just as tired, both of you silent as he parked in the garage.
You followed him in without a word, watching him toss his keys in a nearby basket. His home was modern, but cozy. Exquisitely neat. Nothing looked out of place. It even smelled clean. You glanced around, impressed.
“I’ll show you the guest bedroom.” Park said lowly, words laced with exhaustion.
You nodded simply, following him up a flight of stairs.
“Bathroom is here.” He pointed, still walking. “There’s clean towels on the rack and some of my sister’s products in the cabinet you can use if you want or need to. Spare toothbrush in the drawer— Oh, and Tylenol too. If you need anything else just let me know. And if you don’t feel good, call me.” As he finishes, he swings open the door to a large spare room.
“Thank you.” You smile politely, offering him a small nod.
He acknowledges you with a hum, heading down the hallway, itching to get out of his scrubs.
You decide on a quick shower, hoping the steaming water will relax your aching muscles. And then, you’re crawling into cool linen sheets, sighing at the feeling of the soft mattress. It’s not your bed, but boy is it doing the job. Such a good job in fact, that you don’t even recall drifting off.
When you come to hours later, the sound of distant thunder greets you, gloomy skies allowing a slight darkness to fall over the room, rain tapping softly against a nearby window. Then, you smell coffee. You stretch a little, wincing when your forehead brushes against the pillow, a reminder of what you’re sure has turned into a nasty bruise. Your bare feet meet the cool hardwood as you stand up, tugging on some leggings before heading to the bathroom.
Crossing the hallway, you immediately head for a mirror, and audibly groan when you flick the light on and catch a glimpse of your head. Bruised indeed. A nasty purple and yellow bruise at that, one that thankfully wasn’t too large but was absolutely noticeable. You run a hand through your hair, sighing as you begin to pad down the stairs. And there was Park, looking much more presentable than yourself, on the couch with some sort of medical journal because ofcourse he reads those. A pair of dark glasses perched on his perfect nose. He looked edible. So painfully domestic.
You can’t help the nervousness that blooms in you when he looks up, eyes following you as you walk towards the opposite end of the sectional he’s seated on.
“Sleep good?” He asks, eyes locking onto your bruise.
“Feel like I just woke up from a coma.” You chuckle. “So yeah.”
“Any dizziness? Nausea? Blurred vision?” He inquires next, sitting his book down.
“No, Dr. Park.” You hum, tone dripping with sarcasm. “I feel fine. Just sore.”
“Fair enough.” He nods, moving to stand up from the couch. “I’m gonna cook dinner. You okay with pasta?”
You just look at him for a moment. “And when are you going to take my back to my car?”
“It’s about to storm pretty heavy. Staying another hour or two won’t kill you, you know?” He looks back before he disappears into the kitchen. You huff, moving to follow him.
“I feel like I’m overstaying my welcome.” You say as you breach the doorway, voice wary. His kitchen is beautiful, one you could only dream of cooking in. Gorgeous marble countertops and dark cabinets. Sparkling appliances.
He plants his large hands on the kitchen counter, looking at you with that look he frequently sports at the hospital. One that typically strikes fear in people. “You are not overstaying your welcome, nor are you bothering me in any way. So can you let me be nice to you?”
You nearly physically recoil. “Not used to you being nice, but I guess I’ll take it.”
He nearly smiles a little at your reply, eyes softening. You can’t help the way your eyes float along his sharp features, then along the broad expanse of his clothed back when he turns toward the refrigerator.
“Glass of wine?” He offers.
“Will that help my alleged concussion?”
You hear him chuckle as he retrieves two crystal stemless wine glasses from a nearby cabinet. “You claim you don’t have one, so why do you ask?”
Darn him for being just as much of a smartass as you are and darn you for enjoying it.
You bite at your lip a little, fighting a smile as you watch him place a glass of red wine before you. Settling onto a barstool, you pull the glass closer, humming a quick ‘thank you’.
“You cook often?” And now you’re the one fueling the small talk.
“I try to.” He says, shuffling around to gather ingredients from the fridge, then a pan and some utensils. “It’s one of the few things that keep me sane.”
You laugh a little, taking a swig of the wine, playfully swirling the glass afterward. “And what are the others?”
“Mmm, the gym.” He starts. “Running. Reading. Hitting people with doors…”
And you’re giggling, the sound making something twist deep inside him. He switches on the stove, turning to lean on the counter and watch you afterward. He drinks you in. Your slightly messy hair that dances along your shoulders. Oversized teeshirt, clearly worn for sleep only. Gnarly bruise on your forehead that somehow you make look good. It’s different here. Out of scrubs. Out of a bustling hospital. He’s never gotten the chance to truly look at you, and he’s starting to hate the way you fit in so effortlessly in his kitchen. In his house.
“I like seeing you like this.” You admit sheepishly, a playful smile tugging at your lips. Almost as if you’d read his mind.
He blinks, crossing his arms. “Like what?”
“Not so mean.” You chuckle. “Relaxed. Making jokes. Trying not to smile even though you want to.”
“Maybe I like everyone thinking I’m mean.” He teases in return.
You lick your lips after taking another swig, and he can’t help but notice. “Seems like you’re just misunderstood.”
Park shrugs, smiling a little as he turns back to the stove, trying to silently convince himself that you aren’t having any effect on him. Because fuck, you’re cute. You’re clever and funny and so easy to talk to.
You keep talking, feeding your want to know more about the mysterious surgeon. And it doesn’t stop there. The conversation flows through dinner and beyond. When you’re watching him wash dishes (ones he wouldn’t let you help with because you’re a guest..) and when you take to the couch afterward. When he learns you’re afraid of storms because you jump at a crack of thunder, despite how loose you feel from the wine.
Before you know it, it’s totally dark outside and you’re still talking. The bottle of wine is long gone, and you’re purely giddy. It had been too long since you’d opened up to someone the way you did with him. Your roommates weren’t much for talking, usually retreating to their rooms as soon as they arrrived. To be fair, you’d met them in a ‘searching for Pittsburgh roommates’ group on Facebook and nobody bothered to really get to know each other. You’d spent so much time alone recently that you were shocked how euphoric it felt to simply hang out with someone. Park the Shark of all people, at that. The two of you were an unlikely combo, yet surprisingly had a lot in common.
Once you’d covered work, college, family, siblings, hobbies, etcetera— you retreat to the bathroom, slightly buzzed and accepting the fact that Park hadn’t mentioned anything else about taking you home. Likely due to the storm and he obviously wasn’t going to drink and drive now.
So, when you return to the living room to all the lights dimmed and the sounds of hockey flowing from the tv, you sit closer to him without a second thought. After all, your view was better there— or atleast you told yourself that. He doesn’t mention it, but he notices the way you’ve inched closer, sprawled out next to him now, reaching for a nearby throw blanket.
And for the first time in a while, he’s truly content.
Content enough to fall asleep apparently. The long hours of shift work that frequently rotate are a pain, and Park has mastered the art of falling asleep just about anywhere. But he can’t remember the last time he fell asleep infront of the tv. When he opens his eyes he starts to stretch, mind in a sleepy haze. The TV is still playing Pens highlights, even though the game is long over. Rain is still falling outside. And you— you’re curled up next to him, head resting on his leg. Chest rising and falling every few seconds, mouth partially open. He blinks, just watching you for a moment, reaching a hand out without thinking to push some hair from your face. That alone makes you stir. You’ve always been a light sleeper.
You twitch, breathing in as your eyes blink open. It registers quickly, the way your head is resting on the soft material of his sweatpants. Sucking in a breath, you move to start sitting up, hand flying to where your head is aching. Likely from where you’d been laying on your bruise.
“You okay?” Park asks, sitting up and adjusting his shirt.
“Yeah.” You breathe. “Sorry, I don’t remember falling asleep.”
“Stop apologizing.” He chastises. “I don’t either.”
Tapping at his phone, his eyes are met with the time. 1:47.
“Want to get in bed?” He doesn’t mean the way it sounds like an invitation.
You rub your legs together, still cozy beneath the blanket. “I’m comfy.” You groan. It’s a weak protest, but not a lie. You can’t help the way you shamelessly itch to lean back into him, and for once you don’t fight yourself. Without a word he lifts his arm, accepting your presence as you curl into his side. He kicks his feet up and leans his head back, something happening in his chest at the feel of you pressed against him. Fuck.
Letting out a long relaxed breath, you look up at him, eyes meeting his jawline and neck, then locking with his own when he moves to look down at you. Your stomach flips, heat ripping through you at the proximity of his face to yours. Then his eyes flicker down to your lips, and that’s when you know. You know he wants to kiss you. Everything feels heavier, especially the way his hand rests on your back, fingers starting to trace over the soft fabric of your teeshirt.
Neither of you dare speak a word, eyes saying everything that needs to be said. Park watches your tongue peek out to wet your lips, and he immediately starts to move in, giving you ample time to pull away even though he’s sure you won’t. And when you grab at his shirt, moving in a little yourself, he seals the deal.
Your lips meet, pressing firmly together, neither of you in any rush. Just taking in the feeling. Inching closer, you don’t dare pull away. His hand moves to slide against your jaw, holding firm as your lips leisurely move with his. When his tongue slides against yours you can’t help the way your thighs press together. You let out a small whine into his mouth, one that does not go unnoticed. Infact, the oh so pretty sound starts playing on a loop in Park’s head and he’s a goner.
He hadn’t dreamt of stopping until you moved to climb into his lap. Raising a hand, he pulls back to look at you.
“We shouldn’t.” He says softly, his rational side taking over.
But then, you’re pressing a kiss to his jaw. Then another. One leg sliding along his lap as you climb onto him.
“But do you want to?” You breathe.
He swallows. “You know I want to.”
“So yeah, we probably shouldn’t— but what if we want to?” You say softly, pressing yet another feather soft kiss to the spot right blow his ear. He groans a little, moving a hand to gently grab at the back of your neck and pull your lips back to his.
The way you move together is effortless, but growing increasingly messy. Teeth starting to clash. Tongues fighting. And when you roll your hips against his, the noise he lets out against your lips is sinful. Breaking apart, he runs his hands through the hair on the side of your head.
“You’re trouble.” His voice is deep, taunting. “Grinding against me all needy, huh?” Lips dancing along your ear as he speaks. Chills roll over you, heart fluttering. You move your hips against his lap again, relishing in the way his hands fly to your sides, your lips meeting yet again. The feeling of him hard beneath you only spurs you on, whimpering into his mouth when your clothed core slides directly over the length of him through his sweats.
“Shit.” He spits, deep voice floating around you. “You’re determined, huh?”
“Maybe I wanna torture you a little.” You purr, forehead pressing to his, careful to avoid your bruise. “As payback.”
“This isn’t the same kind of pain, baby.” He chuckles. “You should be focused on your head injury, not me.”
“Can you stop being responsible Park for twenty minutes?” You look at him, that sweet little smile doing a number on him.
“Which Park do you want right now then?” He teases, shifting beneath you, painfully hard.
“The one that fucks me.”
He’s nearly choking at your words, tangling his hand in your hair and yanking your head back in response. “Used to getting what you want, aren’t you? Stubborn little fucking brat.”
You mewl at his harsh words, eyes fluttering when he drags his teeth along your throat, hot lips leaving wet kisses along the sensitive skin. He’s so much stronger and bigger, hands ghosting wherever they touch, keeping you right where he wants you. Watching you as you helplessly grind over him again. He grips your hair tighter. “Use your words or we’re done here.”
“Want you, please.”
“Want me how?”
You sigh at the feeling of his lips on your pulse point. “Want you to touch me.”
“M’ already touching you, baby.” He reminds you, so fucking annoying.
You grunt, frustrated, and he releases his tight grip on your hair. Returning to his waiting gaze, your eyes are soft, lips plush and swollen from his kiss. “Want you to make me cum.” You say next, voice timid. “Please.”
He pushes some hair behind your ear. “Yeah?” His tone is laced with faux pity, almost mocking. Hips steady as you continue to rock against him, your breaths unsteady.
“I think you can cum like this.” He counters, grip tight on your waist. Neither of you had yet to shed any clothing, and you didn’t mind. He was right, the friction was delicious. “Think you can, baby? Think you can cum from rubbing that pussy against me?”
You clench around nothing, heat bubbling in your chest as you whine. “Just want you.” And you’re begging so pretty, calm little voice filling his ears, thick with want. Before you can form a coherent thought, you’re being lifted. Park’s hands cradle the underside of your thighs, letting you wrap your legs around him as he starts to venture toward the stairs. Your arms snake around his neck, giggling a little as he stumbles around a table.
Moments later when you’re being gently sat on the edge of his bed, you can’t help but glance around at his room. Neat and spacious. Black out curtains. Dark comforter beneath you. It’s so him. His familiar scent dances around you, your eyes floating up to watch him yank at his shirt.
“Lay back.” He instructs with ease, so used to being in charge. Spitting commands and watching everyone obey. You want to playfully object just to see where it gets you, but you listen instead, and his long fingers are gripping at the waistband of your leggings. He makes quick work of dragging them off, sighing in defeat at the sight of your simple grey panties, the obvious dark patch of wetness on the crotch mocking him.
“You wet from just a little teasing, bunny?” Between the tone of his voice and the pet name that came out of nowhere, you think you might actually pass out. He taps at your knee, urging you to spread your legs. Warm hands slide along your thighs and you watch him settle onto his knees on the floor, yanking you with ease until your ass is right at the edge of his bed. The look in his eyes is sharp enough to kill, eyes cloudy with pure lust. Jaw tight in concentration as he runs a finger along the damp crotch of your panties. You hiss and whine at the contact, hips raising to chase his touch.
“Please.” You whimper, begging. “Want your mouth.”
“There she is.” He praises, satisfied with your communication. It takes no further persuasion, and he’s working to drag your panties down your legs, revealing you to him fully.
“Fucking perfect pussy.” He growls, pressing a kiss to your pubic bone. “Pretty little thing. You’re so pretty.”
“Park.” You plea, barely able to stay up on your elbows to watch his motions. Body weak with need.
“Brendon.” He corrects immediately, hot tongue flattening to lick a thick stripe up your pussy, and your head falls back. The sound that leaves you goes straight to his cock. So do the ones after it. He’s skilled in more ways than one, clearly. Experienced. You’re blissed out from his mouth alone, fingers gripping at the comforter beneath you. He watches your every movement, working with delicate precision, and it’s been so long that you’re embarrassingly close already. He can sense it by your breathing and movements, deciding to push his middle finger into you with ease. One finger shortly turns into two and your mouth is hanging open, eyes closed. When you start to squirm, he holds you down by your waist, mouth still working and two fingers plunging deep, curling up to hit the spot that nearly has you in tears.
“Ohmygodddd.” You mewl, reaching to claw at his forearm that’s pinning your hips to the bed, but he moves it to intertwine your fingers. It’s thoughtful, the way he tends to you. “S’ so good Bren.” The words leave you in a choked sob and his response is a long, deep hum against your pussy— and you’re done. Breath hitching, you wiggle a little, legs starting to shake as you helplessly dangle over the edge and he knows. Somehow he can read you. Sense exactly what you need. His fingers curl once more, oh so deep, and you’re crashing beneath him, a high pitched squeal leaving you and he’s totally entranced. Working like a starved man and not daring to stop as he drinks in the way you look when you fall apart. All by his doing. He swears it’s the hottest thing he’s ever witnessed, actually.
And when you’re trying to push him away because it’s all too much, he presses a sweet kiss to the inside of your thigh before he moves to stand up. You watch him in awe, and if you weren’t completely at his mercy before you definitely are now.
He laughs at little at your blissed out face as you eye him. “What?” He asks.
“I hate you.” You murmur. And it’s a lie, you both know it. A playful lie you’re just throwing around because how fucking dare he be so good at everything. Good looking and polite and considerate and talented. It’s not fair. Nothing about it is fair.
“You don’t hate me.” He smiles— a true smile as he starts to work at his sweatpants. You don’t try to tease any further, and he watches as you move to kneel infront of him, your hands moving to stop his. Then you continue his work, yanking at the stretchy material and leaving him in his dark briefs. You nearly salivate at the outline of his hard length through the material. That’s gonna hurt. The thought is there and gone, because you’re tugging them down next, eyes meeting his thick cock. He watches intently, teeth gnawing at the inside of his bottom lip as your much smaller hand wraps around the base of him. You press a kiss to the underside of the tip, eyes locked on his as you lick a stripe up the side teasingly.
He shakes his head a little because you’ve got him right where you want him and he knows it. When you take him into your mouth he groans, the sound rumbling from his chest and only spurring you on. You wanted to make him do it over and over again. A large hand brushes over the side of your face as you take him to your limit, starting to gag against him. “You’re so fucking good.” He breathes, moving to tangle his fingers into your hair again. Holding your hair up, he lets you work at your own pace, one that has him weak in the knees and muttering curses.
You’re relentless, taking him slow and deep until tears are brimming in your eyes and spit is starting to trickle down your chin. It’s a fucking sight. And he’s committed it to his memory forever, though a mental picture would never do the real thing justice. He pulls you off, admiring the string of spit that draws from your mouth that still connects you to his cock.
Up until now, you’d been pleasantly surprised at how soft he was being. The Park you’d shamelessly thought about more than a few times was far from a gentle lover. Though, your thoughts are interrupted by a rough manhandle that nearly has you squealing. He tosses you back onto the center of his bed, watching you bounce a little— and when he crawls over you next, he’s making quick work of your teeshirt that he wasn’t exactly sure why he hadn’t taken off of you yet.
The sight of your tits has his head spinning. Every part of you he’s gotten to see is perfect to him. He works his palm against one before pinching at the pebbled nipple. You writhe beneath him, so whiny. “Want you to fuck me, Bren.”
