synopsis: you can't seem to get yourself off while michael's away on tour. so when he finally comes home, he decides to teach you himself (w/ the help of a mirror and a v hands-on lesson :p)
cw: smut, fingering (f!receiving), mirror sex (?), squirting, praise kink, teasing, size kink (lil tiny bit), dirty talk, hand kink, guided masturbation, established relationship, soft dom!michael, kinda nasty (oopsies)
the drapes of michael’s bedroom were drawn tight, sealing out the bright afternoon sun and leaving the space wrapped in a warm glow.
michael was finally home.
for months, he had belonged to the world, traveling from city to city, living out of hotel rooms that all blurred together, and spending night after night giving everything to the blinding stadium lights.
and for months, you had been left with nothing but long-distance phone calls.
you had lost count of how many nights you spent curled up in bed with the receiver pressed tightly against your ear, listening to his soft, rhythmic breathing long after the conversation had run out of words.
you missed him with a desperation that physically ached – and unfortunately, he had found out exactly how much a few nights ago.
it had happened sometime after midnight.
you were exhausted, half-asleep, and michael had been teasing you in that low, sleepy murmur of his.
before your defenses could catch up, you had admitted it.
you confessed that you’d tried getting yourself off while he was away, but it never worked.
it didn't feel the way his hands did.
without him there, you couldn't get yourself over the edge, and every single attempt while he was away had left you burning and frustrated.
michael let out a soft, breathless laugh.
"yeah?" he had murmured, his voice dropping lower, sending a shiver straight down your spine. "poor thing..." his voice softened. "i miss you so much. i hate bein' away from you."
you could hear the smile in his voice when he spoke again.
“tell you what… i’ll just have to teach you when i get home.”
by the time the call ended, the tone for his return had been set.
which was exactly how you ended up here.
you were sitting on the floor right between his legs, positioned directly in front of the full-length mirror across from his bed. your shorts and panties were gone, leaving you completely exposed to the reflective glass.
your back rested flush against his chest while his long legs stretched around either side of you, keeping your thighs spread wide so you couldn't close them if you tried. one of his arms was looped loosely around your waist, keeping you tucked securely against the heavy, throbbing hardness straining against his pants.
with only a skimpy pink tank top on, michael had you blushing and writhing in front of the mirror without even laying a finger on you yet.
you felt so exposed, so vulnerable, your chest rising and falling rapidly under the thin cotton of your top.
"mm, look at you." he caught his lower lip between his teeth, shaking his head slightly. "so pretty f’me," he murmured, his head tilted down so he could speak right against your ear.
heat rushed to your face. you turned your head away from the mirror, burying the side of your face against his chest instead.
you couldn't bear to look at your own reflection while michael sat behind you, whispering things like that into your ear.
"c'mon, be a good girl 'n look for me." one of the hands around your waist slid up your chest to grab ahold of your chin, turning it gently to bring your eyes back to the mirror. his other hand tickled at the skin below your navel, sending waves of goosebumps.
"'s embarrassing," you whined, your gaze drifting down to the plush carpet below you.
michael pressed a gentle, lingering kiss to your hair. "no 's not, sweet girl. 's to help teach you." his fingers trailed lower, the heat of his palm brushing your bare thighs.
"that's all y'gotta do. just watch."
in the reflection of the glass, your eyes were drawn to the sight of his hand against your body.
michael’s hands alone stirred something inside of you.
the sheer size of them made your stomach flip with a heavy, restless ache. his palms were broad, and his fingers were long and slender.
as his hand hovered over your center, you could see the faint lines of his knuckles and the subtle swell of the veins tracing down the back of his hand.
they were large enough to completely span your hip, yet precise enough to know exactly how to ruin you.
the hand against your stomach slid a little lower, teasing just above your clit. "'m not always gonna be here to do it for you."
you knew that. you knew that michael wouldn't always be around to take care of you like this. not with the second leg of the tour right around the corner.
so, you let your eyes skim over the floor, slowly inching up the glass of the mirror.
"that's my girl," he whispered, his voice soft against your ear. "if you take your eyes off yourself... i'll stop."
you were both aching with anticipation.
every nerve in your body felt wound tight. the promise hanging between you, the warmth of his body at your back, the sound of his voice against your ear – it all left you so worked up.
you wanted him to finger you the way you needed until you were cumming around his fingers.
you needed that release from him so badly.
and michael was desperate to have you squirming in his grasp, choking out moans for him as you gushed all over his fingers.
his fingers brushed over your clit softly, circling it slowly.
he could hear your breath hitch, your much smaller hands coming to the forearm that still had a hold on your chin.
you were so sensitive, all fidgety in front of him, your body growing even hotter at his touch.
"mikey–" you spoke no louder than a whisper, just enough for him to hear you.
he let his hand slip from your chin, his fingers sliding smoothly down to the bottom hem of your pink top, his palm cupping the soft underside of your right breast. you jerked a little at the sensation, your nipple instantly hardening under his palm.
"this okay, sweet girl?" he murmured. his low voice brushing so close that you can feel the slight curve of a smirk against your ear.
you nodded quickly, your chest heaving as you bit your bottom lip between your teeth to stifle a desperate whine.
but with his hand off your chin, your head dropped forward, your eyes instantly darting downward to watch his other hand hovering over your thighs.
"head, baby," he said softly, his tone was gentle but left no room for argument.
you lifted your head, your cheek brushing against his jaw as you rested back on his shoulder. his hair tickled your cheek as you settled against him.
in the reflection, you watched his fingers slide down past your navel, dipping right into the slick arousal gathered between your thighs.
"look how wet you are,” he chuckled, sliding the tips of his fingers through your heat, spreading the slick moisture. his bottom lip caught briefly between his teeth before a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "this all for me?”
his words made your face and neck grow warm, crinkling your nose, your legs attempting to close. but his own legs were in the way, keeping them pinned wide open.
"michael, this is humiliating," you muttered, pressing yourself farther back against his chest like you were trying to escape.
you weren’t.
and you knew that.
you were too riled up.
too desperate for him to fill you.
"take a lick, sweetheart," he teased, bringing his hand away from your heat and up to your face.
you tucked your head into the crook of his neck, your eyes flicking toward his hand for just a second. in the dim light, you could see the creamy, glistening slick coating his fingertips.
when you finally forced your eyes upward to meet his in the mirror, your eyes were wide and dazed.
"be a good girl 'n get my fingers nice 'n wet for you," he mumbled, a tender smile playing on his lips as he looked down at you with heavy, dark eyes.
wrapping both of your hands around his wrist, you guided his fingers toward your mouth. your tongue brushed against them before you drew them in, tasting the faint trace of yourself still lingering on his skin.
you let them rest there for a moment, coating them with your saliva while his gaze stayed fixed on you. when he finally told you to open your mouth, you obeyed without hesitation. he carefully pulled his fingers free, a thin strand of saliva stretched between them and your tongue before finally breaking.
the spit dripped off his fingers, trailing down your stomach before his hand found its way back between your thighs. his fingertips were still warm from your mouth, damp as they brushed teasingly against your entrance.
michael felt your pussy flutter against his fingertips.
"god, baby–" he muttered, beginning to tease his middle finger inside, "look at that."
"see how pretty she is? squeezin' me like that?"
your hands returned to his forearm, digging your blunt nails into the skin as his hand palmed heavily at your breast.
"please, please," you mewled, your breath catching sharply in your throat as the slick tips of his fingers parted your entrance.
your voice was all shaky as he nudged his way inside. he eased in just a little more, letting you feel the stretch until he was two full knuckles deep.
you were so tight around him, your walls clamping down on his fingers like a vice. every shift of his hand sent a jolt straight through you, causing your body to pulse helplessly around his fingers.
"shit, 'can feel you, sweetheart," he gasped out, his breath stuttering against your ear.
once he slid his finger all the way to the hilt, he kept his hand still for a moment, letting your body adjust to the thick stretch of him.
with agonizingly gentle precision, he hooked his finger upward, curling it slightly against your gummy walls and pressing it right against your sweet spot.
the sudden pressure hit you like a wave, making you let out a high, broken whimper as your head shook back and forth against his shoulder.
"michael," you whimpered, your legs beginning to tremble where they were hooked over his own.
it was pathetic.
he was only a finger deep inside you, yet you were falling apart, crumbling into a shaking mess right in his arms.
the hand cupping your breast glided upwards, his fingers grazing lightly over your raised nipple right through the thin fabric of your top.
the hit of pleasure sent your head falling back against his collarbone. your back arched off the floor into his touch, your ass grinding back ruthlessly against the rigid length of his hard cock.
"need more, please," you begged with a breathy moan.
any lingering thought of watching the mirror or trying to memorize his movements for later completely evaporated from your mind.
it didn’t matter anymore.
you knew that never, ever, would you be able to replicate the pleasure he was making you feel right now.
he slowly drew his finger out of you, making you cry out from the friction, before sliding it right back in easily.
you were sucking him back in, begging for more.
he started with languid pumps of a single finger, murmuring dirty, breathless praises against your ear as you trembled and shook in his arms.
a delicious heat coiled in your stomach at an intensity you’d never felt before.
every moment had you wound up so tight. he had you on such an edge that you truly thought you would explode.
and as he pulled back out once more, he returned with another finger.
"oh my god." you gasped, your legs clamping tightly around his own.
michael could feel your stomach tense up as he filled you even more. he could feel your breathing grow ragged and the volume of your cries become careless.
every push of his knuckles against you was sloppy and loud. you were gushing around him, slick running down his long fingers to coat his knuckles and wrist.
"makin' such a mess," he teased. "you’re close, aren’t you, sweet thing?" his lips brushed against the damp skin of your neck, his breath warm against you.
"michael! i–i’m–" your mouth fell open as your legs kicked helplessly over his thighs.
his fingers pressed deeper, curling into a spot that made you gasp out a frantic, “y-yeah–”
he adjusted his angle, pressing harder into your sweet spot until it drew a sudden burst of wetness right out of you. your walls clamped down around his fingers, his cock pulsing against you in response. he kept working that exact spot, pumping another burst out of you as he groaned against your neck.
"right there?" he murmured. "right there makes you squirt? i know it feels good right there, baby." he didn't let up, his voice soft against your ear as your thighs shook.
"uh huh...yeah?" he coaxed. "yeah, that's it. cum f’me," he murmured.
the hand on your breast slid higher beneath the hem of your top to grab your chin, gently turning your face toward him.
before you could think, he was kissing you, deep and sloppy, swallowing every sound that escaped you.
it was overwhelming.
the coil inside you finally gave way, crashing through you all at once as you gushed all over his fingers and hand.
the sudden rush of fluid soaked his fingers and stained the carpet beneath you. you moaned into his mouth as he kissed you. your body spasmed in his arms, your ass grinding up against him helplessly as he rode through his own orgasm.
just from watching you, watching how your pretty little pussy squeezed his fingers and leaked all over his hand, michael let out a deep, strangled groan into the kiss. his body locked up behind yours as he came in thick, hot spurts, soaking through his underwear as his own climax hit him.
───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───
his hands r just ugh
its always so funny talking down here normally like i didn't write allat up there
ik i said i'd shorten it but this is the most i could do
requested by anon !!
the second the hotel room door clicked shut behind you, the entire night seemed to catch up to him at once.
jaafar let out a long breath, one hand reaching for the collar of his dress shirt while the other stayed planted on your waist.
the city lights outside spilled through the massive windows in blurred streaks of gold and white, reflecting softly against the marble countertops and dark furniture of the suite.
somewhere below, traffic moved in distant waves, muffled this high up. the air conditioning hummed quietly overhead, cool against your skin after hours spent in crowded rooms, camera flashes, and too many people.
but the room itself felt warm.
maybe because of him.
his suit jacket hung loose off one shoulder now, the fabric wrinkled from the car ride back and from your hands. his tie hung loose around his neck, completely undone, and the first few buttons of his shirt had come open at some point between the elevator and the room.
he looked too good.
you kicked your heels off near the door with a dull clack against the floor before looking back at him.
jaafar was already staring.
leaning against the edge of the dresser with one hand braced behind him, shirt slightly untucked, while his eyes followed you through the room with absolutely no shame.
his gaze dragged over you slowly as you crossed the room toward him, the silk fabric of your dress shifting softly against your skin with every step, catching the warm amber light spilling from the lamps beside the bed.
“stop looking at me like that,” you murmured.
a lazy grin pulled at the corner of his mouth.
“give me a reason to look anywhere else.”
you rolled your eyes, but the distance between you closed instantly as his hands slid around your waist, pulling you in. his palm felt warm through the thin fabric of your dress.
“see?” he whispered, his eyes dipping to your lips. “you can’t.”
your pulse quickened. it always did when he looked at you like this.
the expensive black dress shirt stretched across his chest as he leaned back against the dresser, sleeves rolled carelessly to his forearms.
his eyes looked darker than usual, heavy-lidded and intensely focused on you.
“you’re quiet,” he murmured after a moment.
your fingers drifted to the satin hanging around his collar, smoothing it between your fingers.
“so are you.”
a quiet breath left him through his nose before his eyes flicked back to your face.
“that’s because i’m trying very hard to behave.”
fighting a smile, you tilted your head slightly. “behave from what?”
amusement flickered across his face. “you know exactly what,” his voice had gone rough enough to send heat crawling down your spine.
you pretended to think for a second before narrowing your eyes at him dramatically.
“no,” you said thoughtfully. “i don’t think i do.”
jaafar just looked at you for a second, already fully aware you were messing with him.
you only smiled innocently back.
then his hands tightened around your waist before he pulled your hips flush against his.
and you felt it.
to say he was turned on would have been putting it lightly. you could feel the firm, demanding heat of him burning through his slacks.
“still confused?” he murmured.
your fingers stilled against the satin hanging loose around his neck. you didn’t answer right away. instead, you gave the ends of the fabric a slow, deliberate tug, bringing his face just inches from yours while a small, knowing smirk played on your lips.
jaafar studied your face for a second, his own grin fading into a look of cautious amusement.
“i know that look. you’re up to something.”
“maybe i am,” you hummed, flashing him an innocent smile before sliding your hand down to take his.
jaafar let you pull him away from the dresser with little resistance, following you over to the bed. he settled back against the headboard, one arm draped loosely over the pillows behind him as he watched you climb into his lap.
your dress rode higher against your thighs, the silk bunching slightly as your knees settled on either side of him. his hands found your hips again without hesitation.
you leaned in first, kissing him softly. both of your eyes fluttered shut almost immediately. the kiss stayed lazy at first – slow and unhurried. your lips moved against his, tongues brushing while jaafar kissed you back with a quiet eagerness that made warmth curl in your stomach.
you felt his fingers push into the supple skin of your waist as you kissed him harder, your hands sliding up his chest to grip at the collar of his shirt. it was intimate, wet, and slow like you were trying to coax each other to open up.
a quiet sound slipped from him at the feeling – soft and breathy.
your stomach tightened at that.
you loved watching his composure slip piece by piece whenever you touched him like this.
his hands drifted lower after, settling against the tops of your thighs while you shifted against him. the movement made your dress ride up further, until the only thing separating you and jaafar was his pants and your underwear. with one fluid motion, you shifted forward just enough that your center pressed flush against him.
his breath caught in his throat, fingers tightening at your waist. his hips pushed up without permission, grinding against you once – slow and filthy until the friction stole your own breath away.
jaafar caught your bottom lip with his teeth, nipping and tugging slightly, coaxing a breathy gasp from you. your hands slid down his chest just enough to gather the fabric of his shirt, gripping the collar tightly as your hips rose involuntarily into his grasp. his grip on your waist grew tighter, falling lower to hold the tops of your thighs. he pulled you even closer to him until you sat back completely on him, your weight resting against his hips.
you could feel him, hard and heavy, pressing directly into you.
you guided your kisses lower, mouth brushing the edge of his jaw.
his head tipped back slightly on instinct, exposing the long stretch of his throat to you like a silent invitation. and you accepted it.
you pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the sharp edge of his jaw, then another. his skin was hot. the second your lips met his skin, a low groan slipped from his throat.
your lips dragged along his jaw, your tongue flicking out to taste the warmth of his skin, the faint smell of his cologne clinging to his neck. he was so warm beneath you, his muscles tense, holding his breath like he was waiting to see if you'd stop.
you wouldn't, of course
you trailed lower, your mouth lingering on the smooth line of his throat. you pressed your lips wider against the sensitive skin just below his ear, sucking lightly just to feel him shudder beneath you.
you trailed the kisses lower, on his neck, down to his chest.
he rocked up again, a little more firmly this time. he was grinding you down now, hands tight on your waist, dragging you over the length of him like he needs the friction or he's going to lose it.
you bit your lip.
he was so hard already, it was ridiculous, and you were soaked. the damp material of your panties clung to your slit like a second skin, and with every slow grind, your clit caught just right on the thick ridge of him.
you felt dizzy.
drunk on the sensation.
your breath got stuck somewhere high in your chest, and all you can do was move with him – rolling your hips, letting him pull you back and forth over him.
“you feel…” jaafar groaned again, his eyes fluttering shut. his head dropped back onto the pillows as another roll of his hips met yours. “...god, you feel so good like this.”
your fingers gripped his collar. you were panting now, lips parted, flushed all the way to your chest.
your clit was throbbing, your thighs trembling.
all you were doing was rocking against him, barely more than dry humping, but even then, the friction was already too much.
you leaned in again, brushing you lips beneath his ear, and jaafar shuddered beneath you. his grip on your waist grew bruisingly firm, like he’s doing everything in his power to ground himself.
“feel that?” he mutters low against your shoulder, his breath ragged. “that’s what you do to me.”
you swallowed hard, head spinning. you couldn’t even bring yourself to answer.
you just leaned in again, kissing down the length of his throat while he kept rocking you, grinding you down like he’s trying to get you both off without taking a single layer of clothes off.
you couldn’t stop.
but you couldn’t let him keep setting the pace.
still catching your breath, you slid your palms down his arms, over the sleeves stretched across his biceps and along his exposed forearms, your fingertips skimming the faint veins beneath his skin.
he watched you with lips parted, chest heaving, his brows pulling together when you finally reached down and took him firmly by the wrists.
“what are you doing?” he murmured, his voice thick and rough.
you only leaned in to press a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth before pulling back.
your fingers found the satin tie hanging loose around his neck. the fabric felt cool and smooth against his skin as you wrapped it carefully around his wrists once… then twice.
jaafar looked down at his captured wrists, his mind finally putting two and two together. you could see the exact moment the haze vanished from his mind. when he looked back up, a hunger flared in his eyes, his gaze darkening completely as his chest began to rise and fall in a much slower, deeper rhythm.
“baby,” the word came out half-laugh, half-disbelief.
you tilted your head innocently. “what?”
“you can’t be serious,” he breathed.
your fingers slid along his wrists gently before guiding his arm backward toward the headboard. the hotel sheets rustled underneath him as he leaned back slightly to let you move him where you wanted. his eyes never left your face once.
the room felt quieter than before.
smaller somehow and more intimate.
you looped the tie around the bedframe carefully before tightening the knot just enough to hold.
you felt him again– how hard he was underneath you. how close he was to snapping. jaafar flexed his wrist experimentally against the satin before letting out a soft, disbelieving laugh under his breath. he was so hard, his cock twitching under you.
“oh my god,” he muttered.
you only smiled.
“you’re scary.”
but his voice came out quieter now, warmer. because, despite the words, he was looking at you like he wanted you to keep going.
you leaned forward, resting your palms flat against his chest and letting your full weight settle into his lap. the sudden, close heat of your body made him let out a low, rough grunt.
his jaw clenched so tight a small muscle ticked in his cheek, his eyes half-lidded as they locked onto yours.
“you’re driving me insane, baby,” he rasped, his voice dropping into a deep, gravelly tone that sent a shiver straight down your spine.
“i’m just taking my time,” you hummed, sliding your hands slowly down the front of his shirt.
you popped the remaining buttons open one by one, your fingertips brushing over the warm, smooth skin of his chest. every time your nails lightly scraped over his skin, his breath hitched, his chest rising in sharp, shallow swells beneath your palms.
leaning down, you let your breath brush against his lips, but you didn't kiss him right away. you hovered there, teasing him, until jaafar groaned and lifted his head off the pillows to try and close the distance himself. he couldn't quite reach, straining forward with a quiet huff of frustration.
a triumphant little smile pulled at your mouth. you rewarded him then, capturing his lips in a kiss that was no longer lazy.
it was deep and demanding.
jaafar poured all his energy into the movement of his mouth, his tongue tangling with yours with a desperate eagerness. he was completely matching your rhythm now, his chest heaving under your hands as you broke the kiss to trail your mouth down his chin.
you shifted on top of him, straddling his thighs, the soft press of your inner thighs brushing his trousers as you steadied yourself. all you could feel was him straining under you, bound above, eyes glassy with need.
he tried to jerk upward again, wrists flexing hard against the satin tie. it tightened with the tension, tugging against the frame, but it held.
and the way he groaned when he realized he couldn't move – when it finally sank that he couldn’t reach for you, couldn’t pull you closer, couldn’t take the lead the way he usually did.
it sent a shiver straight through you,
a pulse.
a throb.
a wicked ache that bloomed between your legs and crawled up your spine.
he was completely at your mercy.
your hands slid slowly up his chest again, spreading the panels of his dress shirt wider.
it was rumpled at his sides now, bunched in messy folds under your knees, completely open from the collar down to his waist.
you let out a soft, breathless laugh, looking down at the result.
jaafar couldn’t have cared less about the state of his clothes.
he was only looking at you.
“you’re terrible,” he groaned.
he had a smile, tugging at the corner of his mouth. teeth caught on his bottom lip.
but the second your mouth returned to his chest, his smile disappeared.
he was burning hot under your lips, his chest smooth and firm. you kissed down his sternum, open-mouthed, dragging your tongue along the hard dip between his muscles, feeling every shudder of his body as he struggled to stay still for you.
his stomach jerked, contracting sharply when you nipped the sensitive skin just above his navel.
your hands followed, nails grazing lightly down his sides.
“my god,” he breathed, his head slamming back against the pillow. “you’re–”
you glanced up again.
he was panting now, his pupils swallowing nearly all of the dark warmth in his eyes. his lips were parted, swollen, and you watched the muscle in his jaw lock as he tried to keep himself completely still because he knew you wanted him to.
and then you popped the metal clasp of his trousers.
his body tensed. a full-body shudder ripping through him, his hips fighting not to thrust straight into your hands.
you caught your bottom lip between your teeth and tugged the zipper down just enough, the smooth, metallic glide sending another wave of liquid heat rolling through your core. you hooked your fingers over the waistband of his dark briefs and pulled his dick out into the open air.
oh fuck.
he was thick, swollen, and visibily twitching against his abdomen.
at the tip, a bead of pre-cum had already bloomed, glistening against the flushed skin.
you swore you saw it pulse.
your mouth went completely dry.
there was something so intensely obscene about the sight of him like this – the way he was already leaking for you, the head straining for attention.
begging to be touched.
begging for your hands, your mouth, anything.
you settled your weight right back onto his thighs.
your own panties clung to you, soaked completely through, clinging tight between your lips from how wet you were.
but instead of pulling back, you ground down.
slowly.
your soaked panties met the leaking head of his cock, and the contact was electric.
it hit your clit just right, rubbing against the stiff, burning ridge beneath you, and you both moaned at the same time.
jaafar bucked upward on instinct, tugging on the satin tie. the restraint held firm, keeping his arms anchored and trapping him under your weight.
“oh my god– ,” he gasped, his voice breaking halfway through.
his eyes snapped open, locked onto yours, completely undone but still trying to hold your gaze. “what are you– shit, baby, please–”
“shhh,” you whispered, leaning forward to press another kiss to the corner of his mouth.
his lips chased yours with a desperate eagerness, but you were already pulling away.
you rolled your hips again.
slower, deeper, dragging your soaked heat across the full length of his cock like it was nothing.
“god– you’re gonna– ” his voice dissolved into a strained rasp.
his wrists pulled back hard against the satin tie, the muscles across his chest and shoulders flexing as his breath hitched deep in his throat.
