I'm back and excited to share a little snippet of a Henry Winter x Reader fic I will be releasing tomorrow.
"When the clock strikes, I will forget you are you, and I will forget who I am. So please, for the love of God, run."
Summary: It is finally time for the Bacchanalia and you try to follow Henry's advice. Run straight into the woods, don't look back. But, the moon is so bright, who wouldn't stop and look? Henry would be disappointed in you, if the sight of you in the moonlight wasn't so distracting.
The clock ticked away somewhere distant and out of reach. Every strike brought you closer to three a.m.
You had all arrived at Francis’ country house as the sun began its descent. Perhaps it was the anticipation that brought the silence over the group, but with Bunny left at Hampton and Richard somewhere no one cared to note, the absence of the two was palpable. Yet no one would speak of it, barely had the time to, as you all prepared for the ritual.
Your body ate at it's own fatty deposits, and as you ran your hands over your frame, you could feel each of your ribs reaching out for reprieve. This was the point; the kykeon would seep its way through your body, into your blood. It already had.
That may be why you didn’t jump at the knock at your door, why you already knew who it was and didn’t send him away.
“Henry.”
Henry slipped through your doorframe, and before you stood Achilleus, Alexandros, a sheer chiton draped over his broad frame. Closing the door behind him, he leaned against the frame.
“You aren’t supposed to be here.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Then why are you?”
Henry glanced at the clock over your bed. “It’s almost three.”
You stared at him, waiting for him to reveal his cards, but he only stared at you, his eyes an unreadable void.
“When the clock strikes, I will forget you are you, and I will forget who I am. So please, for the love of God, run.”
Your breath caught in your throat, and you had to close your eyes to catch it. By the time you opened them Henry was gone.
✦ the way your thighs press against each other when you sit. your body is wrapped in nothing but your see-through nightgown, the line of your stomach and the fullness of your hips accentuated by the way the silk is being pulled tightly around your body. the view of you perched up on the cushioned chair, innocently brushing out your hair in front of the mirror, thin fabric hugging your form in all the ways aerion deeply appreciates. his eyes involuntarily trail down your back to the plumpness of your ass and to the softness of your thighs, squished against the chair. that he finds ridiculously hot
✦ also aerion could never pick between breasts or ass. he was born to consume, greedily indulge in every part of your precious body and he was entitled to thoroughly enjoy each and every part. why on earth would he pick one thing and prevent himself from getting a full taste? no, no, he would have everything, every inch and every curve
✦ he is unfairly affected by the playful state you get after several goblets. oh how he adores your tipsy state. you being more bold and affectionate with wine in your system, climbing on his lap and kissing his cheeks in front of the royal guests in the grand hall, making everyone avert their gaze awkwardly. no one dares to say a thing, it is written in aerion’s smug expression, that if his lady wants to be improper in public, she will. and he will personally tear out the eyes of those who glance with even a bit of disapproval
✦ aerion is obsessed with your tears. he just loves them, loves the taste, loves how glassy your eyes get, loves how your breath hitches and your voice trembles. they don’t have to be tears of sadness necessarily, he would be more satisfied with witnessing your tears of pleasure, slowly licking every hot stripe, savouring the saltiness of the delight he gives you
✦ aerion loves hunting you down. literally. chasing you through the woods, trying to grab you by the waist while you giggle and fight back wakes something so primal in him. the urge to take you right there in the dirt right after he caught you is so strong he is barely holding himself back not to tear you apart completely. if you tease him about it even with a sly glance, aerion is pressing you hard against the nearest tree trunk, sharp teeth nipping your skin, greedy tongue lapping at beads of blood, while his hands tear at the silk of your gown
✦ also, you sweaty, panting and breathing hard, chest rising up and down against the tight dress is something that gets him going immediately. your natural aroma mixed with the smell of your sweat is simply divine to him, he is nuzzling into your neck like a cat, desperate to pull you even closer into him, fingers brushing your nipples through the fabric
✦ you being nice with him. aerion rarely expects kindness, he is used to worship, respect, fear, disgust, obedience but when you are sweet with him, caring, genuine it makes him want to swallow you whole right there. at first he answers with a sharp dismissive attitude, acting like a brat that doesn’t need your compliments or praise, but when you push back, kissing his cheek and saying how proud you are of him, how good he makes you feel and how lucky you are to be his, aerion just stills, already adjusting the hardness in his breeches. kiss his neck from behind and he will purr like a kitten
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a/n: it’s very short but would love to hear your thoughts n opinions, maybe expanding some scenes idk
Fandoms: The Pitt; Dr. Jack Abbot
Pairing: Dr. Jack Abbot x Black!Fem!Reader
Summary: Jack plays with the idea of opening himself back up sexually to other women for the first time since his wife passed.
Step 2: Subsequently try not to fall for the camgirl.
WC: 7.8K
Chapters: 2/2 ~ Previous
Warnings: Smut (FaceTiming/sexting, masturbation, oral giving and receiving, implied sex, and mild exhibitionism), more domestic fluff and cuteness, semi Jealous!Jack/Jealous!Reader, and Insecure!Jack. Proofread.
A/N: I actually love Cherry x Jack obv with almost 8,000 words. Enjoy.
Jack’s heart was beating out of his chest. As much as he didn’t want to stare at his phone, he locked in the moment he saw you were typing. He stepped out of the hallway from the bustle, bodies hurrying past him or overly loud conversations that were distracting. God forbid someone needed him on top of the fact that he was being selfish--partly, he wished for no one to end up in the ED either way.
Jack stepped into the break room and debated putting his phone away as if not seeing you were responding would make it less real. Was he overthinking it? He had done plenty of odd and fucked up things in his life. Things that almost quite literally cost him his life. He grimaced at the thought as his stomach twisted like a tempest. Jack screwed his mouth to the side.
He didn’t even tell you he lost his leg, for crying out loud. Not even after you told him your name and he was saying it just to see how it felt in his mouth. Better yet, how he felt when you watched him cum as he said it.
He prided himself on being an open book, but with you, he was scared he would spook you by being too intense. For months, Jack set a firm rule for himself that he wouldn’t push you any more than was necessary. That meant he compartmentalized that he had become some sort of…sugar daddy.
The thought alone rolled around in his head everyday like a loose marble clinking around. It made little sense as to how he got there. His dick got him there, he knew that. Your pretty smile and your easygoing demeanor, too. The way you made him feel normal outside of all the pervy sex shit. The excitement in your eyes when you spoke about a TV show that you liked or the latest technology you bought for your gaming setup. When his phone buzzed, his heart thrummed a little harder and his cock was a little stiffer.
You stared at your phone for a long while after you sent the first message. You couldn’t believe it. There was a name and more of a face and more of Jack in general. His Instagram feed was light, but gave enough to go off of. Pictures showing throwbacks of his military service, some pictures were of friends at bars or other events, and the rest were selfies.
Your eyes landed on the prosthetic Jack wore throughout when it could be seen. He sometimes told you about his chronic pain, but never mentioned he was disabled. That didn’t bother you though it was a major information gap. You took it in stride rather than holding onto any resentment. Jack was afraid you would blow up his life and you were far from doing so.
If he asked, you would have been honest that you were falling for him. Your attention was taken from your thoughts as you admired a particularly handsome photo of Jack. The graying curls stuck up in all sorts of directions, sweat on his brow and a cocky look on his face. His shoulders and upper half were clad in OCPs that made you clench around the ghost of a cock that wasn't there.
What if he changed his mind about all of it? Maybe he thought the same thing about what you might think. You took a screenshot of the picture for later. Might be useful out of sight during a stream. A notification appeared at the top of your screen and forced you to sit up.
jackabbs: I’m guessing you looked by now.
jackabbs: I’m afraid to ask what you think.
chchcherrybomb: Well…
You smiled as you built up the tension. It was the least he deserved for making you wait months.
chchcherrybomb: You’ve been holding out on me. You’re so fucking sexy. I can’t believe you’ve been hiding away. Where do they keep you?
jackabbs: Incredibly busy in a hospital or otherwise being therapized.
jackabbs: Did you see my leg…?
jackabbs: or lack thereof
You sensed Jack’s discomfort in the urgency behind his messages. You wanted to handle him delicately as always. Jack was no fragile thing and his vulnerability was attractive. He made you want to be sincere and thoughtful in everything you did with or without the money. You pressed your tongue into your cheek, hugging yourself a little tighter.
chchcherrybomb: That doesn’t bother me. I wish you had told me sooner that you had so much on your mind.
Jack looked toward the doorway again and then back to his phone. He was sitting at the small dining table, allowing his shoulders to sag. You were an angel and he knew he shouldn’t have expected less. He wanted you but he wanted it and you to be real. His heartbeat filled his ears and he tapped the phone icon above the chat. Whether it took you off guard or he wanted to hear your voice, he wasn’t sure. This was a second line he was crossing out of many imaginary violations he created for himself.
When you picked up, the tension was swept away from his shoulders.
“Hello?” you answered, the glee obvious in your tone.
“I know I didn’t ask if I could call,” Jack rubbed the back of his head. “I have to get back to work soon. I… I wanted to hear your voice. I feel like messages never convey the right tone.”
“It’s true and this is very old-fashioned of you. Instagram aside.” You grinned.
“Old-fashioned would be twirling the phone cord around your finger and kicking your feet while lying down.”
“That’s a very specific image you put into my head, Dr. Abbot.”
“Don’t use that voice with me now,” Jack sucked in a breath. “I’m at the hospital. You sound good saying my name. Come on, say it.” He tested.
“You mean… Jack?” You hummed.
Jack sighed heavily, the sound of it weighted and interwoven with arousal. He wanted to put you through the mattress. When was the problem.
“I thought my being older would turn you off. All those years of school, military… Fuck, I started going gray in my early thirties by then. I can’t say what I want to do to you here.” Jack swept a hand down his face.
Ellis came into view, giving him a raised brow. Hardly anything ever came up for him to be on his phone and much less a personal phone call. Jack shrugged as if to dismiss it and rocked forward onto his feet.
“I think you underestimate how fond of you I am, Jack.” You bit back another smile.
“That’s good to hear. You’ve always known just what to say. I can call you when I’m off and outta here. I don’t expect you to stay awake--”
“You can DM me now. This is the highlight of my day,” you started to grab the remote. “Have a good shift.”
“Good night,” Jack grinned.
The call ended but the high he was riding was just starting. You were better than caffeine. He didn’t know what he was going to do once he actually got his hands on you.
Dying by a heart attack after one meeting would be tragic.
You stayed up until one in the morning sending messages back and forth to Jack. He was chatty in his own way, always had been once he was comfortable enough to speak to you using his actual voice. You swiped back to Jack’s profile, reminded of the screenshot you took. Releasing a sigh, you knew what would get and keep Jack’s attention before going to bed.
You grabbed your second phone after AirDropping the photo to it. It turned you on to know that you could make Jack hard at work, taking up his precious time. You wanted him to want you beyond sex and maybe that was asking too much. You weren’t sure exactly if this new access meant he was coming to see you just yet.
The set up was quick and manageable, a basic phone recorded sext guaranteed to make Jack consider stepping into the restroom to get off. You stripped down to nothing and settled onto your bed with the vibrating wand. The rest would be cut out and edited--you tried not to be an amateur even if it was just Jack. No… Especially because it was Jack. You cared about what he thought.
“I didn’t stream tonight,” you sighed at the camera, sitting up on a palm. “All I can think about is you. Your face…” You breathed.
Grabbing at one breast to massage, thinking of how warm Jack’s hands would be if he were the one taking his time touching you. Your fingers went up to your throat, your eyes rolling shut. His moans replayed in your mind or the times he would show half his face, so at least you could see him biting his lip. He cussed a lot when he came and lately the way he said your name echoed in your head from morning to night.
“Don’t you want to come satisfy me in person, Jack?” You whined.
Moving onto your knees, you placed the wand against your cunt and began rocking your hips. You pinched your other nipple, squeezing it between your thumb and forefinger. The wand buzzed to life, siphoning a moan from your diaphragm.
Jack’s entire shift kept him occupied longer than he planned. The notifications from you sat like an anvil on his chest. By the time he made it through his front door it was nearly nine. He stood in his bathroom, the shower running and steaming up the bathroom slowly as he unlocked his phone. He stepped out of his scrub bottoms, kicking them aside into the mat by the double sink. Jack smiled at the messages you exchanged and tapped the waiting video from early this morning.
Unsuspecting, he was greeted by your naked form immediately on full display. Jack’s lips parted as he watched you fuck yourself on the vibrating wand. He wondered how you tasted as always, grabbing himself through his boxer briefs. He didn’t know how much longer he could take only jacking himself off. You looked soft and needy. The sort of pliable that could only be sated by the head of his dick pushing into you.
Jack breathed heavily, glancing up at his reflection in the mirror. He glanced at his ring before slipping it off with mild trepidation. He pressed his tongue into his cheek as he played with the idea of sending a video in return. His leaps of faith were making progress by the day it seemed. Jack rolled his shoulders and blew out his breath harshly.
“Come on, man. She’s seen you naked plenty of times… Just not with a limb missing…” He muttered.