“You’re fucking bad.” He moves to growl in your ear, kissing at the lobe. “Dirty little fucking mouth on you. Took my cock so well, didn’t you?”
You nod a little, suddenly bashful at his praise. Pulling his face to yours, you kiss him. It’s rushed and messy, but you don’t mind a bit. Your manicured nails move to claw at Park’s biceps, and he hums against your mouth at the contact. When he pulls away, he just looks at you for a second, totally bare beneath him. Before you realize, he’s leaning down to your forehead to press a soft kiss to the dark purple bruise there.
Then, he’s adjusting himself between your legs, smacking the length of himself teasingly against your wetness. You just watch, gnawing at your lip when he lines up at your entrance. “Please be gentle.” You mumble out quickly, already wincing in preparation. His brain short circuits for half a second, and he silently curses himself for being too drunk on you to reach for a condom, but he trusts you and god— he wants to feel it all without any barrier.
“M’ not gonna hurt you, baby.” He promises. “You can take it.”
He starts to push in, aided by how soaked you were for him. You’re gripping at his arms, tense and eyes clamped shut at the stretch. He lowers himself, pressing his lips to your cheek. “That’s it, let me in.” You pulse around him at his words, leaning into his touch. He peppers your cheek and jaw with kisses as he continues to push in, slowly coming to a stop when he’s fully inside. It’s so fucking much you think you might just fall apart right then and there. Deep. Full.
“Mmm— there we go.” He coos, moving up again to admire the way you wrap around him when he slowly pulls out almost fully and then sheathes himself back inside.
You squirm, moans and whimpers flowing freely. “Fuckfuckfuck, s’ so big.”
“Yeah?” He presses his palms to the backside of your thighs, urging them higher until your knees are nearly up against your chest. “Taking it so well. I knew you would.” When he starts truly fucking into you, you’re a whining mess, fingers tangling into his comforter for leverage. He watches your hair scatter around you, painting the prettiest picture of you beneath him.
“Talk to me, baby.” He mumbles, urging you yet again to use your words but you’re so fucked out already you can hardly think.
“Feels so fucking good.” You cry, voice sounding pathetic.
“Yeah it does, bunny. You feel so good. Such a good fucking girl for me. Taking me like this.”
You never want him to stop talking. He speaks so eloquently. Fucking filthy and you’re obsessed.
His hips rock into yours at a devastating pace, a large hand reaching up to hold your throat. He presses gently, experimental almost, not enough to fully constrict your airway. Your eyes are lidded, blinking slow and he notices the tears in your eyes. He moves his hand to soothe against your cheek, worried for only a second until you offer him a weak smile to ease the concern on his face. And something about you feeling so good that you’re about to cry nearly makes him explode.
He lets go of your legs, feeling the warmth of your skin when you wrap them around his waist. Moving to kiss you, his hips continue to smack against you, the sounds of your wetness putting on a show. Your nails dig pretty little crescent moons into his large biceps, and you clench around him as you start to shatter. “Gonna cum on my cock, sweet baby? Huh?”
Your eyes nearly roll back in your head, his pace quickening when you nod, clinging to him. “Bren—”
“I know, bunny. I know.” He coos, smoothing your hair back. “Cum for me. Cum on my cock.”
You arch against him, body feeling like it’s suddenly shattered into a million tiny pieces. Hot tears rolling down the side of your face as you let out a long, broken whine. Vision blurring and hands clawing.
“There it is.” He drawls his words out, tone full of praise and admiration as he continues to slam into you, chasing his own high that’s burning through the pit of his stomach. “Yeah, Good fucking girl.”
You’re wrecked, absolutely spent as you cling to him, pulling him in for a long kiss, tongues thrashing.
“Where—” He starts to mumble, the rhythm of his thrusts growing messy.
You cut him off immediately, whimpering against his lips. “Inside.” You breathe. “Inside please, I’m on the pill.”
He groans, letting you hold him as he offers one more particularly hard thrust before he stills, fully burying himself deep inside, the warmth of him filling you. The sound he makes is otherworldly, a broken sounding growl. “Fuck, baby.” He whispers, staying buried in you as you both fight for air.
He lays there for a moment, skin sticking to your own. Breathing ragged. Then he presses one more sweet kiss to your lips before he slowly removes himself, exhaustion filling him as he heads for the bathroom, returning a few moments later with a damp rag. And he cleans you softly, the sight of it tugging at your heart. It’s so simple but it means so much.
“Go pee.” He nudges you next, the command swimming around your head.
With weak knees, you ease up and follow him into the bathroom.
You freshen up alongside him, neither of you speaking but rather finding comfort in each others presence alone.
And when you’re wrapped up in him again moments later, legs brushing along his as you settle beneath the cool sheets, you’re smiling. Smiling up at him, as sweet as honey.
“You alright?” He checks, hoping your head wasn’t bothering you again.
“I’m fine.” You assure him. “In fact, I think you healed me.”
“Oh, whatever.” He chuckles, pulling you closer.
It’s four days later when you see Park again. This time though, he’s marching into the ED for a consult. You were standing at the nurses station, and manage to spare him a quick glance before he disappears into Trauma 2. You’d spoken everyday, mostly by text. He’d promised to cook you dinner tonight, as it was the last day of a 3 day stretch. A proper date, he called it. He’d brought up a fancy steakhouse downtown, but you’d much rather watch him cook and share a glass of wine in his kitchen. Just be alone with him. He gladly agreed, assuring you that the day would go by quickly. That however, had not been the case.
The ED had been slammed, and though that usually makes for a quick day, maybe the anticipation eating at you had turned it into the opposite.
You speak briefly to Dana about the patient in South 16 that you’d just finished up suturing, and when you turn to round the counter again to check on another patient, you’re face to face with Park.
He’s sporting his typical intimidating demeanor, but you see right through it. For the sake of the rumor mill you know the ED can be, you offer him only a quick casual smile. “How’s your head?” He asks, voice low. And ofcourse, his extended presence has already conjured a few questioning glances.
“It’s fine.” You squeak. “Bruise looks more nasty than ever, though.” His eyes meet the mark, and it’s definitely gnarly. Yellowing and splotchy. But that’s normal for healing.
“It’ll get better.” He hums, his lips threatening to turn up into a smile but he fights it. One hand reaches up to tug playfully at the end of your messy braid, and then he’s turning to head back toward the elevators, leaving you biting your lip— cheeks rosy.
You blink, snapping back to reality and noticing far too many eyes on you as you start to walk towards your next patient in Central 14. Heart pounding in your chest as you scurry out of sight.
Dana stands still, having seen the entire exchange, and she’s nearly shook to her core. Surely not… She hadn’t worked with you much, as you were usually on nights, but she would’ve heard about this right? The infamous, brooding Park— and a sweet little ED nurse?
Robby slaps a hand against her shoulder, making her jump a little.
“I might be mistaken.” He starts, eyeing Dana. “But I think someone tamed the Shark.”
Please please please Aerion smut where its a jousting tourney and he sees you (a Lords daughter) give your favor to a knight going up against him, he beats the shit out of said knight, steals your favor from the ground and steals your favor from the bested knights lance like an insane person. Finding you after and confronting you about why you gave favor to someone else
he is insane for you like actually
Knights Earn, Dragons Take
Aerion Targaryen x noblewoman!reader
✿ aerion is obsessed with you, so when you give your favour to another knight, he has to take matters into his own hands and show you who you belong to (or, aerion steals your favour from another knight and fucks you)
✿ 18+
✿ wc: 6.6k
✿ cw: fem!reader, no y/n and reader is an undefined baddie, SMUT, a smidge of plot, unprotected piv, light breeding, fingering, oral (f!receiving), one (1) pussy slap, pussy pronouns, praise, light degradation but not a lot bc he’s obsessed with you, aerion being himself but also maybe slightly ooc, possessive!aerion, threats of violence so maybe not that ooc, tourney violence, strong language, reader is from an unnamed but influential House with non-specific colours, mention of reader having older brothers but her father is a girl dad and reader can do no wrong lol
You have always drawn eyes.
Beautiful, intelligent, the perfect lady. You were admired by commonfolk and nobles alike for your amicability and wit. Your lord father was a loyal ally to the great House Targaryen and a valiant support during the Blackfyre Rebellion, not to mention a loud and magnetic personality. His parties and tourneys drew thousands from across Westeros—even luring nobles and merchants alike from across the Narrow Sea.
Similar has happened today as you watch with bated breath, your ringed fingers interlinked upon your lap, as a pair of lordlings clash in a flurry of splintered wood from your position in your noble pavilion. Your father roars his approval, cheering loudly as one poor knight topples from his horse, a jagged shard of lance protruding from a joint near his shoulder in his plated armour. You can’t help but cup your hand to your mouth, watching as the poor felled knight is dragged from the tiltyard.
Your lord father takes a deep sip from his goblet, resplendent in the midday sun. He is draped in the colours of your House, as are you, with jewels strung around your neck and wrists, decorated like a shrine. He turns to you, wine still glossy on his lips as he eyes your uneasy expression which does little to match the glittering of your jewellery. You’re now fidgeting with a wreath of flowers, an intricately woven ring of heartseases, carnations and lilies, finished with ribbons of your House’s colours.
“What is troubling you, my dear?” Your father asks, reaching across to place a gentle hand atop your own, the metal of his rings cool against your knuckles.
You exhale and then give him a meek smile. “Nothing, father. I apologise—”
“You are my daughter. Do you believe I do not know when you are lying?” Your father interrupts, giving you a pointed look.
Embarrassment claws within your chest as you drown out the cheers from the large crowd beyond the pavilion, realising that there are likely to be dozens of eyes glued to you. You calm yourself, ensuring your face remains as passive as possible, but you can feel the slightest tremble in your lower lip.
“I—what if I do not wish to give my favour away?” You say, fingers brushing the beautiful wreath in your lap. “I see no point in—”
Your father interrupts you again with a smooth and rather diplomatic confidence you’re sure he uses with everyone he speaks to. It usually gets him what he wants, and paired with the irreverent glimmer in his eyes, you realise why he and Lyonel Baratheon get along so well.
“Do not view this as giving your favour away,” he says carefully, drumming his fingers against your hand as he speaks. “View it as lending your favour to a poor, desperate lad who wishes to impress you. You are helping the needy, which all ladies care to do, do they not?”
You can’t help but scoff, your father battering his eyelashes in an attempt to make you smile with his humoured tone.
“These men are not needy. They are knights,” you reply.
“Ah, but they are still men,” your father utters, withdrawing his hand to pick up his goblet and take another drink. He tips his goblet in your direction before he drinks. “And all men, no matter their strength or their status, are needy when chasing the favour of a lady.”
You mull over your father’s words for a while as he gets to his feet and shuffles towards the entrance to the pavilion. You hear him speaking to someone, you hear the thunderous cacophony of the crowd, the stamping of hooves, the blaring of bugles. And you’re not sure how much time passes before you hear a beckoning call of your name. You look to your side, placing your flowered wreath upon an adjacent pedestal, and see that your father is welcoming a pair of men into your pavilion dressed in black and red.
Your heart stammers in your chest as you hurry to your feet, Baelor and Maekar Targaryen appraising you as you drop into a perfected curtsy.
“Seven blessings,” you utter, tone light and airy, your flower-sweet perfume lingering around you as you dip.
Your father introduces you, a beaming smile split across his face, both by name and a proud declaration, “my little dove, my pride and joy.”
Humour sparkles in Baelor’s eyes as he turns back to your father, settling onto a chair on his other side. “You have sons, do you not?”
Your father lets out an annoyed puff at the mention of his sons, then shakes his head as he sinks back into his own seat, Maekar settling with a grunt on the other side of his brother. “My sons are… spirited. My daughter, however, is perfect.”
Something like relatability crosses across Maekar’s face, the subtle hint of a smile as warmth grows in your chest. He’s put you on a pedestal with his praise, and now you can feel even more eyes on you as you settle back into your seat.
—✿—
Across the tiltyard, Aerion Targaryen watches you from the flap of his tent as servants and smiths attend to his intricately plated armour. His violet eyes trace the lines of your face from afar, the curves of your body beneath your dress and skirts as you sit, mostly obscured by the low walls of the raised pavilion. He watches the way you join politely into conversation with your father, his uncle and his father, and he can imagine that you’re saying all the right things. That pretty little mouth of yours would say all the right things, wouldn’t it? Would it plead and beg sweetly too?
“My prince,” some kind of servant says hesitantly as he approaches, cloaked in the colours of your noble House. “Your mount is ready.”
Aerion acknowledges him for the briefest of moments with a bored look, before his eyes find you once more. Your father and Baelor are laughing at something you’ve said, and you dip your head like the polite lady you are to hide most of your smile. He sees, too, the cute little wreath you are now toying with, and he realises, with something sick and sharp building in his gut, that it would look perfect around his lance.
With purpose, the prince strides away from his tent, finding his steed at the edge of the tiltyard. Servants help him into the saddle, before he’s securing his feet into the stirrups and urging his warhorse forward through the sawdust-thickened mud of the tourney grounds. Another knight, already arranged against him at the ruling of your father—“It is my tourney, in honour of my nameday, so I can do as I please,” the lord had announced—canters towards the pavilion.
Aerion pulls his horse to a stop as he watches with narrowed eyes as the knight—a knight from somewhere in the Reach, he thinks he remembers—requests your favour. Or at least, Aerion assumes he does, for he cannot hear anything over the angry rush of blood in his ears as jealousy rips raw through his chest.
You bow your head and rise to the edge of the pavilion, and gods, you look a dream—the material of your skirts flowing around you as you dip, the curve of your breasts and neck on full display as you slip your wreath onto the knight’s lance. Aerion faintly hears the roar of the crowd as the Reach knight says something to you that makes you beam, your smile splitting widely across your face as your father claps.
Then, the knight takes your hand in his and fucking kisses it. Plants a gentle kiss to the back of it before he’s turning his horse away with a triumphant smirk.
Aerion is seething. Anger boils hot inside him, and with an angry, too-hard thrust of his hips, he urges his horse towards the knight, and the pair meet in the middle of the field for a brief moment. Aerion’s eyes drop to the wreath around the knight’s lance, his jaw flexing, violet eyes flashing with an unbridled fury that has him wishing he could drive his lance through the other man’s throat.
Maybe he will.
“It seems the lady has given me her favour,” the Reach knight says with a sickening smile that makes Aerion want to punch him in the face. “Best of luck, for I intend to honour her virtue greatly and de-horse a dragon today.”
Aerion scoffs. “You impudent little rat. If I do not kill you today, I will slit your throat on the morrow for use of such words.”
The Reach nobleman does not look put-off in the slightest, which, admittedly, takes Aerion by surprise. The knight simply smiles and then pulls down his visor, cantering back to the edge of the tiltyard, leaving Aerion alone in the middle, swamped suddenly by the sounds of a jeering crowd of commonfolk. Anger burns in his veins as he turns with a curse, trotting back to where his squire awaits him, his lance primed and ready.
He’s going to kill that fucking knight. And then he’s going to have you.
—✿—
You watch the knights ready themselves as the trumpeting of bugles pierce the clamour of the crowd. Your fingers are crossed against your lap as you watch the young knight you had bestowed your favour on roll his shoulders and clutch his lance and shield, ready. Your father offers you a side-long glance.
“Are you happy now, my dear?”
You don’t turn your head to speak with him, eyes on the tiltyard. You can’t help the way they fall from your favoured knight to the opposing side, where the imposing Prince Aerion is being handed his shield and lance. “Happy may be too strong of a word.”
Your father chuckles. “Well, these men are certainly needy for your favour.”
You huff. “Yes, as you have said.”
“Yes, but I failed to mention,” your father begins, clearing his throat. “That when a needy man does not earn a lady’s favour, well…”
Your stomach squeezes tightly as you watch the dangerously beautiful face of Prince Aerion vanish behind his helm as he shuts his visor with a rough hand.
Your father shakes his head, chuckling again. “They become quite dangerous.”
With a blare of a horn and a surge of noise from the crowd, both knights take off galloping towards one another. You grip the arms of your chair, watching with your heart in your throat as they get closer and closer, lances poised, before they clash—wood chips flying, metal grinding on metal.
You gasp when Aerion forces his lance through the Reach knight’s shield, shattering it completely. The end of the other knight’s lance makes impact with Aerion’s shield, but the now-jagged tip of Aerion’s lance drives through a gap in his plated armour. You hear the Reach knight let out a sharp shout of pain as the lance drives into the flesh beneath his armpit, and he tips sideways off of his horse.
“What a charge!” Your father remarks to Baelor and Maekar, the three men watching, transfixed, as the Reach knight’s horse gallops away and Aerion whirls his around, hounding for a second run.
The black steed takes off again, and Aerion dips his lance low, much to the detest of the crowd, who jeer and curse and throw stones, as Aerion’s lance lands a decisive blow to the staggering nobleman’s armoured back. He is thrown forward into the mud, winded, piece of wood protruding from his side.
You raise a hand to your mouth as you watch Aerion dismount his horse, dragging the tip of his lance through the mud. He’s not stopping, you realise, as he stomps through the muck to kick the fallen knight onto his back. Then, tossing his lance aside, he brings two hands to his shield and slams the heavy base of it down atop the knight’s helm, the visor denting with the impact. Aerion brings the shield down again, and you find yourself shooting a hand out to grip onto your father’s.
Sensing your concern, your father nods to a man near the edge of the pavilion. The man quickly blows into his bugle, and relief washes over you as Aerion, body heaving, pulls away from the unmoving knight. However, terror quickly seizes you when the prince stalks a few feet away to pick the fallen knight’s shattered lance from the ground. He snatches the favour—your favour—from the broken lance and then lifts his visor.