“you’re so hard,” you whispered softly, rocking your hips against him again. “you’re dripping.”
your panties were grinding directly against his bare skin, slick, warm, and filthy between you.
the damp silk of your underwear smeared the mess directly over his head, spreading his pre-cum across both of you until everything felt friction-soaked and slippery.
“don’t say it like that,” he muttered, his jaw clenching as he tried to lift his hips upward to meet you.
you moaned this time, the sound catching in your throat.
the contact hit your sweet spot too perfectly. your body was starting to throb from the inside out.
your thighs trembled slightly as you moved again, your clit grinding along that burning, swollen ridge.
you leaned down to kiss his jaw, trailing your mouth along his neck. you bit down gently just below his ear as you rolled your hips in another slow, deliberate circle.
when he let out a wrecked groan, you felt the vibration of it low in your belly, twisting everything tight.
you were soaked.
your pussy found the exact shape of him, and you settled there, pressing down slowly, letting your full weight sink into his lap until the thick ridge of his cock was nestled snug against your folds.
it was too much and not enough all at once.
you stilled for a second. you felt him pulse hard against you.
you felt your own arousal spill, hot and thick, soaking the fabric of your underwear until it grew slippery beneath you. even with the layer separating you, it felt like he was everywhere.
jaafar’s breath stuttered.
you glanced up, and his face was completely undone. his head was tipped back against the pillows, his jaw clenched so tight a sharp muscle ticked in his cheek.
the tension in his upper body was immense, his sleeves bunched around his forearms as his arms remained taut against the bedframe, but he didn't move.
he just took it.
“shit, baby,” he whispered, his voice raw and gravelly. “you’re so wet… i can feel it. i can feel everything.”
“yeah?” you breathed, leaning forward until your palms pressed flat against his bare chest.
his skin was hot under your hands, his heart hammering hard enough that you could feel the rhythmic thud against your fingertips.
you ground again, slower this time, a deep, heavy roll that made your clit throb and your jaw tremble.
it was so messy now.
the squelch of your slick catching every time your pussy slid over his skin.
all he could do was watch you through half-lidded eyes.
he jerked once, but the satin tie binding his wrists held him firm.
“please,” he choked out, his eyes squeezing shut as his head turned into the pillow. “please, baby... if you keep doing that, i’m gonna–i can’t–”
you tightened your thighs, dragging yourself forward one last time, letting the tip of his cock press right beneath your clit. you held the pressure there, freezing in place.
you just felt him pulse.
you wanted him to lose his mind.
you wanted him to break completely.
but more than that, you wanted to ride that exact edge – watching every stutter of his hips, every ragged breath, while he fought against the restraints and begged for something you weren't ready to give him yet.
jaafar let out a quiet, broken whimper.
it punched straight to your core.
your hips faltered, your rhythm stuttering as a rush of heat flooded through you. you couldn’t help the sharp gasp that slipped out of your lips, your body shuddering as the head of his cock dragged just right over your sweet spot. you were close, too.
embarrassingly close.
“please,” jaafar begged again, his voice entirely broken this time. “baby, please, let me touch you… i need to… you’re gonna make me cum just like this–”
you sat up straighter, your hips still grinding in slow circles as you braced your hands on his stomach. he was flushed, panting, his wrists twisted uselessly above him. his cock twitched under your gaze, smeared entirely slick from where you had been grinding over him.
his skin flushed a deeper shade, stretched over the hard lines of his chest and abdomen. his abs twitched sharply when your fingers traced lightly down his ribs, catching the deep shiver that ran through his entire frame.
you bent forward again, slower this time.
you pressed your lips back to the heat of his lower stomach, your mouth open, your tongue dragging with slow intent. his cock rested just above your face now, so close that the swollen head brushed your cheek when you shifted your weight. your hands slid up the thick muscle of his thighs, your nails grazing lightly as you went.
he was panting through gritted teeth. you breathed against the head of his cock, and his entire stomach jerked. he tested the bound satin again, but the tie remained tight.
you met his gaze, your lips curling into a slow, smug smile.
then, without warning, you finally took him into your mouth.
just the tip.
just enough for your lips to slip warm and wet around the head of his cock, letting it rest heavy on your tongue.
jaafar groaned, sounding like even the lightest touch of your mouth was almost too much for him to take.
you pulled back slightly, letting him fall from your lips with a quiet wet pop.
his hips jerked instinctively, straining upward toward your face
you glanced up, watching the smooth muscles in his forearms tense against the fabric.
your fingers curled loosely around the base of his shaft, just enough to anchor him, your thumb stroking lightly over the thick ridge on the underside. your mouth hovered over the tip, close enough that your breath fanned out in steady, warm pulses, making the bead of pre-cum glisten even more.
you dragged your tongue along the slit.
slow and delicate.
just a taste.
he let out a choked noise that made your own thighs clench again.
then you did it again — slower this time, the flat of your tongue dragging down the head, tracing along the swollen rim before circling back up to the top.
you watched him twitch beneath you, watched the muscles in his stomach ripple and his chest rise in short, shallow bursts.
“shit, baby—” he grits out, his voice completely strained, his eyes squeezed shut.
you hummed softly against his skin, your mouth ghosting over the flushed head as if you were savoring it.
you pressed an open-mouthed kiss right to the tip.
then another, and another, working your way around him in slow, teasing circles.
your saliva mixed with his pre-cum, warm and sticky as your lips smeared across the head. you never took more than just the top inch into your mouth, refusing to give him the satisfaction of more.
“you’re killing me,” he groaned, tugging hard against the satin. “please–”
you looked up at him, your eyes bright. “please what?”
he swallowed, his throat working as he tried not to break completely. “please suck me. let me in your mouth.”
you smiled before dragging your tongue hard against the underside of the head, dragging it down with unbearable pressure.
you gathered saliva in your mouth, lubricating the shaft before wrapping your hand around the base.
once you were satisfied, your hand started to move, stroking the thick length with a lazy pace.
his hips twitched, his mouth falling open. “oh my fucking god.”
you took him again, a little deeper this time, lips wrapping snug as you sucked shallowly in soft, rhythmic pulls that made his back arch and his voice crack.
he was panting now, moaning under his breath like the sound was being ripped out of him.
you held his gaze, unblinking, and went even slower.
you let him slide out of your mouth, saliva stringing from your lips to the tip, before kissing your way back down to the base. every few seconds, you returned to the tip again, like it was the first time, making him work for every bit of attention.
he groaned, hands fisting helplessly against the headboard. finally, you opened your mouth wide and started to take him deeper.
slow.
so fucking slow.
the stretch made your jaw ache immediately, but you kept going, your hand stroking what your mouth couldn’t reach.
his voice was breaking with every sound, and you felt the vibration straight in your core.
he twitched against your tongue, leaking even more as his hips strained up into the heat of your mouth. you hollowed your cheeks and sucked harder, then eased up, dragging your mouth back with a long, slow pull until just the tip rested on your tongue.
his dark eyes found yours, wild and desperate with need.
you smiled sweetly and slid down deep again, pulling off gradually while dragging your tongue along the entire underside.
you made sure he felt every ridge and every flick.
your hand started moving again, wrapping tightly around the base.
his hips twitched, his mouth falling open as he tried not to break completely under the pressure.
“oh my god.”
he was panicking in the best way.
his hips jerked uselessly while his bound arms fought against the tension in his shoulders. the tie didn’t budge.
he was entirely helpless.
it was obvious he wasn’t used to being this wrecked from so little.
you licked a stripe up the underside of his cock, base to tip, then swirled your tongue once around the head before dragging your lips off him, slow and merciless.
“you like that?” you murmured against the shaft, your breath hot.
he nodded frantically, his jaw clenched tight. you gave him a teasing stroke of your thumb back up his slick shaft, and he writhed beneath you, his whole body tense and trembling.
he was beautiful like this.
tied up and completely unraveling right in front of you
a sheen of sweat glistened along his hairline, his lips parted and red as he tried not to cum just from this.
and then you gave him what he had been begging for.
you wrapped your mouth around him again and sank, going past that two-inch mark. you sank slower, letting your throat stretch around the thick shape of him as your hand gripped his base, guiding him all the way in.
his moan was guttural, torn straight from his chest. his legs shook. he tried to lift his hips and failed against the tight restraint, choking out a desperate, “baby, please–”
you moaned around him in response, the deep vibration buzzing through every inch of him, and his whole body broke. he was leaking down your throat, twitching uncontrollably, his thighs trembling against your shoulders as his mouth gasped open.
you pulled back slowly. you kissed the tip one more time like an apology, then rested your cheek against his thigh, letting him think he was getting a moment to recover. his chest heaved in broken, shallow bursts. his arms were still flexed and trembling, his knuckles pale from how hard he was gripping at nothing.
you smiled, not even pretending to be sorry. you watched the heavy, uneven rise and fall of his chest for just a beat before you slowly leaned back down, refusing to give him time to actually catch his breath.
your mouth returned to the head of his cock, slow and reverent, before you pushed forward until you felt the stretch again. the thickness of him pressed to the very back of your tongue, your lips stretched tight around the base of the head. your jaw ached, but the way he sounded like he was breaking apart under your tongue turned you on too much to stop.
he was muttering now, nonsensical praise and filth tangled together. “so good, baby, so good, that’s it, deeper– take it, yeah, just like that…”
your throat fluttered in protest, the heat and thickness pressing deep. you pulled back with a wet gasp, letting the crown rest heavy on your tongue while you sucked in two quick breaths.
jaafar watched you, his chest rising in hard, shaky swells. “you’re doin’ so good, baby,” he murmured, voice completely raw. “look at you.”
the praise made your core clench around nothing.
determined, you leaned forward, your tongue flattening beneath his weight as your lips slid lower. another inch, then another, past the soft give of your throat until you flinched, pulling back instinctively with a sharp gag.
your eyes watered as you sucked in air.
“easy,” jaafar soothed, his wrists twisting against the satin bound to the bedframe. “don’t rush. just breathe.
you nodded and lowered your mouth again.
guiding him with your hand as you eased your mouth open around him, taking him deeper inch by inch. you could feel every ridge, every twitch of his cock, dragging hot against your tongue.
tears stung the corners of your eyes as the tip pressed into that deep spot again. you paused there, breathing shallowly as your body adjusted. your thighs squeezed together, achingly wet from his breathless noises and the weight of him stretching your throat.
jaafar’s voice was thick with restraint.
“that’s it, baby… god, you’re taking me so well.”
you whimpered around him, a choked sound that made his cock jerk in your mouth. you gripped the base tighter and pushed down a little further. every time you hit your limit, you pulled back just enough to breathe before trying again.
“mouth’s too good, baby,” he gritted out. “you’re gonna make me lose it.”
finally, your throat gave.
jaafar choked. “oh– there you go.” his voice cracked. “there you go.”
his head dropped back, his eyes rolling up as his whole body twitched. his hips jolted slightly, but he froze immediately after, fighting every instinct not to fuck up into your mouth.
he was buried so deep you couldn’t even hum, your throat trembling around the intrusion.
you pulled back slowly, your jaw trembling by the time you finally slipped off him and gasped for air.
jaafar was completely wrecked – his face flushed dark, his hair damp with sweat, chest rising in uneven breaths.
you met his gaze, your own tear-lined.
you kept your eyes locked onto his as you immediately slid right back down, your hand wrapping around his base, slick and warm.
his groan vibrated through the mattress.
your mouth was stuffed so full that your jaw felt like it was about to cramp.
he threw his head back into the pillow, groaning so loud it vibrated through the mattress. "baby, don’t move. please don't–”
you froze, letting your throat flutter helplessly around him. you could feel the way the tight confinement drove him crazy, his hips twitching with the urge to thrust.
then, you started to move again, pulling back with a slick, obscene sound. you caught your breath in a wet gasp and then sank back down just as slowly.
you let your hands get completely filthy, smearing the copious amounts of his own pre-cum until the noise between his thighs was a constant, heavy squelch that filled the quiet room.
jaafar’s eyes heavy-lidded as he watched you completely dismantle him. “shit, you’re making such a mess,” he hitched, his bound wrists twisting weakly against the satin.
his jaw fell completely open. a high, broken whimper leaked out of him, his dark eyes rolling back so far only the whites showed for a second. “so good—baby, please, just like that, right there—”
you used your thumb to aggressively smear his own leaking fluid right over the sensitive slit at the tip.
his abdomen locked. the muscles went completely rigid, a violent tremor passing from his chest straight down to his knees. he didn't even have the breath to scream.
his chest just stayed puffed up, frozen, as the first thick pulse erupted from him, painting his stomach. a low, gravelly groan finally scraped out of his throat, his bound arms straining against the headboard as his body turned itself inside out.
but you didn't let him descend. you didn't give him that grace.
while he was still actively pulsing, your hand kept going — slower now, but heavier, dragging friction over skin that had just become a raw nerve.
jaafar’s eyes snapped open, instantly pooling with tears from the sheer, unadulterated shock of the sensitivity.
“no, no, wait. please, hold on–” he thrashed, his hips trying to sink back into the mattress to escape your hands.
“i know,” you whispered against his jaw, your voice dripping with artificial sympathy. “i know, baby.”
you twisted your palm over the head, a wet, bruising rotation that completely short-circuited his recovery. his legs shook violently as his nervous system misfired. before the first orgasm had even cleared his chest, his hips jolted upward in a second, desperate spasm. another wave forced its way out of him, completely unprompted, a pathetic, weeping sob tearing from his lungs as he came twice in less than a minute.
he was practically hyperventilating now, his mouth working silently as he fought for oxygen, the corners of his eyes leaking fat tears that tracked down into his hair. he looked completely ruined, entirely used.
the mess on your hands was obscene now, a thick, white-streaked lacquer of his own seed that made every stroke sound incredibly vulgar. you picked the pace right back up, showing no mercy to his overstimulated body, your fingers wrapping tight around the base to milk him completely dry.
“i can’t–” he cried out, his voice completely broken, his fingers twitching helplessly against the satin knots.
“you’re doing so well for me,” you cooed, your thumb tracing the underside of his head over and over until a clear, thin fluid started to steadily leak out, mixing with the heavy mess on your palms.
the overload took over entirely. he couldn't even form words anymore – only high, pathetic, rhythmic whines escaped him as his third climax hit, a deep, full-body shudder that left him completely paralyzed. you handled him roughly through the entire peak, forcing every last drop out of his trembling length before your hand finally came to a heavy rest over his slick skin.
jaafar stared blankly at the ceiling, his chest heaving in broken, shallow hitches. his skin was burning to the touch, drenched in sweat, his eyes glazed as tremors continued to move through him.
slowly, you shifted off his thighs and knelt by his head. the sharp edge from before was gone now, replaced by a heavy exhaustion.
“hey,” you murmured softly, brushing a damp curl away from his forehead.
a low, breathy hum came from his throat. he turned his head, blinking up at you through a lingering haze.
your fingers reached up to the headboard, patiently working at the tight knots. the second the tie fell loose, jaafar let out a long, shaky sigh.
he lowered his arms with a quiet wince, faint red marks circling his wrists.
he reached for you, his large, warm hand reached up, gently cradling the back of your neck to draw you down.
you collapsed against his chest, burying your face in the crook of his neck as his arms wrapped securely around your waist, holding you close.
“god, baby...” he whispered against your hair, his voice rough and quiet.
a tired laugh escaped him, the sound vibrating softly through his chest. “i think you actually broke me.”
you let out a soft laugh, peppering slow, soft kisses all over his cheek and jaw.
“sorry.”
the words might have sounded more convincing if you weren't smiling.
“yeah, keep smiling,” he said, the threat completely ruined by how exhausted he sounded.
“just wait until i can use my hands again.”
───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───
this was wayyyyy longer than i wanted it to be
idk if i'm happy w/ it, but i hope u guys enjoyed it regardless :D
warnings: OBVI 18+ MINORS DNI, NO SPOILERS FOR THE BACKROOMS MOVIE, fueled by a horny combination of recording during sex and shotgunning a blunt, afab reader receiving oral (cause i don’t believe in giving a man head (i’m joking, mostly)), kinda clunky descriptions, i’m writing to get better at writing, especially writing smut so lemme know if anything sounds weird or clunky, uhhh no word count cause im too lazy to do those on tumblr sorryyyyy, ALSO GO SEE THE BACKROOMS MOVIE, GO SUPPORT YOUNG FILMMAKERS AND LOCAL THEATERS
“Are you sure about this?” Your hands grip the camcorder carefully, the clunky object heavy in your hands.
Bobby looks up at you from where he’s laid out on the bed, his long fingers hooking the waistband of your cotton shorts and slowly tugging them down. His blue eyes are hazy, blunt hanging from his lips as he nodded.
“Yeah, yeah. Just keep the camera still for me, m’kay?” He winks at you through the lense, enjoying the way your legs twitch.
You hum weakly, letting your head rest back on the pillows as the smell of weed and Bobby’s cologne filled your head. Your eyes stray to the fan overhead, the blades pass by slowly as you count the seconds while Bobby slowly kisses his way up your legs, easing them over his shoulders.
“You with me?” He pauses above your covered cunt, taking a slow drag from the blunt before parting his lips and letting the hot smoke breeze over the wet fabric of your panties, making you jolt.
“Mm- Y-yeah,” you stutter over the fuzziness in your brain that comes from the pleasant buzz of cannabis. Bobby’s hand grasps yours, lifting the camera with a practiced ease.
“Keep me in focus.” The words are murmured into the skin below your belly button, igniting that familiar fire in your navel and causing the hairs on your neck to stand up.
At your nod, Bobby takes another hit of the blunt before leaning down. His lips meet the puffy folds of your cunt and with a slow exhale, the smoke glazes over your panties again. It’s punctuated by a slow lick that spreads the wet patch on your panties.
His nose nudges your clit and he chuckles at the pleasured noise that drips from your lips. The soft buzz of the camera chews him to you zooming in, soaking in the heated, fuzzy look in his eyes and the way he’s sitting open-mouthed against your pussy.
The smell of your arousal is much stronger this close. And it mixes with the smell of weed in a way that Bobby salivates. His impatience starts bleeding through his high mind and finally, Bobby hooks a finger through the crotch of your panties, tugging them to the side to reveal your dripping folds.
It’s a pretty sight, the puff of your folds, the glistening slick of arousal, the choked sound you make as the cold air hits your exposed pussy. He almost wishes he had the camcorder with him so he could immortalize this forever.
Bobby takes one more slow drag from the blunt, eyes meeting yours over the camera. With a nip to the meat of your inner thigh, Bobby slips the blunt into your hand, right in the small gap between your index and middle finger. Ash falls off the edge of it, scattering over your skin.
Your wince turns into a choked moan when Bobby’s mouth finally greets your pussy. His tongue is heavy with saliva and heat as he greedily tastes you for all your worth. He swaps between suckling at your clit and slipping his tongue between your folds. It’s a vicious cycle that leaves you feeling floaty and loose.
You legs give weak twitches when Bobby’s tongue glazes over your clit, tightening around his head to bring him closer when he pulls away to breathe. The camcorder shakes in your hands and Bobby notices.
He pinches your thigh as he withdraws from you slightly. “C’mon baby, keep the camera still. Like I showed you.” He licks his lips, groaning at the sweet taste of you as he watches you readjust the camera. When he’s satisfied with the angle, he lays back down, kissing your clit sweetly like he was rewarding you.
“Fuck-” You moan as he slips his tongue back into your folds, his calloused thumb doing figure eights over your clit as his other hand massages your thigh.
The dual stimulation continues and he gets lost in it, eyes shutting as he continues to make out with your pussy. At a certain point your hips start grinding against his face and hand, desperately chasing that high that you’ve been needing since Bobby proposed this idea.
His thumb leaves your clit, his index and middle finger accompanying his tongue in your aching walls. Bobby effectively swapped places with his mouth and fingers, lapping at your clit as his fingers leisurely take you apart from the inside out. Every stroke and curl makes your breath hitch and whine as you do your best to keep the camcorder stable.
“Bobby- I’m gonna-” You keen, lips parting for a stilted moan as his fingers speed up. The strokes turn quicker, his saliva drips down your clit and spills into your hole.
He mumbles something against your overstimulated bundle of nerves, tongue flattening against it as he curls his fingers against that spongy spot in your velvety walls. He murmurs vague pieces of praise that leaves your feet curling and back arching as you cum with a loud whine.
Bobby withdraws his fingers, licking them clean before he leans back in to lick you clean. Sweat drips down your back and your thighs are sticky with cum and spit. You vaguely register Bobby’s warm hands taking the camcorder from you, his spit soaked fingers snatching the blunt from you.
He places the blunt in his lips, freeing his hand to massage your ass slowly. Bringing you down from your high.
Blinking quickly, your flushed cheeks are hot to the touch and your eyes are fogged from the weed and now that pretty post orgasmic glaze. You register Bobby more clearly now, his blue eyes and dirty blonde hair. He’s sat up, your thighs resting at his hips. He cradles the camera in his other hand but he watches you patiently.
When a bit more clarity hits your eyes, he smiles, taking the blunt out of his mouth and leaning forward to press a soft kiss to your lips. The taste of your cum sits on his tongue as he moans against you, smoke filling both of your mouths as he hips twitching as he grinds his dick against your pussy. The cloth drags on your overstimulated clit and you whine agaisnt Bobby’s lips as he pulls away.
His fingers tap against the still recording camcorder as he furrows his brows. He chews on his bottom lip as his eyes drag away from the camcorder screen to look at you. “There’s still space left on the tape.”
*clears throat* gf starts stealing bobby's slutty crop tops and wears it around the house with only underwear on. he chases her cause those are his fav shirts (i see bobby as a lil diva) and then they fall into bed together laughing <3 (im joking they fuck hard)
truly building empires over here!!!
slightly suggestive but mostly just playful and short! no real movie spoilers aside from few characterisation details. enjoy!
Bobby doesn't even notice at first.
He's rolling a joint on the kitchen counter, shirtless because it's August in Santa Clara and the apartment's been holding heat all day like a brick oven. He's got his sunglasses pushed up into his hair and his chain's sticking to his chest with sweat. In truth, he's entirely focused on not spilling weed on the counter again because last time he spent twenty minutes picking it out of the grout lines and it was a whole thing.
Then you stroll past him.
In his favourite cropped Metallica tee. The one he cut himself with kitchen scissors, thank you very much, and the raw hem is intentional, it's art even. Yet right now, it's hanging off your frame, the hem barely grazing your navel. Underwear on. Nothing else. Bare feet on the tile, walking like you don't have a care in the goddamn world.
The joint falls apart in his hands.
"Hey. Hey. That's mine."
You don't even turn around. Just keep drifting toward the living room like you can't hear him, late afternoon sun coming through the blinds and catching the backs of your thighs.
Bobby abandons the weed. Full priority shift. He pushes off the counter and follows. "Babe. Baby. That is my favourite shirt. Do you understand what I went through to get that? I drove to San Jose for that. The guy at the shop tried to charge me double because it was vintage and I had to negotiate—"
"It looks better on me."
"It—okay, objectively untrue, I have the shoulders for it, we both know this, but that's not even the point—"
You speed up. Which means you know exactly what you're doing, which means this was premeditated, which means Bobby's being played and he knows it.
He goes after you anyway because he's never once in his life backed down from something stupid.
He catches you in the hallway, his arm hooking around your waist from behind. His chest lands flush against your back, and he's faster than you'd think for someone whose lungs are basically decorative at this point.
The momentum carries you both sideways into the bedroom doorframe—his shoulder takes the hit, he swears, you're laughing too hard to stand up straight—and then you're falling onto the mattress in a tangle of limbs, the bedsprings protesting beneath you.
Bobby's half on top of you, breathing hard and grinning, and he's got the hem of the Metallica shirt fisted in one hand like he's genuinely going to reclaim it. His rings are cold against your stomach.
"Give it back."
"Make me."
And the thing about Bobby—the thing people don't get when they write him off as just some mouthy stoner with a nice face—is that he's all talk right up until the exact moment he isn't.
The grin doesn't disappear. It just changes. Sharpens at the edges. His eyes go heavier, lazier, and the hand gripping the shirt stops pulling and starts pushing it up instead, his knuckles dragging slow up the curve of your ribs.