Jack put his phone on the counter and dropped down to do a few push-ups. He wanted to meet you where you were. Social media made you happy? So be it. You could have anything you asked for and he would give it. Jack hopped back up onto his feet and pulled his scrub top off from the back to add it to his pants. He lowered onto the toilet seat lid to remove his prosthetic, the liner following. He left both just outside of the shower. The relief was almost as good as sex. His underwear was last as he grabbed his phone and stepped into his shower. Jack nudged the waited wooden stool close by as he placed his phone on the ledge.
Damp fingers started your video one more time so he was close enough to make a decent video for you. The angle of the phone showed off the turquoise bathroom tiles, the one place he could bring himself back down after a shift. He pumped some soap into his hand after making sure the camera was recording. Sitting down, his mind was racing without your video. Jack grunted as he stifled the sound and jerked his cock in the same way he thought you might ride him.
He closed his eyes briefly, thinking how you would look on your back taking him deeply while he used his hand to tamp down on your lower belly to make sure you didn’t go without. Jack could feel your soft hands holding his face, whispering sweetly to him and choking on those words while you came. His eyes opened again as he looked down at his soapy dick, gripping the root as he raised his eyes to look at the camera head on.
“I want you here with me,” he moaned. “You would be such a good girl on your knees for me in here. You take instructions so well, don’t you?” Jack swallowed hard.
The water hit his back and rolled over his shoulders as he hunched them. A hand gripped the hard bench below as he grunted. His hand slid up to the tip of his dick, twisting his wrist to focus in on it. Jack needed you and he was coming to the conclusion that his pussyfooting was going to get him nowhere. A four hour drive--that’s all. Flowers, too. Apologizing wouldn’t be enough.
“Tell me when you want to see me. I’ll do it, baby, just give me the word,” he panted. “I’ll make you feel so good. Tell you how well you take me…”
Jack could see it, see you, waiting there on your knees with your mouth wide open with a ready tongue. His thoughts were cut short as he threw his head back and came, the spurts spilling onto the floor and washing away down the drain behind him. Jack’s jaw went slack as he looked up at the ceiling and slowly rose up again.
“I’ll see you soon, Cherry Bomb,” Jack smirked.
You awoke two hours after the video was sent. The long night caught up to you. You searched blindly for your phone under your pillow and unlocked your phone. The waiting messages were read through bleary and crusted eyes.
jackabbs: I think I’m getting too old to understand slang anymore.
jackabbs: What the fuck is a 6 7? Kid came in late to be seen
jackabbs: Hope none of this wakes you. Thinking about you always.
The next and final message was the video and you digested it, every second indulging in parts of Jack’s unseen life. Knowing now that he had to sit down to shower and he was letting you in on his sanctuary. You were smiling by the end of the video, too tired to do anything about the ache between your thighs. Assuming he meant it, you wanted to save your stamina for whenever Jack chose to make the trip up.
chchcherrybomb: I’m not sure anyone knows what 6 7 means
Your phone rang within seconds of the message coming through.
“Good morning, pretty girl,” Jack said. There was some added background noise.
“Good morning, Jack.” You smiled, rolling over onto your side. “Where are you? I thought you would be sleeping by now. I’m just waking up.”
“I’m… Shit, I should have asked. Now that I’m actually speaking to you I’m starting to doubt it was a good idea. I’m on my way to Philadelphia. I’m halfway there. You can tell me to fuck off--”
“Jack, stop talking,” you sat up on an elbow as you processed what he was saying. “You were gonna surprise me?”
“Yeah… I, yeah. I don’t know where you live and I know it’s last minute. I’m sorry it took me this long to grow a pair of balls. I don’t want you to think that it’s you. It’s my own fucked up shit that I’m still figuring out years later and this late in life,” Jack hit the steering wheel as he paused. “You have to tell me if this is not what I think it is. Is it only about the money?”
“Jack, no,” you pressed and frowned. “I don’t care about that and I thought I made it obvious I was waiting for this. For you to be ready. Are you sure you want this, that you want me?”
“Of course I’m sure!” He snapped. “Sorry, it came out meaner than I meant it. I just… I need to take at least one step in the right direction. You’re funny and kind. Too smart to be a camgirl, but shit, you do it. You do it too well and for the first time in a long time you make me feel desire and lo--” Jack stopped himself on the last word.
Nearly six months have passed since you met. He said time and time again that he wouldn’t be surprised if you never took another payment or private message from him again.
“I want you to breathe. That box breathing thing you told me about? Let’s do that,” you sat up, looking around your messy room. “Then, I have to get ready and dolled up for you.”
“You’re always perfectly dolled up as is, baby girl. But yeah, sounds good. Glad to know you don’t think I’m fucked in the head.”
“Mmm, just a small percentage. Like thirty-two percent fucked up.” You laughed.
“Damn, that’s not bad at all. I would have said at least, like, sixty percent or more.” Jack scoffed.
Two and a half hours had passed and while he stopped for gas Jack bought the flowers he promised to you that you had no clue about. You sent your address once he was about forty-minutes out and now he was waiting outside your apartment building in the parking lot. You asked if stairs leading up to your door would make him uncomfortable and Jack reassured you he would climb the Empire State building like King Kong to get to you. You reminded him he was cheesy sometimes.
Your laugh was worth it.
He was a fucking adrenaline junkie. The way his heart pumped in his chest felt damn near like being on the frontlines. Jack smoothed down his navy blue collared shirt and black chinos. Was it too formal?
Fuck, he was out of practice.
You had been excited on the phone the second time you called over Facetime--Jack gave you his phone number, at last--and you showed off your painted toenails and done up acrylics. Seeing you happy made him happier. Didn’t hurt that he suddenly developed a mild foot fetish strictly for you too.
Jack knocked at your door, fiddling with the flowers to adjust the arrangement to what he assumed would be your liking. He could hear you on the other side as the lock clicked out of place. Jack let out a breath he was holding as you opened the door. As promised, you were dolled up. Any makeup, if any, was light and accentuated your naturally full and manicured brows. The lacy tights were his favorite addition to the entire look and one tier above the accessible short skirt. He didn’t know he had a thing for tights or lace before you.
You shifted from foot to foot, wondering what he thought or felt. Jack outstretched a freckled hand for yours, bringing up your expectedly soft hand. He kissed your knuckles then presented the flowers.
“These are for you. I hope guys your age aren’t too stupid to not do this anymore.” Jack broke the proverbial ice.
The look on your face, soft and demure, warmed his heart. He was so aware of you and every uptick or downturn of your face. You were shy and it stirred his dick to life. Or whatever love he felt toward you mixed in. He needed to figure his shit out. Fast.
“Jack,” you said softly, pushing through your introversion. “It’s a first for me to get flowers on the first meeting or date at all.” You held onto Jack’s hand. His thumb circled over the back of your hand, your skin warming and tingling beneath it. “Come in. Unless you want to stand out in the heat?”
“Don’t have to tell me twice,” Jack grinned. He stepped past the threshold as you tugged him in. He took in the clean space, a candle lit on the island of the kitchen. The entire place smelled of you and vanilla. He inhaled subtly. “This place is nice. Cute. Bigger than I thought.”
“That’s how I feel seeing you--’bigger than I thought’. Your muscles look bigger in person,” you broke away to find a vase. “Water, hungry?” You asked.
Jack didn’t hear the question as he watched you walk away. The sway of your hips reminded him of every time he came to the sight of you. He kept his distance in the meantime, standing on the other side of the island. You made him feel like a goddamn teenager who couldn’t reel in his hormones. You felt Jack’s eyes on you, waiting and thoughtful as you placed the flowers near the candle.
“Water?” You asked again.
“After,” Jack finally said.
“After?”
“Depending on what happens before, then it’ll be after…” Jack said casually.
He leaned forward on the counter. You squinted at him, recognizing his tone as you took your time walking around the island. Jack began to turn toward you once you were closer, tipping his chin down to his chest as he peered down at you. You pressed your tongue to the front of your teeth as you remembered everything else the two of you experienced without meeting. Your face grew hot at the difference of being in person.
“Did you drive all this way to only to fuck me, Doctor?” You teased.
“Fuck you, wine and dine you… Maybe if I’m a good boy you’ll even let me sleep next to you. Repeat.” He said, voice thickening with unfiltered lust.
You placed a hand on his bicep, massaging at the muscle and pulling gently. The same hand slid up to his shoulder and under his chin. Your long nails grazed his scruff noisily, moving down the column of his throat to his chest. The drag of your nails made him shiver. You knew a little bit of attention could go a long way.
“And you haven’t slept with anyone else, entertained anyone?” You asked hesitantly.
The insecurity was laden in your question. Jack never dismissed your concerns any time you brought something up. He would rather dissuade you from catastrophizing if he could help it.
“No, absolutely not.” Jack protested.
You grabbed his hand, the one that usually wielded his wedding band. Only the tan line remained. Jack held onto your manicured hand to bring it to his lips again.
“Can I ask about you…?”
“If I’ve slept with a bunch of guys?” You chuckled, no more offended.
Your line of work typically made the average person assume--if they knew at all--that you were a complete slut.
“Two, ever. I guess it’s ironic, but I’m interested in being desired and wanted more than actually sleeping with randoms. I need an emotional connection when it’s with someone else. I feel…connected to you.”
Jack stood tall, straightening proudly to hear and better understand that you had feelings for him too. Twenty years ago he might not have said it was possible to fall for someone online or long distance. Jack nodded at you, one side of his mouth rising into a smile.
“What do you--” Jack said and waited a beat as your fingers hooked into his belt loops to draw him forward. “--want to do?”
“You really called out of work for me?” You asked. Jack noticed the sultriness to the question.
“Of course I did, sweet girl,” Jack licked his lips.
His eyes never left you. You nudged one of the stools from under the island behind Jack with a foot. He might not have insinuated it, but after seeing his prosthetic you went on a Google frenzy. Being cramped in the car for four hours for anyone was strenuous.
“Sit.”
Jack sat without looking. You were nearly the same height now. His hands went to your waist easily. Your shirt was flimsy as his fingers found bare skin. You wanted so badly for this all to be a fluke, for Jack to not say the right things or to feel right in every way.
“Unbutton your shirt for me,” you said, voice heady.
You leaned in to press a kiss to one cheek, moaning as you did and did the same to the other. Your slender fingers held onto the sides of his neck, feeling his weight teeter as he did as he was told. Why would he make a fuss? With more space to work with as each button was undone, you kissed along the space revealed. Jack’s breathing was uneven as you sat back to look him in the eye.
Jack shrugged out of his button down, allowing it to fall to the floor. You were already working on his pants by then. His hand came down over both of yours to stop you.
“Bedroom might be a little more…accessible.”
“Whatever you need, Jack.” You whispered.
Your attention remained on his face as you pulled him along by hand to your bedroom. Your second bedroom was your room. Not the camgirl setup that had specific colored sheets and knick knacks in the background for aesthetics. Your bedroom was clean with tan, gray, and black accents. A chair sat in the corner with a nearby standing lamp. Jack immediately let his shoulders drop as he perused the space.
“You’re more grown up than me,” Jack said distractedly. Like he needed something else to talk about instead of the fact that you would see him completely naked for the first time. The irony in being worried what you thought of him being an amputee versus everything else wasn’t lost on him.
“I think we have different definitions of grown up.” You squinted up at him with a partial glint in your eye. And the place was a mess just a few hours ago, to be fair, you thought.
Jack moved with his back to the end of your bed, lowering to sit down. Your mouth watered as Jack released your hand to undo the button to his pants. His eyes were on you as he realized how hot and bothered he made you. You pressed your thighs together for some relief, anticipating what was to come. The thought persisted to both parties that Jack might be feeling timid about his disability.
“Keep on the tights and skirt?” Jack asked dreamily.
“You don’t have to ask it as a question. Tell me.” You held back your smirk, holding the hem of your shirt in pause.
A beat.
“Take off your shirt. Keep on the tights and skirt. No bra either. Right now.”
You smiled as if you won the grand prize at the carnival. Undressing, you put on a performance akin to what Jack would see on his screen. You bent over to show him you wore no underwear, not even a thong, with your tights. Jack visibly gulped, maybe audibly too. You didn’t play fair. Stripping you down was the hard part for him--he was seconds away from having you sit on his dick despite himself.
You stepped forward, kneeling in front of Jack as he started wriggling out of his pants. You helped to pull them off the rest of the way, leaving Jack to rest back on his palms. Your questions had since been answered about what worked for Jack and the positions he preferred. Everything would be at his pace unless he told you otherwise. Mostly because it was what equally made you comfortable.
You sat up, biting your bottom lip as your eyes dropped down to his hard length waiting beneath the black fabric of his underwear. Jack adored the look on your face, appreciating the attentiveness from you. He cupped a hand under your chin, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip once it was free.
“Open your mouth,” he rasped and slowly leaned forward.
You held yourself up on the end of the bed, having inched between Jack’s legs. Doing as you were told, you watched as Jack flat-out spit into your mouth. The heat that pooled in and through you shook you.
“Swallow.” Jack demanded.
You obeyed.