His eyes find yours as he clutches your favour, bringing it to his chest as he stares up at you. The crowd shouts at him, but he ignores them. You can see the way he ignores them, eyes transfixed on you, the dainty garland engulfed by his hand, crushed in a vice-like grip.
You continue to hold onto your father, who angles his head to whisper to you, “See, my dear? Dangerous.”
—✿—
That evening, you successfully manage to avoid Aerion by locking yourself away in your chambers, informing your father that you feel unwell and intend to retire early. Of course, he knew you were lying, but noticing the dullness in your eyes and the unease that seemed to seep from your pores, he let you go with a kiss to your forehead. Now, as the sun sinks beyond the horizon, and your father and the visitors dine across the castle, you light the candles around your chambers until the room is bathed in a soft, golden light, shadows flickering against the wall. You calmed yourself with a bath, and now sit before the fireplace in your soft linen chemise, a book in your lap.
The flames light the pages well and warm the bare skin of your arms and legs.
The quiet is punctuated, however, by a sharp knock on your door. It is much too forceful to be one of your servants, and for the briefest of moments, you wonder if one of your guards has something to ask of you. You pad towards the door, standing just behind it as you unbolt it and open it a crack.
“Open up, little dove,” Aerion utters, and you yelp in fright as his strong fingers curl around the edge of the door and shove inwards.
You jump back, heart in your throat, as he enters your chambers, violet eyes alight and reflecting the flickering flames of the fire and surrounding candles.
He looks you up and down, the point of his tongue running along his bottom lip. “You’ve been avoiding me.”
You shake your head, hugging your arms around your body. The heat of his gaze burns through the thin material of your chemise, and despite the trepidation rooting deep in your gut, something warm gathers at the base of your womb, your nipples hardening.
“No,” you whisper. “No, my prince, I’ve just—”
“I won your favour,” he interrupts you quickly, stalking forward after slamming—and bolting—the door shut. “And you’ve been hiding from me.”
Some semblance of courage seizes you in that moment as you remember what your father had told you. You lift your chin a little as he crosses the room, predatory like a lion. Or perhaps a dragon.
“You did not win my favour,” you hiss at him, but you find yourself backing up in response to his movements. “You stole it. No proper knight would steal another’s favour.”
A dark smile splits across his serpentine features as he creeps closer to you. He wears his House colours, blacks and blood-reds, his tunic and doublet dark and fitting against his strong chest and lean torso. The pale skin of his hands and throat are a stark contrast.
“It was always supposed to be mine, little dove, whether you knew it then or not,” Aerion says, stopping only when your back hits one of the wooden posts of your canopy bed. “I simply saw an opportunity to take it back.”
You scoffed, but it came out more as a breathless sigh. “Knights do not—”
“No, they do not,” Aerion whispers, stepping forward once more to pin you to the post, his chest flush to yours. One of his hands seizes your chin, forcing you to look at him, and your hands fly out to rest against his forearm. You don’t push him away. He continues, “Knights earn, my sweet girl, but dragons take, don’t they?”
“I…” You can’t speak, your tongue heavy in your mouth as he maintains eye contact. Your body heats beneath your chemise, blood honey-thick in your veins as you attempt to form a sentence, but your words fail you.
“I am a prince of the realm, blood of the dragon,” he mutters, trailing a finger across your jaw, up along your cheek before cupping your face. The press of his rings are cold to your heated skin. Your lips part, a feather-light sigh escaping you. “And I will take whatever I want. Do you understand me?”
You find yourself nodding, the warmth of his body against yours pulling something tight in the base of your tummy. Your hands squeeze at his forearm, feeling the soft skin and the sparse blond hair there. No scales, no fire.
“So, from this moment forward, you will not grant your favour to anyone but me,” he tells you, hand back on your jaw. He grips you tightly, and a meek yelp leaves you, his hold bruising, the back of your head knocking lightly on the wooden post. “And if you do, I will sever the head of whomever is brash enough to seek your favour, and mount it to the post of your bed for you to look at whilst I fuck you. Do you understand, or shall I repeat myself?”
“I understand,” you say quickly, voice squeaky with both fear and the restriction of your jawbone. “I understand, my prince.”
Aerion approves, for his eyes flash brightly and a purr escapes his chest as he dips forward and presses his lips to the corner of your mouth. It is soft, tender, and he trails his mouth over the curve of your jaw and down onto the slope of your neck. His other hand rubs over your hip, and your breath hitches in your chest as his hand smooths down your front. It trails over the material covering your mound, before slinking beneath the short hem and brushing against the airy linen of your smallclothes.
The heat of his fingers and the gentleness of his touch has your hips bucking involuntarily, eyelids fluttering as he sucks at your pulse which thrums heavily in your jugular.
“I’ve heard whispers about the sweet little dove that nests within this castle’s walls,” Aerion breathes against you. The coarse pads of his fingers press against your clothed core and a quiet sigh is coaxed from your chest. “I never imagined she’d be such a good girl—such a good listener.”
He rubs two fingers back and forth over your clothed slit, the gusset of your smallclothes growing damp with your slick. The heat of your core against his fingers makes him groan into your neck, his sharp teeth skimming your sensitive skin as he sucks at the junction of your neck and shoulder.
You hold on to his forearm as it rocks with the movements of his hand, but you should be wrenching him away, cursing and screaming and begging for your guards to seize him, to haul him away for attempting to corrupt your virtue. But you don’t. Your brain is fuzzy, your heartbeat heavy in your core, nipples catching on the linen of your chemise and brushing against his doublet. You can’t believe how your fear has turned into lust as the Targaryen prince works two of his fingers against you, his lips suckling at your neck while he grips your jaw tightly still.
The hands you have on his forearm trail up, caressing the bare skin, then dancing across the sleeve of his tunic. He groans against you at your touch as you wind your fingers over his shoulder, then flatten across his chest, caressing his pectorals beneath the padded doublet. His mouth withdraws as he pants against the curve of your shoulder, one of your hands threading along the back of his neck, nails scraping through the short hair that grows at his nape. You grab a fistful, stroking his scalp, before tightening your fingers and tugging gently.
Aerion pulls back and growls, then slams his mouth to yours. The kiss is harsh, more teeth and tongue than anything you’ve ever experienced, his lips burning hot against yours. The fingers he pushes against your clothed slit dip against the fabric, pressing against the puffy bud of your clit, pinching before rubbing a heavy circle. It makes you stutter out a moan against his mouth, which he uses to curl his tongue against you deeper, sliding across your teeth. He tastes of wine and ash, and something metallic, the richness of blood on his snake-like tongue. A sound of deep pleasure, a loutish grunt from the back of his throat, knocks against your teeth as he kisses you, the hand he has on your jaw forcing you to be completely pliant beneath him.
Aerion pulls back after a long moment, pressing a wet, saliva-slick kiss to the corner of your mouth once more before speaking lowly into your ear, “Are you going to be good for me, little dove? Are you going to give me what I want?”
“Yes,” you whisper, pleasure a firm knot in the base of your belly already as he continues to slide his fingers back and forth against you, the fabric of your smallclothes soaked through, tacky against your folds.
The prince tuts at you, his fingers vanishing from your core. You whimper at the rush of cool air that hits you, but he quickly closes the space when he taps four fingers roughly against you—a measured smack against your covered cunt, which rips an embarrassingly loud moan from your chest, head falling back against the post.
“You are a lady,” Aerion chastises you whilst he acts more unlike a prince than any nobleman you’ve ever met. His palm cups your core now, soothing the dull ache caused by the smack. “Answer nicely.”
You pant, eyes watering as you meet his, lips swollen from the force of his kiss. “I–I’ll be good, my prince. I’ll be good for you.”
He smiles. “Of course you will.”
Then, his palm shifts, two fingers looping through the band of your smallclothes and tugging. The material all but tears as he pulls it down your legs with such aggression it makes your hips buck. Your slick cunt is bared to the tepid air of your room, the fireplace dwindling now, and you squeeze your thighs together as you kick your undergarments away. His other hand leaves your face to join his other in pulling your chemise over your head, tearing it away from you and tossing it across the room. It disappears into the shadows and you’re left bare before him.
He groans at the sight, eyes dropping to where he kicks your legs apart with his foot, trailing his hand over your mound and dipping into the silken wet heat of your folds. Fingers slide over your puffy clit, and he groans again at the way your body jolts against him. His other hand squeezes one of your breasts tightly beneath strong fingers, nipple crushed beneath his palm, making you moan.
“Oh, my poor girl, you’re soaked,” Aerion whispers, almost in disbelief, as he runs two fingers through your slit, gathering slick between your folds. “Pretty little pussy’s drooling for her prince, isn’t she?”
His middle and ring finger find your hole, slick and warm and too empty. You huff out something that sounds like his name, but the syllables are lost as the pads of his fingers trace circles around you. You lean your head back, baring your throat to him, allowing him to swoop down and attach his mouth to a soft patch along the column of your trachea. As he does this, he—with surprising restraint—works the blunt tips of his fingers past the entrance of your cunt. He pushes, and pushes still, until your silken walls open around the intrusion, the bump of his knuckles rubbing against your posterior wall, sending electric shocks into your womb.
“She’s taking me so well,” Aerion lifts his head to utter against your cheek, and he nearly smiles when he feels how hot you are there.
He curls his fingers and presses further until the top of his palm rests against you. Quickly, he retracts his fingers before plunging them back into you, and the wet squelch that fills the space between you makes you suck in a breath, ears ringing.
The prince hums darkly, kissing your cheek. “Oh, she’s mouthy too, is she? Pussy’s got something to say?”
He repeats the movements, the wet plap-plap-plap of his fingers rutting into you, and his palm hitting your wet folds, makes his cock twitch painfully in his breeches. You whine out, embarrassed, pleasure as heavy as an anvil in the base of your stomach, Valyrian steel threatening to sever the cord of tension that withheld your release.
“Please,” you find yourself begging as your hands grip his shoulders. The contrast of Aerion being completely clothed while you stand before him, naked with slick dribbling down your inner thighs, has a sort of drunkenness washing over you.
His other hand, kneading your breasts still, shoots up to slap a palm across your mouth as he works his fingers in and out, pace quick and unrelenting. He angles his head down to watch where his forearm flexes as he shoves his fingers into you—he pulls out, lines up to add a third, and then forces them in, and the stretch makes you yowl against his palm.
“Easy, little dove,” he utters, pulling his fingers away only to hike one of your legs around his hip, giving him a deeper angle to drive his fingers back into you. Three fingers stretch you open and curl deep inside you, pressing against the gummy spot inside that forces a tremor through you. You moan against his hand, breath coming in quick pants, eyelids fluttering as he fucks his fingers into your cunt.
The pace is animalistic, rushed. Aerion grunts as his arm works, the other gripping the lower portion of your face so he can listen to the way your pussy takes him. He can feel dribbles of slick running down his wrist, smearing across your inner thighs. Your walls clench him tightly as he nails the best spot inside you, and he marvels in the way your leg trembles against his hip, your nails digging into the thick material at his shoulders as he urges you towards release.
You say something against his palm, but it is muffled. He wrenches his hand away and finally looks at your face as you manage to puff out, “M’gonna… come…”
Aerion pulls his fingers from you, your pussy clenching around nothing. You curse loudly, and then moan his name, eyes springing open when he drops your leg. He hides his smile as he sinks to his knees before you, hands grasping the doughy flesh of your inner thighs to spread your legs. His head slots between them, and he exhales a forceful blow onto your soaked cunt. The air makes you keen, hand shooting out to grasp his hair.
“Gods, just look at her,” he voices from below you, hands moving across your thighs. His thumbs find your folds and he spreads you open for him, slick webbing between them. The feeling makes you whine—and then the feeling of his tongue, pointed and firm, curling into your hole has you whining even louder.
The narrow slope of his nose rubs perfectly against your puffy clit as he works his tongue inside you, curling between your walls, slick and warm. His hand is wet against you as he holds you open for him, a series of soft, dragon-like huffs suffocated in the heat of your pussy as his tongue coils inside you.
The stretched cord of your release is pulling taut in your abdomen once more, and you find yourself rocking your hips against his face in chase of it. Pursuing a hare through the long grass, adrenaline mounting, hound’s teeth closing in.
“My prince,” you whine, hips twitching. “Gods, I’m going to—ah—”
He hums against you and the cord in your lower belly snaps and splinters inside you. Your orgasm racks through you, pleasure white-hot in your chest and womb, spreading through your veins as your pussy clenches around his tongue. You moan his title loudly, pelvis stuttering against the rigid lines of his face as he works you through your release. Your hole spasms around his tongue, clit thrumming with your heartbeat.
He hums again when some of your release dribbles down from the corners of his mouth, running down his chin, and when he pulls away, a string connects his lips to you. It snaps when he runs his tongue over his lips, sitting back on his haunches to admire the glossiness of your pussy and the way your hole clenches around nothing.
“Pretty girl…” Aerion muses, leaning forward to press one last kiss to your clit before getting to his feet.
His cock is painfully hard, pressing against his breeches and the seam of his trousers. Grinding his hips against your pelvis, Aerion drags his hands up your sides, caressing you softly, before placing them either side of your face. He kisses you, lips slick atop yours. A sinful thrill runs up your spine as you taste the faint musk of yourself on his tongue, an earthy-sweet ichor that Aerion will fist himself to the memory of for months to come.
“Your favour is mine,” the prince says against you, before the warmth of his mouth disappears and he’s spinning you around. Still fully-clothed, he pushes his body against your back, keeping you warm. “You are mine.”
You suck in a breath as one of his hands brands you between the shoulder-blades, rings biting against the skin as he forces you to bend. You curl over the end of your bed until your chest presses flat to the sheets, your arse bare against the tent in his trousers. You breathe out an “o-oh fuuuck” as he grinds his clothed cock—the imprint thick against the cleft of your arse—in firm, teasing thrusts.
After quickly ripping his doublet from his body, suddenly too hot, Aerion keeps one hand to your upper back, pinning you to the bed while his other works in unfastening the ties and clasps of his trousers. He nudges your legs wider apart with his feet as his trousers loosen finally, and he can dip his hand into his breeches, shucking them down enough to fish his cock out. He hisses quietly behind you as he fists himself, tip red and ruddy, beads of precum wetting the slit. He chokes on a groan when one slips down his frenulum and along a prominent vein on the underside.
“Gods, little dove, what are you doing to me?” Aerion groans, angling his hips forward to drag the head of his cock down the split of your arse before tapping it against your pussy. He spreads your folds with the blood-flushed tip as you mewl out, incapable of giving him a properly-worded answer.
He chuckles at that, and you are surprised when he bends to press a line of kisses down your sweat-dampened spine. You arch for him as he tongues the dip at the base of your spine, teeth nipping at the skin.
“So good for me,” he breathes against you, and groans as he pulls back to stand a bit straighter.
Still grasping the base of his cock, he runs the head up and down your folds once more, pressing firmly to your clit—“there we go, this sweet girl gets a little kiss,” he says under his breath—before he lines up at your entrance. He says louder, “I deserve this, little dove. This is my prize.”
And then he’s thrusting into you in one deft movement. Your eyes roll, fingers gripping the sheets as you cry out, an echoing moan causing the flames of nearby candles to flicker. An animalistic growl tears from Aerion’s chest as he buries himself to the hilt inside you, the silken walls of your cunt moulding like clay around him. The ridges of his cock slide against you just right, and the prince grips your hip and glues you to him.
“Fuck, fuck, you’re so tight,” Aerion grits out, canines gnashing as he bites down the pleasure crawling up his diaphragm.
“Please,” you call out to him, cheek to the sheets, a tear slipping from the corner of your eye. “Please, my prince, please move.”
Aerion grunts, but doesn’t chastise your begging. Instead, he does what you ask of him, withdrawing until the head of his cock is just nestled inside you, before rutting back in. You whimper out a pathetically meek string of gasps—“ah–ah–ah,”—as he sets a pace, his hips smacking against your arse, the fat rippling. He grunts and groans, the sounds have your pussy tightening along with his movements.
He keeps you anchored to the bed. The hand between your shoulder blades is strong and unmoving, and the hand on your hip clenches around the softness there with a vice-like grip, forcing your arse back onto him as he moves. The pace is quick and rough, packed full of desperation as he stuffs your wet cunt over and over. His cock stretches you open, splits you apart, curls up towards the plug of your womb. Desperation is translated through the way his deep grunts end with the lightest lilt, a slight whimper at the end.
All men are needy when chasing the favour of a lady.
“Hgnh—fuck, come on, sweet girl, that’s it. Y-yeah, that’s it, stay just like that,” Aerion mutters, rambling as his eyelids droop low, sweat beading high on his forehead and at the hair on his temples.
You can’t do much but bend and take it, cock filling you perfectly, the angle driving him deep against a spongey spot inside you that punches whimper after whimper from your throat. He groans when your back arches further for him. “That’s my good girl, that’s my girl—pretty little dove taking my cock like a dirty fucking whore.”
You moan in response, clit pulsing and body starting to shake. You tremble against the sheets of your bed, pleasure building like the rush of water beneath your skin. Rising and rising, suffocating you as the head of his cock drives you closer and closer to release.
Aerion knows you’re close.
“I know, sweet girl, oh, I know,” he coos down at you, caressing your back as he plows into you from behind. The bed creaks with the force, the sheets bunching beneath you. “Let me feel you. Give me your favour, little dove.”
The ball of tension in your belly grows tighter and tighter as your body grows hotter and hotter. Small moans of his name fall from your lips. Not his title, but his name. He doesn’t reprimand you for it, too obsessed with your soaked cunt wrapped tight around his cock, but he’ll be sure to scold you later. For now, he maintains his pace, watching the way your hips bounce against his pelvis, sweat still building in a light sheen along your spine.
“Aerion.” Then, with a realm-shattering moan, you come around him, legs locking up tightly, fists clenching the sheets.