"Yeah?" His voice drops into that low rough register that sits right behind your sternum. Late light's coming through the window and catching his earring, the thin silver hoop throwing a pin of light onto the pillow beside your head. "You sure about that, baby?"
You hook your leg over his hip. Pull him in tight. Bobby exhales hard through his nose. Sharp, punched-out, like you knocked something loose in his chest. His jaw clenches and you can feel his hips twitch forward before he catches himself.
He kisses you hard. Not cruel, but not careful either. Bobby doesn't do careful unless you're hurt or frightened, and right now you're neither. Right now you're smiling against his mouth and he bites your lower lip for it, just enough sting to make your breath catch in your throat.
"You're trouble," he drawls into the dip of your jaw. His weight settles between your legs and you can feel exactly how not-annoyed he actually is, the thin cotton of his cutoffs doing absolutely nothing to hide it. "You are a genuine fucking menace and I want my shirt back."
"So take it off me."
He does. Fast enough that the collar catches on your chin and you yelp, and he laughs—this low, stupid, delighted sound—and then you're laughing too, breathless and tangled and ridiculous. Until his mouth finds the side of your neck and his teeth scrape your pulse and the laughing dissolves into something a lot less innocent.
Bobby's hands are rough. Camera calluses, sun-dark knuckles, silver rings he never bothers taking off. He knows what he's doing with them, which is infuriating, because it means he also knows exactly when to slow down. When to drag his thumb across the jut of your hip bone and just wait, patient as anything, until you shift underneath him and try to pull him closer.
He likes that part. Likes watching you get impatient. It's the same energy as when he's behind the camera, all steady focus and perfect timing, except right now the thing he's paying attention to is the sound you make when he finally slides his hand between your thighs.
"Bobby—"
"What's the magic word, baby?"
"Bobby."
"That's not it." He presses his mouth to the soft skin below your ear. You can feel him smiling. "But I'll accept it."
He drags your underwear down with one hand, easy, tossing them somewhere behind him without looking. Presses his mouth to the inside of your thigh, slow and warm, and then he looks up at you. Those ridiculous pale eyes, the hoop earring, the permanent half-smirk he can't seem to turn off even now, and says, low and rough, "You look better in nothing, for the record."
You tug him up by his chain. He comes willingly, grinning. Somewhere between his mouth on yours and his hand fumbling with his own zipper the cutoffs end up on the floor.
The Metallica shirt ends up hanging off the bedside lamp and neither of you cares about any of it for a good long while.
synopsis: childhoodbsf!mj and reader in a hot tub... what can go wrong? (or right :D)
cw: smut, switch!michael, hot tub sex, dry humping, dirty talk, praise, tensionnn, mutual pining, michael jackson being a whimperer (surprise), creampie
based off bad!era mj but any era works (i think)
the hot tub lights cast soft blue ripples across the water, reflecting against the stone around the edge of the patio. the early summer night air brushed against your damp skin coolly in contrast to the heat of the water, while music drifted faintly from somewhere inside the house. overhead, the sky was dark and cloudless, a soft breeze moving through the otherwise still night.
michael leaned back nearby with his arms resting along the edge of the hot tub, curls damp around his face, while he watched you with obvious amusement.
“you know,” he said casually, brushing wet curls back from his forehead, “for somebody always talkin’ big, you scare real easy.”
you looked over immediately. “i do not.”
michael laughed softly under his breath.
you’d known michael long enough to recognize that exact look in his eyes before he even said anything else. the one that usually meant he was about to annoy you on purpose.
the two of you had been attached at the hip since childhood. your families blurred together so often growing up that half your memories included michael somewhere in the background of them — sitting beside you at family parties, showing up to your house unannounced (and vice versa), dragging you outside in the middle of summer evenings because he was bored and wanted company. somewhere along the way, physical closeness had stopped meaning much between you years ago.
hugs.
leaning against each other.
holding hands.
cuddling while watching movies.
being close to michael had never required thought.
leaves rustled softly in the night breeze.
michael’s eyes suddenly shifted past your shoulder.
the teasing look on his face faltered, his mouth flattening slightly as his attention fixed on something behind you.
“…wait.”
you narrowed your eyes at that. “michael.”
“no, seriously.” his brows furrowed now while he stared harder behind you. “what is that?”
you rolled your eyes.
“i hate you.”
“i’m serious,” he insisted, though the corners of his mouth twitched slightly. “right there.”
you turned your head despite yourself.
your eyes scanned once. twice. nothing.
you started turning back toward him with an unimpressed look already forming–
michael lunged forward suddenly with both his hands toward the water behind you.
a startled squeal escaped you as you grabbed onto him on pure reflex, your arms wrapping tightly around his shoulders while you nearly climbed halfway up him in a panic.
michael burst into loud laughter. bright and boyish.
“oh my god!” you gasped out, still clutching him while he laughed harder against your shoulder. “you are actually evil.”
“it was funny!” he argued through laughter.
“it was not funny!”
you smacked his shoulder lightly, trying not to laugh and failing miserably once his laughter got worse.
michael’s laughter had always been contagious. it was impossible to stay mad at him for long when he was laughing like that.
“yes it was,” he grinned. “you should’ve seen your face.”
“you practically climbed into my lap,” he added.
“i trusted you!”
“that’s your own fault.”
“oh my god, shut up.”
another laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
michael pointed at you instantly.
“see? you’re laughin’ now.”
you groaned dramatically, letting your forehead fall briefly against his shoulder while his laughter softened into quieter little giggles beneath his breath.
eventually, both your breaths started to settle.
except neither of you moved apart.
your arms still rested loosely around his shoulders. michael’s hands still held your waist below the surface.
comfortable. normal.
well, it should’ve felt normal.
instead, the silence that settled between you suddenly felt…heavy somehow.
different.
your forehead still rested lightly against michael’s shoulder while the water moved softly around you both, rippling between your bodies.
neither of you spoke.
you could feel michael breathing now.
not just the movement of his chest beneath your hands, but the actual rhythm of it. slow at first, then slightly uneven when you shifted subconsciously closer.
his hands tightened around your waist. small. almost unnoticeable.
except you noticed it immediately.
your brows pulled together faintly.
slowly, you lifted your head from his shoulder.
michael was already looking at you.
the patio lights reflected faintly in his eyes while water dripped from the curls hanging around his forehead. his expression had gone strangely still now, his hands warm where they rested against your waist.
neither of you moved apart.
you’re not sure why.
usually moments like this broke naturally on their own. one of you would laugh. tease the other. splash water. say something stupid.
instead, michael just kept looking at you.
your eyes flicked down toward his mouth before you could stop yourself.
bad idea.
because the second your gaze dropped, michael noticed. his brows pinched for a fraction of a second.
then, before you could really process it, michael looked away first.
his jaw flexed.
you felt his throat move against your arm when he swallowed.
“…christ,” he muttered quietly under his breath.
heat crawled slowly up your neck. you swallowed once before forcing out, “what?”
michael shook his head once, almost like he was trying to clear it.
“nothin’.”
his voice sounded lower now. rougher.
the water shifted softly around you both when you adjusted yourself, your legs brushing against his–
michael inhaled sharply.
the sound froze you.
oh.
your heartbeat stumbled hard in your chest.
because suddenly you could feel it too.
the reaction pressed unmistakably against your thigh.
heat rushed instantly to your face.
michael went still beneath your hands.
for a second, neither of you said anything.
michael laughed quietly under his breath, though it sounded more embarrassed than amused now. one hand came up to cover his face as he looked away.
“….m’sorry,” he murmured.
your brows pulled together slightly.
of course he was apologizing. that was so michael.
when he’s struggling to keep himself composed, he still sounded more concerned about crossing a line than anything else.
you'd be lying if you said his reaction to you wasn't turning you on.
“….don’t apologize,” you breathed.
michael looked at you. his curls hung damp against his forehead now, water dripping slowly down the side of his neck while his hands stayed fixed carefully at your waist like he didn’t trust himself to move them anywhere else.
he looked away again, exhaling sharply through his nose, almost like a disbelieving laugh at himself.
“just... give me a second,” he murmured. "it'll go away."
michael took slow, controlled breaths like he was genuinely trying to calm himself down.
then before you could overthink it, the words slipped out softly.
“….do you want me to help you?”
michael’s eyes shut briefly while a quiet breath escaped him, almost strained. unfortunately for him, the boner he'd been trying so hard to kill came back tenfold.
one of his hands slid higher instinctively along your waist before stopping there hard enough to make your pulse jump.
“i—”
he cut himself off.
his head tipped back slightly instead, exposing the long line of his throat while he stared up toward the sky for a second like he was physically trying to pull himself together.
it only made him look worse.
or better.
no definitely better.
water glided slowly down the column of his neck while his chest rose unevenly beneath your hands.
finally, michael looked back at you again. wrecked.
he swallowed once before replying quietly, “you don’t have to do anything.”
your heart hammered painfully against your ribs.
“i know,” you whispered.
“i’m asking if you want me to.”
for a second, michael just stared at you.
then slowly, his forehead dropped forward until it rested gently against your temple.
his eyes closed.
his lashes brushed softly against your skin.
the flush along his neck had darkened now, spreading toward his jaw while his breathing stayed uneven against you.
when he finally spoke, his voice came out rough and quiet.
“…i’m a gentleman.”
your chest tightened at the sound of it.
the words seemed to hang between you for a moment.
slowly, you lifted one hand from his shoulder, cradling his face gently until he looked at you again.
his eyes were dark now.
unfocused almost.
still trying so hard to hold himself together for you.
your thumb brushed lightly against his cheek before you leaned in just enough to press a soft kiss against the corner of his mouth.
michael inhaled sharply, head tilting instinctively to chase your lips.
then he was kissing you properly.
one hand slid up the side of your neck as he pulled you closer, the kiss hard and messy, like he’d been trying not to do this for far too long.
your noses bumped awkwardly together between breaths, both of you laughing softly into the kiss before it melted right back into something hotter.
michael bit gently at your bottom lip, tugging it between his teeth.
a soft sound escaped you before you kissed him again.
his hand dragged back down your body until it settled low on your waist, fingers spreading carefully just above your ass.
careful and still hesitant. you could feel it.
your hands slid down his arms slowly until they covered his, guiding them lower.
michael broke the kiss at that.
the sound you let slip when his hands finally squeezed your ass made his head drop against yours.
“you’re gonna kill me,” he muttered breathlessly.
you pushed your hips closer against his.
michael let out a shaky breath as your hands slid up the back of his neck, fingers catching slightly at the damp curls near his nape.
when he kissed you again, it felt almost desperate now.
like he physically couldn’t stop himself for more than a few seconds at a time. his nose bumped softly against yours between kisses while his hands tightened around your body, guiding you higher on his lap beneath the bubbling water.
the pressure of his hips against yours pulled a gasp from your throat.
your fingers tightened instinctively at the base of his curls as you broke away from the kiss for air.
“michael—”
he kissed the corner of your mouth before you could finish saying his name, breathing hard enough now that you could feel it against your skin.
“i know, baby, i know” he murmured softly.
you nuzzled your face into the crook of his neck. he smelled like chlorine and the faint traces of his cologne, warm amber and soft florals mixing with the heat of his damp skin.
michael’s hands guided your hips against his beneath the water, the movement slow at first before his restraint started slipping little by little.
soft sounds escaped you against his neck while michael’s breathing turned rough near your ear, his grip tightening every time you pressed closer to him.
“baby…” he breathed, almost strained now.
the name sent warmth blooming low in your stomach.
this was the first time he’d ever called you that, and you loved the way it sounded coming from him.
his groans started mixing with the breathier moans spilling from your lips as his hands squeezed more firmly at your backside, the bubbling water sloshing harder around you both as he buried his face against your shoulder.
every slow drag of your hips only made the ache low in your stomach worse.
but it still wasn’t enough.
you needed more of him.
“want more,” you whined softly against his neck.
michael’s hips stuttered against yours at the sound of your voice, a quiet groan escaping him.
“yeah?” he murmured breathlessly, pulling back just enough to look at you properly.
strands of damp hair clung messily near your cheeks while your lips looked swollen from kissing, slightly parted every time another shaky breath slipped out of you. your eyes were glossed over.
you looked completely ruined.
just for him.
“i’ll give my sweet girl whatever she wants,” he said lowly, with a rasp slipping into his voice.
something about hearing him say it made your thighs press tighter around him. if michael noticed, he didn't mention it.
“anything she asks for.” he added.
“anything?” you responded in a whisper.
michael’s eyes stayed fixated on yours for a second before he repeated it quieter this time.
“anything.”
your stomach tightened hard at the sound of that.
“want you inside me,” you whispered sweetly, your hips pressing against his again at the thought of him giving it to you.
michael bit down on his lip, a crooked smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.
you sounded so desperate for him.
and god was he just as desperate for you.
maybe worse.
even now, with your body pressed against his and his restraint hanging by a thread, he still tried to collect himself before he spoke again.
because he was a gentleman.
or at least he was trying very hard to be one.
“go on, take what you want,” he murmured roughly.
your hands immediately reached for the waistband of his swim shorts, tugging them down enough to free his dick.
though you couldn't see much through the bubbling water, you felt him. his warmth, his thickness, his length.
the weight of him against your hand alone made your breath catch.
michael groaned softly under his breath, his head falling briefly against your shoulder while his hands tightened instinctively along your thighs.
you shifted carefully onto your knees to give him room while he pulled your swim bottoms aside.
the feeling of him brushing against your bare pussy made you arch into him.
“fuck…” michael hissed quietly, breathing turned heavier near your ear as his hands slid lower along your thighs to steady you.
your face buried closer into the crook of his neck while another broken sound escaped you.
“michael…” your voice cracked softly.
the slow push of his tip alone already had your head spinning. he barely gave you room to breathe.
“fuuck, baby,” he groaned into your shoulder, dragging the words out low and strained. “you’re so fucking tight.”
you nuzzled closer into his neck with a shaky whimper.
“s’too big, michael…” you hiccuped softly.
you were ruining him.
the way your voice broke at just the tip being inside you was doing something dangerous to his self-control.
“shh, it’s okay, baby,” he murmured gently, one hand stroking your damp hair.
his other hand slid lower against your thigh before tightening carefully at your hip.
"tell me if it hurts," he murmured, lips brushing softly against your temple.
then he started easing you down onto him properly.
slow.
your mouth dropped open at the stretch as he lowered you inch by inch, his grip firm enough to guide you while still giving you time to adjust. every small movement made another uneven breath leave your lips.
the heat of the water around you only made everything feel more overwhelming. his cock felt impossibly warm inside you, thick enough that each inch made your body tense before slowly relaxing around him.
michael’s forehead pressed against yours as he watched every reaction on your face.
“that’s it,” he whispered hoarsely. “doin’ so good for me.”
another inch.
your fingers tightened against his shoulders, a soft moan escaping before you could stop it.
his own breathing was wrecked, rough against your skin while his hands trembled slightly where they held you.
like he was using every bit of control he had not to lose patience and pull you down all at once.
instead, he kept guiding you carefully.
letting you feel every inch.
the stretch burned for a second before melting into warmth, your body slowly yielding around him while soft broken whimpers left your throat.
“fuck,” michael groaned quietly, eyes squeezing shut for a second. “you feel so fucking good.”
you buried your face deeper into his neck as another wave of fullness hit you.
then finally your hips settled flush against his.
both of you gasped at the same time.
michael’s head fell back against the edge of the tub with a low groan while his hands gripped your hips hard enough to leave marks.
“holy shit…” he breathed.
you could barely think.
he felt everywhere. warm and deep and overwhelming, filling you so completely that all you could do was sit there for a second trying to breathe through it.
his hands softened again, thumbs rubbing slow circles against your hips.
“you okay?” he asked quietly, though his voice still sounded wrecked.
you nodded weakly against him.
“mhm…”
a small smile pulled at michael’s lips before he kissed the side of your head gently.
“good girl.”
you almost sobbed at the praise. his voice alone could make you cum.
michael stayed there for a second, just holding you against him while both of you tried to recover from the feeling.
his chest rose against yours, shaky breaths fanning across your skin while his hands stayed fixed carefully at your hips like he still couldn’t believe this was real.
then slowly, he rolled his hips upward once.
the movement was shallow.
experimental.
but the drag of him inside you still pulled a broken moan straight from your throat.
michael actually whimpered at that, the sound muffled against your skin, before a strained groan followed right after.
“fuck…”
his grip tightened.
“that okay?” he asked quietly, his own voice already sounding completely gone.
you nodded quickly before he’d even fully finished asking.
“please,” you whispered.
his mouth crashed against yours again while his hips rolled into you harder this time, deeper, the movement making the water slosh violently around both of you until it spilled over the edge of the hot tub, soaking the concrete.
your fingers tangled tighter into the damp curls at the back of his neck as he kept rocking you against him slowly, every thrust deep enough to make your stomach tighten.
he couldn’t seem to stop kissing you between breaths.
messy kisses.
desperate ones.
little broken sounds slipping from his mouth every single time you clenched around him.
“you feel so fucking good,” he breathed shakily. “christ, baby…”
his restraint kept slipping in pieces.
each movement growing rougher than the last, your body meeting his like you both couldn't stop chasing the feeling.
you moaned again. soft and breathless right against his mouth.
“yeah?” he rasped. “that feel good?”
you could barely answer — or could barely hear him, to be honest.
the way he was making you feel left your head completely fuzzy. every deep drag of him inside you made your thoughts melt together until all you could focus on was him.
when you didn’t respond, he tugged you down harder onto him.
a high moan tore from your throat instantly. a sound you would’ve never thought you’d be capable of making.
and if michael wasn’t fucking you so good, you probably would’ve been embarrassed by it.
he pulled back just enough to look at your face, watching your expression.
“tell me.”
it didn't sound demanding.
if anything, it sounded like something he needed to hear.
“y-yes–” you gasped helplessly. “yes, yes, feels so good–”
he leaned closer to your neck and started kissing, sucking, biting, leaving marks all over your neck.
michael cursed softly under his breath at the feeling of you clenching around him.
“shit, baby… you’re squeezin’ me so tight.”
all you could do was moan as he dragged your hips down onto him through another deep thrust that made your entire body jolt.
the praise only made the heat low in your stomach tighten harder.
another soft whine slipped from your throat before you could stop it, your face burying deeper into his neck out of instinct.
michael groaned at the sound.
“those sexy fucking sounds…”
his hips rolled up into yours again, harder this time, and your grip on him tightened hard enough to sting.
one of his hands slid up your body, long slender fingers brushing teasingly against your chest before nudging your swimsuit top up just enough for your breasts to spill out. the cooler night air nipping at your damp skin.
"so perfect." he breathed.
he leaned in, his mouth closing around your left nipple with a slow, warm suck that pulled a breath from your lungs. at the same time, the knuckles of his other hand dragged against your stomach, your ribs, the underside of your breasts, teasing every inch of sensitive skin on the way up. he cupped your breast, squeezing gently before rolling your nipple between his fingers in time with the slow pull of his mouth.
every suck, every soft bite, every flick of his tongue had your body arching into him.
you couldn’t hold the sounds back anymore.
every thrust of his hips pulled another sound out of you.
little whimpers.
broken moans.
breathy gasps right against his ear.
“fuck,” he groaned softly into your skin, almost dazed. “keep makin’ those sounds for me, baby.”
you couldn’t stop even if you wanted to.
his mouth shifted to your other breast with a worn groan while his hand slipped lower between your bodies.
the second his thumb brushed against your clit, your entire body jerked in his arms.
“oh my god—”
the cry that left you was loud enough to echo slightly off the stone around the hot tub.
“mm, that it?” he rasped, thumb circling you again with shaky desperation. “that what you needed, baby?”
you nodded helplessly against him, barely able to breathe properly now.
the feeling of him thrusting up into you while his thumb rubbed slow, messy circles against your clit was too much all at once.
your thighs started trembling around his waist.
“michael, please.”
“i know,” he breathed quickly. “i got you. i got you.”
he kept thrusting into you deep and slow, but the rhythm was getting sloppier every second. like he physically couldn’t focus anymore with the way you kept whining against him.
“fuck…” he groaned softly. “you’re so sensitive.”
another moan tore out of you when his thumb pressed a little harder.
every little movement pulled another noise from your throat.
your eyes kept fluttering closed from the overwhelming sensation while michael watched your face completely unravel for him, his own expression looking just as gone.
“look at me, baby. c’mon,” he breathed softly.
your eyes fluttered back toward him.
the second michael saw the tears gathering along your lashes from how overwhelming everything felt, something in him completely snapped.
“fuck—”
his forehead dropped against yours with a groan so deep it almost sounded painful.
his thrusts lost what little rhythm they had left after that.
harder now.
messier.
his hands gripping your hips almost desperately while he kept kissing you between breaths like he couldn’t get enough.
“close?” he rasped against your mouth.
all you could do was nod frantically.
your fingers clutched desperately at his shoulders as another wave hit you.
it was too much.
his mouth on your neck.
his thumb rubbing against you perfectly.
the way he kept filling you so deep every time his hips snapped upward.
your thighs started shaking hard around his waist.
“i-i’m gonna–”
“lemme feel it, baby,” michael interrupted, voice breaking. he sounded completely gone. "please..."
a soft curse slipped from him the second your body tightened around him.
“that’s it,” he groaned. “good girl… fuck, that’s it.”
his thumb moved faster.
messier now.
like he was getting desperate too.
the pressure finally snapped.
your whole body jolted against him with a broken cry, your face burying into his shoulder while your body tightened hard around him, nails scratching at his back.
michael groaned loudly at the feeling, his hips stuttering completely for a second.
“shit–”
your vision blurred from how overwhelming it felt, soft little sobs and moans getting caught in your throat while wave after wave kept hitting you.
michael fucked you through all of it, one arm wrapped tightly around your back while his forehead pressed against your shoulder.
“fuck…” he groaned shakily. “atta girl.”
then quieter, almost like the words slipped out accidentally.
“been wantin’ this so bad.”
you clenched around him hard at the confession.
michael groaned hard, head tipping back against the edge of the hot tub.
his lips brushed against your jaw when he looked back at you again, expression completely wrecked.
“you don’t even realize what you do to me sometimes,” he breathed shakily.
“been tryin’ so hard to be good.”
another deep thrust made your breath catch.
“every time you bend over during those stupid twister games…” he groaned softly. “or prance around in those tiny little swimsuits…”
“honestly so mean of you.”
another broken groan slipped from him right after, his face burying deeper into your neck like he was trying to hide there.
little strained sounds kept leaving him every few seconds while his hips lost what little rhythm they had left.
“can’t—” he choked out softly. “fuck, baby…”
his grip tightened almost painfully at your hips before he finally buried himself deep inside you with a whine, warm spurts of cum filling you as his whole body went tense against yours.
you could feel him shaking slightly while he held you close, breathing unevenly against your skin as the water settled softly around both of you again.
the aftershocks rolled softly through both of you, fading little by little into soft tremors.
the world around you felt silent except for the sounds of bubbling water and uneven breathing.
slowly, you pulled back just enough to look at him properly again, your arms still resting loosely around his shoulders.
his curls were a mess.
lips swollen.
flushed all the way down his neck.
and the completely blissed-out look on his face made something warm burst in your chest.
the second michael noticed you staring, a breathless laugh slipped from him, his teeth catching briefly against his bottom lip when his grin widened.
you laughed too.
because somehow, even after all of that, the two of you still ended up the same way you always did.
still just you and michael.
───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───
ummm i didnt know how to end it butttt SECOND FICCCCC r we getting somewhere guys
also pls dont acc have sex in hot tubs or pools😭😭 (as hot as it is</3)
˙⋆✮ SUMMARY: you get a little distracted by michael’s hands while you do laundry together
˙⋆✮ CONTENT: 18+, smut! established relationship, porn with 0 plot i mean c’mon what did you expect from me, hand kink, fingering, michael is a bit of a pleasure dom, dirty talk, michael lowkey being a freak idc, size kink if you squint harder than you’ve ever squinted before, overstimulation, squirting ???