A secondary thought came, sticking out your tongue to show Jack. He moaned in disbelief, coming closer to suck at your tongue and whip his own into your mouth. You couldn’t wait any longer but Jack had too much patience. Similar to your video chats with him, he liked to delay his release. Typically until his partner was satisfied, and it had only become a habit applied to his private jacking off sessions.
Your hands found his crotch mid-kiss, your fingers coming away damp from how much pre-cum leaked from him. You wrenched his underwear from his hips just down the top part of his thighs. Jack tried to urge you up while kissing you, but you refused.
You wanted to finish what you started in the kitchen.
Breaking free, you jerked your hand up around Jack. Again when you heard a rumble from his chest. Your shiny lips soon came down over his shaft, the wet sounds of your mouth and throat loud between you.
“Oh, baby.” Jack said the pet name like a swear.
A loose hand went to the back of your neck, closing in your hair at the base of your neck to hold it up. Jack felt like a teenager who had never had a girl touch him before the way you were sucking him off. You were all plush, soft hands and a pretty, soft and wet mouth just for him. He rolled his shoulders back as he pressed a hand into the bed, thinking about how he was about to turn your neat bed into complete disarray.
“You have to stop,” Jack said breathlessly after a few minutes.
He said your name as he pleaded and you raised your head off of him. Jack looked visibly relieved when you looked at him though the hand at the base of his cock massaged at his balls. The head beamed a terrible deep red as his orgasm was held at bay. A vein ran diagonally, catching your eye. You licked and kissed at the underside of his dick, even letting it rest against your face when you took his sac into your mouth. Jack was taking in large gulps of air to think of anything else in time for you to sit back.
“You’re in trouble. Very much so, filthy girl.” Jack muttered.
He was swift and strong. Hands came underneath your arms and he hefted you up with ease. When did he find the time workout?, you thought. You had no complaints because whenever and whatever it was worked. Jack stood up at the same time just to spin around and climb up the bed. Every limb of yours clung to him until he pressed you into the bed. He pushed his underwear down the rest of the way and kicked them to the end of the bed.
Jack was everywhere--kisses peppered over your forehead, cheek, and neck. You didn’t know why you thought you could get away with teasing Jack, ever patient. You were impulsive and a little bit bratty too. Jack learned that the hard way a few times. Jack touched with exploratory inquisitions made by hand. You felt the goosebumps follow. He wanted to hear your croons and sounds just for him. There was no audience he had to battle for your time. You were his and while his jealousy stayed at a simmer, you didn’t want to ever see if it came to a boil.
Jack was kissing between your breasts, squeezing both between his hands.
“This okay?” He asked, looking at you for approval.
You nodded and almost asked if he was out of his mind. That flustered look made him rock his hips forward. You thought about asking again if his leg was okay though he was unfazed. Jack dropped his head back down and you raised a hand up into his hair to lightly scratch at his scalp. This was probably some weird sort of hell as every drag of his tongue swiping over your nipple sent an untouched zing to your cunt and clit.
“Please, Jack.” You whined.
You purposely wiggled your warm pussy and ass along his bare cock. The tights put you at a disadvantage though your wetness soaked through them. Jack responded with an ‘mnh mnh’ to reject the idea. He kissed a line down your stomach, then each bone, and lastly your skirt-covered pubic bone.
“Don’t you want to be a good girl for me?” He said at the junction of where your thigh and labia met.
“Where does being good get me?” You trembled. Your skin was so sensitive when someone else touched it and you couldn’t remember the last time you had sex with your ex. Not much worth remembering anyhow.
Jack grunted another dismissal at your complaint, suddenly tearing at your tights by hand to rectify the hole that was missing in them. You gasped as he manhandled you.
“Here,” Jack said as he spread your lips and kissed your clit. “And here, is where it gets you.” He moaned, looking up as he stuck his tongue into you pridefully.
“I think I’ll stop talking now,” you ceded, your head falling back to the bed.
“Good, sweet girl,” Jack said before diving in and rendering you useless.
The afterglow hit you both hard. Jack watched you saunter away with the promise of heating up the food you made specifically for him. At times, he liked to call you spoiled but you returned the favor tenfold more than what it was worth. More than any dollar he ever presented to you too.
You ate in bed together, warning Jack against getting any crumbs on your bed. He admitted he wasn’t a big fan of crumbs either but occasionally felt too peckish to eat a bag of chips elsewhere. You smiled at that and poured wine for you both. Laying together, in Jack’s arms, you were emotional.
He was real and nothing close to creepy. You kept thinking all day that it was all a facade of some sort to get into your pants. An easier explanation would have been he was a serial killer. Guess he wouldn’t be a good one if he gave his full name and you knew exactly where he worked after going through his followers.
You kept that part to yourself.
“...can’t watch medical shows. It takes me outta it.” Jack said.
Your legs were draped across his lap, the rest of you dressed in a silk robe. Jack opted to be under the covers as a joking form of modesty after he removed his prosthetic.
You couldn’t stop staring at his chest.
“Have you ever seen shows that portray your hometown a certain way? And then suddenly you see how much of it looks nothing like it?” You sipped from your glass.
“Definitely when it comes to Pittsburgh. I would imagine all the movies related to Philly are totally disheartening bullshit.” Jack laughed.
“I stand by Abbott Elementary. That’s the only one.” You held up a fist in solidarity, then shook your head in mock disappointment. Jack laughed, really laughed to the point his crows feet showed at the corner of his eyes.
“God, you’re fucking funny,” he chuckled. “I love you.”
“What?” You blinked, your hand lowering to your wine glass. Jack looked at your wide eyes and began to backtrack and stammer.
“--not that I didn’t mean it. It’s a lot. I can be a lot. I’m…a lot. I don’t have a lot of time to spare besides a few days after four on at the hospital. I like doing the medic shit with SWAT. I want to be real with you. I don’t want you to go into this thinking I can promise things I can’t, because I’m a work in progress.” Jack stopped himself.
He chugged down the rest of his red wine. Your wide eyes eased into contentment. You knew Jack needed your usual reassurance. Placing your glass on the nightstand, you pulled the covers back to climb onto his lap.
“This okay?” You repeated his words from earlier.
“Yeah,” he sighed, putting his glass aside too. “Always.”
Your arms hung off his shoulders, fingers brushing featherlight across his freckled skin.
“Mean what you say and say what you mean. Don’t falter,” you whispered, looking down between the two of you. “I care for you. So much, but I need to know you can do this. My heart can’t take it if you are not in this with me.”
You wanted to say you loved him back. The fear of your feelings being taken for granted held you back. Would he still want you to do your livestreams any longer? Expect you to move to Pittsburgh? You both needed to sacrifice something.
“How about we try this long distance stuff then? What do you say? I’ll come up when I’m off and we can switch off who goes where.” Jack squeezed your hips hopefully. Had he scared you away? He tried to catch your eye until you looked at him head on.
“Okay,” you agreed.
“Okay?” Jack smiled, his craterous dimples you loved so much showing.
“But,” you poked at his chest with a nail and he jokingly said ‘ouch’. “If you hurt me even once, I’m gone, Jack.”
“Scout’s Honor, I won’t.”
“You were not a boy scout.” You laughed, the air returning to the room.
Jack didn’t mind that you never said you loved him back. You would in due time all the same anyway.
Another four months passed. You were debating lately if you should move closer to Jack. Definitely not in with, just…closer. Besides, you like Philadelphia. It was familiar, diverse, and you didn’t know if you had the guts to make such a big decision to leave family and friends behind. Jack assured you there was no pressure. He looked at hospitals near you in his free time. He didn’t tell you about it. Only thought about it.
You were visiting for Jack’s weekend and surprised him half a day early. He would be off work tomorrow morning and with a key to his place, it was easy to get settled in. The center of his bed was calling your name along with the mini vibrator you kept in one of his bedside drawers.
Jack felt his phone buzz in his pocket with a text message, half-heartedly finishing a conversation with Shen as he dug it out.
“Uh huh,” Jack said as he spun on his heel. “I’ll check on them in five or so.”
“Man. she’s got you whipped.” Shen laughed from behind.
You gave him flack for putting you under the name Cherry Bomb in his contacts, but he refused to change it. It was his phone after all.
‘What are you doing?’ Your message read.
‘What’s up, hon?’ Jack replied. ‘I’m scared to say it’s going by s-l-o-w.’
‘I think spelling still activates the curse of speeding up whatever it is you don’t want to pick up pace :p’
‘Fuck, you’re probably right.’
‘Go to the bathroom.’ You advised.
‘To hide?’ Jack smiled down at his phone.
‘To watch me cum.’
Jack looked up from his phone, his face flushing as he pushed down the rush the image gave him. His naughty, filthy girl. Tempting him by waiting in his bed and making it impossible for him knowing he can’t be there to do it himself. Jack was squared away in every sense. He didn’t do things like masturbate in the bathroom.
He could watch. And pop in an earbud. It was totally fine.
Jack beelined for the bathroom, finding the one where it was a single door to one toilet rather than a shared space. All the same, he felt it was suspicious to hang around for too long. He patted down his scrubs for his earbud case, fumbling with it and nearly dropping it to the floor as he placed one into his right ear. He double checked the door lock and hung by the sink and mirror after.
His heart raced, unsure if he should allow you to turn him on at work. Jack had been turned on there before, but neither of you ever took it this far. Jack pushed the FaceTime icon on your contact and you answered happily. You were in a new see-through lingerie set, showing off your recently healed nipple piercings. That had been just as aggravating for him as it was for you--well, he was being dramatic.
“Hi, baby,” you moaned, the phone held back. You had started without him, the buzz of the vibrator loud in his ear as he watched. He was erect the second you came onscreen. Why did he bother ever talking himself out of what you wanted?
“I missed you.” You moaned.
“Yeah, I see that and also on my bed, huh? Baby…” He said in a soft warning.
“I’m not feeling too well, Dr. Abbot. Can’t you prescribe an orgasm for me?” You laughed sweetly.
You propped the phone up on what he assumed to be another pillow. Jack saw now that the underwear left nothing to the imagination, leaving your pussy open for him to see and access. You were a siren beckoning him to the sea. God, you knew your angles and his weaknesses. Jack still refused to watch porn in your absence. You did enough for him to watch only the videos you sent. Other times, he admitted to not cumming at all until you were together again. Those times were your favorite for how big his loads were. Your chest, stomach, and face were a mess every time.
Jack rationalized that he had to whip his dick out because he risked soaking through his underwear and subsequently his scrubs. He bit back a sound as he shuffled over to the toilet with his shaft in hand.
“I think you knew what medicine you needed all on your own starting without me,” Jack breathed.
He brought the phone up to eye level, briefly swaying out of frame as you heard him spit. Your pussy tightened around nothing, wanting only for his primed cock to fuck into you to help the ache go away. You moved the vibrator from your clit and down, teasing the edges of your hole. Jack shook his head, quietly scolding you.
He brought his camera down, the view showing nothing as he quickly pulled his scrub top up under his chin. He knew what you liked as his abs came into view, the deep cut of his V-line following and then his straining dick in hand. You never grew sick of seeing him get off. It was the one kink of yours that made you blush effortlessly.
You sunk your vibrator into your dripping wet hole, but it wasn’t enough. You sucked on two fingers, leaving Jack to curse as you fucked yourself on them and pressed the vibrator to your clit. Jack timed his strokes with your fingers and you could see his head craned back, exposing his neck. You felt the familiar balloon growing in your belly and heat.
“I think I’m starting to feel much better, Dr. Abbot. Really, so much better.”
You moaned freely in the comfort of his bedroom. Everything smelled like him. The soft sheets with a pretentiously high thread count that you suggested added to the incoming high of a climax crashing into you.
Jack ground his teeth as he watched you thrash on his bed, the tendons in your neck standing out. Jack closed his eyes shut while he squeezed the base of his dick to stop himself from cumming.
Thank fuck he had access to cold water.
“You didn’t cum?” You asked as you caught your breath, rolling over onto your side.
“No, baby,” he rasped. “I want to see the look on your face in person for teasing me like this.” He blew out a breath.
Jack pressed forward through his lust to wipe his cock clean with some tissue. The sheets were tossed into the toilet and he used his shoe to flush the toilet. Jack shook his head, smiling though his balls begged otherwise there was nothing to smile about.
“Did you like your little surprise?” You smirked, knowing what waited beneath the surface of Jack’s composure.
“Too much,” Jack said while moving to the sink.
He tucked himself away, using his waistband to keep his cock upright until it deflated. The phone was placed on the sink as he washed his hands, trying to scrub away the most taboo thing he had ever done at work.
“I’m in trouble, aren’t I?” You started up the vibrator again, diverting Jack’s attention from his reflection in the mirror.
“Yes, yes you are…” He scoffed.
He watched you finish a second time without so much as saying a word to deter you. All you heard was Jesus Christ as you squirted onto the bed, a string of curses and apologies falling from your lips.
“I’ve got to go, baby. You’ll keep me in here for hours.” Jack’s brows came together. He wasn’t any happier to end the call, but you knew he was right. The one thing you two were jealous of was someone or something else occupying the other.