Your eyes snap shut as stars burst behind them, your second orgasm crashing over you. Your lower belly pulls taut, pussy clenching around his cock as the pleasure crests, and Aerion takes it with a groan of your name, pace faltering slightly as he pushes deeper into you.
You’re boneless against the bed now as the prince uses you, his cock twitching, thrusts becoming shallower. He’s rutting into you, humping the curve of your arse, cock barely leaving the drooling sheath of your cunt as his high rears like a hissing serpent inside him.
Knights earn, dragons take.
Aerion groans your name, collapsing half-way on top of you, the hand on your back moving to the side of your head to hold himself up as he grinds his cock into you.
“I’m going to spill inside of you,” he mumbles, tongue flicking out to wet his lips. “Yeah, m’going to fill you, little dove. Fill this pretty pussy with my seed. Every—uh, fuck—everyone’ll know who you belong to i-if you’re round with my babe.”
You whine, screwing your eyes shut, overstimulation leaking into your gut like molasses, but you know he’s not going to last. You can feel his cock jerking inside you with each sloppy thrust.
“Uh-uh, none of that, m’lady,” Aerion murmurs, words drawing together now: pussy-drunk. “You’re mine—your favour is mine. You belong to the dragon.”
Then, with one last growl of your name between clenched teeth, Aerion comes inside of you, release filling you in hot ropes as his cock twitches. He’s buried to the hilt, a wanton groan leaving his lips as the warm walls of your pussy milk him, take him. The heat that fills you, the sensation of growing full, makes you hum out a pleased moan.
Slowly, the prince pulls his softening cock out of you and wipes his shaft along your arse cheek. The stickiness makes you huff out at him, and he laughs as he tucks himself back into his breeches, drawing his trousers back up.
His seed leaks out of you as you attempt to pull yourself onto your bed, turning to lay on your back and watch as he retrieves his doublet from the floor and begins pulling it over his head. You didn’t expect aftercare, but the absence of his warm body against you makes your heart contract beneath your ribcage.
Aerion notices the brief expression of discontent that passes over your face. He rolls his eyes, smoothing his hands through his hair, clearing the strands that stick to his skin with sweat.
“I left your father’s feast for this,” he says, bending down and placing his arms either side of you. He cages you against the bed, nose brushing yours. “I will finish my meal and make your father happy, and then I will return and fuck you to sleep.”
The prince presses one last lingering kiss to your mouth, a surprisingly sweet gesture, before he retreats and heads for the door. He unbolts it and looks back over his shoulder, watching as you reach blindly for your chemise, limbs pleasure-lax, eyes tired. He sighs loudly, stalking back across the room and scooping your chemise from the floor. Pale fingers snap around your wrist and he pulls you into a sitting position.
“Arms up,” he orders, and you do as you’re told. He shoves the chemise roughly down your arms and then over your head. His fingers brush your softening nipples as he lays the fabric back over you. He shakes his head as you blink up at him like a doe. He grumbles, “Pathetic.”
But you’re sure he doesn’t really mean it, especially when he cups your cheek and caresses your cheekbone for a fleeting moment, before he’s heading back towards the door. He opens it and vanishes without a look back, closing it with a firm slam. But even with his abrupt exit, you can’t help but smile as you sink beneath your sheets, his seed and your slick leaking out between your thighs.
All men, no matter their strength or their status, are needy when chasing the favour of a lady.
———
is he obsessed with you? yes. is he going to give you aftercare after you gave his your favour to someone else? no. he’s moody like that smh
summary: a little harmless flirting never hurt anyone, right? you've been on jack abbot's mind a little too often lately and he's starting to suspect the feeling is mutual. after a late night out at the bar, you're determined to show him just how mutual that feeling is.
content/warnings: age gap, inappropriate work crushes, i don't even bother pretending like i know how a hospital works, jealous!jack, masturbation mentions, garsantos crumbs, alcohol consumption, smoking cigarettes, reader wears a dress/heels/make up, soft dom!jack, dirty talk (jack's got a filthy mouth), kinda degradation if u squint, praise, oral (f + m receiving), jack abbot is a munch duh, fingering, unprotected piv, some breath play, cream pie? NSFW + MDNI! 18+ ONLY!
wc: 7.5k (got away from me lol)
notes: this is like the first proper thing i've written in several years and probably my first real smut ever, but i couldn't stop thinking about jack abbot's tits. purely self indulgent because i know for a fact that he talks you through it lol he's just so yummy. enjoy my old man brain rot
credit: gif taken from this set by ho-ii :)
—
Jack hasn’t been able to focus since you joined the night shift.
You seem to be everywhere. Ever since that first day, he hasn’t been able to shake you. Any corner he turns, every trauma room he enters, there you are. Even when he can’t see you, you still haunt him. He picks up the faint smell of your shampoo, sometimes. Hears your laughter ringing somewhere in the halls and can't help but turn his head towards it.
It’s worse when you’re next to him. You’re great at what you do, there's no denying that. But it's been difficult to work alongside you, elbows and arms brushing while you crowd over whatever patient is bleeding out on the table in front of him. His brain just can't keep up, sometimes. Not with the warmth of your body next to his. Commands come out a little slower than usual. He hesitates for a second longer than he usually does.
However, it's the worst when you’re batting your eyelashes at him when you finally have a moment of downtime. Handing him some coffee from the break room, letting your fingers linger on his for just a beat too long. Casually laying a hand on his bicep when you talk to him, leaving him tingling for an embarrassing amount of time after you leave. He knows exactly what you’re doing. That you know exactly what it does to him. He’s got scars older than you, but that doesn't stop his gaze from following you as you flit around the ER. And he knows you feel it. You’re real young, you’re real fucking pretty and you’re real fucking capable.
Which is why it feels like a cruel joke that you’re always flirting with him. Especially since he’s pretty sure you’d never actually see him in the way that he sees you. Honestly, it makes this inconvenient attraction he has towards you all the more complicated. Jack can't help but notice the way you chew your lip when you’re deep into charting. The curve of your neck when you adjust your hair. When you look up at him with those big eyes, just eagerly waiting for him to tell you what to do next.
Fuck, he’s hard just thinking about it.
His thoughts always wander in that direction when it comes to you. He finds himself at home, thinking of the way that you looked at him earlier in the day or when you swept a slow thumb over your bottom lip absentmindedly, lost in thought. Jack feels filthy when he thinks of you like this, but he still can't help but palm himself through his pants when the thoughts come. Which is more often than he'd like to admit.
When he thinks of you outside of that, however, he’s not entirely sure how he feels. It’s more than just something carnal. He wants to take care of you. And he does, sometimes. Leaves a protein bar by your hand when he hears you complain about how hungry you are, and steps in when patients start being rowdy or handsy with you.
It’s an entirely different feeling while he watches a doctor get handsy with you instead.
It's the early hours of the morning, and the day shift has started to trickle in. It was always interesting, crossing paths with them. The night shift attracted a certain kind of person. Someone who prefers working under the cover of darkness. Jack noticed that the people on the night shift always played their cards closer to their chests, had a little more hidden depth. Maybe that's why they all worked well together, moving like a unit, fluid and unspoken.
The day shift on the other hand was, well, bright, in a sense. They were all dazzling smiles and caffeinated energy, bouncing from one patient to the next. They clashed like nobody’s business, bold and brash. There were exceptions of course, like Mohan, who Jack had grown fond of and even attempted to convince to join the night shift on more than a few occasions. (She always said no.)
Then there were the textbook examples. And no one embodies the day shift more than Robby’s prodigal son, Frank Langdon.
Frank Langdon, who was standing just a little too close to you, elbow propped on the nurse’s station as he gave you one of his signature smiles. Jack was too far away to hear exactly what he was saying, but he didn't miss the way his fingers played with your badge, the light glinting off it as he fiddled with it and examined your photo. Jealousy twists in Jack’s gut, but he can't make himself turn away. He just grips his tablet harder, listening to you giggle at whatever Langdon had to say. It’s the same giggle that you give him when he's just a little too sarcastic in an attempt to make you laugh. That was his giggle.
A hand on his shoulder snaps him out of his daze.
“What'd the tablet do to you?” It’s Robby, looking at Jack expectantly to begin their hand off for the day. Jack can't curb his jealousy fast enough and the other man follows his gaze right over to you and Langdon. He can see the gears turning in Robby’s mind, piecing everything together until he barks out a laugh and shakes his head. “You’re so screwed, brother.”
“I don't know what you’re talking about.” Jack grumbles, and Robby raises a disbelieving eyebrow at him. He’s still gripping onto the tablet, probably moments away from cracking the damn thing in half.
“Right…” Robby has to basically wrestle it out of his grip and Jack finally drags his eyes over to his friend, who looks thoroughly unimpressed. “So you’re just here, burning holes into Langdon for no reason.”
“I’m not,” Jack says, a little too indignantly for his liking. “He’s married. He shouldn't be flirting like that.” Robby laughs at him again, which is really starting to get on his nerves. He knows that it’s a terrible lie, but his mind is too foggy from his overnight shift to think of a better one. He wishes his friend would cut him a little slack here.
“Sure. And it’s got nothing to do with her, I’m guessing,” Robby nods over in your direction, and Langdon is still there. He’s leaning on the nurses station, still talking away while you nod, full attention on him. Doesn’t this guy have a job to do? A beat of silence passes, and Jack doesn't answer. “Okay, well, good luck with that then.”
With that, Robby takes his leave, but not before he grabs Langdon by the scrubs, wordlessly hauling him away. You seem shocked at the sudden intrusion, waving goodbye to the dark haired doctor just a moment too late.
It seems like his best friend can cut him some slack, after all.
—
You’re already two drinks deep when Jack Abbot walks through the door.
You’re in the day shift’s favourite bar, squished into the booth seat next to Trinity. She’s yapping away and gesturing wildly to Robby and Garcia who are sitting across from you, looking equally as squished. Truthfully, you’d tuned her out a few minutes ago; it was a story about Dennis and the farm girl she’s told you a million times before.
Your eyes are wandering across the bar, drifting over your friends who are scattered around as if they own the place. Samira and Cassie are perched on stools at the bar, Parker is trying and failing to teach Dennis how to play pool. Movement catches your eye and your gaze drifts towards the door, where John strides in, with Jack in tow.
You can't even pretend to notice Shen, not when Jack catches your eye right away. He’s got his typical black shirt on, tight in all the right places. His hands are shoved into his pockets as he saunters in, looking confident as always. You swear that you’ve never seen him look out of place before. Everywhere he enters, it feels like all heads turn in his direction.
Well, yours does at least.
And it’s really irritating how fucking good he looks all the time. Scrubbed up, in his civvies and in that unbelievably hot uniform that he rolled up in on the fourth of July. He really has you feeling a lot of things you definitely shouldn’t be, considering that he’s your attending. But that still doesn’t stop your eyes from wandering across his broad frame, up his freckled arms to the grey stubble on his jaw. You practically have to physically stop yourself from biting your lip.
“Oh my God, drool much?” Trinity says in a low voice. She’s clearly stopped telling her story, as Robby and Garcia are now engaged in a conversation of their own. Trinity has caught you checking out Abbot on multiple occasions and she never gives up an opportunity to bemoan you about it. “He’s like, geriatric.”
“Not geriatric. Kind of like, silver foxy?” You laugh, shaking your head. “Plus, I thought we kind of had a thing for older people?” You gesture not-so-subtly at Garcia, who’s taking a sip of her drink and nodding along to whatever Robby is saying. Trinity rolls her eyes at your comment and slips past you, out of the booth.
“Okay, well, I’m gonna get another drink,” She tells you, waving her empty glass. Before she leaves, she sneaks a peek over her shoulder and then leans in closer to you, her breath tickling your ear. “He’s heading your way. So try not to cream your pants, huh?”
That makes you sit up straight as Trinity saunters off and Jack comes into view. He’s looking down at you in a way that makes you squeeze your thighs together. He stares, but only for a moment before sliding into the booth across from you, next to Robby. Garcia seems to have slipped off to get another drink as well. What a coincidence.
‘Well, look who finally made it!” Robby gives Jack a slap on the shoulder as he settles in, whiskey glass in hand. He gives his friend a nod, glass extended in an invitation. Robby accepts, clinks his bottle against his cup and both the men take a sip. You can’t help but be drawn to Jack’s hands, much like you always were during surgery. There was just something about them — the way his fingers were nice and thick maybe, and you couldn’t help but wonder what exactly they would feel like skimming your body.
You almost let your gaze trail down to his mouth, but you shake your head in a daze as Jack sets down his drink. He still catches you though, the ends of his lips quirked up in an almost smirk. Your heart pounds in your chest as you look down at your hands to avoid any further eye contact, but you can still feel the heat of his gaze on you. It’s dangerously enticing and fuck, are you enticed.
He opens his mouth to say something to you but Dennis plops himself in the spot next to you, interrupting. He’s looking around, beer hugged close to his chest. “I think if I missed one more time, Ellis would have actually killed me.” He says, and you glance over at the pool table where Shen has gracefully slipped into Whitaker's role instead, much to Ellis’ delight.
The conversation takes off again and you can't help but wonder what exactly Jack was going to say to you. He’s wrapped up with Robby and Samira, who has floated her way down to your booth and is looking as angelic as ever. She’s perched on the corner of the table, all long legs and sweet smiles. You watch the way Jack talks to her; smooth, easy and familiar. You’re sure your smile twitches and you give Dennis a tap on the shoulder.
“I think I’m going to get another drink too.” You say, both to Dennis and to no one in particular. You stand and Samira gives you just a bit of a liquored up grin as she helps you adjust your short dress. You thank her with a smile of your own, turning around. There’s hope blooming in your chest at what feels like Jack’s eyes on your back as you walk away, but you're too cowardly to look back and see for yourself.
Trinity is standing at the bar, looking about as dishevelled as you expected. She quirks an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything as you approach.
“Your drink is taking a long time, huh?” You nudge her with your shoulder and she just rolls her eyes. Ignoring her attitude, you rest your elbows on the bar, trying to get a look at where the bartender fucked off to.
“Don’t worry about it,” Trinity is reapplying her lipgloss and attempting to tame her hair, using her phone to assess her reflection. You try to help and she gives you a grateful smile in return. She nods towards the bartender, who is still kind of ignoring you. “I already got one for you.”
“You’re the best,” You’re still smoothing down her hair, giving her a big smile back. “Should we, like, kiss?” You fake going in for a kiss, and she pushes you away with a laugh.
“Please. You wish,” The bartender finally slides two drinks towards Trinity, who hands you one of the glasses. The chill from the glass is definitely welcome against your warm flesh, flushed from the drinks previous. Trinity shoots you a smirk as she grabs your hand to lead you back to the booth. “Besides, don’t you have a silver fox to catch?”
The two of you arrive at the booth and in the short time you’ve been gone, the people seem to have rearranged themselves. Robby and Whitaker have disappeared and Samira has taken your place, McKay beside her. On the other side is still Abbot, nursing his whiskey. Heads turn at your presence and the pair of you are greeting with excited chatter and big smiles from the girls.
It takes you a minute to realize that the only open spot is next to Jack.
Trinity gives you a small push and you claim the seat next to him. Trinity slides in after you and it’s a bit of a tight squeeze, leaving you thigh to thigh with the attending you definitely don’t have an inappropriate workplace crush on. You can feel the heat radiating off him — his arms, his thighs. You swear you feel him stiffen for a second, but the moment is over as quickly as it happened. He smells woody and warm, and it’s got you basically swooning. Is that just the way he smells, or is it cologne, body wash? You resist the weird, perverted urge to take a sniff of his neck and take a sip of your drink instead.
Conversation comes easy for you guys, especially as the drinks continue to flow. People come and go: Ellis, Shen, Dennis — everyone shuffles through, exchanging seats and manoeuvring around each other as easy as they do on the floor of the hospital.
You and Jack though, you don’t move.
Your two stay pressed together, even when Trinity is long gone. Eventually, everyone thins out and spreads across the bar instead, leaving you and Jack alone together. It’s getting hard to ignore the mirth swimming in his eyes, your faces just a little too close together for the conversation you two are having.
You trace what’s left of the condensation from your empty glass with your finger, savouring the feel of the cool water. Is it hot in here? Or is it just you?
“How about I get you another drink?” Jack offers, the timbre of his voice lower than usual. “On me?”
It feels like he’s getting closer, close enough that you can smell the whiskey on his breath. It’s probably inappropriate to want to kiss your boss, right? Especially one almost twice your age? The prospect of the situation makes you almost dizzy with want, especially when he’s looking at you like that. Or maybe that’s just the alcohol rushing to your head.
Yeah, it’s definitely just you.
“Actually, I think I need a smoke.” You manage to utter, like the responsible adult you are. You need to remove yourself from the situation, fast. He retreats from your space slowly, and you immediately feel the absence. It takes everything in you to suppress the urge to lean back into him again, instead giving him a shy smile as you exit the booth. Jack lets you leave wordlessly, and this time you’re certain his eyes are on you as you walk away.
The cool breeze outside is a welcome reprieve from the overwhelming heat inside and you take a moment to let it wash over you. You press your back against the brick of the bar and pull out your pack from your purse and stick a cigarette between your lips, fishing around for your lighter. After some digging, you finally find what you were looking for and you cup your hand around the cigarette, flicking the lighter on until you see the familiar cherry red at the end. Things seem a bit less hazy when you take a deep inhale and exhale slowly, grey smoke curling around the dark sky.
You close your eyes and rest your head against the wall, feeling the tension leave your shoulders. Taking another long drag, you review the night in your head. You’ve always enjoyed flirting with Jack, sure, but Jack also flirts with anything that has a pulse. You never really expected anything to come of it, except maybe something to think about later in the night while you were alone. Lately though, it’s been feeling different. He’s always brushing against you, placing his hand on the small of your back as he squeezes past you. The way he looks at you recently is glimmering with something you can’t exactly place. The way he looked at you when Langdon was trying to charm you.