˙⋆✮ AUTHOR’S NOTE: oops sorry this is nothing but nasty i really don’t know what came over me… oh wait it was this! definitely not my best work lmao just quick and horny, but sometimes a girls gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.
Michael always liked spending time at your place. In fact, he preferred it, relishing in the mundane tasks he got to participate in: cooking together, doing the dishes, helping you with laundry— all of it tethering him to the real world.
When he was away on tour he would dream about moments like this: back in your bedroom, lying lazily across your bed, matching socks while you folded towels. It was so simple. So normal. So domestic.
“I’ve missed you.” Your voice was soft, echoing gently against the quiet of your bedroom as you reached into the laundry basket perched on your duvet. You pulled out another towel, folding it neatly with a slight frown pulling at your lips.
You knew all too well how limited your time was together.
This was only a short break in his schedule. Next week he’d be halfway around the world on another leg of tour.
“Hey, stop that.”
He threw a rolled up pair of socks in your direction before starting on a new one. His long, dainty fingers digging through the laundry basket, moving fabric around until he found another set to roll together.
“I’ll be back before you know it.” He peered up at you with the sweetest smile playing on his lips, his hands still busy with the laundry.
You didn’t even realize you’d stopped folding the towel in your grasp— too busy staring at Michael’s fingers moving so delicately, the veins running through the tops of his hands growing more prominent with every fold.
You’d barely seen him in the last three months and now he was laid out on your bed— his hands taunting and teasing you over a pair of socks.
“You alright sweet girl?”
His words snapped against your ears like a rubber band, instantly bringing you out of your trance. You met his grin with a sheepish smile of your own as you thought about all the times you’d heard that nickname over the phone while he was away.
“how was your day sweet girl?”
“been thinkin’ bout you all day sweet girl.”
“I want you to touch yourself like I would. C’mon sweet girl let me hear ya.”
The last one was particularly memorable; the way his whisper rasped through your phone— all heavy and desperate.
It was a strange new form of intimacy for both of you— phone sex.
You’d tried so hard to use your fingers the same way he would. Straining to reach that spot he always could and panting into the phone while he whispered sweet nothings from the other end.
It was never the same. Each call ended with you more needy for his touch, dreaming about moments like this when he would be back home— in your bed.
“Just missed you that’s all.” You smiled down at him, hands still frozen, clinging to the cloth in your grasp.
“Missed me so bad you forgot how to do laundry?” Michael’s voice rang out in a gentle laugh, his hands reaching for the towel, taking it form you and finishing the job, stacking it alongside the others on your bed. All the while you couldn’t stop staring at his fingers.
“I missed your hands.” The confession slipped form you as you watched his touch brush over the soft cotton towels, wishing it was on your body instead.
“My hands?” The question giggled up from his chest as he looked down at his open palms.
You had to keep yourself from gliding your tongue across your lips as you watched him stretch and wiggle his fingers. He looked up to see the way your lids had gotten heavier— your stare locked in on his movements.
“What’d you miss about my hands?” The amusement fell away from his voice, his words now laced with a much lower hum of desire.
You reached out, holding them in your own, gliding your fingers over his knuckles.
“Everything.” You purred, rubbing gentle patterns into his palms.
“They’re just so pretty, and big.”
You line up your palms with his, noting how his fingers stretched far past yours.
“You’ve got pretty hands too baby.” His compliment was paired with a love-drunk smile— his pupils blown from the seductive tone of your voice.
“Mmm but yours always feel so good.” You trace each of his fingers, “Your fingers always fill me up so nice.”
Flustered but still smiling, he bit at his bottom lip, breaking eye contact to watch the way your hands pressed together.
“I can’t do it like you can. I try, but it’s just not the same.” There’s a performative pout on your lips and Michael’s having a hard time sitting still at the mention of you all frustrated and fucked-out with your fingers between your legs.
“Want me to show you baby?” His gaze meets yours again, the question is soft, dripping with genuine concern and chased with impatient desire.
You nod your head, teeth sharp against your bottom lip, biting down as you watch him shift his weight on your mattress. He sits at the edge of the bed, pulling your body closer until you’re standing between his legs.
His hands run up your body, resting heavy on your hips, toying with the waistband of your pajama shorts, “these need to come off.”
You don’t say a word. Working your shorts down your legs and letting the material pool at your feet.
“That’s good.” His praise melts into your body as his lips meet your skin. He places a kiss just above his thumb pressing against your hipbone.
“Missed you so much baby.” He’s cooing against your skin, breath hot and heavy at the waistband of your panties.
“My pretty girl.” His compliment is muffled as he brings a hand between your legs, running a single finger over the damp spot seeping through the cotton at your core.
“My sweet girl.” He hums against your hip, pushing your panties aside just enough to tease a finger at your entrance.
You’re already soaked. His breath huffs against your skin as he chuckles to himself, teasing his pointer finger at the pool of arousal threatening to drip down your thigh.
He pushes a single digit into you at a painfully slow pace, smiling against your skin at the little gasp you let out as it sinks into you.
“Mikey…” your hum of approval bleeds into the room and you have to grip his shoulders in an effort not to fall over when he slips another finger along with the first.
“This how you want it babygirl?” His words are sloppy against your skin, his teeth just barely nipping at your hipbone.
You nod, ready to reply but your words get stuck in your throat when he curls his fingers at just the right angle. Your mouth falls open wide enough for a strangled moan to escape.
He laughs.
His smug little giggle warm on your skin as his forehead rests against your bare stomach peeking through the raised hem of your T-shirt. The tickle of his curls only adding to the sensation building in your belly.
He hits the same spot again and again. His fingers fucking into you with precision— each movement carefully dedicated to your release. He was hungry for it, starving to feel your thighs clench and your body shake, and if he was lucky he’d get to hear his name on your lips— a melodic chant of sweet victory.
Profanities tumble out of your mouth as you squeeze his shoulders, gripping tighter with each twist of pleasure rippling through your abdomen.
“Fuck- that feels s’good” you’re mumbling into the air, voice floating somewhere between a whisper and a groan.
He hums against your skin in response. His curls still brushing back and forth along your stomach as his lips kiss along the waistband of your underwear.
You were already teetering on the edge of release, seconds away from unraveling at the mercy of his fingers, when he pushes his thumb against your clit, rubbing soft little circles and making your jaw go slack.
“Mike…” His name almost sounds like a warning as it fills the room. Your hands clutching at his shoulders as you struggle to stay still.
He’s in awe of the way his hand completely covers your pussy— his fingers curling into you and his thumb stroking your clit in tandem to push you over the edge. God he needs to hear you whine his name while you make a mess on his palm.
And you must be some kind of mind reader with the way you’re moaning his name over and over— the sweetest symphony he’s ever heard.
Your body is tense, fingers digging into his shirt as you grow more unsteady with every wave of pleasure washing through your body.
He’s kissing and sucking at your hip, his hand not letting up between your thighs despite the heaving of your chest and your legs wobbling beneath you.
Little gasps stutter past your lips as you come undone, pulsing and clenching around his fingers. You pull at his shirt in your hands, riding the wave of your high, and waiting for his movements to match the tempo of your descent.
But he keeps going— harder, deeper, faster— and all you can do is carefully dig your hands in his hair, tugging in the mess of curls at the nape of his neck.
Your composure is fleeting with every brush of his fingers against the sensitive ridges of your walls squeezing around him.
“Such a sweet girl.” His voice mumbled into your skin, teeth scraping against your body.
“Michael. I can’t.” You were panting— breathless— barely able to form a full sentence, his touch rendering you speechless.
“You can.” His eyes found yours between the slow blinks of his lashes— his gaze laced with devotion and dominance.
It wasn’t encouragement, it was a command.
His lips moved lower, licking and biting at the skin of your upper thigh, his face dangerously close to where his hand met your body— fingers still fucking into you obsessively.
The sensation building in your belly was overwhelming, pooling together and threatening to burst with each swipe of his fingers.
His thumb worked faster at your clit, as he moaned hushed praises into your skin— coaxing you into another orgasm.
You gave in— body melting into the bliss of his touch, pussy gripping and clenching and gushing around his unrelenting fingers. Your arousal coating his hand, dripping and leaking, making a mess down your thighs.
A guttural groan vibrated into your skin. Michael’s head was still buried against your leg, his lips moving lazily toward the soaked material of your panties— pushed aside and barely clinging to your body.
His hand fell from between your legs, and a whine bubbled up your throat at the loss of contact, suddenly feeling so empty without his touch on you— in you.
His fingers hooked into the waistband of your panties, pulling the ruined material down your legs.
You were in a state of pure euphoria, hands still gently holding onto his hair, and little hums of satisfaction trembling from your chest. But you were quickly pulled back to earth when Michael’s tongue made contact with your center, lapping at your core and sending your fingers clutching at his curls.
“Mike…” your head snapped down, your eyes meeting his in a caution fueled daze.
“Uh uh I’m not done yet.” His words were polite, almost delighted, as he murmured against your bare cunt.
He reached over, grabbing the laundry basket nestled in your bed sheets and tossing it onto the floor. With a quick maneuver of your hips, he had your back on the mattress. He was quick to find his way back between your thighs, determined to spend the rest of his day in your bed.
Summary: Three weeks of late nights and directions called through a talkback wire in the studio. You're a session guitarist on Michael's currently untitled follow-up to Thriller, and he's running you ragged; the same lick, over and over, until it's perfect. Turns out that same relentless, consuming attention doesn't stay in the booth. You came here to play guitar. Michael had other ideas.
based loosely on this request. ty anon!
Playlist: you can listen to some of the vibes here
Tags: Thrad michael!, (thriller/bad era) heavy petting, make out session, studio setting, michael is lowkey obsessed with you how you tear up his sheet music on the guitar, possessive! michael, he is such a perfectionist, getting caught, dry humping, hickeys, this boy is a smooth operator,
Word Count: 4959
Author’s Note: this was a request and i genuinely had a lot of fun writing it. had to listen to 'another part of me' like 7 times in a row to try pick out the guitar riffs ahahahha.
trying to do a mix of fluff/heavypetting and smut because i don't want the content to be too same-y for you guys. enjoy!!
The studio smells like cigarette smoke that isn't yours and a thick cloud has formed in the recording booth, the bright overhead spotlights making it look like atmosphere. You've been here since eleven in the morning. It's past midnight now.
The soundboard is lit up like a city seen from a plane, and you can see the light bouncing off the separation glass. Quincy had gone home, and most of the session musicians packed up two hours ago, bar you and a horn player, smoking a cig.
Michael is still here because Michael is always last to leave the session.
You stopped wondering about why he stayed into the small hours of the night, as after having signed onto do guitar work on his next album for the last three weeks, you understood he was a vicious perfectionist. He was kind, but oh so direct with the band members laying down their pieces for him. He had a vision and he followed it closely.
You were excited after having a career mostly in jazz, playing more mellow, traditional swing. The sheet music in front of you was totally different from that, and the departure was a welcome one. A challenge.
Michael often liked to lay down the sounds he heard in his head first, ensuring the percussion, strings and everything was to his liking; that it sounded like the download he had from above. He would only lay down his studio vocal at the end.
The Stratocaster is in your lap. Not plugged in. You've been running the chord progression from track six over and over, not because you're lost in it, but because the motion keeps your hands busy while you watch him through the glass.
He's in the booth with the engineer, rewinding, listening back. He does this thing when he's dissatisfied with a take — stands very still, one hand flat against the side of his headphones, head tilted. He's doing it now. The engineer says something. Michael shakes his head once.
"Elmer, you can go on home now, leave your set up. We are going to revisit in the morning," Michael said, using the autotalk.
He went back to an animated conversation with the sound engineer. Elmer cleared out of the room speedily, clearly eager to get home after a long day. You bit your lip and wondered if he was going to let you go soon.
The untitled track six has been the problem child for weeks. It exists in two versions: the one that got laid down for the Captain EO ride, clean and bright and built for a theme park; and whatever it's supposed to become now. Michael pulled it back into the sessions three weeks ago and hasn't explained why to anyone except in the vaguest terms. It needs something. It needs to move more. It needs to feel like it's going somewhere.
The booth door opens.
"Play me that thing again."
You look up. He's standing in the doorway between the live room and the tracking room, arms loose at his sides, in the white shirt he'd been wearing since early morning, collar wider, unbuttoned, and a black waistcoat. Raybans covered his eyes and the overhead lights caught the bead of sweat on his clavicle. It was extremely stuffy and warm in the studio, you could feel sweat on your back.
"Which run are you talking about?"
"The one you were doing before Quincy left," he trailed off, his mouth pulled to the side like he was biting his inner lip.
You know what he meant.
During a break an hour ago you'd been noodling, not playing anything in particular, just keeping your fingers warm; and you'd landed on something. A short melodic run, five or six notes climbing fast up the neck of the guitar and then driving back down hard with a rhythmic chop at the end. Sort of aggressive; bright but with teeth. You'd played it twice and then someone called you over to look at a lyric sheet and you'd let it go, not thinking much of it. You hadn't realised Michael was listening so closely to his band.
You plug the Strat into the small practice amp in the corner; not the full rig, just enough to be heard, and then play it for him.
Eight seconds of music. The run climbs the scale quick and clean, each note distinct, and then the chop at the bottom lands like a period at the end of a sentence. Your hands are fast, smooth and practised.
Michael watches from the doorway. Then he goes back into the booth, without a word.
The talkback crackles. His voice comes through the monitor speaker, slightly flattened.
"Again," he says, in a demanding way.
You resist the urge to roll your eyes and play it again.
"Faster on the way up."
You play it faster, feeling pent up frustration with him come out. He is certainly a nice guy, but his perfectionism is really troublesome at this time of night. The climb gets sharper, more urgent, and the chop at the end hits harder for it — the contrast between the quick ascent and the sudden stop gives it momentum, like a car braking at speed.
"Again. Please. Punchy, driving progression."
You play it again, even more aggression, but laced with intense passion.
"The last note. Hold it a beat longer before the chop."
The autotalk crackles and you look up at him behind the glass. He looks really handsome, his hair falling in front of his eyes slightly where it had grown out since his last album cycle. You admired him for always being well dressed; he never arrived at the studio looking slouchy. The white shirt and black fitted pants, his iconic white socks and black loafers.
You adjust. The held note creates a half-second of tension before the rhythm comes down, and now the whole thing feels like it's winding up before it releases.
You play it again without being told. Then again. Through the glass you can see him standing at the board, not touching anything on it, just watching. His elbows are on the console, hands loosely clasped under his chin.
His voice through the speaker: "That's it. That's the color it was missing."
You play it once more because your hands want to.
"I want it on the bridge. Track six. It was too soft. Too contained. It needs to push against something."
You think about the track as you know it — smooth and crowd-pleasing and built to be safe. Then you think about the run, the way the climb builds and the chop lands, and you understand immediately what he's hearing. The lick in the bridge would work like a gear change. The whole song would change tonally.
"Play it again," he says. "Recording it now and then Q can listen in the morning."
You sit up. Square your shoulders. Play it.
"One more take."
You play it again, cleaner. Look up back at the window — he still seems like he wants more. His sunglasses have come off.
"Again. Don't rush the top."
You slow the peak of the climb by a fraction, let each note speak before the next one, and the run gets more shape. More intention. Through the glass he nods once.
"Again."
This goes on for twenty minutes. His voice comes through the monitor in a steady rhythm — more attack, less, shift the chop one beat later, try it without the held note, no, go back, that was right before — and you execute every adjustment without complaint, which you can tell surprises him even from the other side of the glass.
Most session musicians push back at the artist, or at least get a little mouthy when they are being worked this late. You've learned that the fastest way to work harmoniously with Michael is just to listen to him, because he's usually right.
The engineer calls through from somewhere behind Michael. Anything else tonight?
A pause. Michael doesn't look away from the glass. "No. Go home and get some rest, Martin."
A crackle. Footsteps. A door somewhere in the building opening and closing.
The talkback is still live. You can hear the faint presence of the booth — the hiss of the monitors, Michael breathing. You are feeling more nervous now, the sweat beading on your forehead.
His voice, quieter now. "Play it again."
You play it, with serious conviction, your legs tensing where you sat on the stool in front of the low mic.
"Again."
You play it again.
"Again."
You stop. Lower the guitar slightly. Look at him through the glass. "Michael. It's good. You know it's good."
Through the glass he's looking back at you. He doesn't answer immediately.
Then, out of the blue: "I like you."
The amp hums as your hands hover over the strings. It feels like the whole world stops.
"What?"
"I like you." His voice is direct through the speaker. "I've been trying to talk myself out of it for three weeks and I can't, so I am telling you."
You look at him through the glass, total shock on your face.
There is something very deliberate about the fact that he's still in there — the pane between you, the monitors, the console. Like he decided that if he was going to say it he was going to say it from a safe distance.
"Why now?" you say.
"Because it's just us and I'm running out of reasons not to."
"That's not what I mean." You set the guitar across your knees. "You've been working with me for weeks. What changed tonight? Is it because it was supposed to be my last session?"
A long pause. You watch him decide something.
"When you feel the music," he says, "when you're really in it — you look insanely beautiful." He clears his throat, clearly nervous. "And sexy. And completely in tune with exactly what I'm calling on, like you're hearing the same thing I'm hearing before I've said it." Another pause, shorter. "I've worked with a lot of musicians."
"Mmm."
"I've never once had the privilege of someone who takes direction so literally, so well."
You don't say anything for a moment. The thing about Michael is that he means what he says with a completeness that most people don't. There is no calculation in it, no angle, which is strange given that being a performer, being very different to his usual self, is most of his professional life.
"You could have said something three weeks ago," you say.
"I know." A beat. "I wasn't ready then. I had to figure you out a lil' more."
"And now? Do you think you have figured me out?"
He doesn't answer intentionally. Instead: "Play it one more time."
You smirk, flip your hair out of your face.
You play the run — the climb, quick and deliberate, each note landing clean, and then the held note at the peak, the tension of it, the half-second where the whole thing is balanced on the edge. Then the chop comes down hard and the last note rings out into the room and fades into amp hiss and silence.
The booth door opens. You startle, not realising he had moved.
He crosses the live room in a few strides and takes the guitar from your hands before you've fully stood up, sets it against the amp stand without looking at it, and then he kisses you hungrily, right in front of the mic with the overhead lights on. They are like a spotlight on the both of you, nowhere to hide now.
It's not soft. It's not a question. His kiss lands exactly like the chop at the end of the lick — like something that has been at pressure for a long time and has finally found where it needs to release.
Your hands go to the front of his shirt. His go to your jaw, your neck, warm and soft, and he kisses you the way he listens, with his entire attention, every point of contact something he is paying attention to separately, the session now at the back of either of your minds.
When he pulls back it's barely an inch. His hands are still on your face.
The laugh that bubbles up in your chest is half-breathless, half-hysterical. He's so close his eyelashes brush your cheek when he blinks.
"Michael," you whisper into the millimeter of space between your lips. "What the hell are we doing?"
"Mm, not sure," he murmurs back, his voice a low, private rumble you've never heard before — not through a microphone, not in conversation. Raw, unprocessed. "I guess we are feeling the music, Y/N."
"Feeling the music," you repeat, dazed. His thumbs are stroking the hinge of your jaw. Your own fingers are curled into the crisp cotton of his shirt, feeling the heat of his skin beneath. "What's the operational objective here?"
"Play. I want to play." He kisses you slower this time, but with the same devastating focus. His mouth is soft, insistent, and he tastes like the black tea he'd been drinking all night at the controls and a faint hint of mint.
You make a small, involuntary sound against his lips and you feel him smile, just a tiny curve, before he deepens the kiss again.
One of his hands slides from your jaw, down the column of your throat, his fingers spreading over the rapid pulse there. He breaks the kiss to trail his mouth along that same path, his lips warm and slightly chapped. You tip your head back, granting access, and a shiver runs through you that has nothing to do with the studio's stuffy heat.
"You're sweaty," you mumble, your eyes closed.
"So are you," he says, the words vibrating against your collarbone. "This recording studio is like a sauna. Just with better equipment." He laughs, breathlessly.
"You're making me sweatier."
"Good." He finds a particular spot at the junction of your neck and shoulder and sucks, not gently. The sensation is a bright, sharp shock — possessive, deliberate. Your grip on his shirt tightens. "That's gonna leave a mark," you manage, your voice already sounding wrecked.
"Mmm-hmm." He doesn't stop. He moves to another spot, higher, just below your ear, and repeats the process — the wet heat of his mouth, the slight scrape of his teeth, the firm pressure. It's methodical. He is so incessant, a big difference to the kind and softspoken Michael you had been working with professionally for the last few weeks. It is like he's found a frequency he likes and he's riding the fader. A soft, breathy moan escapes you before you can catch it.
He pulls back to look at his work, his eyes dark and intense, taking in the flushed skin, the beginning of a bruise. He looks utterly fascinated.
"There," he says, softly. "Now you have a souvenir."
"Michael, do not leave anymore marks, I swear to god. If you want me to come in tomorrow I have to look professional to your team."
The protest dies in your throat when he moves again — not away, but forward, crowding you back step by step until your shoulders meet the cool painted concrete of the studio wall. The contrast is startling — the heat of his body against yours, the unyielding chill of the surface behind you.
He pins you there, not with force but with presence, his hips slotting against yours, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in the hair at your nape.
"Professional," he echoes against your lips. "You think I'm thinking about being professional right now?"
He kisses you again, and this one is different — deep, consuming, a total immersion. His tongue sweeps into your mouth and you open for him without thought, a low groan vibrating from his chest into yours. Your hands, which had been fisted in his shirt, slide up to his shoulders, feeling the lean muscle there, the shift and flex as he adjusts his stance to press you more firmly into the wall.
The hand at your neck holds you steady, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin behind your ear. The other drops to your bum, his grip firm and possessive, pulling you tighter against him. You can feel him, hard and insistent through his levis, and the reality of it — Michael Jackson, the genius, the perfectionist, the icon, wanting you like this — sends a dizzying rush of heat straight to your core.
He breaks the kiss to breathe, his forehead resting against yours, his breath ragged and warm on your face.
"The first day," he murmurs, the words spilling out in a hushed, confessional rush. "When you walked in. You shook my hand. Your fingers were cool and you had calluses right here—" He brings his hand from your hip, takes your right hand, and presses his thumb against the pads of your fingertips. "—and you looked me right in the eye and said, 'I'm all yours, Mr. Jackson.' No nerves. Just readiness."
He brings your hand to his mouth and kisses each fingertip, his lips soft, his gaze locked on yours. The intimacy of it is almost more overwhelming than the kiss.
"I thought, 'This one hears it. This one gets the picture.'" He lets go of your hand to frame your face again. "And then you played. And it was right. But it was more than that. It was alive."
He kisses you again, a brief, searing press. "I'd watch you through the glass," he continues, his voice dropping even lower, a secret for the two of you. "You'd bite your lip when you were thinking. You'd close your eyes on a bend. Your whole body would move with the rhythm, just a little, like the music was a current running through you. And I'd be in there, listening to a take, and all I could think was — I want to be that guitar." He lets out a shaky breath, almost a laugh at his own admission. "I wanted to be the thing you held that close. The thing you made sing."
His confession hangs in the air, thick and real. You are speechless. You'd seen his focus, felt his demanding direction, but you'd never imagined this — this raw wanting, observed and catalogued with the same meticulous attention he gave to his work.
"Michael," you whisper, your voice trembling.
"Shh," he soothes, brushing his nose against yours. "Let me."
He reclaims your mouth, and this time the kiss is all heat and need — messy, off-beat, perfectly imperfect. His teeth catch your lower lip, tugging gently, and you gasp. He swallows the sound, his tongue laving the stinging spot. Your hands are everywhere, in his hair now wonderfully disheveled, down his back, feeling the taut line of his spine through the waistcoat and shirt. You arch against him, seeking friction, and a ragged groan tears from him.
His mouth leaves yours to blaze a trail down your neck, over the marks he's already made, down to the collar of your shirt. His fingers fumble with the top button, his usual dexterity slightly compromised by urgency. He gets it open, then the next, his lips following the path of exposed skin — the hollow of your throat, the swell of your breast above your bra, each press of his mouth a brand.