“See you at home, Dr. Abbot.” You crooned.
“Filthy girl.”
Jack ended the call and hoped he didn’t look as fucked as he felt for a man who didn’t cum.
Jack’s shift came and went. His leg was really doing him in this time around. Jack knew you fell asleep a while ago. Ought to after the way you came earlier in the night. He was quiet placing his keys and bag by the front door. Everything else was routine as always. Snack, shower, maybe a shower beer, and climb into bed. With you there, sleep would come fast. The new bedding you suggested to him had done wonders for his rest in general.
He removed his prosthetic and rested it along the bedside. Turning to join you underneath the covers where you snored soundly. You swore you didn’t snore or fart in your sleep. You did in fact do both, not that he minded. Jack moved in behind you, overly warm hands gripping at the t-shirt you wore and likely took from his closet. He burrowed in behind you, the fabric of your bonnet brushing his nose. He sighed, seconds away from sleep taking him.
“Mnh, love you.” You murmured, half asleep. Your hand covered Jack’s arm as his stirring woke you.
“Love you, sweet girl.” Jack mumbled at the back of your neck, pressing a kiss there.
ㅤㅤㅤ✟ VENUS AS A BOY :
aerion 'brightflame' targaryen !
⋆˚࿔ finn bennett as aerion x actress! reader ꒰ ✟ ꒱ … you are an actress playing a prostitute from Lys, and Finn is so committed to giving his best on stage that he makes you wet, and you lose control between the acting and the desire. — based on this ask.
warnings ⟢ +18 (MDNI) ⋆ smut ⋆ p in v ⋆ oral sex (cunnilingus) ⋆ rough sex ⋆ praise kink ⋆ consensual ⋆ anal play ⋆ intense orgasm ⋆ fluff and smut ⋆ masturb. ⋆ you're not just acting. ⟢ words count: ~11,1k
notes ⟢ I'm in my ovulation era, and this was the sun of Icarus in my life heheh writing this was a perfect dose of any drug. — please like & reblog if you enjoyed !
⋆ MASTERLIST ⋆ AKOTSK TAGLIST ⋆ TIP JAR ⋆
The air inside the set-built brothel smells of cheap incense.
You’re on all fours on the fake silk sheets, and the weight of Finn Bennett — no, the weight of Aerion Targaryen — presses your back down against the foam mattress that’s meant to mimic straw and duck feathers. His platinum lace front is starting to peel away at the nape, out of sync with the sweat beading at your temple, and you feel every inch of his body against yours; his broad chest against your shoulder blades, his large hands gripping your hips with a force that isn’t purely the character’s, his warm, uneven breath against the curve of your neck.
"I don’t need a dragon, you hear me? I don’t need one to devour you," he murmurs, and Finn’s voice blends with Aerion’s in a way that makes your stomach turn. "Look at me."
You obey because it’s what the script says. You turn your face, your jaw resting on the pillow smudged with makeup, and you meet his pale eyes, a blue so glassy it hurts to look at, but there’s something underneath that’s entirely human, entirely him, and it’s burning.
The cameras are at every angle. You know this. You know the cinematographer is three yards away, crouched behind a monitor, and the Steadicam operator is circling the bed like a vulture. You know there are earpieces, reflectors, a clapper loader holding a slate somewhere beyond your peripheral vision.
But what you feel — what you can’t ignore — is the way the tip of his cock presses against your inner thigh through the modesty pouch they use as standard production practice.
We’re both covered, you repeat in your head. This is choreographed. This is professional.
He’s wearing an unlaced linen tunic that’s been open since the scene started, and you’re in a silk robe torn at the shoulder — a costume deliberately destroyed to suggest Aerion’s violence, decadent luxury, the aesthetic of Lys where everything is bought and sold. Underneath, you’ve got nothing on, because your body needs to be exposed, because you don’t have a problem with that, because you signed the contract that agreed to it.
The first take was a disaster.
The showrunner, Ira, yelled “action” and Finn moved over you like a dragon, and you suddenly forgot every single mark you’d spent two weeks rehearsing in an office with no cameras, no lights, without the smell of him — neutral soap, cold coffee, and something warmer, more human, that your fingers had memorised.
On the first take, you laughed.
Not on purpose. It was that nervous, childish thing, a strangled sound that escaped when Finn tilted his head to bite your neck like the script said, and his lips tickled your skin in a way that made you squirm. He stopped right away, pulling back enough to ask “are you alright?” with that concern he has in every interview, every behind-the-scenes clip, every time a fan gets too close at a convention.
“Sorry,” you gasped, and you felt your whole face catch fire. “Sorry, I just… I didn’t expect it to be so…”
“It’s fine,” he said, and his thumb traced a small circle on your waist. “We’ll go again.”
The showrunner didn’t complain. Ira’s known for her patience with intimate scenes, and the first take was written off as “calibration.” But you knew — and she knew — that there was something wrong with that first attempt that wasn’t just your nerves.
On the first take, when Finn pushed your legs apart with his knees and settled between them, when your breasts pressed against his chest through the layers of fabric and his hand grabbed your hair (wig, you were wearing a silver wig to match his, to look like a Lysene courtesan of Valyrian descent), in that moment, you felt it.
You felt the heat coming off his cock against your body. You felt your own nipples harden in a way no structured bra or padded body stocking could hide. You felt his mouth brush yours, and how his tongue slid between your lips as if you were alone, as if there weren't 47 people standing around watching.
And you kissed him back.
With tongue. With teeth. With a small moan that escaped your throat before you could swallow it, and that got picked up by the boom mics, that made the sound tech raise an eyebrow, that made Finn lose his rhythm for half a second.
That's why the first take wasn't any good. Not because of your nervous laugh, but because you both forgot you were acting.
The second take went differently; it was more professional, and you repeated those words in your head while Finn moved over you, his breath warm against your ear, his weight pressing your back into the mattress.
You’re on all fours, as the script dictates. This is the part of the scene where Aerion, exiled in Lys after the incident at Ashford, drowns his frustrations in the body of a whore who dares to look like the family that rejected him — silver hair, violet eyes (your contacts sting a bit, but you’re used to it now), sharp features that could’ve come straight off an Old Valyria tapestry.
"Please," you say, and your voice comes out rougher than you rehearsed. That’s not acting. "Please, my prince."
He obeys. His body presses against yours with a rhythm that isn’t penetration — it can’t be, the laws forbid it, the contract you signed forbids it — but it mimics penetration with obscene precision. His hips push against your hips, and the pressure against your cunt through all those layers is exactly the wrong pressure to relieve what’s building inside you.
You’re wet.
You’ve known it since the first kiss of the second take, when Finn pushed you against the brothel’s fake wall and bit your lower lip with a ferocity that made your knee buckle. You feel it now, while being on all fours exposes you to him, while he can surely see the outline of your cunt, the way you open for him instinctively, the way your body asks for something the script won’t allow.
He’s hard.
You felt it when he got into position behind you on the first take, and you feel it now. The tip of his cock presses against the inside of your thigh, and there’s a dampness there — he’s wet too, you realise with a jolt, with a wave of heat that travels down your spine. His precum has soaked through the fabric covering the head of his cock, and you feel the cool wetness against your skin.
He’s aroused.
That’s not acting. You know the difference now. On the first take, when his mouth went down your neck, when his lips closed around your nipple (and you felt his tongue, the wetness, the heat), when he murmured "you’re so beautiful" in a way that wasn’t in the script — you knew.
And on the second take, the two of you are trying to hide it. You’re trying to turn desire into performance, to channel all that electricity into the choreographed gestures, the memorised lines, the rehearsed moans. But the truth is, on all fours, with your breasts swinging with each thrust of his hips, with your mouth open and your eyes rolled back because that’s how the script describes it — you’re not acting.
"I’ll spend inside you," Finn growls, and the line is Aerion’s, but the accent is Finn’s, terrifyingly intimate. "I’ll fill you with my seed, and you’ll thank me for every drop."
Your reply is in the script: "Please, my prince, please, I beg you."
But what you’re really thinking, what echoes in your head while he grabs you by the hair and pulls, arching your back into a position that exposes your cunt even more to him, is: yes, Finn, please, yes.
The fictional orgasm of the scene is choreographed down to the smallest detail.
Aerion grabs the whore’s head — your head — and slaps her arse with his open palm. The sound echoes across the set, loud and wet, and you let out a cry you didn’t need to rehearse. The pain is real but small, a warm tingling that spreads across your skin and blends with everything else: the heat, the friction, the constant pressure of Finn’s body against yours.
"Beg for more," he orders, and his voice is shaking.
You notice. He's losing control too. His hands, which should only be placed on your hips, grip hard enough to leave marks. His breathing, which should be an actor's panting, is genuinely uneven, breathless with almost, with nearly there.
"More," you moan, and the word comes out wet, desperate. "More, Aerion, more, more…"
He slaps you again, and another, and another, timed with the thrusts of his hips, and you feel your own orgasm approaching slowly at first, then faster. You're so close. So close that your hands grab the sheets and your vision blurs and you bite your lip to stop yourself from crying out the wrong name, his name, the name you can't say because this isn't real, this is just a scene, this is just work.
And then Finn moans.
It's a low, guttural sound that vibrates against your back. You feel his whole body tense, the muscles of his stomach contracting against your spine, his fingers digging deep into your flesh. For one second, one terrifying and glorious second, you think he's actually going to spend inside you, despite the barrier between you, despite the cameras, despite everything.
And you're going to spend with him.
You can feel your body getting ready, your pelvic muscles clenching, the warm wetness pooling at your entrance. If he pushes one more time, if his hand moves from your hip to your clit, if his mouth finds your neck one more time, you'll fall apart. You'll writhe and moan and drip onto the set sheets, and everyone will know. The director, the camera crew, the assistants. Everyone will know you weren't acting.
Cut!
Ira's voice echoes across the set like a bucket of cold water.
Finn freezes on top of you. His breathing is still heavy, his chest still presses against your back, his erection still hard against your thigh. For one long second, no one moves. You hear the techs sighing, cables being coiled, the assistant director jotting something down on a clipboard.
"We got it," Owen Haris says, and his voice is elated. "My God, we got it. That's the best simulated sex take I've ever seen in my career."
You want to die. You want to bury your face in the pillow and never come out. Your face is burning, your whole body is red, you can see the flush spreading across your chest, your arms, your thighs. There's a heat between your legs you can't hide, a wetness you're sure has left a mark on whatever is actually covering your cunt.
Finn pulls away from you slowly, almost reluctant. He sits on the edge of the set bed and runs a hand over his face, pushing back the platinum-blonde wig that's come unstuck at the side. You watch him through your lashes, still lying on your side, trying to steady your breathing.
He's flushed too, you notice. His neck is blotched red, and there's a bead of sweat running down his temple. He looks at you and for a second, the two of you just breathe.
"Fantastic," Ira says, already walking over with her tablet, showing something to the cinematographer. "Break for hair and makeup. You two, rest. We'll review the scene later."
Assistants move around you like ants. A makeup artist approaches with a powder compact, and you instinctively cover yourself, embarrassed by your blush, embarrassed by what nearly happened, embarrassed by how your body is still trembling.
Then Finn picks up Aerion's tunic — the costume he took off at the start of the scene — and drapes it over your shoulders.
The gesture is quick, almost impersonal. He doesn't even look at you while he does it, focused on steadying his own breathing, on regaining some composure. But the fabric is still warm from his body, and his smell wraps around you.
"Sorry about the slap," he murmurs, and now he looks at you with a genuine smile. Small. Almost shy. "I hit harder than I should have."
You shake your head, pulling the tunic closer to your chest. "I barely felt it."
That's a lie. You felt every single one. You can still feel the tingling on your skin, and some dark part of you — a part you didn't know existed before this scene — wants him to do it again.
A production assistant appears with two fluffy robes, the kind they use between takes to keep warm. You wrap yourself in yours gratefully, hiding your nipples that are still painfully hard, hiding everything your body is screaming.
Finn puts his on and sits beside you on the rumpled bed, the sheets bunched on the floor. A makeup artist approaches him with a brush, touching up his face, and he closes his eyes patiently.
You watch his profile. His nose, his strong jaw, that curve of his lips that was on your mouth, your neck, your breasts, only minutes ago. Finn Bennett, you think. The man who nearly made you come in front of forty-seven people.
He opens his eyes and finds you looking.
The embarrassment rushes back, and you look away at your own hands, which are trembling slightly in your lap.
"Have you done many scenes like this?" he asks, breaking the silence.
You laugh, a short, nervous sound.
"Never. It's my first time taking a role with simulated nudity." You hesitate, then add, trying to sound light, casual: "At least I'm just another one of Aerion's whores, right? I don't have to worry about being special."
Finn laughs too, and the sound is warm.
"Yeah, Aerion has a definite type." He pauses, his pale eyes studying your face. "But you were… you were incredible. Really. I did a scene like this on an earlier project, an indie film, and it was awful. The actress wouldn't stop laughing, the director didn't know what he wanted…" He shakes his head. "With you, it was different. It was easy."
"Easy?"
"Natural," he corrects. "You're very good at what you do."