You lift your hand to take another drag when the cigarette is suddenly plucked from between your fingers. Your eyes flutter open and there stands the subject of your thoughts, Jack Abbot, who has your cigarette between his lips now.
“Whiskey makes Jack a bold boy, eh?” You tease, watching as he takes a drag. It’s unfair how good he makes it look. He gives a small chuckle at your comment but doesn’t reply, letting silence settle between the two of you. Instead, he extends the cigarette towards you and you take it back. Something is painted on his face, like he’s mulling something over, but you don’t ask. You two continue this for a while, just enjoying each other’s company for a moment, taking turns until you finally hit the filter. It’s easy to admire him in the quiet you share. The flex of his biceps, the way he shifts his weight between his prosthetic and his good leg. He’s so broad and handsome, especially when he’s in his tight shirt and cargos. It’s got you wanting to drop to your knees right then and there.
You don’t miss the way he’s looking at you either, though. It’s common knowledge that Jack’s got a staring problem. It makes you flustered at the best of times and wet at the worst, but this stare was different. You can see the want in his eyes as his hazel eyes basically bore into your soul. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say that he was giving you bedroom eyes. Every so often his eyes flicker down to your lips instinctively, especially when they’re wrapped around the cigarette the two of you are sharing. You’re sure that you’re probably doing the same.
“So, can I buy you that drink now?” He asks huskily as you put out the smoke, tossing it into the garbage can behind you. Your eyes flick between the door of the bar and your phone; the numbers flashing at you indicate that you’ve been out longer than you’ve anticipated and it was late.
“I was actually kind of thinking of pulling an Irish goodbye. I live pretty close,” You say sheepishly, tucking your phone back into your purse. He almost looks disappointed, and you revel in the feeling. You’re not sure if it’s the drinks you’ve had or the way that he was staring at Langdon like he wanted to strangle him with his bare hands for flirting with you the other day, but the words slip out of your mouth before you can really think it through. “Want to walk me home?”
Your tone is shy but warm, an airy lilt at the end of the invitation. Or at least that’s what you aimed for. Realization spreads across his face, until it’s replaced with a smirk. You know it’s an offer he can’t really deny. Even if he didn’t want to fuck you, Jack Abbot was nothing short of a gentleman. He’d never let you walk home alone so late at night. “Of course.”
“Why thank you, Doctor Abbot.” You give him a smirk of your own as you push off the wall, enjoying the way that he watches you move languidly. He scoffs at your joking use of the professional title you call him at work, tongue darting out to wet his lips. You adjust your dress and you two look at each other for a moment; him staring down at you with that obnoxiously smug look on his face, and you staring up at him half lidded like you don’t know what you’re doing.
“Lead the way, sweetheart.” He gestures with a sweep of his arm, breaking your staring contest. You start off in the direction of your apartment, shooting him a cheeky look over your shoulder as he takes a minute to follow behind you.
“Think you can keep up, old man?”
—
He hangs back, just for a second, to admire the view as you flounce away, your heels clicking against the pavement. He can’t help but appreciate just how good you look, dress hugging your figure in all the right places. It doesn’t help that he caught a glimpse of your panties earlier when you left the booth, and he’s been thinking about taking another peek ever since. He’s so distracted that he barely catches the words you throw at him.
“Watch it, kid.” He warns, starting off after you. The night is just cool enough that he can feel the alcohol flowing hot through his veins as he reaches you, matching your stride. The nickname was just a slip of the tongue, something he calls you when you’ve made the right call when treating a patient or when you’re offering to refill his coffee in the break room. You give him that look that you’ve been giving him all night, the one that’s got him in this mess in the first place. Blinking through your eyelashes, like you want to climb him like a tree. It does make him feel like a bit of an old man in a way, chasing after a girl basically half his age.
But you’re the one that invited him, right?
“I’m not sure what you mean.” You say innocently, another flutter of your eyelashes. He gives a chuckle at that, rolling his eyes. The night is quiet at this hour and the tension is thick between you two as you walk alongside each other. Jack’s got his hands tucked into his pockets, watching as you walk a bit unsteadily and he’s not sure if it’s the drinks you’ve had or the shoes that you were wearing. Before he could ponder on it any longer, your heel skids and you stumble over a small lift in the sidewalk.
He grabs your waist instinctively, catching you before you go down. You’re closer to him now and the scent that he’s become so familiar with fills the air, masked a bit by the perfume you wear, all floral and ambery. The proximity between you two almost makes him stumble as well.
“Careful, sweetheart,” He says, voice low, still affected by just how close you are. “Don’t think you’d like to make a detour back to work before your next shift.” He hauls you upright and you give him another sweet smile. Jack can’t help but give you one back.
“Why would I need to?” You recover much faster from the stumble than he does, smoothing your dress down with the palms of your hands. “You wouldn’t patch me up? I’d be in very capable hands, no?” You tease, smirking. He knows you’re joking but the idea of getting his hands on you, being able to touch you beyond the feather light touches you have shared, makes his heart beat in want.
“Yeah, you think so?” He smirks and you slow to a stop in front of a building that he assumes must be your place. You answer his question with a small nod, suddenly shy. He can see you scanning his face, looking for some kind of answer in it. You press your lips in a thin line and finally speak in a small voice.
“Walk me up?”
He should say no. Any sort of gentleman would leave it here, say good night. Especially one as old as he is.You’re staring at him, not breaking eye contact as you await his response. He should definitely say no.
“Sure.”
Goddamn it.
You give him a smile as you turn, pulling the door to your building and he grabs it, holding it open for you. The climb to your place is quiet, the click of your heels against the stairs punctuating the terrible choice he’s making. But the choice doesn’t feel as terrible as it should when he gets to watch you climb the flights of stairs, getting the flash of your panties that he was desperately wishing for earlier.
You approach your door, fumbling with your keys for a second before he hears the soft click of the lock. He’s got his forearm resting against your doorframe, watching as you slowly pull the door open. Jack catches a glimpse into your apartment for a second before you face him; it’s a small studio, lived in and inviting. It smells like you.
You’re just staring at him for a moment and he’s staring right back. The thought that this is a terrible idea is swirling in his mind somewhere, but the heat pooling in his gut as you look at him seems to be all he can focus on right now. You cock your head and enter your apartment, door still wide open. Jack’s body moves before he can even think about it, one foot after the other, crossing the threshold. Something he can’t take back.
He closes the door behind him with a gentle hand, like any loud noise might snap one of you out of a trance. You’ve got your windows open and you’re bathed in the moonlight, the same way you were outside the bar. That exact vision of you has hijacked his better judgement tonight and landed him in the apartment of a pretty young girl. He tries to push the thought aside.
Jack opens his mouth to speak, maybe even tell you how bad of an idea this is, but you’ve already hooked your fingers in his belt loops, pressing your lips against his before he can get a word out. He can taste your lip gloss and it makes his knees buckle a bit, the words suddenly dying on his tongue. You don’t hold back, all dirty and desperate, slipping your tongue into his mouth. He can feel you sigh and pull him closer, hands resting at his stomach now. Your nails scratch against the skin above his waistband and it makes all his blood rush downwards.
You let out a shaky moan into his mouth and his resolve just breaks. His hands finally move and take what he’s been wanting, cupping your jaw for a minute before moving down, rough, skimming down and pulling you flush against him, hands coming to a rest on the curve of your ass.
It’s intoxicating the way you kiss him, like you just can’t fucking get enough. Your hands are wound in his hair, carting through the grey curls. You pull away all too soon, chest rising and falling quickly in an attempt to catch your breath. It sends a shiver down his spine when he sees the sultry look on your face and you grab his hand and pull him deeper into your apartment.
He lets you lead him and come to a stop at your couch. Jack must be drunker than he thought, because you barely push his chest and he lands on the couch behind him. It’s a sight to see when you drop down to your knees without a word, dress rucking up at your waist. He can’t help the moan that slips out from between his lips as you look up at him, the same way you do at work. Waiting for him to tell you what to do. His legs part involuntarily and you slip yourself between them.
“Fuck, baby,” He can’t help but take in the moment, cupping your cheek as you lean into his touch. “ You want to suck my cock that fucking bad, huh?”
You nod —eagerly, he can’t help but note— and he grabs a fistful of your hair loosely. He gives you a small nod, giving you permission to go ahead. Biting your lip, you trace a soft finger over the bulge in his pants and he can’t help but shiver. You take your time unzipping his pants and pulling him out, hand wrapped around the hard length of him. It’s fucking delicious watching you like this, pumping his cock slow, a wicked grin on your face.
You press a kiss to his tip and his hips stutter at the sensation and then you’re pressing the flat of your tongue against him, licking him from root to head. He lets out a loud groan, grip on your hair tightening ever so slightly. He takes in the scene in front of him, you on your knees just for him. It feels perverted in a way, like he’s way too old to be this undone, especially for a woman so many years his junior. But then you place him between your soft lips, lip gloss all smeared from the sloppy kisses you two had shared earlier and he can’t really bring himself to care. Your hands skim down the sides of his bare legs, not even pausing when you feel the heat of skin turn into cool metal on one side.
Your mouth is so warm and wet and it’s got him wondering what your pussy will feel like if your mouth already feels this good. Honestly, he can’t remember the last time someone has had him like this. Your hand is soft where it grips him at his base, spit dripping onto your knuckles and you take him deeper and deeper, until he almost hits the back of your throat.
“Such a good girl for me.” He drawls, voice shaking as you swallow around him. You’ve settled into a rhythm now and Jack is happy to hold you by the hair and let you take control. It feels so fucking good that he can’t help but thrust into your mouth, a crooked grin forming when you gag and drool for him. He can't help but praise you. “You look so pretty on your knees, drooling all over your tits like that.”
That earns him a moan from you and he can feel the vibration of it around his cock. He thinks it can’t get any better than this, and then you look up into his eyes, lips still wrapped around him and a guttural moan rips its way from his chest. This seems to invigorate you as you begin to suck harder, cheeks hollowed as your other hand sneaks its way up to his balls, rolling them in your palm. It’s sloppy and wet and loud —the only sounds in your apartment are the loud, filthy way you’re taking him deep into your throat, and Jack's soft pants and utters of your name. His brows are burrowed in pleasure and it takes all of his focus to not cum in your mouth. He’s basically dripping from your spit, wet all the way down to his balls.
He pulls you up by your hair, rough. You let out a small whimper, like you’re real sad that he’s not letting you suck his dick like you were trying to suck his soul out of it. His lips are parted and his pupils are blown with lust, the hazel of his eyes barely visible around the black. His voice is husky when he speaks next.
“Get on the bed, sweetheart.” The apartment is small, and the bed is just behind him. You’re still wearing your heels and the sound of them reverberates in the cramped space. You don’t bother to pull your dress down this time and he soaks it all in as he pulls off his shirt, trying his best to kick off his boots and pants that have pooled around his ankles at the same time.
He catches up to you in no time and he knows you’re teasing him, walking all slow and sexy like that. Then he decides you’re teasing just a bit too much and he grabs you by the waist and tosses you onto the bed. You land with a soft bounce on the mattress and he crawls on right after you, pulling you towards him.
He’s nosing at your pussy through your panties, the dampness forming for him to see. You smell so fucking good that it makes him throb and he can’t help but wrap a fist around himself and pump loosely a few times.
“You’re soaked for me,” He says gruffly and you mewl, desperate for him to touch you more. “Should I have a taste?”
Now he’s running his fingertips over your covered slit, and your hips buck. Jack can feel the heat of you just under the thin cloth, radiating through the lace and he briefly wonders if you’ll let him keep them after.
“Yes…” You breathe, and he takes a peek at you from between your legs. You look absolutely wrecked, propped up on your forearms, staring down at him through half lidded eyes.
“Why don’t you ask me nicely?” He coos and you groan, head tipping back. He loves having you like this, nice and pliant under his hands. You’re better than he imagined when he was alone, touching himself to the thought of you. “Tell me how bad you want it.”
“Please, Jack,” Your voice cracks as you plead, hips rolling, craving some kind, any kind of friction. “I want it so fucking bad, please…”
“You always listen so well to me, sweetheart. So obedient.” Jack can’t deny you when you whine for him all breathy like that, so he pulls your panties to the side and does exactly what he said he would do, taking a taste. He laps at your pussy like a man starved, your wetness smearing all over his chin, gathering in his stubble.
He feels your hands grip his hair as you pull him in deeper, wordlessly asking for more. Obliging, he dips his tongue into your cunt and you tighten around the muscle, making Jack’s eyes roll back into his head. He’s sure he’s moaning just as much as you are, one hand on your hip, the other one stroking his cock roughly.
Once he’s had his fill of fucking you with his tongue he lets his fingers take over, sliding two of them into your sopping entrance. Your hips buck again at the intrusion and he lets out a deep growl. “You taste so good, baby —could eat you all fucking night. You like having my fingers buried deep in your cunt?”
The whiskey has worn off by now but he’s drunk with lust, his head spinning as he ducks his head back down, sucking your clit softly. He can feel you fluttering around his fingers, getting tighter as he fucks you rough. He’s caught you staring at them more than once and your little comment about his hands earlier hadn’t gone unnoticed by him.
He can tell you’re close by the way you’re moaning and the way you’re gripping his fingers; he can barely pull them out. The pace he sets is brutal and then you’re coming on his hand and face before he even realizes. The taste of your cum is heady and he’s licking it all up like it’s his last meal.
You’re catching your breath and he flips you over without a word, ass up for him. His hands are rough and calloused on your soft skin, pulling down the top of your dress to expose your breasts. You both moan as he tweaks a nipple between his fingers, before palming your ass and yanking your soaking panties down your thighs.
“Fuck…” Jack curses. He’s rutting against you, coating his cock with your cum, moving infuriatingly slow. You’re pushing against him, pleas falling from your lips as he places a hand on your bare back, pushing you deeper into the mattress. Jack has half a mind to hope that your apartment walls aren’t as thin as he thinks they are. He’s busy trying to sear this moment into his memories to care all that much about it though; you’re under him, moaning his name, begging for him. “Still think I’m an old man? That I can’t keep up?”
He’s throwing your words back at you, the frantic shakes of your head as you rut back into him going straight to his ego and his dick. Jack can't resist the sight any longer as he drags himself up and down your entrance, tapping on your clit a few times and loving the way you jump at the sensation. He’s barely got the tip in when you start moaning for him again, breathy and desperate. Ignoring your begging for him to start moving faster, he pushes in nice and slow instead, mesmerized by the way your pussy just sucks him in.
Gripping fabric of your dress that has bunched up around your waist, he sinks in deeper until he’s fully bottomed out. He stays still for a moment, letting you adjust to his size and schooling his breathing so he doesn’t cum embarrassingly fast. You’re so tight and he can’t help but think you’re one hundred percent better than what he imagined and one thousand percent better than his fist that he fucks into when he thinks of you. Sharp pain interrupts his thoughts, your nails scratching at his thighs as you try to get him to finally move.
“Feels like you’re made for me, sweetheart. So fucking tight for me.” Thoughts are spilling out now, pleasure taking over and loosening his filter. As much as he wants to savour this, savour you, he’s on the fringes of his self control. You’re gripping his cock in a way that makes his head spin and your small pants have him feeling downright sinful. He tries to start slow, he really does, but he just can’t resist. He’s been thinking about having you for so long, the way you would look under him, and now that he has you, he’s not letting you think about anyone else again. Jack wants you to think about him every time you crawl into bed without him.
He fucks you in earnest, the wet slap of skin on skin just spurring him on. He buries a fist in your hair again, yanking your head up so you’re on all fours for him, back curved. The frame of your bed creaks quickly in time with his thrusts, the same way his thrusts are punching small gasps out of you each time. He loves listening to the noises you make and he pulls your hips up higher, balls slapping your clit as he buries himself deeper. Your moans are getting louder, walls squeezing him tight and he pulls out quickly before his vision goes white.
“Jack, please!” He can tell you’re getting tired of the way he’s been teasing you all night, thinking that he just might edge you all night. But really, he just wants to see what your face looks like when you cum around his cock. He flips you over easily, biceps flexing. Before you can even muster out a squeal he’s back inside you, filling you up to the hilt. Your lips part and your eyes roll back into your head, and he can’t help but smirk as he begins to move once more.
This time the pace he sets is punishing, determined to make you cum before even thinking about chasing his own high. Jack can tell by the way that you’re squeezing him like you don’t want to let him go that it won’t be long. He allows his eyes to sweep over your body appreciatively, your thighs, your stomach, the way your breasts bounce, how absolutely blissed out your face looks.
It’s hard to resist the temptation to splay a hand just below your neck, gauge your reaction, so he doesn’t. His hand is so large against the base of your throat and the way your eyes flutter in pleasure makes his dick twitch. He lets it rest there for a moment, then dips two fingers between your lips, tongue swirling around the tips of them like it was around his dick just a little while ago.
Leaving a wet trail down your chest, he makes his way down to your clit, drawing tight circles around with rough fingertips. He lets out a growl at the noise you make, deep and primal. He glances down, noticing the cream gathering around the base of his cock, his happy trail covered in your slick. His legs shake at the sight, his climax suddenly a lot closer than he anticipated. He can guess that yours is too, judging from the way your cunt is fluttering around him and that you’ve seemed to stop caring who can hear just how good he’s making you feel.
“You gonna cum on my cock, baby?” You’re nodding loosely, like you barely even registered the question. He loves seeing such a capable girl come apart in his hands like this. “Yeah? Cum for me then.”
And you do, as he should have expected, since you always do what he tells you to.