His hand slides higher, cupping your breast through the lace. His thumb finds your nipple, circles it, presses. A desperate moan is ripped from you and you feel him smile into the kiss, pure satisfaction.
"Oh, you like that," he murmurs.
The wall is cool and solid at your back. He is fire and demand in your arms. The studio has shrunk to this: the space between your bodies, the slide of fabric, the wet sound of your kisses, the ragged symphony of your breathing. The overhead spotlights are merciless, illuminating every flicker of desire on his face, every bead of sweat tracing a path down his temple, the fever-bright flush on your own skin.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, his chest heaving. His hair is a beautiful mess. His shirt is hopelessly wrinkled, half-untucked. He has never looked less like the pristine icon and more like a man.
"Tell me to stop," he says, the words a gravelly challenge, his eyes searching yours not for permission but for the same madness he feels. "Tell me this is a bad idea. Tell me we have to be professional."
You slide your hands from his shoulders down his chest, feeling the rapid heavy beat of his heart beneath your palms. You don't tell him to stop. Instead you curl your fingers into the fabric of his waistcoat and pull him back to you.
"The only thing I want from you right now," you say against his mouth, "is more. Of whatever this is."
A low, approving sound rumbles in his chest. His kiss turns incendiary — like he's trying to memorize the taste of you, like this is the final perfect take and he's giving it everything. His hands map you — your ribs, your waist, the curve of your ass, hauling you up slightly to better align with him. The friction is exquisite, maddening. You wrap a leg around his hip and he groans, the sound raw and unfiltered, a private sound for no microphone but the one in your memory.
The sound of the door opening was like a needle scratch across the record of the moment.
Just the soft click of a latch, the gentle push of the heavy studio door — but in the absolute charged silence you and Michael had created, it might as well have been a thunderclap.
You both froze.
Michael's head, which had been bent to your neck, went perfectly still. Your own fingers, tangled in his hair, stopped. For one suspended second the only sounds were the low hum of electricity and the ragged shared rhythm of your breathing.
Then a shuffling step, and the squeak of a wheeled bucket.
You turned your head just enough to see past Michael's shoulder. Standing in the doorway was an older man in grey coveralls, a janitor's cart beside him, a look of profound shock on his face.
The spell shattered.
Michael moved first. Not a jerk, not panic — a slow, deliberate disentanglement. His hands left your skin with a lingering slide that felt like a final secret caress. He took a single smooth step back, putting a foot of professional distance between your bodies. His expression, which had been open and hungry a heartbeat before, underwent a remarkable transformation — the intensity drained, replaced by a placid, almost serene politeness. The same look he gave interviewers, the same gentle mask he wore in public. Only the faint flush high on his cheekbones and his wonderfully disheveled hair betrayed what had just happened.
"Good evening," Michael said, his voice back to its familiar softspoken tone, utterly calm, as if he'd been caught reviewing a track sheet.
The cleaner blinked, stammering. "I — I'm so sorry, Mr. Jackson. I was told everyone had gone home for the night. I didn't mean to interrupt—"
"It's quite alright," Michael said, offering a small gracious smile. He adjusted the cuff of his white shirt — a gesture so normal, yet he made it look so devastating. "We were just finishing up some last-minute work on the bridge. Lost track of time."
The almost-lie delivered with such effortless conviction you almost believed it yourself. You were still leaning against the wall, your shirt rumpled, your lips swollen, your neck bearing the evidence of his attention. Heat flooded your face — embarrassment and a strange defiant thrill in equal measure.
"Of course, of course," the cleaner mumbled, already backing toward the door, dragging his cart with him. "I'll, uh, I'll start in the hallway. Apologies again."
"Thank you for your hard work," Michael said warmly.
The door clicked shut.
The silence that followed was different. No longer a private bubble, but a space recently violated, the air still vibrating with the echo of the interruption. You looked at Michael. He had turned away, running a hand through his hair, his back to you.
A shaky laugh escaped you. You pressed your fingers to your lips. "Well. That was—"
"Unfortunate timing," he said, not turning around.
"You think?" You pushed off the wall, your legs unsteady. "He's definitely going to talk."
Michael finally turned. "Let him talk." He said it with a quiet certainty that brooked no argument — the king in his castle, secure in his power. Then his gaze dropped to your neck and a flicker of pure satisfaction crossed his features. "Besides," he added, his voice dropping back into that private low register, "we are just working passionately. Music comes to people in all sorts of ways."
You shook your head. But before you could form another thought he closed the distance between you in two quick strides.
"He did interrupt," Michael murmured against your ear. "And we weren't finished."
This time there was no hesitation. His mouth captured yours in a deep claiming kiss that stole the breath from your lungs. You grasped the front of his waistcoat for balance as he walked you backward, through the door and into the studio, his body pressing yours until the back of your legs met the cold leather surface of the couch.
He broke the kiss only to trail his lips along your jaw, back to the sensitive marked skin of your neck. He didn't suck this time — just laved the spot with his tongue, a slow caress over the budding bruise, before sealing his mouth over it again, harder.
"This is inspiration for tomorrow," he breathed against your damp skin. "When you come back to lay down that lick with Q."
It wasn't a question.
He kissed you again, slower but no less deep, his tongue stroking yours in a rhythm that was unmistakably carnal. One of his knees nudged between yours and you instinctively wrapped a leg around his hip. The friction was exquisite through the fabric. He hissed, a sharp intake of breath, and rocked against you — once, twice, deliberate — and you cried out.
It was that sound, raw and unfiltered, that seemed to pierce the haze. He stilled, his forehead dropping to yours, breathing in hot short gusts against your lips.
"God," he whispered, his voice shredded. "If we don't stop now—"
He didn't finish. He didn't have to. The unfinished promise hung in the air, more potent than any words.
With what looked like immense physical effort he pushed himself back, his arms trembling slightly where they still caged you. His eyes, black and dilated, searched your face as if memorizing it.
Slowly, deliberately, he leaned in and pressed one last achingly soft kiss to the corner of your mouth. A kiss of punctuation. Of later.
Then he was up off the couch, turning away, running both hands through his hair. He checked his watch, the movement jerky.
"It's very late," he said, the words sounding scraped raw. He cleared his throat, visibly gathering the scattered pieces of his composure. "You should get home. You need rest for tomorrow."
"Tomorrow? Tonight was my last scheduled session," you echoed, your body still throbbing.
"Final lay-down on track six. Ten AM sharp." He spoke to the console, not looking at you. He picked up the phone beside the controls, his voice strained but firming up — Michael in charge, forcibly reasserting himself. "James? It's Mike. Bring the car around. Back studio entrance. Not for me though — a nice young lady needs a ride home. Thank you."
He hung up and finally turned. The composure was back, but fragile now, hairline cracks showing. He approached you and stopped a respectful distance away.
"A driver will take you home," he said. His gaze swept over your flushed face, your kiss-swollen lips, the vivid mark on your neck. He reached out and with a tenderness that made your chest ache, gently fixed the collar of your shirt, his fingers brushing the sensitive skin. "Get some sleep."
You found your voice, though it was hoarse. "Is that an order?"
A ghost of his earlier smile touched his lips. "A strong recommendation from your manager."
He leaned in. You held your breath. But he just pressed a soft closed-mouth kiss to your cheek — chaste, a cover story. Yet his lips lingered, and you felt the slight involuntary tremor in them before he pulled away.
"See you tomorrow, bright and early," he chirped, the melodic public voice almost convincing. Almost.
You gathered your things on autopilot, every nerve ending still singing. At the door you paused and looked back.
He was standing in the middle of the room, one hand in his pocket, the other holding his sunglasses. He looked composed. But his eyes held yours across the distance, and in them you saw the entire unedited truth — the hunger, the possessive claim, the trembling control, and underneath all of it, a certain tiredness that had nothing to do with the hour.
A slow knowing smirk curved your bruised lips. You held his gaze for one last endless second, then turned and walked out into the hall, where the scent of disinfectant from the cleaner's cart did nothing to erase the scent of him on your skin.
The black sedan was waiting. As you slid into the back seat you let your head fall back and finally exhaled, long and shuddering. You touched the throbbing mark on your neck, then your tender well-kissed lips.
You smiled — slow, secret — and closed your eyes, already counting the minutes until ten AM.
synopsis: you’re needy, but luckily your boyfriend is eager to please.
warnings: 18+ mdni, LOL basically all my favourite things: princess treatment, making out, dryhumping, and oral (f receiving)
“You’re eager today, aren’t you baby?” Jaafar muses into the crook of your neck, his breath hot against your skin as he speaks. “Missed me?”
The room smells soft, like rose petals and moonlight. You feel warmth all around you, and the pale strip of light shining through your window blurs into nothingness as you continue your syrupy slow back and forth movements.
“Ye— yes,” you breathe pathetically. You can feel the desperate glide of his tongue on your skin, as if he’s trying to lap up the oils of your perfume, right before his plush lips suck faint purple marks all over your neck. “So much, I can’t think straight.”
That makes him release a low chuckle, momentarily deattaching himself from your neck — “My sweet baby.” — before connecting his lips to yours. And you can feel his wandering hands— travelling all over your hips, your lower back, thick fingers slightly teasing the elastic band of your shorts as he slowly moves his hips in tandem with yours. “Look at you, all pretty f’me.”
It drives you crazy, how perfect Jaafar is. The sweetest and most tender man on the planet. And he’s all yours, you realise. He’s all for you. The praise of his words shoot straight to your head.
The desperate tension in the room swirls in the air. His lips feel like a warm wave of pleasure to yours, and you can’t help but let out a small whimper as your boyfriend continues to pepper light kisses all over your neck and collarbones, carding your fingers through his curls.
You keep on writhing against his chest— you feel him harden beneath you. “Easy, baby. Let me fix it.” He whispers. A heavy, yet gentle hand pushes your rocking hips down to his clothed length, fingers now resting on the sliver of bare skin between your shorts and top, and Jaafar’s sure you feel hot. Needy. Eager. Seeking relief, after not seeing him for days.
“Let me help my pretty baby.” He says to himself, like a promise. You can’t do anything but nod. You don’t want to do anything else, if you have to be honest with yourself. You know you’re in good hands with him. “I— please.” You manage to murmur quietly, breathily.
“D’awwh,” he breathes against your skin. The tension crackles in the air. It’s thick, heavy and yet, you feel so at home with Jaafar’s arms around you, wandering hands resting on your ass. “Y’just need me to take care of you?” He asks lazily, along with a little teasing hint and a surge of pride evident in the way he smiles against the sensitive skin of your neck.
The need within you simmers. It grows silently, like a tingle evolving into a wet pulse in your core as you allow Jaafar to kiss your stress away. He feels like a furnace against you. He’s everything you have ever wanted: stable, present, steady. His skin is soft like a pillow and if you weren’t as needy as you are now, you would fall asleep against his chest.
Just the fact that he thinks you’re cute and perfect for him makes the pressure pulse heavier. “I feel so lucky,” your boyfriend pants between kisses. Those warm hands travel to your waist, where he moves your body back and forth over the growing tent in his shorts. “You’re too good f’me, I swear.”
The air in the room is starting to get clammy. You can already feel the shy drip of wetness gather on your panties while Jaafar keeps on dragging you over his prominent length. The delicious friction of your panties and the jersey fabric of Jaafar’s shorts against your clit makes you lightheaded, and you can’t help but release small mewls every time the lace drags over your pulsing entrance just right.
You look down at where the two of you rub against each other, and God if that sight doesn’t end you right then and there. “Fuck, you—” your boyfriend pants, unable to finish his sentence, “let me taste you, yeah?” His eyes are wide and blazen in pleasure, fingers already thumbing the hem of your shorts down.
You don’t think twice. “Yes, oh my— please.” you whimper out pathetically, finally feeling freed from your own restraint. You don’t care about how vulnerable you sound. You don’t care because everything feels good with him. Easy. Comfortable.
He brackets his hand around your scalp as he settles you down on the soft duvet and peels off your shorts. “I’ve been waiting for this all day,” he tells you earnestly, making his way down your body, slotting his shoulders between your open thighs, never breaking eye contact. “Wondering when I could spoil my girl.”
A small moan bubbles out of you when he snaps the elastic band of your panties against your skin. He’s taking way too long. Out of desperation, your hands sneak into his hair. “Please, touch me.”
A knowing smile appears on Jaafar’s mouth at just seeing you so undone, desperate for relief, begging him to go down on you like he’s your only salvation. He looks at you in a way you’ve never been looked at before: wanted. Important. Desired.
“When have I ever been able to say no to you, baby?”
And with careful precision, your boyfriend peels off the last piece of fabric that separates your pussy from him. His soft, wet mouth immediately latches onto you like it’s a habit, a magnet.
The drag of his tongue between your walls is slow, sleepy and filthy. The desire in your core keeps pulsating, heavier and stronger with each brush of his lips against your clit. It’s almost like a heartbeat that drives you mad. “Can’t stand seeing y’unsatisfied.” your boyfriend manages to mumble out while his face is buried between your legs.
Between heavy breaths and languid licks between your walls, he manages to draw tight circles to your clit. His other free hand is wrapped around your thigh. “Makes me want to spoil you. Never have to lift a finger w’me, y’know that?”
You can’t find the energy to respond to him. The delve of his tongue inside your spongey entrance, the warmth of his breath coating your thighs — it’s all too much. But it’s just the way you like it, and your boyfriend knows that too. You spend minutes grinding yourself against his waiting tongue. The grip you have on his hair almost functioning like a rein.
When your fingers lose their hold on his hair, Jaafar is quick to lead your hand back to his head. “Keep it there, sweetheart,” he orders between pants. “Love it when you do that.”
He continues to eat you out, albeit sloppily. Wet squelches of his tongue continually prodding at your hole ricochet off the walls like an echo, and you can feel the spark low in your core start to build up. “J, I—” your voice is tiny as it cracks from desperation. “I’m so close.” Your cunt flutters around the wet muscle of his tongue.
You sound wound up, and it spurs Jaafar on to keep doing what he does. “Please,” he begs back between dips of his tongue and gentle nips, “You’re doing so good, baby. Show me how—”
He doesn’t get much further. Your whole body lights up, muscles pulled taut. Jaafar’s sentence is cut off by a broken moan, and your entrance keeps gushing out the sweetest essence he has ever tasted. He moves his tongue through it, never letting up. Your breaths are heavy and pitchy and a little skittish as you finally come down from your high, chest rising and falling with deep inhales of oxygen.
Your thighs are still shaking when you try to sit up, and he sits up with you, seemingly more in love with you than before. One hand stays on one of your trembling thighs, keeping you still. He presses a lingering kiss to your lips. “Better, baby?”
You nod back with a lovesick smile, all satisfied and happy, eyes flicking down to the problem he has to deal with now. The drowsy, sleepy tone in your voice from before can’t be heard when you say, “you need some help with that?”
Jaafar flashes you a grin: he knows what you’re talking about. He’s never the one to push you to do something you don’t want, but tonight, you want to take a different route. His grin is boyish and somewhat wicked, dimples appearing on his face.
“When have I ever been able to say no to you?”
a/n: i actually headcanon that he likes to lick THROUGH the panties but that on its own is a whole other one-shot i fear
synopsis: michael loves pleasing you so much he has to record it for his future self to enjoy too!
warnings: sexual themes, smut, 18+
Click!
And you froze.
The faintest giggle from Michael’s mouth brought you up for air — disconnecting your swollen lips from his own.
You, as Michael’s long-term girl, knew that he was a troublemaker at times — often pulling silly stunts to get a rise out of you and make you laugh. But, rather, in this sense, make himself laugh.
But this, was definitely a new one.
“Mike, what is that?”
Michael sported a childish grin — the corners of his lips tugging each side as he fought to suppress it.
“A camera.”
“I can see that, honey, but what’s it doing out while we’re kissin’?” Your tone had Michael pulling his bottom lip between his lips.
“Wanted to try somethin’.” He revealed, his voice soft and sweet despite the sensual undertone.
You’d barely been situated in Michael’s lap five minutes, lips moving feverishly against his own, anticipating some intimacy with your man, before the clicking of the Sony Handycam CCD-M8U you bought him for his birthday started a recording.
“Come on, baby, keep goin’.” He whispered — behaving like a producer backstage of a performance, using hushed tones to support you with your next act.
You shook your head in protest — lips parting to tell him to turn that damn thing off. But, it was Michael’s way or no way. He perched up from slightly beneath you, capturing your lips again on his own. You could sense the camera on you as Michael slid his eager tongue into your mouth — the wet muscle exploring yours as his right hand levitated in the air, capturing every second of your private moment. His spare hand slid up the centre of your spine, fingers tips tracing the dip, pushing you closer to his chest.
“Michael, turn it of—“ “Shh, just let it happen, doll.”
His muffled dismissal against your lips had you huffing into his — giving up fighting him. Luckily for Michael, you soon forgot about his little friend in the air — your enclosed lip-locking becoming increasingly more heated as time pursed. Your hips ground against his own involuntarily, muscle memory kicking in from your many previous sensual encounters, eliciting a sharp gasp from your throat. Michael hummed into your mouth at the sound of your first pretty noise of the night — the excitement of his future self watching the tape back and watching your neediness increase in real time had him buzzing.
Michael bucked his hips up to meet yours halfway — a genuine whine of desperation leaving your mouth against his own, still locked in a ferocious kiss. Your hands encased his flushed cheeks, holding him dearly close to you, your whines blossoming into authentic moans of pleasure as your throbbingly touch-starved clit nudged against the painfully obvious bulge in his slacks.
Your lips left Michael’s in a frantic, needy frenzy — planting hot, open-mouthed kisses to his jawline, lips dragging along the spectacularly chiseled bone, smothering the skin in your mauve lipstick. Before following his anatomy and furthering your pout down his neck, licking a tentative stripe down the slope.
Michael shuddered under your brutal teasing, hands twitching around the camera ever so slightly. He peered up at it, ensuring he was capturing you in the perfect way.
“Gosh, baby, y’look so pretty like that.” Michael breathed, titling his head back to allow you to expand your surface area of tentative licks, “Kissin’ all on me like that.”
At this point, all the sense you had to smack that camera out of Michael’s hand had long left your head. Now, all you were interested in was pressing hot kisses down Michael’s chest, shoving the loose shirt off his torso to give yourself more room to worship his body with your mouth.
Above you, Michael had managed to shift the camera angle down, now holding the painfully obvious equipment with two hands, resting on his heaving chest — angling it just right to show your arched frame moving down his body, lipstick marks forming on his glossed skin. Your manicured hands reached the waistband of his slacks before peering your head up from his crotch, eyeing him seriously, as if to say put that thing away now.
“Please?” His pleading, slightly whiny voice had any form of judgment you’d once obtained now ten feet out the window as his eyes sparkled above you — lip threatening to fall into a pout as the camera taped you rolling your eyes before unbuckling his trousers, shoving them down his thighs. Michael grinned excitedly as you pressed your chest close to the aching bulge in his boxers.
“Wow, you really do like that camera, huh?” You teased, tracing a calculated finger down the ridge of his hard cock.
Michael hissed at the sudden, feather-light touch, knuckles going white around said tech, lip being gnawed by his pearly whites at the sight of you between legs.
“Quit teasin’.” He spoke shyly, his eyes flicking between the screen and your in-person frame, an anticipatory smile on his face.
Usually, Michael would dislike it when you suck his dick — believing his lady should be pleasured and looked after, not made to strain herself for only his gain. But, he knew how you secretly enjoyed having your throat stuffed full, rendering completely at your mercy, so every once in a while, he’d allow it.
That and you looked so pretty with his cock in your mouth.
Especially on camera.
So, when your lips wrapped around the flushed head of his proud cock, Michael didn’t know whether to focus on making sure every second of this was caught on video, or the feeling of intense delight you were succumbing him to. You suckled the tip just how he liked, his salty, yet equally delicious, pre-cum flooding your taste buds, relishing in the way the perfect dip in his eyebrows adorned his face — he was crumbling.
“S-Shit, sweetheart, doin’ so good.” He panted, thighs tensing against your hands as you steadied yourself on the meaty muscle.
You slid him deeper, tongue dancing over the throbbing vein on the underside of his shaft, while your pretty fingers wrapped around the base, pumping him slowly in beat with your eager mouth. Michael watched you like a hawk — heart thumping in his chest so hard he was certain the tachycardia was going to send him into cardiac arrest at the way your seductive, doe eyes fluttered up at him through your lashes.
“Oh, Lord.” He heaved, head falling back against the pillow as the head of his swollen manhood punched the back of your throat — a loud gag of rejection sounding out into the room.
Michael secretly adored when you did that.
In his trance of lust, the camera slipped from his grasp, sliding down his side, leaving his hands free to slither down and cradle your face. You noticed.
“Ah, ah, ah!” You teased, pulling off his cock with a pop, saliva connecting you even in disengagement, “Thought you wanted it filmin’, angelface?”
Michael whined, trembling hands leaving your face to pull the camera back into his possession — focusing the lense to put you back into shot. Michael’s breath hitched at the sight — even on the choppy, blurry screen, your blown out pupils, tear-streaked, flushed red cheeks and swollen lips glossed with spit and his pre-cum had him twitching in your hand as you pumped him slowly.
“Look so fuckin’ good, girl.” He admitted, furrowed eyebrows hidden between the large hunk of plastic as he watched through it, “Can’t wait to watch this later.”
You laughed, pressing a kiss to the head, collecting the pre-cum that dribbled down him with the tip of your tongue, smiling at the way Michael whined, “Oh, you dirty dog, Michael Jackson.”
Michael chuckled cheekily, “Come up here, wanna feel you.”
Obeying his orders, you let his hardened cock fall against his tensed abdomen, climbing up him once more. Your hips settled either side of him against, clothed pussy lips now hugging the thickness of his cock through your soaked panties.
“Well, would you look at that?” He started, a teasing finger coming down to toy with your damp underwear, a whine leaving your lips at the tentative touches, “Looks like you’re enjoying this after all, hm?”
You failed to reply — words catching in your throat as his finger traced the outline of your aching clit through the thin material, your lips parting at the sheer sensuality of his touch.
“Where’s that teasin’ girl gone, hm? Cat got your tongue, mama?”
“Michael.” Your voice a whiny, needy plea of despair.
“What, baby? Talk to me. Tell me whatcha’ need.” He coaxed, his tone a gentle dominant force that your mouth rambling to answer, to please.
You whined, hips rolling against the hard of his cock, rubbing alongside the pad of his finger that remained flat against your nub, “Plea—please, need it—need to feel you.”
Michael’s hand, steadily holding the camera, angled it perfectly to show your needy pussy humping his cock, as well as the eyebrows knitted in lust on your pretty little face — his cock twitching at the thought of fucking his hand to the recording later.
Michael tapped your hip, demanding you lift your hips to have access to your drooling cunt. He peeled the drenched cotton panties from your puffy pussy lips, tucking them to the side of your vulva. With practiced ease, Michael slid an expert finger between the slickness of your cunt — collecting the sweet essence of your arousal on his digits. With methodical swiftness, a long finger of Michael’s slipped into the clenching hole which needed him most.
“Mmh, such a pretty pussy, doll. Got all wet just for me?”
Michael knew the answer, he just loved to hear you say it. Loved to hear you admit in your drunken state of ecstasy that he was the one to make you slick with arousal. Michael’s fingers moved with excellence you were stunned by each and every time — the relentless abuse against the sweet, spongy spot inside you that had you crying out, tears jerking from your ears at the sheer force of the sensation.
“Ooh, there she go,” He whispered, the ball of his hand coming up to roll against the excluded nub that was screaming for touch, a move that had you sobbing, “That’s the spot, huh, ma? So good it got you cryin’ f’me, hm?”
His name left your swollen, cum-stained lips in a wretched sob, nails digging into the flex of his bicep, gripping on for dear life as you fucked yourself onto his hand.
“Y-Yes! Yes—o-ah! Yes, God, Mike—gonna cum!”
Michael could’ve laughed at the way your face dropped in sheer disbelief as he pulled his hand away from your sopping cunt after your confession of near climax. Your chest heaved, clit throbbing as your eyes welled up, pulling on Michael’s heartstrings.