The compliment warms you in a way it shouldn't. You're a professional. You're both professionals. It was just a well-executed scene, choreography and acting and professional chemistry.
So why are you still wet?
The silence stretches between you, and Finn opens his mouth to say something — you see the hesitation in his eyes, the way he bites his lower lip, the same lip that was between your legs — but before he can say anything, Owen appears again, tablet in hand, the satisfied smile still plastered on his face.
"Good news," he announces. "The Lys scenes are practically in the can. You've shot everything we needed for the arc today." He flicks through something on the screen. "We need to reshoot some close-ups — the bit where you beg, the initial seduction, a few reactions — but the core of the sex scene is already done. You can rest while the crew relights for the close-ups."
"How many takes?" Finn asks, and there's a tiredness in his voice that echoes in your own body.
"Five, six. Nothing major." Owen is already walking away, giving instructions to the assistant director. "We'll be back in an hour. Go freshen up, eat something, go over the script."
The production assistant reappears to guide you both off the set. You stand up, your legs still shaky, and follow the familiar path through the studio corridors — past sets of Lys, Dorne, Ashford — until you reach the trailer block.
You walk a few paces behind him and Finn doesn't look back — at least not right away — and you catch yourself watching his broad back through the robe, the way the platinum-blonde wig sways slightly with each step, how his shoulders are tense, muscles pulled tight beneath skin covered in body makeup.
The director said a break for hair and makeup, but what you need isn't a touch-up. What you need is five minutes alone, five minutes to sit in silence and try to understand what the hell happened on that set bed.
"See you in a bit," he says.
"See you in a bit," you reply.
His lips part like he's going to say something — a question, maybe, or a confession — but then a runner dashes between you with a cable in hand, muttering "sorry, sorry, coming through", and the moment shatters like a glass hitting the floor.
When you reach the fork in the corridor — individual dressing rooms to the left, the collective hair and makeup bay to the right — Finn finally looks back again.
His eyes meet yours, and you see it.
You see the want that's still there, latent, burning beneath the surface of the professional performance you're both trying to maintain. His pupils are blown, even under the harsh corridor lights. There's a flush in his eyes that isn't from the red body paint, and you feel the same heat rising up your own face, the same tightness in your chest, the same almost unbearable urge to touch.
He turns and goes into his dressing room, the door closing with a soft click. You stand in the corridor for a second longer than you should, your fingers gripping the belt of your robe, your heart beating so hard you can feel the pulse in your throat.
Then you go into your own dressing room, close the door, and lean back against it with your eyes shut.
The dressing room is small but comfortable. A makeup table with LED lights around the mirror, a clothes rack with costumes hanging in protective plastic bags, a small sofa covered in a grey throw, a table with a tray of snacks and bottles of water. The air smells of hairspray, liquid foundation, and the sweet perfume of the soy candles the makeup team lights to "create a relaxing atmosphere".
You push yourself away from the door and walk to the table, letting the robe fall from your shoulders as you go. There's a darker patch between your legs, visible through the modesty pouch, and you feel your face catch fire when you see your own reflection in the mirror.
You're a mess, you think. A complete mess.
Before you can do anything — before you can even think about cleaning the stain or changing clothes or doing anything to salvage your dignity — someone knocks on the door.
"Costume," a woman's voice calls from outside. "Can we come in?"
"Yes," you reply, and your voice is strangely steady, professional. "Come in."
The door opens and two women walk in carrying makeup cases and hair kits. They're the same ones who were on set during the shoot, the same ones who ran in to touch up your blush and lipstick between takes.
"We'll do a full body check first," one of them says, already opening her case. "The director wants close-ups of your neck and shoulders, so we need to cover all the marks."
All the marks.
"God," the same one murmurs, and you look at her reflection in the mirror. An older woman is examining your body with professional eyes, but there's a blush in her cheeks. "Finn went overboard, didn't he?"
You look down and see what they're seeing.
Marks. Bites.
On your neck, below your right ear, there's a dark purple bruise where his teeth sank into your skin. On your breasts — both of them — there are red circles around your nipples, fingerprints where his hands squeezed harder than necessary. On your hips, there are dark finger-shaped marks, five purplish blotches on each side, where he grabbed you during that final on-all-fours sequence.
And on your arse...
You don't need to look to know. You can still feel the tingling, the gentle sting of each slap he gave. She turns you sideways and lets out a low whistle.
"That'll take a week to cover," she says, but she doesn't sound annoyed. Just... impressed. "What were you two doing in there, exactly?"
The other one laughs.
"We thought we were watching actual porn," she confesses, picking up a pot of corrective foundation and starting to apply it to your neck with a damp sponge. "Seriously. For a moment, we looked at each other and said 'are they even acting?'"
Your face burns. You keep your eyes fixed on a vague spot on the wall, trying not to show how those words affect you, how they hit the centre of your guilt dead on.
"You were so intense," she continues, picking up a smaller brush to work on the marks on your hips. "The way he looked at you, the way you looked at him... It looked like you were actually making love."
"We're good actors," you say, and the excuse comes out automatically. "Finn's a great scene partner. Very generous. Very... present."
Present. It's a safe word, professional, something you could say in any behind-the-scenes interview. But she raises an eyebrow and lets out a little "hmm" that could mean anything.
"Present," she repeats, running the sponge over your shoulder. "That's one word for what happened in there."
You wonder if they know, if they saw. If they noticed the way your nipples hardened before Finn even touched them. If they saw the fluid that ran down your thigh during that last take. If they heard the moan that escaped your throat that you tried to pass off as acting.
"Honey, we've been in this industry for twenty years," she says. "We know the difference between good acting and... that."
"That?"
"Chemistry," she finishes, applying translucent powder to your neck to set the foundation.
You don't know what to say. You don't know if you should deny it, or thank her, or just stay quiet and hope the subject changes. So you do the only thing you can think of — you change the subject.
"The costume," you say, your voice a little louder than necessary. "Do I need to put the dress back on?"
They exchange a quick look but let it go. The older one steps back a little and nods toward the clothes rack, where the torn dress is hanging on a padded hanger.
"The director asked for you to wear it," she confirms. "He wants to redo the adjustments for the requested scenes. The light was different on the first take, and he wants to make sure the fabric's texture is visible in the close-ups." She pauses, examining the dress with a critical eye. "We'll have to fix the wig too — it's all out of place after the scene."
She's already picking up the lace front from a mannequin head on the counter. It's a long, silver wig with loose waves meant to resemble Valyrian hair but which now look like a bird's nest. You wore it throughout the whole scene, and Finn pulled your hair at least four times — once to turn your face, another time to arch your back, and twice during that final sequence that still makes your stomach turn just thinking about it.
"I'll brush it out," she decides, already pulling a natural-bristle brush from her case. "Sit down."
You obey, sitting in the makeup chair while she starts detangling the wig with careful strokes. She goes back to working on the marks on your body, applying layers of foundation and powder over every bite, every scratch, every fingerprint Finn left on your skin.
The silence is almost comfortable now, filled only by the sound of the brush going through the synthetic fibres and the occasional click of makeup pots being opened and closed. You close your eyes and try to relax, try to let your body soften into the chair, try not to think about how the hand pressing the brush against your hip is almost too gentle, almost as if she's stroking the marks another man left.
"Done," she announces after a few minutes. "The marks are covered. But you'll have to be careful with sweat during the close-ups, otherwise the foundation will run."
You open your eyes and examine yourself in the mirror. The marks are still there — you can see their outline through the makeup, darker patches under the foundation-covered skin — but they're disguised enough for the cameras. Your body looks intact, untouched, as if the last forty minutes never happened.
But you know they did. You can still feel the tingling, the gentle sting where his teeth bit down, the sore muscles from the position you held for too long.
"The wig's ready," Clara says, placing the piece back on your head carefully. She secures it with glue, adjusts the fit, brushes a few strands over your shoulders. "Perfect. You look like you've just stepped out of Lys."
You manage a smile, but it doesn't reach your eyes.
"Thanks."
The older one starts packing the pots and brushes back into the case.
"The dress is over there, whenever you want to put it on. We need to see how it hangs after the adjustments, so call us when you're ready, alright?"
You hesitate. The dress is hanging on the rack, the fabric torn at the shoulder exactly as Finn left it, as if it was ripped off violently. You remember the feeling — the sound of the fabric tearing, his hand pulling, the cold air kissing your bare skin — and a shiver runs down your spine.
"Actually," you start, and your voice comes out weaker than you intended. "Can you leave me alone for a bit? I just... need some quiet. To relax. And go over the script."
They exchange another look, but nod without questioning it.
"Of course," she says, packing the last thing into the case. "We'll be back in half an hour to look at the dress. Try to rest a bit, alright? You seem... tense."
Tense. It's such an inadequate word that you almost laugh. Tense is what you feel before an interview. Tense is what you feel when you forget a line. Tense isn't enough to describe what's going on inside you right now — the heat still pulsing between your legs, the wetness that still hasn't dried, the thoughts spinning in a loop in your head like a film that won't stop playing.
"Thanks," you repeat, and the two women leave, the door closing with a soft click behind them.
The silence in the dressing room is deafening.
You sit in the chair for a long minute, just breathing, trying to convince yourself that you're in control, that you can handle this, that it's just physical attraction, just on-set chemistry, just nothing.
But then your eyes land on the script on the table.
You pick up the script with trembling fingers. The pages are marked with coloured Post-its — blue for your lines, yellow for scene directions, pink for the moments of physical contact. You flick through to the scene you just shot, reading the words you've already memorised, the dialogue you rehearsed dozens of times.
She kneels before him. He grabs her hair. She moans.
He turns her over. He presses her against the mattress. She arches her back.
He fingers her. She screams.
The script doesn't say she feels his body shake. It doesn't say she almost comes. It doesn't say she wants him to keep going even after the showrunner yells cut.
You drop the script on the table and bury your face in your hands.
What are you doing, you ask yourself. What are you feeling.
But you know what you're feeling. You feel it now, stronger than ever — the echo of his touches on your skin. His hand grabbing your hip. His fingers squeezing your neck. His mouth sucking your nipple.
You can still taste him on your tongue, still smell him in your hair, or maybe that's just your imagination, but you swear you can feel his warm, human scent wrapping around you. You feel the heat between your legs, insistent, painful, unbearable.
You look at the mirror and see yourself — the silver wig perfectly brushed, the flawless makeup hiding all the marks, your naked body. You look like a doll, a puppet, a Valyrian courtesan ready for the next take. But despite being an actress, you're just a woman. A woman who's wet. A woman who's alone. A woman who can't stop thinking about Finn.
Your hand goes down.
You don't decide to do this. It just happens, your hand sliding down your stomach, your fingers finding the wetness between your legs. You're so wet. Your fingers slip without effort, finding the spot that's been throbbing, pulsing in anticipation since he whispered that last line in your ear. You press, slow, gentle circles, and a moan escapes your throat.
"Finn," you whisper, and his name leaves your mouth like a prayer.
You close your eyes and let yourself fall back into the chair, your legs opening wider, your fingers working faster. In your mind, it's not you touching yourself. It's him. It's his hands, his fingers, his mouth. You imagine Finn kneeling between your legs, the platinum-blonde wig askew, his pale eyes fixed on yours as he leans down, and the moan that escapes now is louder, less controlled. You bite your lip to quiet yourself, but the sound keeps vibrating in your throat, mingled with his name: Finn, Finn, Finn.
Your other hand squeezes your own breast, and you imagine it's his hand. You remember his strength, the way he squeezed you there, the way his fingers dug deep into your flesh and left marks that the makeup is still trying to hide.
Your fingers slide faster, finding the rhythm he used against you, that hip movement that mimicked penetration with obscene precision. You arch your back in the chair, and your other hand squeezes your nipple harder, not as hard as he squeezed it, but enough to hurt, to remember.
You're so professional, the thought comes like a whip, but you can't stop. You can't.
The guilt comes in waves, mixed in with the pleasure. You should be going over the script. You should be resting, drinking water, getting ready for the next takes. You should be the actress who signed the contract, the professional who delivers the work and goes home without leaving anything on set except the performance.
Instead, you're here, your fingers stuffed inside yourself, thinking about your scene partner.
He's just your scene partner, you repeat, while your thumb presses your clit and a moan escapes through your parted lips. He's just the actor playing Aerion. This is just professional chemistry. This is just...
You open your eyes and see yourself in the mirror.
The image is obscene. You're naked in the makeup chair, your legs open, your hand shoved between them, your fingers glistening with how wet you are. Your lipstick is smudged, the makeup that was meant to hide his marks can't hide the blush rising from your chest to your face. You look like a degraded version of the Lysene courtesan you're meant to play; a woman who wants to be fucked by a man she can't have.
"Finn," you moan again, and this time you don't hold back the volume.
In your head, he's behind you. His large hands on your hips, his warm breath against your nape, his body pressing yours against the chair. You feel his weight, feel his erection against your arse, feel his uneven breathing in your ear.
"You're so beautiful," he whispers in your memory, and you don't know anymore if he actually said it or if you made it up. "You're so beautiful, and I want..."