Your cunt is milking his orgasm out of him, and he can feel his hips stutter. He barely squeezes out the words, asking you where he should finish, half aware that he’s not wearing a condom. You look up with shiny wet eyes, fingers tangling in the curls at the base of his neck and he nearly cums at the sight.
“I want you to fill me up.” You say, and yeah, that makes him want to cum even more. A few more messy thrusts and he gives a low groan, spilling deep inside you. He’s hutched over your form, body shaking in pleasure, loving the heat that’s radiating from your body. After a few moments the haze of sex dissipates and you two are left chest to chest, your nipples brushing his chest with every breath.
“Let’s get you cleaned up, sweetheart.”
—
Jack cleans you up, all nice and sweet, with a warm rag from your bathroom. The action is tender, especially compared to the way he just wrecked you. It makes you feel taken care of, which is not something you would admit aloud to him for now. You’re a little confused about the position that this puts you in with your attending. The only thing you can really make sense of is that the entire situation has gotten about a million times more complicated than it was eight hours ago.
But when Jack looks at you, eyes soft in a way you’ve never seen before when you offer to help him remove his prosthetic, you decide that you don’t really care. You’d give anything to have him look at you that way again.
And now he’s here in your bed, freckled back to you and breathing even. He’d fallen asleep soon after you asked him to stay the night, which you thought was sweet. Old man was up way past his bedtime.
Your phone vibrates on your nightstand and you flip it over, squinting at the bright light. You’d pretty much ignored it when you left the bar with Jack, pretty one track minded. You’d miss a flurry of text messages from everyone else: Garcia asking if she could bum a smoke, Samira asking if you left and then following up asking you to let her know you got home safe, Robby wondering if you had seen Abbot anywhere, Dennis just sending you a blurry picture of the bar floor, which you assumed was a drunken accident.
Trinity has sent you the most recent text, sitting atop of your stack of notifications.
trinity: thank u for winning me the betting pool. will buy u a drink ;)
summary: the trial of seven has ended, and now you had to face the consequences and the scrutiny of the targaryen princes
content: slow burn, love triangle, knight reader, found family, age gap, panic attack warning
note: i’m so sorry i’m finishing this so late…i found this part quite difficult to write but i hope you enjoy it anyways, tho beware it is quiye slow and more of a filler. ALSO ty for all the love on the last part, i really didn’t expect it and it means so much that you guys would enjoy my writing
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
It was hard to tell the real voices from the ones in your dreams. Though your father’s voice was the clearest of them all, calm and steady, exactly as you remembered.
At least, you thought they were dreams.
The dead didn’t tend to speak to the living, or so you believed.
You reached desperately for the voices that brushed your ears rather than the ones that echoed in your head, but every time you did, the pain dragged you mercilessly back under.
In between the bouts of darkness, everything came in fragments: bursts of harsh white light, a bitter chalky taste coating your tongue, hands prodding and poking at you incessantly.
“…The puncture… avoided any organs but she’s lost so much… only the gods…” A voice floated somewhere above you.
The pain, though, was constant. It shuddered through you like a cold sweat, leaving you clawing for any semblance of warmth before the dark swallowed you again.
Then one voice swam softly through the haze, more tangible than the others before.
“Thank you maester, please ensure she has whatever she needs and that I might be summoned when…or if she wakes.”
Anger now tangled with the confusion. You wanted to shout, to tell them you were still here, still breathing but your tongue felt leaden, your eyelids heavier than stone. The words died before they could ever leave your lips.
Mercifully when you woke again there was no longer any burning bright light or painful poking, but there were no longer any voices either.
The room was dim, lit only by the waning fire beyond the bed where you lay. The scent of crushed herbs and fresh linen reached your nose, threaded faintly with sweat.
Lifting your head, even just a little, felt like it drained every ounce of strength, and just brought your attention sharply back to the dull, heavy throb in your side. Though you were almost grateful for the pain, as it served as a reminder that you were alive.
For a long time you remained still, the only measure of time passing being marked by your uneven breaths.
Though the world was clearer to you now, your memories were not. They came to you like ripples in water, fading before you could even quite figure out what they were.
The ringing of steel.
A chilling warmth.
The taste of salted iron.
Two pairs of Targaryen eyes.
Then it all rushed over you at once and suddenly you had to get up, had to move, had to find answers. Had to get out of wherever the hell you were.
Your arms felt weak, your fingers clumsy and heavy but you managed to sit up. A brush of cool air hit your legs as you weakly dragged the bedsheets off.
Your gaze drifted downward.
Linen was wrapped tightly around your middle, thick and firm beneath an unfamiliar cotton nightdress. You frowned faintly at the sight of it. The bandages looked heavy, deliberate.
Strangely, you could not remember the moment the blade had cut you, his blade.
Only the battle before it. The chaos. The noise. And the prince that stood over you.
The pain must have come later.
Perhaps that was a mercy.
Getting to your feet proved even harder. You swung your legs slowly over the side of the bed, your muscles trembling with the effort. For a moment you simply sat there, waiting for the room to stop spinning.
Then, gathering what strength you could, you pushed yourself upright.
The moment your weight settled on your legs, they nearly buckled beneath you.
You caught the bedpost just in time, gripping the wood tightly as your vision blurred. Your knees trembled violently, threatening to give way as your body protested against the sudden movement.
For a moment you could only cling there, breathing hard, willing the weakness to pass.
It did give you enough time to search the room for something familiar but there was nothing to be found. Your pack, armour and sword…all gone.
It spurred you onwards towards the door, panic more than sense taking over now.
The corridor beyond was gloomy and silent. You pressed close to the wall, using it to steady yourself as you forced your legs to keep moving. A chill seeped through your bare feet and along your arms where they brushed the stone, sending a slow shiver crawling over your skin.
It stretched dauntingly ahead of you, as did the realisation that this was Ashford castle, and you had been put here, and kept here?
Fear crept in with the chill now.
You had played the Targaryens, and most men on that tourney field for fools. Were they keeping you alive and close now just to see you punished?
Perhaps you could’ve waited in that room, waiting on their whim for when you’d learn of what they decided to do with you, but patience has never been one of your virtues.
Around two corners and down a set of stairs, and at the end of it the deep murmur of voices finally found you.
You shuffled along steadily, fighting the way the world tilted and swam around you. Everything still felt distant, unreal, as though you were watching it all unfold from somewhere just outside yourself.
What had first been a low murmur slowly separated into distinct words and steady voices. They spoke quietly, but there was a weight to their tones that was measured, deliberate, the sort of authority that carried even when kept low.
These were not servants speaking in the hall.
You slowed to a stop, catching yourself against the wall as a wave of dizziness passed through you. The cold stone steadied you somewhat, rough beneath your palm.
For a moment you simply stood there, listening.
A bitter thought crept in despite yourself. The last time you had lingered in these corridors, listening where you ought not to, it had been with far lighter consequences in mind. Then it had felt almost like a dare, another small risk taken in the shadow of the tourney at Ashford Castle.
Now it felt very different.
For one thing, Duncan’s voice was now achingly absent among these ones.
“...you have been a most gracious host my Lord,” a soft voice said. “I regret however, that our presence has given the singers a story of Ashford they will not let die soon.”
“It has been my honour your grace, you are welcome to its halls for as long as you wish.” Another replied eagerly.
“I thank you, but we will be on our return to King’s Landing as soon as my nephew is stable enough for the journey.”
There was a small shift among the men, the faint rustle of movement.
“And the girl?” A different man spoke.
“Your Grace, if I may, she entered the trial in disguise. A woman is no knight. By law alone the trial could be considered invalid. It would be well within your rights to see her punished.”
The words hung in the air for a moment, and you with it.
Then another voice spoke, thoughtful, but cautious. “...perhaps she was sent by the gods as an instrument of divine will.”
“Divine fucking will.” Another scoffed.
You pictured the silver hair and beard that belonged to the speaker, as well as the scowl that matched it.
It was hard not to share the sentiment though, these men might do anything to reconcile with the idea of a woman holding a sword.
“Her courage is more important than custom. She fought with honour just as any man on that field” The first voice returned. “I believe we should set this matter to rest.”
Silence settled thickly in the room, the kind that comes when men must accept a prince’s judgment whether they wished to or not.
“Very well, Your Grace,” another man said at last.
For a moment you stayed where you were, leaning against the cold stone wall, letting the tension slowly drain from your body. Relief came cautiously, like something you hardly trusted, as the words settled heavily in your mind.
‘Set the matter to rest.’
Then fatally, the corridor started to sway again.
You pushed yourself away from the wall before the dizziness could swallow you again, forcing your feet to move.
One corner. Then another. Each step felt heavier than the last. The dull ache in your side stirred with every movement, the pain gradually sharpening as though it had been waiting patiently for you to forget it.
The voices soon faded into the walls you left behind.
The castle seemed strangely distant now, the corridors stretching longer than they had before, the torchlight flickering in soft distracting halos along the walls. Your hand drifted back to the stone for balance more than once as the world threatened to tilt beneath you.
By the time you reached the half familiar hallway leading back to your chamber, you knew you were close to fainting. The door however stood just achingly ahead, slightly ajar, the dim glow of the fire inside spilling welcomingly into the corridor.
Only minutes ago the bed had felt like a prison you were desperate to escape, now it was the only refuge your body wanted.
Almost there.
You took one step toward the bed. Then another.
Your hand reached for the bedpost, but the distance was treacherously farther than it had seemed. The strength left your legs all at once, as though someone had cut the strings holding you upright.
Then the floorboards rushed up to meet you, the impact sending a sharp burst of pain through your side that stole the breath from your lungs.
Your fingers twitched weakly against the floor, but your arms refused to lift you. And then the weight of exhaustion settled over you like a heavy cloak, dragging you downward no matter how hard you tried to fight it.
The fire continued to crackle faintly in the hearth somewhere beyond your blurred vision.
You let out a slow, unsteady breath, and the room returned quietly back into blackness.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Something was shaking you. Relentlessly.
You tried to ignore it, tried to sink back into the soft, painless dark where nothing hurt and nothing demanded anything of you. But the shaking came again, more insistent this time, tugging at you to return to the world.
Your eyelids fluttered open weakly. The world beyond them was thick and slow when it finally crept into view, shapes swimming and blurring like reflections in disturbed water.
“Please… wake up.”
The voice was small, tight with worry. It was one you had heard before.
You blinked, forcing your eyes to focus.
A round familiar face hovered above you, framed by the dim light of the chamber. The owner’s violet eyes wide with anxious relief.
“Egg?” The name left your cracked lips as little more than a rasp.
For a heartbeat he simply stared at you, as though he scarcely believed you were awake at all.
Then he moved all at once.
His small arms wrapped suddenly around your neck, nearly knocking the breath from you. The sudden pressure made you wince, as pain flared sharply through your ribs, but you lifted your arms anyway, gladly returning the embrace as best you could.
Funny, you thought, how someone you had known only a handful of days could already feel so familiar.
And for the first time since waking, the room felt a little less strange.
Egg pulled back just enough to look at you again, his expression a strange mixture of relief and lingering panic.
“I thought for a second you might—” He stopped himself, swallowing the rest of the words. His brows furrowed as he glanced down at you. “But why are you on the floor?”
You managed a weak breath that might have been a laugh. “I fell… I suppose I overestimated my strength.”
Egg immediately scrambled to his feet, letting you use his body to hoist yourself up. “Here let me help you.” For someone so small, he held you with surprising determination.
Your fingers tightened slightly on his sleeve, your first question begging to be answered. “Is Duncan alright?”
Egg nodded quickly. “Yes well, I think he’s faring a little better than you are, but…Lord Harding was taken in the first charge.”
The brief relief that had begun to settle in your chest faltered. Your gaze dropped for a moment as the words sank in. You had known someone must have fallen, trials of seven rarely ended cleanly, but knowing it and hearing the name were two very different things.
“Lord Harding…” you repeated quietly.
Your mind drifted back to the field, the dust rising beneath trampling feet, the shouting, the brutal ring of steel on steel. Faces had blurred in the chaos, men moving and falling faster than thought could keep pace. And yet you had fought beside him, shoulder to shoulder, without ever having spoken a single word to the man.
Egg’s expression dimmed as well, the moment of brightness fading just as quickly as it had come. He glanced toward the door before lowering his voice.
“I heard the lords speaking. My father too. They said you could be tried for it—for the disguise. For pretending to be a knight.” He swallowed. “They said you could be imprisoned.”
He climbed onto the edge of the bed beside you, sitting stiffly, his hands twisting together in his lap.
“I begged him to spare you,” he continued in a hurried rush. “I told him I commanded you to fight, that you couldn’t refuse a prince. I thought… maybe that would help.” His words stumbled over each other. “I’m sorry.”
He looked up at you again, urgency returning all at once. “There’s still time,” he said quickly. “You could leave. I know where your sword is—it’s in my uncle’s—”.
“It’s okay, Egg,” you murmured, your voice still thin with exhaustion. Slowly, haltingly, you told him what you had heard in the corridor, or what little of it you could piece together through the haze of pain and dizziness.
Egg listened closely, the tension in his shoulders easing little by little as you spoke.
“Well he does owe you.” A boyish grin tugged at his mouth. “Your fight with my father, it was incredible. I wish you could’ve seen the look on his face afterwards, I’ve never seen him that way.”
Before you could respond, Egg hopped off the bed, excitement overtaking him completely. “The way you evaded his attacks…
He delved into an enthusiastic performance, eyes bright as he darted about the chamber swinging his imaginary sword through the air. He ducked suddenly to one side, then the other, twisting his body as if avoiding a rain of blows from an unseen opponent.
“And then Father came at you again, like this!” he said, lunging forward with surprising ferocity.
“But you blocked it!” he continued, “Everyone thought he had you, but you just—” he slashed the air again, nearly knocking over a stool, “—turned it on him.”
You watched him in tender silence, leaning weakly against the bed, the pain in your side briefly forgotten as the young prince hopped and spun about the chamber with earnest determination.
And then you noticed the figure in the doorway.
He stood just beyond the threshold, tall and still. There was the faintest hint of amusement at the corner of his mouth, as though he had arrived in time to witness the end of Egg’s enthusiastic performance.
His gaze moved past Egg and settled on you.
For a brief moment the two of you simply looked at one another across the room, the air settling into a quiet stillness. There was something searching in his expression, as though he were measuring you again, now that the dust of the trial had settled.
Baelor Targaryen stepped further into the room, the firelight catching the silver strands in his dark hair. His gaze lingered briefly on the bulge of bandages at your side before returning to your face. Suddenly you wondered whether the sore gash across your cheek really looked as bad as it felt.
“I am glad to see you have survived your victory, Ser.”
Egg turned toward his uncle, the bravado of his swordplay vanishing at once. For a moment he looked very small again, far younger than he had a heartbeat ago. “I’m sorry, your grace I-.”
“It’s quite all right,” Baelor said gently. “Though I suspect your father might remember the scene rather differently.”
He offered a faint smile, but it lingered unanswered in the quiet of the room. “If you would leave us now please Aegon.”
“Of course, your grace.” Egg answered. He turned back to you before going, offering one last anxious smile, as if to reassure himself you were truly awake. Then he slipped out into the corridor, the door closing softly behind him.
Suddenly you were acutely aware of yourself, of the rough linen sheets, of the ache beneath your ribs, of the cool air against skin that was far too bare. You tugged the covers higher, clutching them instinctively to your chest as though they might serve as armor.
Across the room, he regarded you quietly, his long fingers idly turning the ring on his hand.
“Egg kept vigil beyond your door,” Baelor said. “He would not depart his post all the while you were asleep, insisting upon standing guard until word came of your condition, that he might be certain you were safe.”
“…He’s a good boy.”
Baelor nodded once to you, before turning towards the fireplace. “I owe you my thanks, you perhaps saved me a nasty blow,” He smiled faintly as if remembering something. “My brother is a formidable man,” he added, turning back to face you. “As I expect you discovered for yourself.”
You shifted slightly against the pillows, wincing as the movement tugged at your wound, avoiding his gaze. The memory of the clash, the noise, the shouts, still rang in your ears.
“You don’t owe me anything, I wasn’t fighting for you,” Your eyes lingered somewhere near his shoulder rather than his face, “…your grace.” The words felt awkward on your tongue.
For a moment you thought you might have offended him.
But his expression didn’t change.
“All the same, you fought with a particular courage and it shouldn’t go unnoticed. And it hasn’t.” He replied. “I believe there are whispers among the small folk of the ‘lady in mail’.”
Your brow lifted faintly despite yourself. “I suppose there are worse names.”
“Indeed, but I can’t pretend your tale has pleased everyone… there’s disgruntlement among the lords and knights. A woman stepping between them and a question of honour is not a story that sits comfortably with their pride.”
You finally glanced back at him then, your fingers tightened slightly in the sheets. “I know but I’d do it again. For Duncan.”
“As would I.”
The weigh of both of your quiet confessions filled the room.
For a moment, Baelor simply held your gaze, a look you had quickly come to find as unsettling as it was strangely compelling. Up closer, you could make out the details of him more clearly, the weathered bronze of his skin, marked by sun and years, and the dark beard along his jaw, already threaded with streaks of grey. His hair, the same deep shade, was beginning to silver at the temples, and his nose bore the slight bend of a break that had healed long ago.
Silence enveloped the room.
“Your horse is safe in the stables,” he added almost as an afterthought as if bringing himself back to reality. “Though I’m told it took three stable hands and a great deal of patience to calm the poor creature after the trial. It seems it was as determined to fight as its rider.”
You smiled gently, though the thought lingered uneasily in your mind. You had dragged the animal into that storm as surely as you had yourself, only you at least had a choice in the matter.
“Well Lord Ashford has kindly offered his hall to you for however long you need it, and I shall alert the maester that you are awake.”