“Oh, sweet girl.” He laughed, leaning up to press a soft kiss to your pouting lips, “Need you to cum around my cock, babygirl, yeah? Can you do that for me, pretty lady?”
You nodded meekly, bottom lip still jutted out in protest as Michael guided his cock between your shaking legs. Just as his burning hot tip slid into the familiar, wet comforts of your hole — your disappointed pout fell into a gasp of relief.
Michael laughed, his free hand coming to pull on your bottom lip, cock slipping further inside you, “Don’t want this out again, you hear me? No poutin’ girls around here.”
You nodded feverishly — not ever wanting to disobey him, in fear he’d take away the one thing that’s fulfilling the desire that burned fiercely inside you, as he stretched you open, inch by inch. The camera, still rolling, captured all of this — the way each inch of his cock disappeared slowly, your pretty pussy lips wrapped around his shaft, your slick drooling around him.
You whined, feeling impossibly full as he bottomed out, seating you fully down onto his pelvis. His own bottom lip was sucked in between his teeth, admiring the sight of your perfect frame on top of him.
“Oh, I bet you’re so full, huh, baby? Usually don’t let y’ride me first — can feel that pussy throbbing.” He confessed, laughing softly as you whimpered, his free hand slithering up your bared body — making sure to record his hand palming your tits through your lacy bra.
Michael wasted no time pulling the material off your body, reaching behind you to flick the fastener apart one-handed — watching as the bra fell from your chest, your perky tits on full display to him, and the camera, of course. His teasing fingers crawled up you, grabbing a gentle handful of your right breast, humming at the feeling of the soft skin and the sound of your desperate moan. You shuffled around him — wincing at the feeling of his perfectly curved cock nudging your quivering walls, awaiting the approval to start moving.
No matter what you were doing — Michael was always in control.
Michael moved his hand to roll your erect nipple in between his nimble fingers, “Go’head, girl, show me how much you need it.”
You didn’t wait for him to change his mind, not that he would with the way you were clenching eagerly around him, lifting your hips off him, about half-way, before slamming back down. Your head fell back instinctively, a cry of sheer joy slipping from your lips, only encouraging Michael to throb inside you.
“Come on, sweetheart, falling apart after one bounce? Can do better than that.” He teased, smirking at the way you bit your lip shyly, suddenly embarrassed at how much effect he had over you.
Your hips rose again — now bouncing with the help of Michael’s tight grip on your hip, pulling you up and down on him. You whined, cheeks flushed in timidity as he hummed behind the screen.
“Oh, that’s the fuckin’ money shot, girl. My baby’s a natural. Look at that pussy—fuck, yeah, doll, keep goin’.”
Michael’s words of encouragement had you crying out — moaning in pure lust as his cock continued to relentlessly nudge against the best spot inside you, one he never failed to hit each time. Michael’s hand cradled your hips dominantly, grinding you down with each movement, rubbing your clit onto his neatly groomed pubic bone, failing to hide the smirk that crept onto his face at the sound of your needy noises.
“That’s it — let me hear you, darling.”
“Mike.” You whined, hand coming up to grabs handful of your tits and the other holding yourself up on his chest, slick with sweat. Michael’s eyes could’ve popped out of his head at the sight of you — seductively playing with your perky breasts, nipples rolling between your fingers like he once did, head thrown back, mouth agape letting your slutty moans fall upon his perked up ears.
Now, this was the shot.
Michael couldn’t wait another moment. Throwing the camera down on the bed, he lifted you up with both strong hands, pulling you off his slicked cock, and laying you down gently on the bed with ease.
“Mikey.” You whinged, “Please.”
“I know, sweet thing, ‘m coming back, don’t worry that pretty little head.” He reassured, pressing a gentle kiss to the corner of your mouth.
Michael slid you onto your side with ease, one shaking leg laying over the other, revealing your swollen cunt. He slid a soft hand over your skin, squeezing the plush of your ass, humming at the sight of you beneath him. He picked up the discarded camera once more, pointing it down at you once more.
“Now, this,” He started, “is the perfect position for when my baby’s gettin’ recorded. Y’know why, sweet girl?” He spoke, sliding the flushed head of his cock between your drooling folds, ignoring the way you whined loudly, peering up at him as if to beg him to shut up and just fuck you, “Because I can see this perfect ass, cute lil’ waist, beautiful titties, and most importantly,” He complimented cheekily, free hand sliding over each body part as he listed them, before gripping your chin between his index finger and thumb, “This pretty little face makin’ the cutest faces while I fuck her needy little pussy.”
Michael entered you in one swift motion — the cutest faces he was referring to filling your expression, a loud cry leaving your lips. His name fell from your mouth like a prayer, a chant, as he rocked into you deeply — his cock-end nudging your cervix each time, sending you clawing at the bedsheets. Pleased with himself, Michael smiled behind the camera once more, angling it down perfectly to capture every aspect of you he listed — tits bouncing, ass recoiling against his abdomen, face contorted into pleasure and his cock sliding in and out of your raw cunt, a white, milky ring forming around the base of him.
Michael was in heaven — knowing this video wouldn’t be your last as he watched you through the small screen, hand now clawing at his flexed arm, nails digging into the skin as he filled you.
“Michael, Michael!—fuck, Mike, please, God, fuc—“
“Hmm, that’s right, dollface, tell me all about it. Feelin’ good?”
You whined desperately, clit throbbing against his free hand that had slithered between your sweating bodies to rub tight, practiced circled onto the aching nub, “Gonna fuckin’ cum, Mikey, please, don’t sto—ah!”
“Wasn’t plannin’ on it, sweet girl,” He admitted, leaning down, not caring about the camera angle, as he pressed soft kisses to your face, some landing on your parted lips, now only bothered about your pleasure, “Cum around me, baby, wanna feel it.”
The nearing peak of your orgasm crawled down your body, nestling in your abdomen, body slowly igniting in fierce heat. The sheer explicitness of the intimate moment had adrenaline and lust pumping through your veins. Your trembling hand reached across the bed, taking a hold of the camera once more, holding it out for him.
“Want it to see you fill me up wit—ah!—with your cum, Mikey, please.”
“Oh, fuck.”
Your provocative declaration had him frantic — doubling over, one hand on the bed, the other steadying the camera, fucking you twice as fast. Your cries only getting louder as he pounded the sweet spot inside you over and over again, his name being screamed so loud you were certain the whole house could hear.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah—there! ‘M there!”
You orgasmed with a cry so loud it had Michael cursing under his breath at the eroticism — revelling in the way your cunt squeezed him, sucking him in further as you came around him, nails dragging down his tensed back.
Michael wasn’t far behind you, fighting every urge in him to throw the camera away and fuck his seed so far into you that you’d be swollen with him for days, but holding it firmly in his grasp, recording just how sweetly your cunt milked him for everything he had to offer, your slickness pooling beneath you. He, though, forced himself as deep into you as he could go — making sure the camera picked up on his your cunt accommodated the sheer size of him, his milky white cum now frothing around the base of his softening cock.
He slowly pulled himself out of you with a wince, “Hold still for me, babygirl.” He ordered, forcing your legs to stay open as he leant down between your thighs, groaning at the way his cum drooled out of your swollen cunt, sliding down your shaking thighs.
Feeling a sense of post-orgasm confidence, you slid two tentative fingers between your legs, dipping into your sopping cunt, collecting both your juices onto your digits. Michael could sense where this was going, softened cock twitching, threatening to harden as you slipped your slick fingers into your mouth — sucking the mix of your salty and tangy essences clean from your burning skin.
“Holy shit, baby,” Michael breathed, feeling as though he was capturing pure talent through the screen as you released your fingers with a pop, similar to how you did with his cock prior, eyeing the camera with a knowing smirk,
contains.. ❤︎ desperately horny reader who gets princess treatment in the bedroom! smut: missionary, dirty talk, size kink bc jaafar is big af. breeding kink, unprotected sex, creampie, jaafar is a soft dom because of course he is… also i just had to mention his ass twice sorry hehe.
today had been tiresomely long. your boyfriend had spent the day doing press for michael from 9 to 5, and you’d gone with him, watching from behind the cameras. of course you loved being there, but the problem was that he looked so fucking sexy in his silk shirt and those perfectly tailored black pants, and by the time you both got home, you were more than ready to rip everything off him. it was ovulation week, so that made sense…
❤︎ “woah baby, can you at least wait until we get through the door?” jaafar chuckled as you pawed at the collar of his shirt, pressing open-mouthed kisses from his jaw to his adam’s apple, faint lipstick stains marking him up. he kept one arm around your waist to make sure you didn’t stumble. you hadn’t consumed a single drop of alcohol—you were just ditsy with your desperation.
you’d both just stepped out of his car, and he'd forced you to behave in the vehicle during the entire journey, so now, back on the doorstep of your shared home, you decided you’d display your need as shamelessly as ever.
“no, you’ve had me waiting all day,” you murmured against his jaw, before kissing him with tongue. he hummed into the kiss, still smiling, then laughed and pushed your head back gently.
“most days we don’t have sex until evening.”
you gave him a pointed look, threading your fingers through his. “most days i haven’t had to stare at your gorgeous face for eight hours straight.”
“okay, whatever, i get it,” jaafar only chuckled again, and took out his keys to unlock the front door. “i didn’t realise i was that appealing just sitting and talking.”
you wrapped your arms around his neck, leaning into his chest—so, so desperate to feel him wholly. “you’re kidding me, right?” you hummed airily into his skin. he smelled incredible, as usual.
he kissed the crown of your head as the key rattled in the lock, and then he pushed open the door.
“finally,” you sighed as you clung to him. he shut the door behind you both, locking it with the free hand not holding you, and then after you each took off your shoes, both his arms moved to wrap around your waist, and he rocked you in his hold.
“what do you wanna do, baby?” he whispered into the crown of your head, where you still rested in the crook of his neck like a cub clinging to its mother.
“i think you know,” you replied sweetly, pulling back to look up at him with those eyes he could never say no to. not that he would even want for a second to say no to you this evening.
“i think i do too,” he smirked, running his hands up and down your back before resting them at your ass over your jeans. he gave the area a squeeze, and if you weren’t so horny you would’ve made a joke about the ass he was packing down there himself.
you batted your lashes up at him playfully, waiting for him to drag you upstairs and have his way with you, like you’d been waiting for all day.
“jump,” he ordered with a teasing smile, and with a giggle you kept your arms around his neck as you jumped up into his hold, wrapping your legs around him.
you let out a soft gasp as he bounced you a little in his arms, and then he was off up the stairs immediately, bringing you with him pressed against his chest like a princess being rescued. in your case, rescued from the mundanity and sexual frustration of the day.
jaafar brought you to your shared bedroom and let go of you to lay you down in the sheets, a graceful fall from his embrace as you anticipated all that you craved.
quickly, you shimmied out of your jeans and threw off your shirt, leaving you in only a matching set of baby pink underwear. jaafar was also wasting no time getting undressed—you watched as he too threw off his shirt, and began unbuckling his belt.
there weren’t many sexier sights (or sounds too, for that matter) on this earth than jaafar unbuckling his belt after a long day. you bit your lip as you looked up at him. he then pulled his pants down and off, before tugging off his boxers too and tossing them somewhere. now his thick and fully hard cock stood up against his abdomen in front of you, the tip flushed with need.
you moaned involuntarily at the mere sight of him positioning himself over you, and immediately you reached down to stroke his length.
he shut his eyes tight at the feeling. “oh fuck baby…”
“yeah, does that feel good, handsome?” you asked, loving to feel the ridges of each vein against your smooth palm.
“perfect, shit—” he moaned as you sped up your movements, but a few moments later you pulled away and his attention was brought back to your pleasure only. you had been waiting all day after all, and he had a feeling you were ovulating. in some insane way, he could often tell which point of your cycle you were at.
“j, i need you so fucking bad,” you moaned against his lips as he kissed you, his tongue swirling against yours.
“yeah i know, princess,” he cooed, starting to tug down your pink panties without having to be told twice. “patience, alright?” he flung them somewhere by his own underwear, and then lastly he removed your bra, pressing kisses and softly biting all over your chest as he did so.
“wait a sec,” he leaned over to his nightstand and pulled out a drawer, “i'm just gonna get a condom before we get carried away with ourselves and forget.”
but you grabbed his bicep to stop him. “no. i want it raw, please j.”
he raised a brow, having definitely not expected those words when you were completely sober. “you sure?”
“yeah, i’m sure," you said quickly. this didn't need to be a whole discussion—you just needed his cock. "now please shut up and fuck me, baby—i don’t think i’ve ever been more horny in my life.”
he laughed at your words, that beautiful grin lighting up his face, and he positioned himself over you again, thumb rubbing your cheek softly. “okay, i know you need it hard right now, so that’s what we’re gonna do, yeah?” he whispered so intimately.
you nodded, beaming.
“but aren’t you ovulating, baby?” he smacked the head of his cock over your clit several times, and your hips jolted with the force of the pleasure.
“mmph,” you whined against the pillows. “yeah, i am. how did you know?”
“i have special powers,” jaafar smirked, still sliding the weight of himself up and down your soaked pussy. every single slight touch and movement set your body alight with what felt like microdoses of ecstasy, you were that horny. it was almost as if your body truly was begging for a baby.
except that was ridiculous, because neither of you had ever once considered parenthood as a serious reality in the nearby future. the fact was that right now you weren’t thinking about the reality of anything. all that was on your mind was your gorgeous man and his equally gorgeous assets.
“okay, so you’re really sure?” jaafar asked for what felt like the millionth time.
“yes, baby—just fuck me,” you sighed, but the amused look on his face at this unrestrained episode of neediness made you chuckle.
“manners,” he ordered, brows raised in a playful scold, now teasing his tip at your entrance, pushing in ever so slightly just to pull out again, and repeat.
“please fuck me, sir,” you replied with a sweet smile, expecting more teasing, but instead he pushed in—finally.
jaafar's cock was so so girthy, length at least six inches, so he guided himself in gradually, letting you adjust. no matter how horny you were, he didn’t want to risk hurting you.
although, he knew you wanted no mercy tonight, so once he’d bottomed out, that first rough thrust felt like you’d ascended to heaven. he hit your spot instantly, as always, and his low groans above you only added to the perfection of the moment.
he’d worked out a lot in preparation for the movie, so his biceps were a beautiful sight for sore eyes, and you found yourself lost in that sight as he rested one hand up on the headboard behind you, his muscles flexing. with each harsh thrust the headboard knocked against the wall, a rhythmic noise that sounded in between the moans spilling from both of you.
his thick cock hit that spongy, sensitive spot inside you with every stroke, and you gasped and whined each time.
“jaafar, baby, fuck—”
“yeah, you good, princess?” he murmured through groans. he could barely contain himself. to him, it was a slice of heaven being inside you.
your response wouldn’t leave your lips because all that you sounded out were lewd noises as his thrusts never once let up or slowed.
“hm? tell me how good it feels, baby girl. talk to me.”
jaafar then shifted positions slightly, from hovering above you to now being pressed completely against you, skin on skin. his body suffocated yours in the most beautiful way, everything feeling so incredibly intimate. your hands went to his curls the second he moved, the strands always your favourite thing to hold while he fucked you into oblivion.
he was gazing down at you, your foreheads touching, and you tried to meet his eyes, tried to respond to his question, but the pleasure was just too much. your eyes only kept fluttering shut, your incoherent mouth exposing how much of a cockslut you were for your man.
“mhm—i—oh fuck j, i can’t—”
“no, talk to me, beautiful,” he murmured in your ear, kissing every inch of your face. “‘m making you feel so good, huh? you gonna cum for me soon, sweet girl?”
through more gasps and moans, you finally managed to respond lucidly. “yeah—mmh—gonna cum—i love it when you fuck me so deep jaafar, oh m…”
each time you called him by his first name during sex, he always nearly lost his mind. it was the most perfect thing for him to hear you moan his name while all fucked out beneath him, his cock plunging in and out of your tight walls—he as the sole cause of your ecstasy-like pleasure.
“that’s it, my angel… keep telling me all about it…”
“baby, i can hardly speak,” you breathed out, giggling in his ear. he smelled so fucking good, and you could feel him everywhere with how his body was caging you in. now you reached one hand down to grip his ass—that ass the whole world was talking about—while your other hand remained tight in his curls.
he chuckled in your ear too, but never paused concentration. he bit his lip hard with the force of his relentless strokes, leaving you wondering how on earth he was managing to keep this up for so long without slowing down. his stamina was off the charts.
“i know, baby girl. but you like getting fucked dumb, huh?”
now your nails were running up and down from his ass to his shoulder blades, the pleasure building constantly.
“yes i do j—mmmh, that’s it baby, i’m close—”
“yeah me too sweet girl… i know… let me get you there.” he pulled back a little in order to reach a hand down and rub your clit, while the other kneaded one of your breasts. he twisted a nipple between his fingers and you almost screamed, having to smack a hand over your mouth because of the neighbours. jaafar only laughed, finding it all so amusing, and that famous smile never failed to give you butterflies even when you were already on cloud nine.
“i’m gonna eat your pussy after this,” he grinned, still toying with your clit expertly.
“yeah?” you half-sighed half-laughed, nails still raking up and down his back. “it’s my special day.”
“well, whatever my girl wants, she gets.”
“i’m so blessed,” you giggled.
now his thrusts were beginning to falter, but you could tell that was due to how close he was to his orgasm.
“j,” you gripped his strong bicep, “i need your cum so fucking deep, i’m serious—”
“i’ll give it to you baby,” he groaned, the pace turning erratic now that he was so close. “shit, this pussy is fucking insane… so tight, fuck—”
and then you felt it all. spurts of his hot cum filled your womb, and he thrusted through his release while you continued to react like a whore beneath him.
it was only moments later that you reached your own climax, toes curling, body seizing in the most ethereal pleasure. you couldn’t believe how jaafar managed to get you like this every time.
when you both caught your breath, jaafar collapsed on top of you, his head on your chest, cock softening inside. you loved this part so much.
he took a deep sigh against your collarbone and then spoke. “i need to fuck you raw again. right now." he began pressing light kisses all over your chest.
you chuckled, playing with his hair. you were the only one who he ever allowed to touch those pretty curls.
"but first, i'm eating you out," he added plainly. "like i said."
you blushed, smiling down at him, a rush of contentment running through your body and down to your most sensitive area. you were in the mood to be overstimulated tonight.
“i love you, baby,” you whispered, beaming. “you’re so good to me.”
tag list .☘︎ ݁˖ @enzo6ekiii @cinnamoncunt @kpheliaox @lov3lylxvender @honey-dip-24 @calicopetal @vheavxly @ladyluvbugs @daniiibananiii @iadoreyourdiioorr @lavendernightsky @imsoborediwannadie @honeygl0ws — comment to be added!
SUMMARY: You are not adjusting well to Westeros. Luckily, your husband is patient and kind and gentle. Unluckily, all of the other ladies in the Realm are aware of this as well. There are certain difficulties being married to Westeros’s most yearned-for prince, and after one miserable feast too many, everything you have been so desperately trying to quietly endure comes crashing down once you get your husband alone.
WARNINGS: fem!reader, hurt/comfort, reader is foreign (from Qarth), Westeros-typical xenophobia, starts with reader being jealous but escalates into a whole breakdown of her not feeling welcome in westeros, Valarr is also jealous/possessive at certain points.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: I genuinely am not sure where this came from, I don’t even remember writing most of it last night LOLLL I think I woke up from a fever dream at 4 am and banged most of this out, no joke. BUT sometimes a girl just needs to have a very, very justified crashout with a husband who will listen and comfort </3 Valarr I love you euhuhuhuhu Also, got to explore some Westeros-typical xenophobia, which we will see more of in the HTTYD universe after Volantene reader comes to Westeros w/Aerion—but specifically, how bad it likely gets post-Dornish unification when the Storm lords and Reach lords are already losing their mind over Dornish influence in court, and now also having to deal with some foreign Essosi girls being married to their princes. No Kiera erasure here :P Kiera still comes to Westeros, but to marry Matarys, and her and reader become very very close companions. Anyway, enjoy, and ignore any errors I didn't edit LOL! Comments and reblogs v appreciated
“I was looking for you at the feast,” Valarr says as he enters your chambers. You can hear the frown in his voice as he shrugs off his cloak and tosses it on the chair on the opposite side of the room. “Why is it that I had to hear from my cousin that my wife left early because she was feeling unwell?”
You press your lips together, not answering him as you stare out the window—east, to the Blackwater, the Narrow Sea, and beyond. Far, far beyond. Your jaw is tight, and your throat is tight, and your chest is tight, and your eyes already sting—you have been here for two hours already, and he has only just returned. Did he only just realize you were missing?
The irritation drains from his voice as he pauses, looking in your direction and catching the tension in your shoulders. He says quietly, “You are upset with me.”
You stiffen when you hear him make his way over to you, raising your chin when you feel the cushions dip behind you. You exhale hard through your nose as his fingers ghost the nape of your neck, brushing your hair over one shoulder so that he can press his lips there.
You bristle instantly.
“Oh my,” Valarr murmurs—he has the nerve to sound amused, you can picture the boyish grin curling at his lips, and it enrages you. The nerve. “You are very upset with me.”
“Unhand me, you lecherous cur,” you snap, shifting further away. “I shall catch the pox if your touch lingers too long.”
You hear the smile in his voice as he asks, “And what have I done to deserve such a vicious accusation, ñuha jorrāelagon?”
My love.
His High Valyrian is honeyed as ever, soft and sweet to your ears, the endearment enough to make lesser women melt, but you are not lesser women, so you only toss him a furious look, because how dare he play the fool as though he doesn’t know what he’s done? How dare he try to abate your anger with sweet nothings?
“What have you done?” you echo furiously, gaze cutting as you whirl around to face him. Loathsome man—you hate that he is beautiful, and you hate that even in the face of your rage, his eyes are soft and adoring. “You shame me, that is what you have done.”
Valarr tilts his head to the side slightly, a glimmer of calculation and confusion in his mismatched eyes as he searches your face—as though he does not know what he has done, how he has shamed you. You detest him.
“Tell me how I have shamed you,” he says softly, shifting closer still. Loathsome, loathsome, loathsome—he lifts his hand to brush the pads of his fingers against your cheekbone, and when you try to pull away, he holds your chin lightly, keeping you in place, forcing you to look at him. “Tell me, so that I may fix it.”
You almost bite him for that—for the softness in his voice and the fondness in the eyes, the way he looks at you as though you are something precious to him when he has spent the better part of the evening making a spectacle of you before half of the court, letting that Lannister woman parade around on his arm.
“You should know already,” you hiss.
“I do not,” he says, and he sounds earnest. You despise him. Loathsome man. His thumb glides over your lower lip, free hand coming up so that he can cradle your face between them both. “If I have wronged you, I would hear it from your lips.”
You think to spurn him some more, to press your hands to his chest and shove him away, to leave your chambers and go seek out—seek out who? You have no one in this wretched keep. Your brothers are all back home, six thousand miles away, because your wretched father sold you to the Targaryens for trade. And your wretched friends—who were never truly your friends, clearly—abandoned you the moment they realized you would no longer be able to bolster their standing when you are three seas away.
You are alone. All you have is a wretched husband—a man you were promised would be gallant and charming and respectful, only for him to spend the evening smiling at another woman while the court watched to see how his foreign bride would react.
They hate you—they have hated you since the moment you arrived on your father’s gilded ships, smiling to your face and scorning you the second your back is turned. They pray for illness and poor health, that an accident would befall you, so that Valarr might take one of their Andal daughters to wife instead, and—
—and the cruelest part of it all is that, in this wretched court with these wretched people, the only person who has ever made you feel wanted is your wretched husband.
Valarr leans in to press his lips against yours when you do not immediately respond, soft and gentle as he always is, trying to ease the answer out of you.
A wavering sigh escapes you before you can stop it, and you melt into him far too easily, because Valarr is loathsome and wretched. You detest him, and you despise him, but he is—he is insufferably good to you. Has been since the moment the two of you were introduced, in spite of the fact that he was as forced into this marriage as you. He is as gallant and charming as you were promised, much as you wish him to be otherwise, and he treats you as though you are not some foreign prize ferried across three seas to warm his bed and strengthen alliances, but someone he chooses and wants.