What did he want? What was he going to ask when he stood staring at you in the corridor, his eyes wide, his lips parted?
You don't know. But you want to know. God, how you want to know.
Your fingers plunge deeper, and you imagine it's him inside you. You imagine his cock — you want his cock inside you — thick and hot and hard the way you felt it pressing against your thigh. You imagine him properly fucking you, without the bloody modesty pouch, without the cameras, without the showrunner yelling "cut". You imagine him throwing you onto the set bed, tearing off the rest of your dress, shoving his face between your legs and...
This is wrong, the thought comes like a punch. This is so wrong.
You're an actress. Are you in a relationship? No, you're not. But that doesn't matter. What matters is professionalism, the contract, the clauses about on-set conduct, about not harassing colleagues, about maintaining strictly professional relationships.
You're not harassing anyone, part of you argues. You're alone in your own dressing room. You can think about whatever you want.
But the guilt doesn't disappear. It wraps around the pleasure like a rope, squeezing, suffocating. You think about Finn and you feel dirty. You think about how he trusted you to do that scene, how he said it was "easy" and "natural" working with you, how he covered you with his tunic.
He was kind. He was professional. He was respectful.
And you're here, wanking to thoughts of him.
This is a breach of trust, you think, but your fingers don't stop. If he knew...
You remember his erection against your thigh. You remember the hot, wet fluid that escaped through the fabric. You remember the muffled groan he let out when his whole body tensed against yours.
The pleasure builds, a hot wave rising from your belly and spreading through your chest, your arms, your throat. You're almost there. So close. If you press a little more, if you squeeze harder, if you close your eyes and let the image of Finn completely overtake you...
The door opens.
Your eyes shoot to the reflection in the mirror, and your heart stops for a full second before racing into a desperate tachycardia.
Finn is standing in the doorway.
He's still in costume — the platinum-blonde wig, the dark makeup around his eyes that makes him look more threatening, more Aerion than himself. He's wearing a different robe from yours, black and fluffy, and there's a cup of coffee in his hand, as if he came to offer it, as if he knocked and you didn't hear, as if...
Your eyes meet his in the mirror.
You pull your hand away from between your legs so fast you nearly hurt yourself, your wet fingers glistening under the dressing room lights. Your face is on fire, your heart is beating so hard you're sure he can hear it, and for one long second, no one moves.
You want to die. You want the floor to open up and swallow you. You want to go back in time five minutes and simply not do this, or at least lock the door, or at least...
"Sorry," Finn says, but he doesn't leave. He doesn't turn around. He just stands there, in the doorway, his pale eyes fixed on your face in the mirror, the coffee cup forgotten in his hand. "I knocked. You didn't answer. I just... brought coffee. Thought you might want some."
Your hand is wet. You wipe your fingers in a quick, ashamed motion, but he saw. He knows.
"Finn," you start, and your voice comes out strangled, broken. "Finn, I... this isn't... I was just..."
"Relaxing," he finishes, and there's something in his voice — something low, something rough — that makes the heat between your legs, which had started to fade, come back full force.
He puts the coffee cup on the table by the door. Closes the door behind him. And walks toward you.
"Coffee," he repeats, as if he's explaining. "I thought you might want some. After the scene. You seemed... tense."
The same word the makeup artist used. But in Finn's mouth, the word sounds different. It sounds like wet. It sounds like ready. It sounds like me too. He stops a metre away from you, too close to be professional, too far to be intimate. His eyes travel over your body in the mirror.
"You don't have to stop," he says. "You deserve it."
You hold your breath. "What?"
"You deserve it," he repeats, taking another step closer. "I did it too... after the scene. As soon as I got into my dressing room." His hand rises, his fingers touching his own nape, where the wig meets his skin. "I thought about you. About how you looked... how you moved... how you moaned..."
"Finn…"
"Let me finish." His voice is firm now, but gentle. "I had a wank thinking about you. I thought about what it would be like to actually be inside you, without the clothes, without the cameras, without the script." He crouches down, coming to your level, his pale eyes now level with yours. "And you deserve to do the same. You deserve to feel real pleasure, not just the simulation we did out there."
You're trembling. Your whole body is trembling, and it's not from cold.
"Finn, we can't…"
"We can." He interrupts, and his hand finds your knee. Just rests there, light, a permission rather than an imposition. "We can do whatever you want. But I need you to know that you don't have to hide from me. Not after what happened on that set."
His knee is touching yours. You feel his warmth through the fabric of his robe, and your breathing goes uneven.
"You can call me Aerion, if you prefer," he continues, and now there's a small smile at the corner of his mouth, a smile that isn't entirely innocent. "If that helps. If it's easier to pretend this is just... a continuation of the scene."
"Finn," you whisper, and his name leaves your mouth like a plea.
"Keep going," he asks, and his fingers move from your knee to your thigh, one centimetre, two centimetres. "Keep doing what you were doing. But now... while my face is buried between your legs."
The air leaves your lungs as if you've been punched.
"What?" you manage to say, and the word is barely audible.
"You heard me." He kneels down. Actually kneels on the floor of your dressing room, his knees pressing into the cold floor, his face now level with your waist. His hands find your knees, gently pushing them apart.
"You're going to fall apart in my mouth. And you can call me whatever name you want. Aerion. Finn. Both. It doesn't matter. I just want to hear you."
The pose is one of pleading, but his eyes — God, his eyes — are pure fire. The platinum lace front is slightly out of place, a few strands escaping the glue at his temple, and the dark makeup around his eyes has smudged a little at the corner, giving him a wildness that's entirely Aerion.
"Finn," you whisper.
"Can I?" he asks, and his voice is hoarse. His hands squeeze your knees, and you feel the heat through the thin fabric of the robe. "Can I taste you, darling? Can I make you feel what you deserve?"
Darling. It's not Aerion calling a Lysene whore that. It's Finn… or maybe it's both, merged into one, the actor and the character so tangled together you can't separate them anymore. The man who's been inside you in every way the script allowed, and some the script didn't plan for.
You nod, unable to form words. Your hand's still wet from what you were doing, and you hide it in the robe, embarrassed, but his eyes follow the movement, and he gives you a small, warm smile that isn't judgement but want.
"Show me," he says, and his fingers travel up your thighs. "Show me what you were doing. Show me how you touched yourself thinking about me."
You obey. Not out of obligation, but because you want to, because you've never wanted to be seen by someone this badly. Your hand goes back down, finding the wet heat between your legs, and you moan when your own fingers touch your clit — already sensitive, already throbbing.
"That's it," Finn murmurs, and his eyes are fixed on your hand, on the movement of your fingers. "Keep going. Don't stop."
He leans in and his mouth finds the inside of your thigh — a light kiss, almost chaste, so different from everything that's happened on set. His lips are soft, warm, and they trace a slow path from your thigh to your cunt, kissing, licking, teasing.
You arch your back against the chair, your fingers still moving between your legs, but the rhythm falters, goes uncoordinated, because all you can feel is his mouth getting closer, his warm breath against your skin, the promise of what's coming.
"Finn, please," you moan, and you don't know if you're asking him to stop or to keep going.
"Finn or Aerion?" he asks, and then his tongue finally finds your clit — a light touch, just the tip — and your whole body convulses like you've been shocked.
"Both," you gasp, and the word comes out strangled. "Both, both, please…"
He laughs against your skin, a low sound that vibrates through you.
"Greedy thing," he murmurs, and then his mouth is on you for real.
There's no hesitation now. His tongue presses against your clit with exactly the right amount of pressure — not too soft, not too hard, perfect, as if he knows what your body needs before you do. His lips suck, and your vision blurs, and the fingers that were moving between your legs are replaced by his — one finger sliding inside you so easily it makes you moan loud.
"You're so wet," he murmurs against you, and there's pride in his voice. "Is that because of me? Was it the scene? Or was it what you were doing just now, thinking about me?"
"Everything," you confess, and the words come out in fragments, between moans. "The scene, you, what I was doing… everything."
He pushes in a second finger, and you feel the stretch, the fullness. His fingers are longer than yours, thicker, and they find a spot inside you that makes your legs shake. His mouth goes back to your clit, his tongue pressing, sucking, while his fingers move inside you in a rhythm that's exactly like the simulation from the scene, only better, because it's real, because there's no fabric between you, because you can feel the heat of his mouth, the rough texture of his tongue, the way he moans against you like he's devouring you.
"Your cunt is perfect," he says, and the word sounds obscene coming from his mouth, erotic. "Sweet. Tight. I could stay here forever."
You grab his wig — the platinum lace front that's supposed to be Aerion, but now it's just Finn, because Finn is the one on his knees between your legs, Finn is the one with his fingers buried inside you, Finn is the one taking you to the edge with his mouth and hands. Your fingers tangle in the synthetic strands, pulling, and he moans — a low, guttural sound that vibrates against your cunt.
"Pull harder," he says, and his eyes meet yours over your belly. "Make it hurt. I want to feel it tomorrow."
You pull, and the wig slips a little, revealing his dark hair underneath. The sight is strangely intimate — the character coming undone, the man showing through underneath. You pull again, and he lets out a moan that's almost a growl, and his fingers inside you speed up, his mouth presses harder.
"I'm close," you warn, and your voice is more desperate now. "Finn, I'm going to…"
"Go," he orders against you. "Come in my mouth. I want to feel you fall apart."
The orgasm comes, building slow and then sudden, violent. Your body arches in the chair, your back lifting off the rest, your head thrown back. A moan tears from your throat — too loud, too obscene — and you feel your muscles clenching around his fingers, feel the hot wetness running down your vulva, feel his tongue licking up every drop, every spasm, every tremor.
He doesn't stop. His mouth keeps going, softer now, licking you through the orgasm, prolonging each wave of pleasure until you're so sensitive that any touch is almost pain. Only then does he pull back, his lips shining, his chin wet.
"Get up," he says, and his voice is as hoarse as yours. "Get on the chair. I want you sitting in my lap."
You obey because your body's so limp you can't do anything else. He stands up, and you see his robe — his erection pressing against the fluffy fabric, so obvious it hurts to look at. He sits in the chair you just vacated, pulls you into his lap, and you feel his cock against your cunt through the robe — hot, hard, so close.
"I want you," he murmurs, and his hands grip your hips, grinding you against him. "I want to feel you. But not here. Not now. Not like this."
You moan in frustration, your hips moving against him in a slow, unconscious rhythm.
"Then how?" you ask.
"With your mouth," he answers, and there's something in his voice that's more Aerion than Finn. "I want you on your knees. I want to feel your mouth on me. But I don't want you to pretend. I want you to want it."
You slide from his lap to the floor, your knees meeting the cold stone where his were just moments ago. Your face is level with his waist, and your hands find the knot of his robe, untying it with trembling fingers.
The robe falls open, and you see.
His cock is beautiful — there's no other word. Thick, slightly curved upward, the head pink and glistening with pre-come. There's dark hair at the base, and you want to bury your face there, want to smell him, taste him, everything.
"Touch it," he says, and his voice is so vulnerable all of a sudden, so little like Aerion. "Please."
Your hand wraps around the base, and he moans — a low, rough sound that makes your stomach flip. You slide your hand up, slow, feeling the texture of his skin, the heat, the wetness at the tip. Your thumb rubs the pre-come, spreading it over the head, and he throws his head back, eyes closed.
"Like that," he whispers. "Exactly like that."
You lean in and run your tongue over the tip.
The taste is salty, slightly bitter, strangely addictive. You lick again, slower, and he moans louder, his hands gripping the arms of the chair like he needs the support.
"Your mouth," he murmurs, and his eyes open, meeting yours. "Your mouth is a sin."
You smile against him — a small, wicked smile — and then you take him in your lips, sliding over the head, feeling the pressure against your tongue. He's big, thicker than your fingers, and you have to relax your jaw to fit him.
"Really slow," he says, and his hand finds your hair, not pushing, just resting there. "You set the pace."
But you don't want the pace. You want what he did to you — total surrender, the loss of control. So you slide deeper, feeling the head of his cock hit the back of your throat, and your eyes water, and your body fights the gag, but you don't stop.
"Fuck," he growls, and his grip slips. His fingers curl in your hair and he pulls. "Like that. Exactly like that."
You start to move, your head bobbing up and down, your tongue pressing against the underside of his cock with every motion. Then you look up. His eyes are dark, his pupils blown wide, and there's a flush on his neck that climbs to his cheeks. He's biting his lower lip, and you see the moment his control finally breaks.
"I need to," he says, and his voice is broken. "I need to… please, let me…"
You nod your head as best you can with your mouth full.
He thrusts his hips.
It's a small movement at first, almost shy, like he's testing. His cock slides deeper into your throat, and you feel the gag rise, but you don't want to stop. He thrusts again, a little harder, and your eyes water, and you swallow around him, and the moan he lets out is so loud you're sure someone outside must have heard.
"Like that," he groans, and now his rhythm's faster, his hips pushing against your face in a movement that's almost brutal, almost desperate. "Like that, like that, like that…"
You relax your throat, open your mouth wider, and let him. Let him use you. Let him drown in the heat of your mouth, the tightness of your throat, the way your tongue presses against him with every thrust.