You suspected Lord Ashford’s generosity might have been somewhat less forthcoming, had a request undoubtedly not come from a prince.
He turned to the door as words seemed to escape your throat.
“Thank you, your grace.” The admission felt strangely difficult. “I know you didn’t have to argue for me.”
Then he gave a small nod, neither grand nor dismissive, but something quieter. Almost private.
“Rest,” he said.
For a long moment after he left, you simply stared at the door.
The quiet he left behind seemed louder than the conversation itself. The faint scrape of boots in the corridor faded, then vanished entirely, and the chamber fell back into the slow rhythm of a sickroom: the distant murmur of the castle, the soft crackle of the hearth, and your thoughts.
His words lingered in your mind, the ‘lady in mail’. You could almost hear the smallfolk saying it in the markets, passing the story between them like gossip over bread and ale.
You were not sure whether the thought filled you with pride or dread. The voices of the smallfolk could so easily be ones of admiration or mocking scorn.
Not longer after the Maester came to check your wounds, assuring you that there were no signs or fever or infection. And then the maid servants followed suit.
They worked gently, washing away the stale sweat and dust of the past days with warm cloths and soap that smelled faintly of lavender. Their hands were careful around the bandages, patient in a way that felt almost strange.
The quiet attentiveness of it all felt oddly unsettling, as if you had wandered into someone else’s life and were wearing it poorly.
Your thoughts drifted as they worked.
You couldn’t help but turn over everything. The fact that you had participated in a trial of seven and lived to tell the tale, the mercy of a Targaryen prince and how two days ago you hadn’t dreamt of being any more than a part of the watching crowd.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The next morning had settled fully over the castle by the time you awoke, and finally forced yourself out of bed.
The first attempt nearly ended with you back on the floor. Your legs trembled the moment you put weight on them, and the dull ache in your side sharpened immediately into something far less forgiving.
You reached for the simpler things laid out nearby, a simple everyday gown someone had left folded on the chair. Even dressing proved an ordeal. Every motion pulled at the bandage around your middle, forcing you to pause more than once to wait out the sharp protest in your ribs.
By the time you had finished lacing the back of your dress, you were already winded. You took a moment to rest, chewing on a piece of toast that the servants had left behind while you slept.
The thick castle walls had become enough for you and you needed air, and you needed to see Duncan.
You left your chamber quietly and made your way into the corridors. The stone passageways felt less confusing than they had the day before; either you were stronger now, or your mind had finally begun to settle after the haze of fever and pain. Your steps were still careful, the dull pull in your side reminding you not to move too quickly, but at least the world no longer tilted beneath your feet.
The sudden lurch in your stomach, however, was very real when you turned a corner and nearly walked straight into someone, and soon realised who it was.
You stopped short.
So did he.
For a moment neither of you moved, the narrow corridor suddenly feeling far smaller than it had a moment before. His presence filled the space with quiet, immovable certainty, and you felt the strange awareness of standing directly in his path.
Your eyes lifted slowly to meet his.
Maekar Targaryen stood a few paces away, broad and unmoving as the stone walls themselves. Even without armour he was impossibly imposing.
Harsh light from a nearby window caught the pale silver of his hair, the colour stark against the darker shadow of the passage.
The marks of old pox scars mottled his pale face, faint but impossible to miss once seen, lending his features a roughened edge that made his gaze feel all the more unforgiving.
You noticed a deep purple bruise high on his cheekbone and wondered briefly if you had been the one to put it there.
Yesterday you had stood across a field from this man with steel in your hand, half certain his face would be the last thing you ever saw. It felt strangely unreal to meet him now in a quiet corridor with nothing between you but a few paces of stone.
“You’re walking.” He noted. It seemed more of a statement than a question.
“Yes.” You replied, shifting slightly on your feet.
“Have you seen my son? I had expected to find him haunting your door again.”
“No.”
The brevity of your answer hit the air with a bluntness that mirrored his own. A flicker of mild irritation crossed his face, marked by the slight flex in his hard jaw.
For a moment you thought that was the end of it, that he would simply continue on his way and leave the encounter buried in the quiet of the corridor.
But to your dismay, after only a few paces he stopped again.
“Who taught you to wield a blade?,” he asked, his voice echoing with a reluctant curiosity.
You let the silence stretch, before offering the only truth you had. “My father.”
“If I were your father I’d-.” He started.
“Yes, I know,” you said, the words escaping before caution could catch them. You squared your shoulders, meeting his gaze with a defiance that you knew was unwise yet unbreakable. “You’d probably have me marry my brother and submit to churning out silver-haired heirs, who will grow up to burn villages and call it justice.”
For a moment he just stared at you incredulous, the air around you icy despite the warm sun pouring in through a window.
Your quickness to anger would undoubtedly be the death of you.
“You speak boldly, especially for someone who owes her life to my brother’s mercy.” He fumed. “Your father may have taught you well but a wiser man would have taught you how to live in the world as it is.”
“I didn’t ask for mercy.” You said quietly.
“No, you asked for attention. You turned a trial by combat into a spectacle for half the realm.” He returned, looming over you, though you showed no signs of backing down.
A bark of humourless laughter escaped you. “With respect, your son turned the question of Targaryen honour into a spectacle, by snapping the fingers of an unarmed girl.”
“You presume to lecture me on honour? You disguised yourself as a knight, and forced my brother to defend your actions before every lord in attendance. You had courage but courage does not grant you the right to forget your place.”
Your jaw tightened faintly. “With respect, if everyone had remembered their place yesterday, Ser Duncan would be dead, your grace.”
The corridor seemed to hold its breath around you, and you could swear you almost heard his heart thumping in time with your own.
“If you see Aegon, tell him his father is looking for him.”
You didn’t stay to watch him limp away down the corridor, half relieved that it seemed to be the second encounter with him you had made it out alive from. You prayed there wouldn't be a third one.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The walk from the castle down toward the tourney grounds had been longer than you remembered. Your wound protested with every step, but the sharp edge of it was drowned beneath the rush of adrenaline still coursing through you.
Your heart was still beating harder than the walk alone could explain.
Maekar’s words followed you down the stone path like an unwelcome shadow.
They battled endlessly in your mind, each one striking against the next, mixing with the responses you had given, and the many more you had not.
The words you might have striked back at him if you had thought of them sooner. The ones that would have cut deeper. The ones that would have made you sound wiser instead of simply angry.
It was strange, you thought, how two brothers could carry the same name and yet cut from entirely different cloth.
Did they not share the same father? The same tutors, the same endless lessons in history and swordplay? Had they not once trained side by side in the same practice yards as boys, their boots kicking up the same dust?
Yet somewhere along the way the paths between them had split. One seemed so human while the other seemed to have been forged with all the hardness and fire of a dragon.
Before making your way down toward the tourney grounds, your steps carried you towards the castle stables, seeking an old friend amongst the new ones.
The air inside was warm and thick with the familiar smells of hay and leather, which were welcome to you after the stuffiness of the castle.
It was quieter than the courtyards outside, the morning bustle already drifting toward the pavilions and tents beyond the walls. A few stable boys moved about their work, but none paid you much attention as you walked slowly down the narrow aisle between the stalls.
Your horse lifted its head the moment you approached, ears flicking forward in recognition. The soft thud of its hoof against the straw sounded almost like a greeting.
You stepped inside the stall.
“Hello,” you murmured softly.
The horse nudged forward at once, pushing its nose against your shoulder with the impatient familiarity of an old companion. You lifted a hand in return, resting it against the warm line of its neck.
“I’m sorry,” you said quietly. “I dragged you into that mess,” you continued under your breath. “All that noise and shouting… the lances, the crowd.”
Your hand stilled briefly against its neck. “You didn’t ask for any of that.”
The horse shifted its weight slightly, blowing a warm breath against your sleeve. You huffed a faint, tired laugh.
“I suppose you did better than I did,” you said. “You at least had the sense not to get stabbed.”
It nudged your shoulder again as if impatient with your self-pity, and you scratched behind its ear, feeling some of the tightness in your chest ease.
“Still,” you murmured, leaning your forehead lightly against the side of its neck, “thank you.”
For a little while you stayed there in the quiet of the stable, listening to the soft sounds of shifting hooves and rustling straw, grateful for the quiet company.
Eventually you straightened again. There was somewhere else you needed to be, and someone else you needed to see.
You gave the horse one last pat along its neck before stepping back out into the aisle.
“Behave yourself,” you told it softly. “I’ll be back.”
You had decided to make for the Fossoway tent, hoping that Duncan would be there, or at least a friendly face who could tell you where he was. The familiar banners would too have been easy enough to spot among the sea of pavilions.
But you never made it that far.
A solemn but sweet music passed faintly out of a large nearby tent, underscored by the steady thrum of talk.
“To Harding!”
The cheer that followed was loud, but not joyful. It carried the strange mixture of respect and sadness that belonged more to remembrance than celebration.
Understanding settled over you. Without a second thought, you stepped inside.
The interior was crowded with knights, squires, and men-at-arms. Tankards lifted and lowered as men spoke in clusters around the long tables set beneath the striped canopy.
A few musicians sat near the back, coaxing that same gentle melody from their instruments while the gathered company drank in quiet honour of the fallen.
Your gaze swept the crowded space, searching for a familiar silhouette among the sea of boiled leather and surcoats.
It didn't take long to find him.
Duncan stood near the far side of the tent, hunched slightly over in conversation with a man at a table whose face you could not see.
You made your way towards them through the throng of tables, ignoring the eyes that fluttered to you as you passed.
Raymun’d voice cut through the din as you passed, flushed with the heat of the tent and the cider in his cup. He hailed you with a boisterous grin, calling for a flagon to be filled on his coin, but you lingered long enough only to return his sentiments.
“Nevertheless I congratulate you Ser, you’ve certainly done well for yourself.”
You reached out, your fingers pressing firmly against the rough wool of Duncan’s elbow.
He spun with a start, his massive frame nearly knocking a flagon from a nearby table, but the moment his eyes found yours, his breath hitched. He enveloped you instantly, a rib-crushing embrace that smelled of horsehair and old leather.
Yet, in that fleeting second before he pulled you close, you didn't miss the grim, hard set of his jaw.
Beside him, Prince Daeron sat slouched over a scarred trestle, watching the pair of you with an absent look. He looked more like a hungover squire than a prince of the blood, his silver-gold hair tangled and his doublet stained with wine.
“Well,” the Prince murmured, as he drained the last of his cup. “I suppose I should take my leave. I came for the ale, and now I’ve had my fill of it.”
He pushed himself up from the bench with an exaggerated sigh. He lingered a moment, his gaze drifting to you with a strange amusement. “I am glad to see you have survived your injuries, my lady… and my father’s pride. Both are equally dangerous to cross, I fear.”
Daeron offered a thin ghost of a smile, though it stopped well short of his bloodshot eyes. With a vague wave of a hand, he turned toward the tent flap,
“The gall he has to show up here—.” Duncan’s voice was low, the words half-swallowed in irritation as he the departing prince.
“I know,” you said quietly. “But come on, let’s sit before one of us collapses.”
The two of you found an empty table tucked into the corner of the tent, half-shadowed beneath the canvas.
You slid onto the bench first, gripping the edge of the table as you lowered yourself carefully.
Duncan moved a little slower himself, easing onto the opposite bench with the stiffness of a man whose body had also seen better days. His shoulders hunched slightly as he settled, one hand briefly pressing against his ribs.
He really did look awful, with one of his eyes fully close from a brutal purple bruise and barely a spot left unbloodied on his face.
For a moment neither of you spoke.
The quiet between you felt strangely heavy, filled with everything that had happened since the last time you had stood together on that field.
The murmur of the wake continued around you; low voices, the scrape of tankards across wood, the soft thread of music drifting from the musicians, but it all seemed distant, as though you and Duncan were sitting in some smaller, quieter pocket of the tent.
The two of you were so clearly a marked more deeply by the last day than anyone else in that tent.
“I tried to come see you yesterday,” Duncan said at last, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. “But they told me you were still resting.”
“Yeah whatever they gave me for the pain knocked me out cold for a while.” You replied.
“I can’t decide which of us looks the worse.” He let out a self deprecating huff. “I should’ve let you pass on that dirt track, maybe you’d have had more luck.”
You hoped he didn’t mean it.
“Between the two of us I think we make our own bad luck enough to turn it into good.” You smiled, though Duncan seemed to find it hard to return.
He leaned back slightly, studying you more carefully now, as though reassuring himself you were truly sitting there.
“I thought…” Duncan began, then stopped.
His gaze drifted past you, toward the open side of the pavilion where the empty tournament field lay beyond.
“I thought you might’ve died out there,” he admitted quietly.
The words hung awkwardly between you.
You tried to lighten them with a small breath of a laugh. “Well,” you said, “Prince Maekar certainly tried to make that possible.”
But Duncan didn’t smile, he simply shook his head once, slow and firm.
“I shouldn’t have let you do it,” he said. There was no anger in his voice, only a quiet certainty.
“You couldn’t have stopped me Duncan.” Your voice was steady now. “I made my decision and I would make it a million times over, because it was the right thing to do, consequences be damned. Just as you thought when you stepped between Aerion and Tanselle.”
Duncan accepted your words quietly, though the weight on his shoulders didn’t fade.
For a time the two of you remained there, the conversation drifting into quieter things, half-finished thoughts, the strange disbelief of having survived the chaos of the previous day.
Around you the wake carried on in its slow rhythm: cups raised, names spoken, the soft lament of the fiddlers weaving through the tent.
Eventually Duncan pushed himself carefully to his feet. “Perhaps we should make on our way.” he murmured, offering a large, calloused hand to steady you as you rose from the bench.
The two of you made your way toward the tent flap, weaving through clusters of knights and squires who paused in their conversations as you passed. Some nodded respectfully to Duncan. Others glanced toward you with open curiosity.
You had only just stepped beyond the canvas when a voice called after you.
“Well,” the knight drawled, his voice thick with the rasp of a man who had spent the afternoon shouting at the lists and the evening drowning his senses in the casks. “If it isn't the Lady in Mail herself."
The title carried a jagged edge, sharp enough to hook the attention of a nearby knot of men-at-arms. Beside you, you felt the massive frame of Duncan shift, his weight settling into a stance that promised a storm.
He held a half-empty cup, his cheeks flushed with the heat of the wine, though his eyes remained uncomfortably sharp.
He came to a halt, letting his gaze travel slowly from your skirts to your brow before it settled into a crooked, knowing half-smile.
The knight raised his tankard in a lazy, mocking salute. He took a heavy step closer, ale sloshing dangerously near the rim as he gestured toward you with a gloating tilt of his head. “Quite the show you gave yesterday,” he said, his smirk widening. “Though I was under the impression the Trial of Seven was reserved for knights and men of true honour.”
His mouth twisted, dripping with a sudden, ugly venom. “Instead, we find a woman creeping into the fray behind a false face.”
A ripple of low, jagged chuckles drifted from the shadows of the pavilion. The knight didn't flinch; he took a long pull of his ale, wiping his mouth with a greasy sleeve before continuing. “What honour is there in such a deception? I wonder… did Harding pay for your spectacle?”
Your gaze drifted across the tent rather than meeting the man’s eyes. The fiddlers had stopped playing entirely now, their bows hovering uncertainly over the strings. Tankards hung half-raised in the hands of watching men, the air thick with the anticipation of a fight.
“How dare you,” Duncan rumbled. The giant’s voice was low, vibrating in his chest like distant thunder, but it was edged with a cold, white-hot fury.
You felt suddenly, bone-deep, tired.
“Please,” you said, your voice barely a whisper as you reached out to steady yourself against Duncan’s arm. “Let’s go.”
For a moment it seemed he might not listen. He looked as if he were ready to bring the whole tent down upon the man. But after a breath he turned sharply and followed you out into the open air.
Duncan was still fuming as you left the tent behind, muttering dark curses under his breath. You listened in silence.
Strangely, you found you didn’t have the strength left for anger. The day had wrung something out of you, leaving only a dull heaviness in its wake.
“You know,” came a voice from behind you, warm with amusement, “I had not imagined you to be so pretty beneath your helm, Ser Gillem.”
You turned.
Lyonel Baratheon stood a few paces away, clearly well battered by the trial but relaxed, watching the two of you with a faint, knowing smile.
His dark eyes, sharp and full of life, flicked between you and the towering, sullen Duncan. “I know the prince wasn’t imagining your pretty face, when you were sending him stumbling around in the dirt either,” he continued, closing the distance.
He took your hand in his, his grip surprisingly gentle and raised it to his lips. “By the Seven, you can swing a sword, my lady.”
“Thank you, my lord,” you said. “Though I fear the credit may be somewhat exaggerated.”
Lyonel straightened, studying you with clear amusement. “Exaggerated?” he repeated. “Half the camp spent the afternoon arguing whether they had just witnessed the finest swordplay of the tourney or the greatest embarrassment ever dealt to a prince.”
Duncan let out a faint huff beside you, still clearly irritated from the encounter in the tent.
“I’m just glad to have gotten away with my life,” you added quietly.
At that, Lyonel’s smile softened slightly, the humor fading just a little from his expression.
“Well then,” he drawled, clapping him once on the shoulder, “I suppose I offer you my congratulations, Ser Duncan. It seems Baelor Targaryen has decided he cannot face the world without you looming behind him. I’d make peace with the departure of your honour, you’ll soon realise dragons don’t make good company.”
You looked between the two of them, confusion settling slowly across your face. “What do you mean?” you asked. “Duncan?”
Duncan still would not meet your gaze. He shifted his weight, as though the words themselves were difficult to carry.
“I pledged myself to Prince Baelor,” he muttered at last. “I’m to join his personal guard… and ride with him back to King's Landing.”
You watched him carefully as he spoke, as if the truth might change before the sentence finished. But it didn’t.