It is the worst part of it, because if he were cruel and disrespectful, you think you could hate him properly.
“You are wretched,” you whisper against his mouth, voice unsteady with the remnants of your anger. “You stand there all evening with that woman draped upon your arm, smiling at her as though she were the Sun Maiden herself, and then you come here and kiss me as though I am meant to simply forgive you.”
Valarr draws back only enough to look at you, brows knitting together slightly.
“The Lannister girl?”
You glare at him. “Yes, the Lannister girl, you witless dragon.”
To your mounting fury, understanding finally flashes across his face, and then amusement follows close behind it.
You shove at his chest immediately. “Do not laugh at me.”
Valarr catches your wrists before you can shove him too far, laughter warm and breathless as he presses a quick kiss to the inside of your palm. He pulls you closer to him, one hand sliding around your lower back to drag you into his lap, and you hate that your arms instinctively slink around his shoulders. You hate that your anger dissipates, and you hate that the fury on your face drains into a pout, that you have to chew the inside of your cheek to stop the tears from building in your eyes.
You hate everything about this. You are not so weak, but weeks of suffering through this snake pit have taken their toll on you.
The amusement fades from his expression when he sees yours, one hand lifting to caress your cheek gently.
“I was alone,” you say, grateful that your voice doesn’t break. “I am always alone in this awful place. You are the only person I have, and you abandoned me to let that girl cling to you. If you wish to take a proper Westerosi wife, you are free to do so, but divorce me and let me return home. Do not force me to endure such humiliation.”
“Now, that is a bit drastic,” Valarr murmurs, and your lashes flutter as his fingers drag lightly along the nape of your neck, tangling in your hair to pull your head down so that he might ghost his lips against your forehead. “Why ever would I divorce you when I have only just managed to convince you to tolerate me?”
You make a soft, offended sound that he swallows with another lingering kiss to your lips. He tastes of honey and wine; you let out a breath that is far too shaky as his arms tighten around you, one hand soothing up and down your back.
“I am serious,” you mutter. “You make light of everything.”
“Only because you speak as though I have cast you aside for a girl I scarcely noticed.” His thumb rubs small circles into the small of your back. “Look at me, wife.”
You do not wish to. You fear if you do, he will see the tears that have started to gather in your eyes, and your pride has suffered enough tonight. You meant to stay angry and silent, but it is hard to do so when Valarr is—well, Valarr.
He waits anyway, because he always does, and when you still refuse to do as he says, he hooks two fingers beneath your chin, and tilts your face upward so gently that you barely bite back a whine. There’s a softness in his face, an undeniable fondness that makes your heart ache.
“I did not abandon you,” he tells you quietly. “I left your side because Lord Lannister cornered me to speak of the new trade agreements with Qarth and his daughter decided to preen while doing so.” His thumb brushes beneath your eye to catch a tear before it can fall. “Had I known you were miserable, I would have returned immediately. I thought my cousins were taking care to ensure you were not alone.”
“You should have known,” you say, spiteful, voice sullen.
“Yes,” he agrees easily, without argument. “I should have. Forgive me.”
You falter, because you prepared yourself for his infuriating charm and smooth talk, not for an apology—especially not one so genuine.
Valarr exhales softly through his nose, gaze roaming over your face before he rests his forehead down on your shoulder, arms curling a bit tighter around your waist until your bodies are flush. You let out a shaky breath before burying your face in his soft hair, eyes sliding shut.
“The Lannister girl is not what really upset you,” Valarr says quietly after a moment—it is a question, but it is not phrased as one, and you stiffen. You do not respond, but you do not need to. He knows the answer already. He admits reluctantly, as though the realization pains him to speak aloud, “I do not know how to make you happy here.”
“I am happy,” you say immediately, an instinctive, courtly answer, a lie that tastes like poison on your tongue.
“Do not lie to me,” he tells you, and then he lets out another heavy breath. You see his jaw tighten slightly before he speaks again. “I…” He hesitates, trying to find the words. “I thought if I loved you enough, the rest would matter less.”
You inhale at his words, watching as he pulls back to look at you again. The grief in his eyes makes your stomach turn.
“It is not you who makes me unhappy,” you say, because guilt eats at you. Valarr is the only person trying to make you feel comfortable in this wretched place—he goes out of his way to ensure you are included, to make you feel wanted and welcome, and you—you what? You turn on him the moment he glances away? As though none of the rest matters? You feel embarrassed suddenly, mortification rolling waves in your stomach and chest, because Valarr has tried. He has tried so hard, so desperately, and here you are making a mess of everything, because of a tantrum over something beyond his control. “Valarr, I—”
“Hush,” he chides, leaning in to swallow your words with another kiss. “I understand. You do not need to explain yourself to me.”
The tears fall in earnest at that, rolling over your cheeks silently as you stare at him. You are the wretched one—wretched and miserable, you have been blessed with a marriage to a man most women would kill for, and you ruin it with your gloom. Love from Valarr should be enough to outweigh the rest, so why isn’t it?
Valarr clicks his tongue lightly, lifting his hands so his thumbs can wipe your tears as they fall.
“None of that,” he murmurs. “I do not know what is running through that beautiful mind of yours right now, but enough of it. I know this is not an easy transition for you—you are six thousand miles away from your home and family, in a strange place with stranger people. I do not begrudge you for struggling to find your place here, nor for being upset when alone. I should not have left you.”
“I want you to be enough,” you say, and you mean it. You mean it so desperately—you need him to understand. This is not—it is not of your choosing; if you had it your way, this would be enough. “I want to be happy here.”
“I know,” he says gently, holding the weight of your head in the palm of his hand as you lean into him. “I know, ñuha jorrāelagon.”
“They all hate me,” you tell him. When his brows furrow and lips part to deny it, you continue before he can, “I can tell. Do not deny it.”
Valarr doesn’t respond for a long time, and then he says quietly, “You are beautiful, and you are my wife, and their daughters are not. You arrived on gilded ships with enough wealth to shame the majority of lords in Westeros, and then had the audacity to capture the affection of a prince they had long hoped to claim for themselves. They would have hated you even if I did not adore you so openly. They hate men for much, much less.”
“It is not fair,” you say, voice weak and childish. “I have given up so much for their favor. I dress how they expect. I speak how they expect. I act how they expect. I celebrate their holy days with them, and I go to the temples of their gods, and—”
“I know,” Valarr cuts in gently again, stroking your hair.
“Then why? What more must I do for them to accept me?”
Valarr doesn’t reply for a long while, an unreadable expression on his face. “Do not give up anything more for them,” he says. Your face twists, but before you can rebuke his words, he continues, “I mean it. The only thing that will help is time—I do not want you to cut away parts of yourself to satisfy the likes of vultures who would strip you of everything if given the chance.”
“It is easy for you to say,” you scoff bitterly. “You do not have half of the lords in this keep praying for your ill health and accidents to befall you. It is only a matter of time before their prayers turn to action.”
Valarr goes very still and very quiet. For a moment, the only sound in the room is the crackling of the fireplace, and you realize you have made a terrible mistake.
His hand slides from your cheek to your hair, holding you close as something cold flickers briefly through his eyes—your husband is gallant and charming, and he loves you despite the circumstances. Your husband is also a Targaryen, and the blood of the dragon runs hot through his veins; madness and greatness are always one flip away from the other. It is tamer in Valarr compared to his cousins, but it is there nonetheless.
“Who?” he asks softly. The quietness of it chills you more than shouting would have.
You shake your head immediately, burying your face in the crook of his neck. He lets you, but his fingers remain stiff in your hair, body tense and coiled against yours.
“It does not matter.”
“It does to me,” he says. “You think someone in this keep means you harm. You think they pray for your death so openly that you have come to expect attempts on your life—and you would have me ignore it?”
You shouldn’t have said anything. You know this court better now than you did when you first arrived; you know how quickly whispers become accusations, and how quickly accusations become bloodshed when dragons are involved. Valarr has always seemed gentler than the rest of his kin—arrogant, maybe, but what prince is not? He is easy laughter and soft smiles, and it lulls you into a false sense of security, because you forget he is still a prince of House Targaryen. Still fire and blood.
“It was only a figure of speech,” you murmur, another lie.
“You do not speak carelessly, wife.”
You fall silent at that, because he is right—you do not.
Valarr exhales hard through his nose. “Who has threatened you?”
“No one.”
“Who has frightened you, then?”
You do not answer, looking away. “I do not want to talk about this anymore.”
Valarr’s jaw tightens, frustration flashing across his face briefly. For a moment, he looks as though he wants to fight, but then he concedes, “Very well. But this will not be the last we speak on this.”
His hands slide under your thighs, and your eyes slide shut, arms tightening around his shoulders as he rises to his feet with your body wrapped around his, carrying you over to the bed and laying you back gently on it. He slips out of his tunic and leathers before joining you beneath the covers.
You immediately curl into his side, pressing your face into the warm skin of his shoulder, sliding one leg between his to be as close to him as possible. His arms wrap tight around you, holding you impossibly closer.
“You are wrong,” he says after a moment, and your brows furrow. “Not everyone dislikes you in this keep. My family adores you, and that, I fear, is one of the greatest accomplishments a person can claim, considering most of them can barely tolerate each other.”
“That is not true,” you say immediately, lips pursed.
“It is,” Valarr insists. “My father and brother love you. They cherish the mornings you join them in the library. They like hearing your stories of Qartheen culture and the Far East. My father wishes to broach the subject of you joining them more often, but he does not want you to feel obligated to come.”
“Oh,” you say, voice wobbly again, eyes suddenly very wet.
“And the twins adore you,” he continues. “Aelora gave quite the verbal lashing to a Marcher lord who spoke poorly of our union—” Of you, he means, because no one in this keep would speak poorly of Valarr, the perfect prince. “—and Aelor threatened to have him whipped if he ever repeated such a thing again. They do not forget the day you found Uncle Rhaegel teetering on the edge of a balcony in the west tower and looked after him until they were able to come and retrieve him.”
“I did not know that,” you whisper.
“And gods know how you managed to gain the affection of Uncle Maekar’s sons—”
“Affection is a stretch,” you disagree.
“You do not know my cousins like I do, wife,” Valarr says with a wry smile. “It is affection, I must insist. I have never seen Aerion so captivated when someone speaks the way he is when you do.”
Your face feels hot. “It is only because he is interested in Qartheen magic and our warlocks. He wants to visit the House of the Undying.”
“I digress, both Aunt Shiera and Uncle Brynden are well-versed in magic, and Aerion is hardly so starry-eyed when he badgers them for information,” Valarr counters dryly, though there is something pinched in his voice that piques your curiosity. “And even you cannot deny that Daeron is enamored by you—I have caught him reciting poetry for you in his drunken ramblings. You have thoroughly charmed him, that is clear.”
This time, there is no denying the bitterness in his voice. You smile against his skin.
“Are you jealous, husband?” you ask, peeking up from his shoulder to look at the way his jaw is tight.
“In truth, I have contemplated tossing them both into the Blackwater a concerning number of times this past week,” he admits flatly.
A laugh startles out of you before you can stop it, and the flat line of his mouth softens at the sound. He leans down to press his lips to your forehead, long and lingering.
“Daeron cornered me for an hour last week to ask whether you prefer sweet wines or dry ones,” he continues after a moment, bitter. “Claimed he wished to ‘better understand Qartheen tastes’ as though I am foolish enough to not realize what he is really doing.”
Your eyes crinkle. “That explains the odd assortment of wines he brought to the gardens when I was there reading, then.”
Valarr lets out an exasperated sigh. “To think my own cousin is trying to woo my wife away from me,” he mutters, “and so shamelessly at that. To think he has the nerve to ask my advice on how to go about it.”
You find yourself giggling despite yourself. “He is sweet,” you say at last. “Harmless.”
“He is a Targaryen prince,” Valarr says dryly. “We are very rarely harmless.”
You are smiling openly now, warmth spreading through your chest as the void of loneliness is filled little by little. You had thought yourself so isolated here, so painfully unwanted, that you never considered anyone beyond Valarr might genuinely care for you.
The realization leaves your throat terribly tight.
Valarr notices at once, expression softening as he tilts your face up toward him to brush his lips against yours gently. Once. Twice. Three times. You think you could lose yourself in the taste and feel of him.
“My brother is to be married soon,” Valarr says after a moment, fingers stroking your hair absently. “To the daughter of the Tyroshi Archon—my father finalized the betrothal this morning. I hope, perhaps, the two of you will get along, since she will also be far from home. It may make court easier for you, to have someone who understands what it is to arrive here alone in a foreign land—a companion.”
You peek up at him again, blinking once. Tyrosh. He presses his lips to your forehead. You say, voice small, “The Tyroshi like dyes and hats. I am not versed in them. What if we cannot find common ground?”
Valarr pauses, and then says, far too amused, “I think you will have enough common ground that you need not be familiar with dyes and hats.”
“Do not mock me,” you mutter.
“I am trying very hard not to.”
“You are failing.”
“Terribly,” he admits.
You make a wounded sound and attempt to bury your face back against his shoulder, but Valarr catches your chin before you can escape, smiling as he brushes his thumb along your cheek.
“Wife,” he says gently, “I promise you the Tyroshi girl will not arrive here expecting expertise in dyes and hats.”
“Perhaps I should read up on them just in case,” you say, gaze flitting away briefly. “Qarth is—it is a far cry from any of the Free Cities. Very different… very far. She might think me strange, and if I am strange, then everyone here will be strange to her. It would be good to have common ground in interests, so that she can keep some of home with her at least with me. I think it would make her more comfortable, don’t you?”
Valarr’s expression changes at once, and there is something devastating in the way he looks at you now—so warm and tender, so sickeningly fond that it makes heat creep up the back of your neck. Valarr loves you; he loves you so deeply and so openly that it is impossible for anyone to deny, not with the way he looks at you as though you are the most precious thing in the world. You gnaw at your bottom lip, unable to hold his gaze when he looks at you like this. He kisses your temple again, long and lingering, and then sighs against your skin.
“You are worried about making her comfortable,” he realizes quietly.
You blink. “Well, yes.”
You remember too vividly what it felt like to arrive here alone, standing in a hall full of people smiling at you with teeth instead of warmth. If the Tyroshi girl is lonely, if she looks around this court and feels swallowed whole by it, you do not want her to feel the way you did.
“You are extraordinary,” he murmurs. “I do not know how I got so lucky.”
Heat floods your face immediately. “I am speaking about dyes and hats, Valarr. Do not be ridiculous.”
“You are speaking about a girl you have never met and worrying over how to make her feel welcomed in a foreign court despite the fact that you yourself are still struggling here.” His mouth curves softly. “You do not even realize how lovely you are, do you?”
You scowl weakly. “You are biased.”
“Hopelessly,” he agrees, so sincerely that it makes you embarrassed. He adds after a moment, “You know what I think will happen?”
You eye him warily. “What?”
“I think the Tyroshi girl will arrive terrified.”
Your brows knit slightly. You know this. That is exactly what you are trying to prepare for.
“I think she will spend the voyage rehearsing how she ought to speak and smile,” Valarr continues, voice soft. Yes, she will, you agree, because that is what you did, too. “I think she will step into court and immediately realize she is being examined like a prized horse at market.” His thumb strokes slowly along your cheekbone. “And then I think she will meet you.”
Something in your chest twists painfully.
“She will see another woman who crossed the world alone,” he says. “Another woman who survived it, and learned this court well enough to navigate it gracefully despite how cruel it can be.” His lips curve faintly. “And then she will cling to you desperately for guidance while you panic over whether or not you understand hats sufficiently.”
You let out a startled laugh despite yourself. Valarr smiles at the sound instantly, gaze unbearably warm.
“There she is,” he murmurs quietly. “You look less like you wish to flee back across the seas now.”
“You make it very difficult to remain angry with you.”
“That is because I am devastatingly charming,” he says, ghosting his lips against your nose, over your eyelids, your forehead, settling on the top of your head. “Ask anyone.”
“You are insufferable, is what you are.”
He hums in agreement. “And yet, you cling to me still. I cannot be so insufferable then, can I?”
“I told you not to mock me, husband. My homeland is fond of its poisons—you might find sweet death laced in your wine should you push too far,” you threaten, but there is a smile in your voice, hidden against his shoulder, and his chest rumbles as he huffs out a laugh.
“I will endure the risk if it means I get to have you curled in my arms like this, ñuha jorrāelagon,” he murmurs, all warmth and devotion as he tucks you closer into his chest.
You lay like that with him for a long while, basking in his warmth and the comfort of his arms, eyes sliding shut as the drowsiness finally hits you, all of the day's stress and excitement sinking in.
You murmur at last, “You smiled at her too much,” before you can stop yourself. Then you add for clarification, “The Lannister woman.”
He vows, “I shall never smile at anyone besides you again.”
“I will poison you if you do.”
His fingers trail up and down your side, gentle and adoring, lulling you to sleep. “A just punishment, certainly. I should expect nothing less from my fearsome wife.”
You make a soft, sleepy sound at that, too exhausted to muster another threat, and Valarr smiles faintly against your hair.
Valarr’s fingers continue their slow path along your side, absent and affectionate. You think he believes you are half asleep already by the way he presses another kiss to your temple, lingering there for a moment too long.
“You frightened me tonight,” Valarr admits quietly after a while.
Your lashes flutter slightly, but your eyes do not open. Your words are half slurred together as you ask sleepily, “I frightened you?”
“You spoke as though you truly believed I would cast you aside,” he murmurs. “That you were unwanted by me.”
You do not know how to reply to that, because a part of you had believed it, for a moment. You were forced upon him through politics and trade, and the rest of the court has made its opinions clear on you. You had let the insecurities get the best of you, with people around you whispering poison so sweetly it began to sound like truth.
“I choose you,” he says when you do not respond, fingers stroking your side again. “Not for your father’s ship and your family’s wealth. Not for trade with Qarth and access to the Jade Gates. You—because you do not look down on my brother for not taking to the sword the way everyone else expects him to, because my father’s eyes light up every time the two of you speak, because you ease the burden that weighs on my shoulder just by being in the same room as me. Because you are good and kind and worry about making sure another girl is comfortable here, when you still struggle yourself. Given the chance and opportunity to pick any woman in Westeros or Essos, I will always pick you—and anyone in this court who is bold enough to try to harm you will find themselves begging the gods for mercy before I am through with them.”
“You are very foolish,” you whisper weakly, barely awake.
Valarr’s lips curve. “Desperately so.”
“There are easier women,” you say quietly. “Women who your court would accept, who—”
“I do not want easier women,” he cuts in immediately. “I want you, and only you. I try very hard to be a good man—to follow in my father’s footsteps—but I would do terrible things to anyone who dared try to take you from me.”
Your chest aches. Loathsome man.
“I love you,” you say quietly, eyes heavy and voice slow, the steady beat of his heart and strokes of his fingers still doing quick work at ensuring you are half to sleep already.
“And I you,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to the top of your head. “Sleep, ñuha jorrāelagon. No one shall ever touch you while I draw breath.”
at first, stiles didn't even notice it. the way his heart would race and his cheeks would flush; he was used to having that reaction around you. so used to it, in fact, that he had stopped letting it be a distraction. you'd giggle at his joke or look up at him through your lashes and he'd blush, fidget, move on. like his own little routine.
what got distracting was when he had made the sudden realization one day: you're hot.
the two of you had been friends for so long, crushing for almost that whole time, that by the time stiles looked up and saw you in your bikini, it was too late to turn back. he was a goner.
literally-he was out of lydia's backyard and in her half bathroom before you could even ask him to help with your sunscreen.
holy shit. he gripped the sink, glaring at his flushed reflection. get yourself together, perv. so she's got nice tits. really, really nice tits and thighs that could suffocate you and jesus her hips-
no! nope, no no no nonono. it is way too early for this. get real. she's seen you recite the entire opening crawl of the force awakens. she is not going to do that with you- woah! or that! get it together. get it together. get it together.
and so stiles marches back out where you and your friends are gathered, playing marco polo. you glance at him and smirk in that way the tells him you're totally cheating, only proven true when allison calls out "marco!" and you slide past her in the water without joining in the choruses of "polo!"s from all over the pool.
stiles stiffens. your goddamn smirk.
this is going to be a loooong day.
☆
and it was. a long day that ended in his right hand wrapped around his cock and a fantasy he wouldn't repeat even if there was a gun to his head.
but that was over, and it was three days later, anyway. the pack was meeting at the movies to see a new romcom, which the girls were excited for, and the guys were... hoping it had a good soundtrack. it's not that they didn't want to go, it's just that their time- well, stiles' time could be better spent on things like useless research and avoiding his homework. that was his mindset walking into the theater.
now, he's about three inches from having no mindset at all. you're sat next to him, too close for him to remember a single detail of the movie, and you're wearing a tank top. low cut. lace trim on the top. prettiest color he's ever seen.
and stiles can see straight down it.
every time he glances over at you, whether it be an excuse of reaching for the popcorn or making a joke or listening to you talk, he has a view down your top right to where your tits are pressed together, rising and falling subtly with each breath. he wonders what the smooth skin of your breasts would look like covered in hickeys. he imagines the sounds you'd make if he had you pinned down, mouth enveloping your pert nipples. he-
he gets up a little too hastily when he rushes out of the theater, into the quiet hall.
"god," he mumbles, tugging his own hair. "fuck."
he has to will his blood to cooperate before he can show his face again.
☆
it's getting worse.
stiles is chewing on the cap of the marker he has in his hand, eyes darting all over his murder board.
"wouldn't they hunt in packs? this fable here, it reads... stiles?"
stiles turns on his heel, watching you now as you sit on his bed. he's been avoiding looking at you lately, since just recently he had a close call when you hit your knee on scott's coffee table and whined a dramatic 'ahh', leaving stiles to imagine that noise, that face you made in other scenarios.
it's been harder (ha, ha, yeah, no pun intended. he's struggling.) since you asked to come over and help with some research he was doing after a meeting with deaton. you sat all pretty and focused on his bed, twirling and tucking and sometimes tugging your hair when you read out of a book he had borrowed (stolen) from the argent's.
so when he looked at you now, it was with great mental strength. especially when you started rattling off a really smart point he didn't think anyone else would notice that he had realized twenty minutes ago, giving him some time to zone out and watch as you gather your hair behind you, tying it up in a ponytail while you look up at him through your lashes. giving him a second to imagine you looking at him like that with your lips wrapped around his cock, letting him guide you by the ponytail-
stilinski! great. mental. strength.
he turns back to the murder board and nods, eyes squeezed shut as he feels the familiar heat spread all over and his jeans get tight. "yeah, that's- i know, that's a good point."
he hears you shift, the way you get noticeably quiet. "stiles, are you... is everything alright? you seem off."
he shrugs, nods, shrugs again. swallows. "yeah. just a bit tired, that's all."
he can feel your disbelief, but he'd rather feel that then disgust. you both sigh at the same time, and the evening moves on.
☆
it's pretty much every time he sees you now. he's a mess, unable to choose between relieving himself and willing his dick to cooperate. you've made a mess of stiles, and he's dying.
you're wearing leggings today, talking to scott while stiles watches from the bench. coach is barking orders at a couple of stray lacrosse boys, and stiles is lucky enough to have dodged his attention this evening.
game night is usually when he's free of the hold you have on him, too busy gnawing on his goalie gloves and tracking scott across the field. but you and allison showed up early (curse scott and his happy relationship), so his pea-sized brain has time to imagine sliding the buttery fabric down your legs, kissing exposed skin as he goes. he'd definitely pay close attention to your thighs- he thinks about those more than he'd care to admit, and he's aware of how idiotically insecure of them you are.
because of his train of thought, he doesn't realize you've caught him staring until it's too late. you're prancing over excitedly and leaving scott to smirk at stiles all knowingly, and stiles resists the urge to flip him off.
"you gonna play, 24?" you nudge his foot teasingly with your own. he looks up at you and feels those telltale signs as he fanaticizes about tracing the line of your jaw with his finger, both of you panting softly as he coos at you while you whine pathetically. he has to blink away the thought before he can speak.