"I'm going to come," he warns, and his voice is so close to the edge, so close to breaking. "Where do you want it?"
You don't answer with words. Instead, you slide your hand up the base of his cock, squeezing gently, and moan — a low sound that vibrates through him.
That's enough.
His body tenses, his hips pushing one last time, deeper than before. You feel the hot rush at the back of your throat, feel the salty, bitter taste spreading through your mouth, and you swallow, keep swallowing, while he shakes above you, his hands now loose in your hair, his breath coming in sobs.
You pull away slowly, your mouth still wet, your eyes still watering. You wipe your lips with the back of your hand, and the gesture is so mundane, so human, it contrasts with everything that just happened.
Finn's looking at you with an expression you've never seen before. It's not Aerion, all pose and arrogance. It's not Finn, the professional actor, polite and distant. It's something in between — a man who's just been unmade by you, who's just given himself over.
"Come here," he murmurs, and pulls you into his lap.
You go without resistance, feeling his cock now soft against your thigh, his robe all dishevelled, the sweat on his forehead.
"You're incredible," he murmurs, and his fingers trace a slow path from your waist to your neck, stopping at your jaw, tilting your face so he can kiss you.
The kiss is different from the ones you've shared on set. There, it was choreographed, measured, professional. Here, it's uncoordinated and deep, your tongues meeting with an urgency bordering on desperation. You taste yourself in his mouth — the salty, slightly sour taste of your own orgasm — and your lower belly clenches in response.
"Finn," you whisper against his lips, and the name is a question.
He understands.
"No," he answers, and his hand drops to your hip, squeezing. "We're not stopping. Not yet."
"But the crew…"
"We've got time." He bites your lower lip, a gentle tug that makes your eyes roll back. "An hour, remember? And it's only been…" He glances at the clock on the wall — a thing that doesn't even work properly — and laughs. "I've no idea, but we've got time."
You want to believe that. You want to believe you can stay here, in his lap, with your makeup smudged and your wig askew and your body still trembling from the orgasm he gave you, and just… exist. But there's something burning inside you that's hunger, it's need, it's the demand for more.
"I want you in a certain way," you begin, and your voice comes out steadier than you expected. "Not the way we just did. The way I imagined."
His eyes darken.
"What way?"
You get up from his lap, and he lets you, his eyes glued to every move you make. You walk to the centre of the dressing room, where the small sofa sits against the wall opposite the mirror. It's a simple piece, upholstered in grey velvet, with wide arms and a low back — nothing luxurious, but functional. You sit down on it, your back straight, your legs open, your arms resting along the back on either side.
"As Aerion," you say. "Rough, cruel, but still being you."
Finn stays still for a second, just watching.
"Are you sure?" he asks, but you don't answer.
He hesitates for another second, his pale eyes searching your face for any sign of doubt. And then, slowly, something in him shifts. His shoulders straighten. His chin lifts. His eyes — God, his eyes — lose that human vulnerability and fill with something far more dangerous.
Aerion Brightflame is standing before you.
Your body responds before your brain processes it. A shiver runs up your spine, and your nipples harden, and you feel a fresh wave of wetness between your legs.
He walks toward you. Each step is slow, the soles of his feet — he's barefoot, you realise now, his feet broad and his toes long — pressing against the floor with a feline stillness. The robe is open, revealing his chest, his stomach, the line of dark hair that runs from his belly down to his waist.
He stops in front of you, so close you can feel the heat of his body. His hand rises and grips your chin, forcing you to look up.
"You teased me," he says, and his fingers tighten, firm enough to hurt. "On set. With your moans. With the way you looked at me. You knew what you were doing."
It's not a question. You shake your head as little as possible, your eyes fixed on his.
"Yes, my prince."
"And now?" His hand drops to your neck, his fingers wrapping around your throat in a gesture that doesn't squeeze — not yet — but promises to. "Now you're going to pretend you don't want it? That it was just acting?"
You swallow hard, feeling his fingers against your windpipe.
"I want it," you whisper. "I want everything you want to give me."
"Everything?" He repeats the word as if he's savouring it. "You don't know what you're asking for."
He pushes you back against the sofa. It's not a violent movement — it's precise, controlled, his shoulders blocking any attempt at escape. One hand is still on your neck; the other drops to your waist, his fingers hooking onto your hip bone.
"Lie down," he orders. "On your back."
You obey, your back meeting the cool velvet of the sofa. He positions himself over you, his knees either side of your hips, his weight resting on his forearms. His cock is hard again.
You lift your hips, and the cool air of the dressing room kisses your exposed cunt. You're so wet you can feel the fluid dripping down your thigh, leaving a damp trail on the velvet of the sofa.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, and for a second, Finn shows through underneath Aerion. "You're so beautiful."
But then the moment passes, and he leans in, his mouth finding your neck with a ferocity that makes you moan. He bites — but with teeth, with intent — leaving marks no makeup artist will be able to hide.
"Finn," you moan, and the name escapes before you can think.
"Wrong," he growls against your skin.
"Aerion," you correct.
"Better."
His mouth travels down to your breasts, his lips latching onto one nipple while his hand squeezes the other. He's not gentle — he pulls, bites, sucks with an intensity bordering on pain — and your body arches against his, your hips lifting in search of contact.
"Please," you beg, and you don't even know what you're asking for anymore. "Please, Aerion, please…"
He pulls back, leaving your nipples sore and wet, and sits down on the sofa, pulling you into his lap.
"You want to ride me?" he asks, and the suggestion is obscene. "You want to sit on a dragon's cock?"
You don't answer with words. Instead, you position yourself over him, your knees either side of his hips, your cunt pressing against the base of his cock. You're so wet you slide without effort, the head of his cock brushing against your entrance, and you both moan at the same time.
"Ride," he orders, and his hands grip your hips. "But I'm not going to let you come. Not until I say so."
You sink down onto him, slow, feeling every inch of his cock filling you. He's thicker than your fingers, thicker than any toy you've ever used, and the stretch is almost painful, but the pleasure is greater — a warm wave spreading from your centre through your whole body.
"Fuck," he groans, and his control slips for a second. "You're so tight. So hot."
You start to move, your hips rising and falling slowly. His cock slides out almost completely, then back in, each thrust deeper than the last. Your hands find his shoulders for support, and you throw your head back, your eyes closed, just feeling.
"Look at me," he orders.
You obey, your eyes meeting his. They're dark, almost black, his pupils blown so wide they've swallowed most of the pale iris.
"Faster," he says, and his hands squeeze your hips, guiding your rhythm. "I want to feel you bouncing on me."
You speed up, your movements growing more erratic, more desperate. Each downward stroke drives his cock deep into you, and you feel the pleasure building — slow at first, then faster. You're so close. So close.
"Stop," he orders.
What?
"Stop," he repeats, and his hands grip your hips, stopping your movement.
You freeze, his cock buried inside you, your breath coming in gasps. The orgasm was seconds away, and now it retreats, leaving you with a feeling of emptiness, of almost, of frustration. You feel your cunt clenching, begging to get there.
"I said I wouldn't let you," he reminds you, and there's a smile at the corner of his mouth. "Not yet."
You groan in frustration, your hips trying to move against his hands.
"Please," you beg. "Please, Aerion, I need…"
"What you need," he interrupts, "is to learn patience."
He lifts you off him, his cock sliding out of you with a wet sound that makes your face burn, and turns you around so you're facing away from him. Your belly meets the velvet of the sofa, your breasts pressing into the upholstery, and you feel his hands on your hips, pulling you back.
"On all fours," he orders.
You position yourself, your knees on the sofa, your hands braced on the arm. The mirror is in front of you — you can see yourself, can see the image the two of you make: you on all fours, your silver wig askew, your makeup smudged, your body covered in marks; him behind you, his robe open, his cock hard and slick with wetness, his eyes fixed on your exposed cunt.
"Look," he orders, and his hand grabs your hair, pulling your head back so you've no choice but to stare at the reflection. "Look at what you do to me."
You look. You see your wide eyes, your open mouth, your breasts swaying with every breath. You see him behind you, his body tense, the muscles of his stomach clenched, the expression on his face a mixture of desire and hunger and something darker.
"You're mine now," he says, brushing your cunt with the tip of his cock. "Tonight. This hour. Whatever happens tomorrow, right now you're mine."
Suddenly, he moves his cock up to your arse. You feel your body shiver; you press yourself harder against him, trying to beg him to shove his whole cock inside you, to explore both your holes, to make you feel like he's fucked you entirely.
"You like that?" he asks, brushing his cock against your arsehole, pressing the head against your opening. "You want me to go in there?"
You do, but there wasn't time for that — you'd need patience, you'd need to be relaxed — but all you want is for him to fuck you.
He settles himself with his cock at your arsehole, pressing just enough for you to let out a little squeak when a tiny bit of his tip threatens to enter, when you clench and then relax, wanting to receive him.
Then he lowers himself to your cunt and pushes, and his cock enters you all at once.
The moan you let out is so loud it echoes in the small dressing room. He's deeper like this, on all fours, hitting an angle that makes your legs tremble. He starts moving immediately, his hips slapping against your arse, exactly as you asked.
"Like that," you moan, the words coming out in fragments. "Like that, like that, like that…"
One hand grips your hip; the other drops down and finds your clit, his fingers pressing in circles that match the rhythm of his thrusts. The pleasure comes back, faster now, building from where it left off.
"You're close," he observes, and it's not a question.
"Yes," you confess, your voice broken. "Yes, please, let me…"
"No."
He feels you clench around him, and then he pulls his cock out of you quickly, shoving three fingers into your cunt all at once, masturbating you fast, making you grip the sofa and moan without being able to stop yourself. You feel a pressure in your lower belly, and then when you push, you squirt, gushing as his fingers slip out, and he slaps your cunt.
"There," he appreciates, and shoves his fingers back in. "All of that for me?"
You nod, and a few seconds later he pulls his fingers out again and you squirt again, receiving another slap to your cunt. Then he shoves his cock inside you, and when he feels you're almost there, his hand on your clit stops. His hips stop too, his cock buried inside you, motionless. You want to cry from frustration. Your body is shaking, your muscles clenching around him, begging for the orgasm he keeps denying you.
"Why are you doing this?" you ask, and your voice comes out weaker than you'd like.
"Because I can," he answers, and there's something wrong with his smile in the mirror. "Because you asked me to be rough. And because…" He leans in, his mouth finding your ear, his breath hot against your skin. "Because when I finally let you, you won't remember your own name."
He starts moving again, slower this time, each thrust deep and deliberate. His hand returns to your clit, but the movements are soft, almost teasing, bringing you to the edge over and over without ever letting you go over.
"Please," you beg, and you've lost count of how many times you've said that word. "Please, I can't take any more."
"Yes you can," he answers, and his voice is shaking — he's at his limit too, you realise. He's holding back too. "A bit longer. Hold on a bit longer."
He speeds up, his hips slamming into you with a force that makes the sofa creak. Your vision blurs, and you grip the arm of the sofa so hard your knuckles go white.
"Now," he orders, and his hand on your clit presses firmly. "Now, now, now…"
Your body arches, your back curving, your head thrown back. A scream tears from your throat — his name, Finn or Aerion or both — and you feel your muscles clenching around his cock, once, twice, three times, each clench stronger than the last.
He keeps moving, guiding you through the orgasm, and when the waves finally start to ease, he buries his face in your neck and groans.
"Where do you want it?"
"Inside," you answer, without thinking. "I want to feel it."
He obeys. His body tenses, his fingers digging hard into your hips, and you feel the hot rush inside you, filling you in a way no performance ever could.
For a long moment, no one moves.
His breath is warm against the back of your neck, his body heavy on yours. You feel his cock softening inside you, feel the fluid dripping down your thigh, feel every place where his body touches yours.
"Finn," you whisper.
"I'm here," he answers, and his voice is his now, only his, with no trace of Aerion. "I'm here."
He pulls back slowly, his cock slipping out of you with a wet sound. You feel the loss immediately — an emptiness that's both physical and emotional. He turns you over, pulling you into his lap, and you go without resistance.
The mirror is still in front of you, but you can't look. You can't face the sight of what the two of you have become: the smudged makeup, the marks on your skin, the fluid running down your thighs.
"Look," he says softly, and his hand finds your chin, guiding your face toward the mirror. "It couldn't have been better."
You look. And for the first time, you don't feel ashamed.
You see a woman who was desired. You see a man who desired her back.
"Are you alright?" he asks, and the concern in his eyes is genuine.
You nod, unable to form words.
He holds you tighter, his face buried in your hair. And for a long time, you just stay there — two naked bodies, sweaty, exhausted, curled into each other on the small sofa in a dressing room.
"We need to clean up," he murmurs after a few minutes. "The crew'll be back."
You laugh, almost hysterical.
"How?" you ask. "How are we going to explain this?"
He pulls back just enough to look at your face.
"We don't explain," he answers. "We just… go back to set. Finish the takes. And then…" He hesitates. "Then we talk. If you want to."
"I want to," you answer, before you can think. "I want to talk."
His smile widens, and he kisses you — almost chaste, so different from everything that came before.