Something hollow opened quietly in your stomach and your smile came a moment too late. “That’s… that’s great,” you said.
Before either of them could see too much of your face, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him in a quick, shy embrace, and for a moment you were grateful for the excuse to hide your expression against his shoulder.
“It’s what you wanted,” you added softly.
Duncan hesitated before returning the hug, his arms settling awkwardly around you as if he wasn’t certain whether he deserved the congratulations.
When you pulled away, you turned instead toward Lyonel Baratheon, smoothing your expression into something polite. “I should head back to the castle,” you said. “I’m sorry if I don’t get to see you again before you leave, my lord.”
Lyonel waved a dismissive hand, though the easy smile never left his face.
“Nonsense. You’re welcome in the Storm’s End any time.” He placed a hand over his chest in mock ceremony. “Come to Storm's End and I’ll host a grand tourney in your honour.” His grin widened. “I should very much enjoy watching you knock a few green boys into the dirt.”
You tried to laugh, but the sound never quite came.
Duncan was watching you now, a faint crease forming between his brows. “I’ll walk you back up to the castle,” he said.
You shook your head immediately.
“No, that’s alright,” you replied, forcing lightness into your voice. “You’re hardly steady on your feet as it is. I’ll manage.”
Neither man looked entirely convinced.
“Goodbye,” you added quickly, already turning away.
The path up to the castle climbed steeply from the camp, the sounds of laughter and fiddles fading with every step you took. Torches burned low along the road, their light wavering in the wind as shadows stretched long across the ground.
You walked quickly at first, eager to put distance between yourself and the tents.
Duncan riding south with Baelor ‘Breakspear’ to King's Landing was considered an honor, even you could recognise that. It was the sort of thing songs were written about.
You should be glad for him. You were glad for him.
The thought repeated in your mind, but it felt strangely thin, like a piece of cloth worn nearly through.
Halfway up the hill your breathing began to change.
At first it was subtle, a little faster, a little shallower but then suddenly the air felt far too thin.
You tried to draw in a deeper breath, but it caught halfway, leaving your lungs tight and aching, which only made your heart begin to hammer even more.
Another step forward, and the sound of your boots on the ground echoed far too loudly in your ears.
Then the memory surged up without warning.
You could see it again as clearly as if it were happening now: the scream of a horse, the smell of churned mud and blood, the sharp jolt running up your arm every time your blade struck another’s.
Your breath came faster.
You remembered the moment you’d stumbled, the weight of armor dragging at your limbs, the terrifying second when a blade had flashed toward you through the chaos—
Then the path blurred before your eyes as your heart pounded harder, faster, until you were sure it was going to burst through your ribs. Your fingers trembled as you reached out blindly, finding the rough stone of the outer wall beside the road.
You leaned against it heavily.
Breathe.
But the air refused to come properly. You were convinced you were dying.
Your lungs worked in short, desperate bursts while the images still clung stubbornly to the edges of your vision, the dirt beneath your knees, the taste of copper in your mouth, the knowledge that one wrong movement would mean the end. It was all replaying over and over again in your head, no matter how much you tried to wish it away.
You squeezed your eyes shut.
You weren’t there. The trial was over. You were safe.
Still your body refused to believe it.
Your hands shook as you pressed your forehead against the cold stone, the chill grounding you in a way nothing else could. For a moment you stayed like that, breathing against the rough surface, letting the solid weight of it remind you where you were. Slowly, painfully slowly, the roaring in your ears began to quiet.
In. Out.
Your breaths grew deeper, though they still trembled.
Then finally the tourney field faded, leaving only the looming castle ahead and the distant murmur of the camp far below.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
When you returned to your chamber, the door was already ajar.
Inside, Aegon was exactly where you should have expected him to be.
He stood in the middle of the room, your sword clutched in both hands, the blade wavering uncertainly as he attempted what looked like a very careful practice swing. The weapon was clearly too large for him; the point dipped toward the floor every time he tried to raise it again, forcing him to heave it back up with visible effort.
The sight might have been amusing under other circumstances.
“Please don’t play with my sword,” you said tiredly as you stepped inside. “Your father will have my head if you so much as give yourself a scratch.”
The adrenaline that had spiked during your walk, the phantom roar of the battlefield and the crushing weight in your chest, had finally abandoned you, leaving only a hollow, bone-deep exhaustion.
You lowered yourself onto the edge of the mattress, gripping the frame as the dull ache beneath your ribs flared sharply in protest.
Behind you, Egg hurriedly slid the blade back into its sheath, far more carefully than he had drawn it. He set it against the wall where it had been before, then turned back toward you.
The excitement that had lit his face a moment ago faded quickly.
He studied you for a moment, taking in your pale expression and the way your knuckles had turned a milky white in your grip.
“Are you alright?”
You nodded faintly, though your eyes remained anchored to a knot in the floorboards
Egg hesitated.
Then he stepped closer.
You felt his small hand settle over yours where it rested on the bed.
“Your hand is cold,” he said quietly.
You let your fingers curl around his without thinking, the warmth centering you slightly against the restless churn of thoughts still running through your head.
“I think I may have overexerted myself,” you admitted after a moment.
Egg didn’t seem entirely convinced, but he didn’t press. Instead he shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other before speaking again.
“My uncle asked to see you,” he said. “He’s in the Lord’s solar.”
Your brow lifted faintly.
Egg hurried on. “But I can tell him you’re resting if you want. He wouldn’t mind, I’m sure.”
You drew in a slow breath, pushing yourself a little straighter despite your body’s every instinct telling you to submit to your exhaustion.
“No,” you said after a moment. “It’s alright. I’ll go.”
Egg studied you another second before nodding. “Alright,” he said. “I can show you the way.”
The walk across the castle was even quieter than the one you had made that morning. The long stone halls echoed softly with your footsteps as you followed Egg through turns and stairways you had not yet learned to navigate alone.
Every so often he glanced back at you.
You tried to ignore them. Instead your thoughts drifted ahead to the man waiting in the solar.
Baelor Targaryen had already shown you more kindness than you had expected from a prince. Which somehow made the summons feel more unsettling, not less.
You spent the rest of the walk wondering what exactly he might say. Had he changed his mind, now convinced by the lords and his brother that you were little more than a fraud, hell bent on making the matter of Targaryen honour a joke?
The heavy oak doors of Lord Ashford’s solar loomed at the end of the gallery.
Before Egg could knock, raised voices drifted through the door, or rather, one raised voice did.
“So you not only spare her, but reward her.”
You and Egg both froze, shooting each other a wide eyed look but not daring to move an inch.
Inside the solar, Baelor answered with the same measured calm you had come to recognise.
“She fought with honour,” he said evenly. “And with skill that few knights possess. She deserves a chance to hone her skills, to train.”
“Train?” the other voice repeated incredulously. Maekar sounded as though the word itself offended him.
“As what, exactly? A curiosity? A court spectacle for idle lords?”
“I have made my decision, brother.”
Maekar’s reply came low and sharp. “Very well. On your head so be it.”
Egg barely had time to step back before the door was wrenched open.
Maekar strode out into the corridor with the force of a storm breaking loose. His cloak swung sharply behind him, and the anger that had been contained within the solar now seemed to fill the passage itself.
He stopped short when he saw the two of you standing there. For the briefest moment his pale eyes flicked between your face and his sons’.
“Eavesdropping now?” he said curtly.
Egg straightened at once. “No, Father, we were just—”
Maekar cut him off with a sharp motion of his hand. “Come,” he said.
Egg hesitated.
Maekar’s gaze hardened. “Now, Aegon.”
Reluctantly, he glanced back at you once before stepping toward his father who was already striding down the corridor, before you offered him a sympathetic smile in return.
Within moments their footsteps had faded around the corner and the corridor fell quiet again.
Behind you, the solar door remained open.
“You may come in, you know.” Baelor’s voice carried from inside,
You stepped cautiously into the room.
Baelor stood beside the window with his hands resting neatly behind his back.
“I suspect,” he said gently, “that you have already heard the substance of our conversation.”
You shifted slightly. “Some of it, your grace.”
Baelor inclined his head. “Then I will spare us both the theatrics of pretending otherwise. I meant what I said.”
Baelor watched you for another moment before continuing.
“You fought yesterday with courage and discipline that many men train their whole lives to achieve,” he said. “It would be a waste to send you back into the world without the opportunity to refine that skill.”
He paused briefly.
“In King’s Landing there are training yards, masters-at-arms, and opportunities that simply do not exist elsewhere.”
His gaze met yours steadily. “I would offer you a place there.”
For a moment the words hung between you, heavy with possibility.
King’s Landing.
You never had layed eyes upon the place or even wished to, having forever associated it with the family you hated. And now the family you had been given the opportunity to serve.
It would have felt like an impossible gift to anyone else. And despite your supposed hatred of the family that offered it the first thing that came to your mind was the echo of Maekar’s voice.
A spectacle.
A weakness.
“I can’t.”
The words came out quieter than you intended.
Baelor Targaryen did not react immediately, nor did he seem at all surprised by your answer.
“I heard what Prince Maekar said.”
A flicker of something unreadable passed across Baelor’s face at the mention of his brother.
You forced yourself to continue. “He’s not wrong,” you said begrudgingly. “You offering me something like that… it makes it look as though you’re rewarding me for what I did.”
“You believe you should be punished instead?” Baelor asked mildly.
“That isn’t what I meant.” You let out a slow breath, searching for the words.
“Yesterday was already more than enough of a spectacle,” you said. “If you bring me to King’s Landing after that to train me as some sort of… knight, people will say exactly what he said they would.”
Your gaze drifted briefly toward the window behind him. “That you’re weak. So soft are you that you’ll have a woman protect you.”
You couldn’t quite believe you were saying the words as they left your mouth. Nor did you know whether the intention was to spare Baelor’s dignity or your own.
Why should you accept for either of your sakes.
If you did ride to court, it meant standing beneath the eyes of the realm, listening while lords who had watched you fight now laughed behind polite smiles at the woman who had dared wear a knight’s armour.
It meant serving the very family whose judgement had hung over your head only hours before. The family that you had spent almost your entire life cursing.
And yet the thought of leaving alone was no easier.
It meant leaving Duncan behind, and the boy who had waited outside your door as though your life were worth guarding. It meant turning away from the one place in the Seven Kingdoms where you might truly learn freely, where better knights than you walked the halls and where every day you might sharpen the skill you had bled for.
Then your father came to mind.
You wondered what he would have said if he could see you now, standing in the solar of Ashford Castle, weighing whether to ride south in the company of princes.
He had fought for the dragons once, long before you were old enough to understand what that meant. He had ridden beneath their banners during the Blackfyre Rebellion, when the realm had torn itself apart over which branch of their blood should rule.
Had he really seen something in the Targaryens worth giving his life for, that you hadn’t?
Baelor didn’t move for a moment.
Then he gave a soft, almost thoughtful huff of breath. “My brother has never lacked confidence in his opinions.”
You glanced back at him.
“But you think he’s right,” Baelor said.
“I think…” You paused, choosing your words carefully. “I think you have more important things to worry about than defending your choice of guards.”
Even as the words left your mouth, part of you wondered why you were arguing with him at all.
“You believe this offer is about gratitude,” he said.
“Isn’t it?”
“No.”
His answer came simply.
“It is about potential.”
Your brow tightened slightly.
Baelor continued.
“You stepped between princes, knights, and a crowd of watching lords without hesitation,” he said. “You fought with composure under pressure that would have broken many trained men.”
His gaze held yours steadily.
“That is not something I am inclined to ignore because it makes certain people uncomfortable.” The quiet firmness in his voice left little room for argument.
Still, you shook your head faintly.
“With respect, your grace… I don’t belong in King’s Landing.”
“Few people do,” Baelor replied dryly. “I sometimes think I don’t myself.”
Despite yourself, you almost smiled. But the unease remained.
For a moment the room fell quiet again, the faint crackle of the hearth in the corner filling the space between you.
Baelor folded his hands loosely behind his back. “I am not asking you to decide at this moment,” he said at last. “But we ride early tomorrow…if you do wish to come with us.”
“Thank you, your grace.” Your words were not a hollow courtesy.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Dawn had only just begun to touch the towers when you reached the yard.
The sky above Ashford Castle was still pale with early light, the first thin streaks of gold creeping slowly over the sky. The castle was already awake. Stablehands moved between the horses with quiet urgency, breath rising in clouds in the chill morning air as saddles were tightened and straps checked for the long road ahead.
It had not taken long to pack what little you possessed.
Your belongings had never amounted to much, your weathered armour, a whetstone, the few small things that had followed you from place to place these past years.
They now sat tied behind your saddle in a worn bundle that looked almost laughably small beside the baggage of the noble riders gathering in the yard.
You ran a hand along your horse’s neck as you fastened the last strap, feeling the familiar warmth beneath its coat. The poor creature had calmed since the chaos of the trial, though it shifted impatiently beneath your touch, as if sensing another journey ahead.
Beyond the stables, a cluster of riders had already begun to form near the gate. Cloaks stirred in the morning wind.
The road north waited beyond those walls.
Toward King's Landing.
You stood there for a moment longer than necessary, your hand still resting against the saddle leather.
It would have been easy to turn away even now. To remain here at Ashford, to slip back into the quieter life on that dirt track, the one you had known before all this madness had begun.
Instead, you gathered the reins and led your horse across the yard.
Your writing gives me life and I had a brainwave that I would like to share if you feel like turning it into something real for Baelor x reader
Being the hand of the king and the heir, it’s always “your grace” this, “my prince” that, “lord hand” etc. So he goes absolutely FERAL when you softly use his given name in bed.
Ok love you bye
SAY MY NAME (+18) — baelor targaryen
gif credits: @christophernolan
Summary: To the realm, he’s “Your Grace,” “Lord Hand,” “the Prince.” But in your bed, when you, his wife, softly whisper “Baelor,” the unbreakable heir of the Iron Throne goes feral — possessive, reverent, desperate. He talks you through every slow, deep thrust, begging you to say his name again while he fills you.
Additional tags: fem!read; no use of Y/N; +18; MDNI
A/N: and here it is, anon! i hope you love it! 💜
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The royal apartments are dim, lit only by the dying fire and a single candelabrum on the bedside table. The sheets are already twisted, damp with sweat and need. Baelor — Hand of the King, heir to the Iron Throne, the man the realm calls “Your Grace,” “my prince,” “Lord Hand” — is between your thighs, naked and trembling with restraint.
He’s been worshipping you for what feels like hours.
His mouth on your cunt, slow, deliberate licks, sucking your clit until your hips buck, then pulling back just when you’re about to shatter. His fingers inside you — three now — curling, stretching, stroking that spot that makes your vision white. His free hand pinning your hip to the bed so you can’t chase the pleasure.
He’s hard against your thigh, leaking, but he hasn’t asked for anything. He never does until you’re sobbing.
You’re close again, thighs shaking, breath hitching, and he stops. Again. You whine, high, desperate, fingers twisting in his dark hair. “Please—”
He lifts his head, lips glistening, eyes blown black.
“Please what, sweetling?” he murmurs, voice wrecked. “Tell me.”
You arch, trying to grind against his hand, but he holds you still.
“I need—I need more—” you gasp. “I need you inside me. Please, Baelor.”
The name slips out, soft, intimate, unguarded. His whole body locks. He surges up, mouth crashing into yours, and kisses you like he’s trying to devour your soul. His tongue is everywhere, claiming and tasting, while his hands yank your thighs wider.
“Say it again,” he growls against your lips. “Say my name.”
“Baelor—”
He groans, raw, animal, and thrusts into you in one brutal stroke. You scream, your back bowing and your nails raking down his shoulders. He doesn’t pause — he fucks you hard, hips snapping, cock slamming deep, hitting every spot that makes you see stars.
“Again,” he snarls. “Say it again.”
“Baelor—”
He bites your neck hard enough to mark, then soothes it with his tongue. “Fuck—yes—my name—only my name—”
You’re sobbing now, overwhelmed and overstimulated, cunt clenching around him like a fist. He pins your wrists above your head with one hand, the other grips your throat — not choking, just holding, making you feel owned.
“Look at me,” he demands. “Look at your husband while he fucks you like you deserve.”
You do, eyes locked on his, and he slows just enough to torture, rolling his hips, grinding against your clit with every thrust.
“You feel that?” he rasps. “Feel how deep I am? Feel how I stretch this perfect little cunt? This is mine. You’re mine. Say it.”
“I’m yours,” you whimper. “Baelor—please—”
He groans, hips stuttering, then picks up the pace again, pounding into you so hard the headboard slams against the wall.
“Come for me,” he growls. “Come on your husband’s cock. Come while you say my name.”
“Baelor—Baelor—Baelor—”
You shatter, screaming his name, walls fluttering, clamping, milking him. He follows, burying himself deep, roaring your name, cock pulsing, spilling hot and thick inside you, filling you until it leaks out around him.
He stays inside, still hard, and lowers himself over you, forehead pressed to yours. “Again,” he whispers, voice wrecked. “Say it again.”
“Baelor,” you breathe, soft, reverent.
He shudders, kisses you slow, deep, and starts moving again.
The night is long. He takes you in every position — gentle, then rough, then gentle again — always talking you through it.
“Look at me.”
“Feel that?”
“You’re so beautiful.”
“Come for me, love.”
“Say my name.”
And every time you do — soft, broken, and needy — he loses control a little more. By dawn you’re both trembling, tangled in the sheets, his hand resting protectively over your lower belly. He kisses your temple, voice hoarse.
“I love when you say my name,” he murmurs. “No titles. Just me. Just yours.”
You smile, sleepy, sated, and whisper against his lips: “Baelor.”
He groans, soft, wrecked, and pulls you closer.
The realm can keep their “Your Grace.” In this bed, he’s only yours.