"Come on," he says, pulling you to your feet. "There's a sink over there. And towels. We'll manage."
You follow him to the little sink in the corner of the dressing room, and together, you clean each other. He takes a towel and wets it, running it gently between your legs, and you do the same for him.
When you're done, you look in the mirror again. The marks are all on show — bites, scratches, purple fingerprints on your hips. Your makeup is completely ruined.
"It'll hurt tomorrow," he comments, touching one of the marks on your neck.
He smiles, and you feel your heart tighten.
Outside the door, you hear the crew coming back, the production assistants calling the actors back to set. The real world is out there, waiting, with its cameras and its reflectors and its script that needs to be finished.
"Ready?" Finn asks.
"Ready," you lie.
He opens the door, and the two of you step out into the corridor, his hand finding yours for a second before letting go.
not you, never you - Aerion Targaryen x Reader (18+)
summary - after a failed assassination, Aerion finds him unable to insatiable as the small realisation that he loves you hits him.
warnings - violence (blood), pinv, Aerion, smut.
Everything was louder in the Red Keep. Not just the incessant footsteps of the servants and guards, but the distant bustling of the smallfolk. You and Aerion planned to spend most of the year at Summerhall. You hadn’t visited yet, but just the name inspired calm in you. The Red Keep, on the other hand, set your bones on edge. You could barely sit down for more than an hour before needing to rise.
Aerion had left you over an hour ago to attend a small council meeting. Your husband, you had learnt, was full of rules. Instructions to follow and punishments if you broke them. Your thoughts drifted back to when you weren’t waiting in the baths for him after a joust. He had found you chattering with one of your ladies after nearly an hour of searching.
You had felt him before you saw him. He didn’t acknowledge you, nor apologise for the intrusion. He simply wrapped a taut arm around your waist and guided you to your rooms. You had earned two dozen spanks for that and were denied your peak for days.
“Lick your false tears, wife. I’m not done with you yet.”
You jumped from your bed at the memory. No, this will not do.
You crossed the room, taking your needlework in hand. You had been making a small trinket for Aerion to take into battle. The three-headed dragon was coming to fruition. You only had one more head to complete before it was done. Whilst Aerion was not a great appreciator of the womanly arts, you knew he would adore this symbol of your love, not only for him but for his house.
You didn’t hear the door open, nor see the shadow of the man slip into the room. The single moment that saved you was when he knocked one of Aerion’s daggers to the floor. You smiled, turning. You expected to see your husband, stone-faced but proud to find you where he left you.
Instead, a man clad in black approached with a dagger in hand. You managed a single scream before he grabbed you. Your body, despite itself, seized for a moment. Everything slowed as you saw the man draw the blade up. You don’t know what brought you back to your senses.
You brought your chin down and bit into the man’s arm. Iron filled your mouth as he cried out. His grip loosened and you knew you didn’t have much time. You hadn’t dropped your needle, and you gripped it as if it were a blade. Twisting, you brought your hand down with full force, the needle penetrating the assassin’s eye. It was then you screamed.
The next few minutes were a blur. A chain of guards flooded the room and hoisted the man up and out. Blood stained your hands. You couldn’t look up, because then you would see the blood that painted your floors, the ruined handkerchief. You shivered, you willed yourself to stop, but your body would not obey. It was midsummer and still you couldn’t stop the chill that clawed at you.
The next set of footsteps in your rooms sent you scrambling onto your bed, and under your sheets.
The nets obscured your view, and though you wanted to see who was out there, it was as if your bones had atrophied. Then the nets parted and Aerion peered through.
His eyes, usually set in distaste, softened as they bore into you. He took one look at your huddled, shivering frame before stepping back from the bedframe.
“Wait,” you whispered.
You hadn’t thought he’d heard you. There was so much movement around you, but then he was there again.
Aerion climbed slowly onto the bed, closing the space between you. “There you are.” Aerion brought his face to your neck, your scent a reassurance that you were still there, flesh and bone. “I am going to skin him.” His voice was dry, charred but alive, the way you imagined a dragon made flesh would be.
You expected nothing less. You knew that the Brightflame would do much worse than skin your would-be assassin, but you clung to him, and Aerion, despite himself, didn’t move.
In his fist was something crumpled, and you unfurled it. It was your handkerchief. The assassin’s blood had ruined it, except for a small white patch where the dragon’s heads sat. “I’m sorry, my prince.”
“Why?”
“The handkerchief.” You sobbed, worried he would laugh at you. “I made it for your next joust, so you could carry me with you.”
You braced yourself for his curt laugh, but it never came. He simply looked down at the handkerchief before bringing it to his face. “This cloth was made by you, fire and blood. Do not feel shame for defending yourself. I should have been here.”
“It isn’t your fault.”
“I know. Yet, I was not here.”
A silence fell between you. You let your head fall upon his shoulder, and he pressed his nose to your cheek. Then his hands were on your back, and yours were on his face. You don’t know who kissed whom first, but it was fast and heavy. There was nothing simple about being with Aerion Targaryen, and that included kissing. He nipped at your lips, curled your tongue into submission, and you took it because you needed it.
“I’m going to wipe any trace of that thing off you. It will be as if he never laid eyes on you, my wife. Would you like that?”
Your answer didn’t come in words but in actions. Death had been at your doorstep, and you needed this. Needed him. To feel alive.
When you managed to extricate yourself from your husband’s embrace, you rose onto your knees, hiking your dress up. You didn’t have the energy to take it off, to be bare right now. Aerion’s fingers met the small of your back, tracing your spine to the top of your arse. He flipped you until you were on your back and he was above you.
It was a rarity, but when Aerion leaned down and kissed your lips there was no rush, almost no lust to it. Need and lust were not the same and that realisation struck you in that moment
A gasp escaped you and Aerion used the opportunity to slip his thumb into your mouth.
There was fumbling at his breeches, and then you felt him, hot and heavy at your entrance. When he entered you, you moaned around his finger and he almost whimpered in your ear.
Your sex was never silent. Aerion always had something to say, but now the only sounds that filled your chambers were your joint moans.
Somehow you forced your eyes open and found Aerion staring down at you. It was mesmerising, the way his pupil swallowed his iris, as if you were all he could see.
“You will go where I go. I will test your meals, check your horse before you ride. You will never be alone again,” Aerion spat against your ear.
The words held something you had never heard in Aerion before. Fear.
It made you tighten around him, your reluctance to let him go visceral. He rutted against you as you both reached your peaks.
When you both came, he kissed you, his spit and tears mixing with yours, becoming one as you were in marriage.
He didn’t withdraw straight away. He waited until he softened and slipped from you naturally.
It made your blood rush to your face but Aerion began to move, you gripped him so tightly you feared you would break skin.
Aerion didn't wince, nor draw away. Instead, he brought your face before his, holding you softly even as his arms tensed. “I told you, I’m not going anywhere. I will feed that peasant to the dragons tomorrow, but for now…” Aerion tapped his chest.
Your body eased and you lowered your head to him. Only then did you see that in his clenched fist was your handkerchief, crumpled and stained, yet he hadn’t let go of it. Not once.
Aerion didn’t fall asleep until you did, and even then it was a labour.
a dragon in human form - aerion targaryen x reader (18+)
Summary: After Aerion’s attempt to bring the dragons back fails, his wife finds a way to soothe his wounded pride—while he’s on top of her.
(the dragon nought never lose and all that jazz)
Tags: explicit sexual content, blood/ritual injury, power imbalance, emotional manipulation, obsession
“It didn’t work.”
You stilled, turning slowly. The curtains around your bed obscured the figure at the door, but as your eyes came into focus you saw him. At the door of your chambers stood your husband, Aerion Targaryen.
If you only looked into his eyes, you would think nothing was wrong—then your eyes fell to his cheek.
Dried blood stained them, his arms cut open like a ladder.
You rose to your feet, moving to close the space between you, but your husband threw his hands up.
“Don’t come closer.”
You had gone past the point of being afraid of Aerion a long time ago, but something in his tone stuck. You halted midway to him.
“What happened, my Dragon?” you asked.
Panic rippled through your body as you examined the cuts along his arms and legs, the way his blood permeated his short-sleeve tunic. You walked back to the bed, seating yourself on it.
“Join me, husband,” you whispered.
For all he was worth, Aerion didn’t apologise for who he was. He swanned across the room, seating himself on the bed beside you, not even offering to bathe and dress his cuts. Your long curls had come loose and sat like a crown around your face.
“I was in the dragonpit. I had found a book about a ritual—supposedly the one our ancestors used to bring the dragons into the world.”
Your mind was working slower than you wished it to due to the time of night, but slowly you began piecing the chain of events together. “Is that where you’ve been, all these nights?”
Since a month after your wedding, your husband had been disappearing from your chambers in the middle of the night. Aerion wasn’t one for subtleties, but you had never once woken from his midnight walks. When you would eventually wake and find him gone, you had assumed that he had found his way to some brothel, that you were not pleasing him.
Aerion glared at your face, taking in your silver of your eyes and coils. “It is my duty. Just as much as we must bear an heir, I must—will become what we have lost.”
You nodded. “A dragon?”
Aerion bared his teeth, sharp and white. “I see them in my dreams. You atop Dreamfyre, and I on Balerion.”
You knew that if you didn’t divert his attention now, you’d be up all night listening to his delusions of grandeur, no matter how noble they may be. Instead, you scooted across to him, twirling a lock of his hair in your hands.
“Why don’t I show you what it is like to ride a real dragon, huh? Unless you are too busy with blood rituals to please your wife?”
Aerion looked down at you before smiling a toothy grin, as if he would leap on top of you then and consume you like a real dragon would. He loved a challenge, thrived on it, so all he did was lay back and point to his trousers.
You did as commanded, untying the lace on his trousers and only pulling them down slightly to release his cock.
You could feel saliva filling your mouth as you took in the red tip, angry and impatient. His shaft stood at full mast, the vein you so loved begging for attention.
“You’ve been thinking about this, husband?”
Aerion let out a dry laugh. “Yes, you are the primary factor, but the blood. The wounds pain me not, wife—quite the opposite.”
“I see.”
You had not been married but a year, but it still surprised you to learn new things about your husband. You sat yourself between his legs before bending over and taking his cock into your mouth. It was muscle memory, your tongue going straight to that thick vein. Aerion let out a deep groan before thrusting deep into your mouth.
You had learned not to gag early, or else he would give you something to gag about. It was less of you taking him now, and more of him taking—conquering your throat. You opened your mouth to him, a willing host. He swung his hips in a small circular motion, exploring every crevice of your mouth before pulling out and trying a slightly different variation. A motion that sent a wave of heat straight to your legs.
“Deeper, little wife,” Aerion spat, reaching for the back of your throat.
You barely had time to open up before he thrust deeper than before. This time you did gag, and it seemed to please him, because when he released you for air, a smile riddled his face.
“Good. Now get atop.”
You hadn’t realised how wet you were until you positioned yourself on top of him. You ran your fingers over your pussy, spreading your juice over your fingers. When you looked up, Aerion seemed mesmerised.
“Would you like some, my dragon?” you asked, offering your fingers.
Aerion didn’t answer, instead taking your fingers into his mouth and licking you clean of your juices.
“My wife. A moaning whore with her husband—who would have thought?”
Barely a moment had passed before Aerion thrust into you the way you’d coax a horse into action.
Your head fell back as a moan escaped your hips. “Husband, you feel so fucking good.”
It seemed like in bed you were in a perpetual state of begging, even when your husband was giving you exactly what you wanted. A series of “please” fell from your lips as he reshaped you in his image.
“Such a good little rider,” Aerion moaned.
From the flagrant manner of his thrusts, you knew Aerion was close, and you tightened yourself around him for good measure.
He placed a hand on your waist and flipped you onto your back. A small scream left you as you fell. Somehow he managed to stay inside of you, continuing to fuck you with abandon. You’d never admit it to him, but you loved looking into Aerion’s eyes as he fucked you, as he made you his night after night. Eye contact was a must for him, if you wanted to avoid a spanking.
“Bite me here,” Aerion said, pointing to his shoulder blade.
“Aerion?” As you looked into his violet eyes, you knew it wasn’t up for debate. He needed it as he needed you.
You leaned forward and pressed your incisors into his shoulder. A small pained moan left his throat before it became louder, filling the room. You didn’t know how it was possible, but you felt his cock swell, and you came around it—around him.
His release was extended and violent as he thrust you into the sheets. Sweat, yours and his, coated your body as your husband withdrew from you slowly. Though your eyesight was blurry in the delirium, you could see the bite mark you left in his shoulder. Aerion followed your gaze, smiling at the wound.
“You really are quite the dragon.”
Aerion turned you onto your side. He wasn’t one to dote on you after the act, but as he lay beside you, you felt his fingers make their way into your hair, undoing any tangles the act may have caused. Your shoulders relaxed—you didn’t even realise they were tight—and you folded yourself against him.
Beside him, under his watchful gaze, you felt yourself falling asleep. You may have misheard—infact, you probably did—but you could have sworn you heard Aerion whisper,
“Sleep well. You’ll need all your energy for when we wake the dragons.”
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