"um, i hope not. it's an important game." he leans back a bit and you tilt your head, clearly mulling over your next words. he fills the space in the meantime. "but if i do, i'll be sure to keep away from the ball."
it's music to his ears when you laugh. finally, finally he's blushing about something normal, having regular fantasies instead of these hormone fueled pornos that seem to be on repeat in his head lately. he smiles up at you and you take a small step closer to being in between his legs.
"i don't mean to bring it up so randomly..." you avoid his eyes, fiddling with your hands. "but i was just wondering if i've done something to upset you?"
he blinks. "what?"
"it's just that you've been distant and honestly, you're acting kind of like you're allergic to me. if i did something or there's something going on just tell me. it's kinda driving me crazy." you ramble, brows drawn together in discomfort.
stiles' eyes widen and he shakes his head, standing. his heart skips a beat when you have to tilt your chin up a bit to keep his eyes. "no, of course not. i didn't know... i guess i've... it's just-" he sighs and rubs the back of his neck. how is he supposed to explain this? 'oh, hey, girl i've been super into for a pathetically long time, i've been imagining what you'd look like if i pinned you to my bed and drove us both insane from a sex marathon! that's cool, right? not objectifying at all!'
you frown, crossing your arms. "just tired?"
it's bait, he knows it is. the same excuse he used less than a week ago to keep you from figuring him out. you're a clever girl and he's stupid when he's horny, so he has to play his cards right here. if you think he's lying, things will only get worse and there's a hefty chance you'll distance yourself. but if he tells a lie a little too well, you're going to be around him constantly again. either way, he's starting to wonder if he's a masochist from the amount of pain he's going to inflict on himself.
"it's nothing, really. i didn't mean to get distant." he clenches his jaw as he gauges your reaction, which is a less-than-ideal-but-not-terrible pout. he wants to smooth the lines of your forehead with his thumb and make you laugh again, but he has to focus. "let me make it up to you?"
you turn your face away (very, very not good) and huff. "no, don't worry about it."
stiles cringes internally and bites the inside of his cheek. how can he un-dig this hole he's in? "no, no, i want to. i shouldn't have made you worry. that's my fault. i'll pick you up tomorrow, we can get food. my treat."
you turn back to face him, and the way your bottom lip just barely juts out tells him you're playing it up, but he doesn't mind. he's come to realize that you like to feel earned, and he's more than happy to earn you. he takes a breath, eyebrows raised. "what are you thinking?"
you drop the pout (much to his relief, he was just starting to imagine you using that face on him when he makes you tell him exactly what you want him to do to you) and put your hands on your (perfect, sexy) hips. "i'm thinking that if you didn't mean to get distant then it was subconscious, and it's going to be more of an effort to be around me than not."
so clever. god, you're so hot when you use critical thinking skills.
stiles sighs and shuffles a bit. "yeah, okay, i can understand where you're getting that but it's wrong-"
"but it isn't. you've been proving it right all week and-"
"hold on, no i haven't, i've just been-"
"-you definitely lied to me in your room a few days ago-"
"-there's no way you're actually believing-"
"STILINSKI!" coach's voice booms over both of you, halting the beginning of an argument that probably would have only turned stiles on more. he whips his head around to where the entire team is gathered, and realizes he was so wrapped up in you that he tuned out everything around him, including the team rallying together to talk strategy before the game started. he blinks, distantly hearing you mumble a mortified "oh." and skitter off, leaving stiles to be completely embarrassed alone.
"would you like to join us or are you too busy harassing the young ladies in the general area?" coach's tone is strung with impatience, eyes wide.
"ah..." stiles glances to the spot you just stood in and then back to the team. "no, coach, 'm coming."
"fantastic." he drawls, before turning back to the team and continuing his rant. stiles is half-listening, half-daydreaming about 'making it up to you' in many different ways, positions, and places. for many hours.
yeah, he's dead. for sure. you're killing him.
☆
although making it up to you currently involved a lot more clothing and a lot less begging, stiles was having a really good time. sat in his room, arguing about book to movie adaptations, both of you holding your own milkshakes. with all his time spent avoiding you out of... sex-driven fear? he really forgot how much he enjoyed your company.
"you wouldn't get it," you shake your head stubbornly as he stands and sets his milkshake on his desk so he can use the dry erase board in his room. "you don't read books."
"i do-"
"yeah, i don't count the bestiary."
"that's besides the point, anyway. i don't have to read the book to know whether the movie is a good adaptation or not!" he starts writing down movies he knows are heavily based off of books while you crawl across his floor to his desk, sneaking a spoonful of vanilla ice cream and whipped cream. he's too busy to notice that the half-melted treat dribbles off of the spoon and spills above the cut of your tank top (the same one as the movie theater, actually) and onto your exposed thighs.
"fuck." you hiss under your breath. stiles turns to see what caused your quiet outburst, but his brain screeches to a halt at the sight of you.
perched on your knees, you're glaring down at the mess that's been spilled on the top of your tits and thighs, white sliding down to the line where they're pressed together. stiles doesn't even blink, just stares with a slightly open mouth at the sight of you. a small noise leaves his mouth and he can feel the tent in his sweats, but he's a bit frozen.
you look up when he makes the strangled grunt, looking caught with his milkshake in your hand, as if that's his issue right now. "uhh... whoops? i swear, it just flew into my hand! how crazy is that...."
your joke trails off as you really see his face. his eyes are dark and hungry, almost predatory as they sweep over your body, hanging on the spills that you made. his mouth shuts and his jaw clenches. his hands are curled into restrained, white-knuckled fists. and...
he's hard as a fucking rock.
it's easy to tell, with his grey sweatpants, and you feel your mouth water at the sight.
"it's fine." he mumbles, voice dry. you take a second before you realize he's talking about the milkshake. both of you are bright red. you force out a breath and he seems to come to, turning back around quickly. "uh, s-so, harry potter-"
"is that because of me?" you blurt, getting hotter in the cheeks every second.
stiles quiets, turning to face you finally. your stomach swoops and you shuffle barely closer. his adams apple bobs.
"yeah. it... it is"
that's it. a simple confession, but it feels like a chord being snapped between the two of you. your confidence grows. you made stiles like that.
"are you gonna do something about it?"
his head snaps up, eyes wide as he looks at you. "you want me to?"
"why else would i ask, stiles?" you sound almost exasperated, like he's taking to long. he swallows and drops to his knees in front of you.
stiles. is crawling towards you. on his knees.
"are you... do you really?" he's close, so close now. looking into your eyes like they'll answer for you. like they contain every 'yes' you've been too scared to whisper.
which, honestly, is probably not far from true.
"i do. i really, really, d-"
his lips are on yours before you can finish, one hand cupping the back of your neck to bring you closer. you let out a muffled noise of surprise, mouth opening on it's own accord as stiles takes the kiss deeper, tongue exploring your mouth hotly.
"you're impossible-" stiles gasps, going in for more before he can finish. "-to be around-" his teeth nip your bottom lip. "-when i can't have you."
his lips leave a wet kiss on the corner of your mouth, so passionate that he misses, and he continues that trail onto your neck until he finds the spot that makes you squirm. his hands go to your waist, pulling you closer and knocking your knees together. you feel dizzy with want, barely registering his words.
"what-" you gasp, blinking and leaning into his demanding mouth. "what is that supposed to mean?"
stiles groans against the skin of your neck, kissing lower, closer to the sticky mess you made just minutes ago. "i can't think... can't even... fuckin'... breathe when you're near, y'look so pretty. j'st wanna make you-"
he interrupts himself again, opting instead to lick the ice cream off the top of your tits like he's starving. you gasp as the feel of his tongue against your skin, pressing your thighs together to try and relieve some of the sudden pressure shooting down your stomach to your core. he's barely making sense and he still has you all foggy brained, swaying just a bit under his touch.
"you-you've thought about this? befo- oh-" you stumble, as he tugs lightly against the low cut to give himself better access to the sweetness melted onto your skin. he laughs, seeming to clear up a bit.
"yeah. you kidding me? i've basically been-" he's kissing back up your neck now, seeming to track a path to your lips. "-perpetually hard for the past three weeks."
you swallow thickly and he captures your lips. stiles tastes like vanilla ice cream and it's the most tempting sin, luring you over the edge. enticing you to do things you'd normally pretend you weren't into. he runs a hand down the side of your body, squeezing your hip lightly. "you're torture, you know that?"
"i could say the same to you."
he smiles at you, like a sap, like a saint. you feel your mind fall into his hands and your heart nestle against his ribcage. you no longer belong to yourself. you never have. and neither does he, it seems, as his eyes wander all over you.
"wanna move to the bed? i can clean up your thighs..." his tone is low, clearly suggestive in a bad-pickup-line way. you nod, giggling girlishly and stiles hauls you up to gently lay you back on his bed, tugging your tank top off on the way. his eyes linger on your chest before moving along, kissing a wet trail down your body as he hooks his fingers into the waistband of your shorts. "god, look at you. you're gorgeous."
it's not like you're wearing lingerie and sexy makeup- you went to stiles' place to lounge, so you're wearing your lounge bra and some comfy shorts. stiles looks at you, though, as if you invented beauty. he sighs contentedly as he pulls your bottoms off slowly, eyes drinking in your stomach and hips and thighs like you're the first woman to have them. once he's got them far off enough, his hands press your hips back down and his eyes meet yours.
"not to late to back out. well- obviously it's never too late, it's just... okay, this is me asking for consent. i was trying to make it sexy, but it sounded a bit rapey."
you laugh breathlessly and nod at him where he stands, towering above your almost-naked form. "stiles, please stop talking and fulfill both of our fantasies already."
stiles grins and tugs his shirt halfway off before stopping abruptly. "wait- both?"
you roll your eyes. "stiles, why would i be so... so..."
"obedient?" he offers with a cocky smirk. you flush.
"agreeable, if i didn't want this?" you nibble your lip as he pulls his shirt the rest of the way off his body, getting on his knees at the edge of the bed and spreading your legs. your body moves pliantly under his hands. the sight of it all is downright promiscuous.
"well," stiles presses a kiss to the inside of your knee. it would be sweet if not for the sinful way his eyes are preoccupied with the wet spot on your panties. "i heard girls find consent sexy. maybe i screwed that one up a bit. what do you think is sexy?"
he asks in that absent tone that tells you he's storing away information as he kisses further up the inside of your thighs more fervently. you let out a breath that feels too shaky too early and watch as his pink tongue swipes out to lick up some ice cream spill. it makes you clench around nothing.
"any day now." his hand is gently rubbing your thigh as he moves to lick and suck almost crudely at your other thigh.
your eyes narrow slightly. "gimme a second."
he gets closer to where you're literally soaked for him, nibbling lightly at the plush flesh of your inner thigh. you shove down a low whine of impatience to avoid your already growing embarrassment.
"your attention to foreplay is- i like it." you admit softly and he hums, licking a stripe of ice cream out of the way. taking a second to think, you continue. "i like the... the desperation. how you took me without really... um... i like it when you just do what you want, i mean."
it's difficult to form a single thought once stiles presses a kiss against your clothed clit, being sure to add plenty of pressure. almost like a reward. "what if you don't like what i want? will you tell me to stop?"
you nod, chest rising and falling heavily with every breath. you glance down at stiles, and a small sound leaves your lips when your eyes catch his hand down his sweats, slowly stroking himself. he flushes.
"you.... can't i help?"
he lets out a small moan and his eyes flutter as he halts his movements. "i don't- i don't have a condom."
against all better judgement, you shake your head and thread your fingers through his messy hair. "it's okay. just pull out, yeah?"
his brows shoot up, and you wonder for a moment if he's about to cum in his pants. but then he nods and rises, standing in between your legs now. his fingers deftly tug off your panties, pocketing them in his sweats (for "safe keeping") and his lips part silently once you're exposed to him.
your legs begin to close, feeling suddenly too naked and too insecure for his hungry eyes, but his hands catch your knees easily, even giving you a little tap as a sign to scoot further onto the bed.
before you comply, curiosity takes over and you tug at the strings on his sweatpants. "wait, what about you?"
he tilts his head. "what about me?"
you narrow your eyes, fingers dipping under the band. "can i take these off?"
"oh!" his brows shoot up, as if he forgot about himself altogether. "oh, yeah, of course. please."
you waste no time pulling his bottoms off, his cock springing out. it's flushed and leaking, looking properly erotic in the dim lighting of his room. your eyes flutter up to meet his and you wrap your hands around him, pumping twice.
stiles moans, hips twitching into your hands on their own accord. "holy shit."
part of you just wants to finish him that way, positively fucking hooked on the look he has, pleasure pinching his pretty face all tight. he pants and pulls your hands away, eyes squeezing shut for just a moment. "y're gonna make me cum, holy shit."
"i'm sorry, you just..." you fluster, laughing a tad at the both of you. he shakes his head, though, so you fall silent and let him crawl over top of you, kissing you deeply. he unhooks your bra with a bit of struggle and you both have to cooperate to get it off of your body. you giggle, and his eyes are locked on you as your smile slowly fades.
"don't be sorry," his voice is gentle, "i've imagined that so many times it should be criminal." he kisses you again and you feel his fingers graze along your stomach. stiles pulls back far enough to see your whole face and you wonder why- then his thumb is circling your clit.
the high-pitched gasp you suck in is not as embarrassing as the louder whine that leaves your lips once he's slid a finger into you, eyes closing for a moment to soak in the bliss. it feels like heaven, for a long moment. but his fingers are slow. too slow. and even when you cant your hips, he doesn't speed up enough to have you seeing stars (like you know he can). instead, he has you writhing impatiently. "you're... stiles, please."
it's whiney and pathetic, but stiles seems to stifle a smirk when he hears it, covering it with a sympathetic pout instead. "i know, pretty girl, i know. you gonna ask nicely?"
and you knew you gave him permission to do whatever he wanted. but you didn't expect to be into it. your lips part and you almost tell him to shut up and fuck you already. but you're hot with embarrassment and something else he can totally feel when your walls clench around his torturous fingers. so instead, you opt for falling right into his hands.
"please, stiles, fuck me already." you whisper, lips brushing against his when you speak. "please."
"there we go." he presses a peck to your lips and slips his fingers out. "such a good girl."
you aren't given any time to process that and the fact that it made you throb like a personal whore- stiles is already swiping his tip through your folds, making you gasp when it catches on your clit. he's panting heavily as he lines himself up, and you're a little surprised when he finds your hand and laces his own against it.
then, he's stretching you open and you're seeing stars, just like you knew he could make you do.
stiles is sweet, but he's not exactly gentle. hips rolling into you and his tongue pressing against your own. a hand pinning you to the bed and keeping him upright, the other tweaking your nipples or teasing your clit. he's all over you, pulling back every once in awhile to watch the way you arch your back and gasp out unintelligible pleas. his moans are about as pathetic as yours and he hisses "fuck" into your ear when you clench around him tightly. your dance goes on like this for a moment, and he's rambling horny nonsense constantly.
"stiles, 'm close-" you whimper, free hand pulling him closer by the hair. he gasps out and his hips snap roughly.
"yeah, me too. jesus, you're so perfect. look at you." he pushes some of your hair out of the way, eyes meeting yours. "you gonna cum for me?"
you nod, eyebrows turning up as you feel the warmth crawl up your belly. your free hand tugs at his mussed up hair again and his expression matches yours. he speeds up and you gasp and whimper, pliant under his body as he fucks you into his mattress.
"stiles, fuck, stiles, i'm-"
"that's it, there you go, hooooly fuck." he holds your hips down when you finish, rutting into you with an open mouth. he's got his forehead pressed against your own, swallowing each others desperate moans as he rides you through your orgasm. stiles' moan is sudden and loud when he pulls out in a rush and finishes on your cunt, his tip pressing into your overstimulated clit and making your legs twitch.
you gasp out a breath and sink into the mattress, sighing contentedly. when your eyes flutter open on heavy lids, stiles is gazing at you. he leans down and kisses you, soft and sweet and full of a confession long coming.
"that was..."
"amazing." he finishes dazedly, hands running over your bare skin anywhere he can reach. "want me to use my mouth?"
your brows raise. "stiles, i just came."
"i know." he sighs, playing with some of your hair. "it was so fucking hot."
"you said you've been perpetually hard for three weeks?" you attempt to change the subject, but stiles only grins wider.
"yeah, so i've got plenty more fantasies to play out before i'm out of steam."
you shove him lightly, fighting a flustered smile. "just- give me a second, you dog!"
"awooooo." stiles deadpans an imitation of a howl, nuzzling into your neck. "let me know when you're ready. i'll just be here. naked. on top of you. in the mood to make you pass out from orgasms. willing to learn every kink you have- which, hey, the praise kink was a good guess, right?"
you groan, pushing him off of you. your face is flushed red and you snatch his nearby discarded t-shirt when you sit up. "that was so out of left field."
"yeah, but was it? i mean, you-"
"i'm getting in the shower, stiles." you stand and take a few steps away from him before you turn to gauge his reaction.
his eyebrows shoot up from where he sits on the bed. it makes you bright fucking red when his eyes trail down and he watches a bead of his own cum slide down your inner thigh. he licks his lips.
"i'll come with."
☆
this is from the vault, so if you've read it already, that's why! don't be afraid to interact with it anyway, i love crazy readers and feral responses sjdjsaskdj
Pairing: Modern!Aerion Targrayen x Fem!Reader
Summary: Aerion makes you the main focus for his little project.
Word Count: 3.6k
Warnings/Tags: 18+ MDNI! smut. unprotected p in v. internal ejaculation. creampie. possessive sex. exhibitionism. sex tape/filming during sex. oral (m!receiving). dom Aerion. marking. dirty talk. praise kink. fingering. clitoral stimulation. bb's a little less mean in this, but still just as nasty. no use of y/n.
A/N: this took me way too long to post 😭 life’s been busy so updates might be a little slower for now… but backroom Finn Bennett has me a bit unhinged, not gonna lie. gifs by me | divider: @/strangergraphics
Masterlist | AO3
Aerion: Need your help. Urgent.
The message comes just after nine—no greeting, no context. You stare at it for a second before typing back.
You: That sounds like a you problem.
Aerion: Get over here.
A beat.
Aerion: Please.
Aerion: And bring that face I like.
You exhale through your nose, thumb hovering over the screen longer than it should.
You: You’re impossible.
Aerion: I know.
Aerion: See you soon, pretty girl.
By the time you reach his apartment, the hallway was quiet as the building settled into the late hour. You stop in front of his door and knock once, barely having time to pull back before it swings open.
Aerion stands there, already stepping aside like he expected you down to the second.
"Took you long enough.”
You brush past him without answering, the door clicking shut behind you as you shrug off your coat.
"You said urgent," you reply, "not life or death."
The living room has been half-dismantled, lamps dragged into corners and blinds drawn low, the overhead lights killed entirely.
On the coffee table sits a bulky VHS camcorder surrounded by a stack of labeled cassettes, and in the corner an old CRT monitor hums faintly, washing the room in a pale greenish glow.
Aerion moves past you toward the coffee table without a word. He picks up the camcorder, cradling it in both hands before fiddling with it.
"…What is all this?" you ask, something between curiosity and amusement edging into your voice.
He finally glances up, gaze dragging over you and lingering just long enough to make your pulse skip, a slow smirk tugging at his lips.
"Character study," he says. "Isolation. Routine. Subtle shifts in behavior."
He reaches for one of the cassettes before popping it into the camera.
"Professor wants something original."
"That sounds like bullshit."
"It is," he agrees easily. "But it looks good on paper."
You drift closer, drawn in by the setup—the space he's arranged spare and specific, every element placed with intention.
“Stand there,” he says, nodding toward a cleared space in front of him.
You glance at it. “You didn’t say I was acting.”
“You’re not,” he says immediately. “Just… exist there.”
“So you just called me over to make me your… what, subject?”
His mouth twitches faintly at that. “Something like that.”
You narrow your eyes at him, then tilt your head just slightly. “And what do I get in return?”
That earns you something—his gaze sharpening, interest flickering as he adjusts his grip on the camera.
“Depends,” he says after a pause. “Are you here to argue, or are you going to do what you came for?”
You blink at him, then let out a small, incredulous laugh. “Wow. Bossy today.”
His mouth twitches again as if he’s trying not to give you too much of a reaction. You hold his gaze for a moment, weighing it, then move to the spot without further argument.
The camcorder comes up and you hear the soft mechanical click of it starting to record.
“Stay right there,” he says again, quieter this time, more to himself than to you.
You let your weight settle, arms loose at your sides, and look back at him through the lens.
It’s strange being watched this intently, not uncomfortable exactly, but present in a way everyday life rarely asks you to be.
You barely shift before his voice cuts in, calm and immediate.
"You're thinking too hard," he says, without looking up from the viewfinder.
"You're pointing a camera at me."
"I've done worse." The smirk is audible. "Relax. Pretend I'm not here."
Easier said than done, but you try, letting your gaze slip off the lens before it lands on him instead.
The way his hands work over the camcorder, steady and precise. The quiet focus in his expression, the set of his jaw in the pale glow of the monitor—and lower, where his shirt has ridden up just enough to show a strip of his stomach, a faint trail of hair disappearing beneath the waist of his jeans.
God, he looked so good tonight.
You force your attention away before it lingers too long.
A few seconds pass and gradually you start to move. Slow and aimless, the way you might cross a room when no one's watching, picking something up off the shelf and setting it back down.
After a minute or two, you pause mid-step and glance toward him, one brow lifting.
“How long am I supposed to be doing this?”
“Until it stops feeling like a performance,” he said, voice low and smooth. “Keep going. Touch your hair. Roll your shoulders. Whatever feels natural.”
You exhale through your nose, somewhere between annoyed and amused, but you do it anyway.
One hand lifts to push your hair back, fingers lingering at the nape of your neck a beat too long. You can feel the lens tracking the movement.
He stepped closer, boots quiet on the hardwood. The camcorder stayed glued to his eye, but his free hand reached out, brushing a stray strand behind your ear with surprising gentleness.
“Better,” he murmured.
The pad of his thumb grazed the shell of your ear, then trailed down the side of your neck, slow enough to raise goosebumps.
“You’re tense. I can see it in your shoulders.”
“I’m being filmed by a man who texts like a hostage negotiator,” you shot back, but your voice had already softened, breath catching when his fingers continued their lazy descent, tracing your collarbone.
Aerion hummed, the sound vibrating low in his chest. He was close enough now that you could smell his cologne and feel the heat radiating off his body.
The camera dipped slightly, angling down to capture the way your nipples had tightened visibly against the fabric.
A flush of heat rushed to your face as you became painfully aware of just how sheer the material was, leaving almost nothing to the imagination.
You regretted not putting on a bra earlier—though, if you were being honest, a part of you had half-expected that coming over to Aerion’s, you wouldn’t really need one anyway.
"Take a breath," he said. "Let it out slow."
You did as he said, though the exhale came out unsteady, catching slightly as your chest rose and fell under his lens.
His thumb found the hollow of your throat, resting there just long enough to feel your pulse jump.
“Good girl.”
The praise landed hot and low in your belly. You hated how easily he could flip a switch from casual to charged with nothing more than a look and a few quiet words.
Your tongue darted out to wet your lips. “This still for your project?”
“It was.”
A slow, dangerous smile curved his mouth. “Now it’s for me.”
The air shifts with it, subtle but immediate. Your heart hammered against your ribs, the air feeling thicker, more electric.
He lowered the camera for a moment before taking a step fully into your space, one hand sliding to your waist, the other cupping your jaw as he tilted your face up to his.
“Tell me to stop if you want,” he said against your lips, breath warm and mint-tinged. “But I think you like being watched.”
You didn’t answer.
Instead you rose onto your toes and kissed him. Slow at first, testing, then deeper when he groaned and pulled you flush against him.
His tongue slid against yours while his hand drifted down to grip your ass, squeezing hard enough to make you gasp into his mouth.
When he broke the kiss, his lips brushed your ear.
“How about we make this a little more exciting,” he whispered, voice rough with want.
“Strip for the camera. Slow. Let it see everything.”
Your heart hammered against your ribs. He pulled back, just enough to look at you—whatever he found in your expression seeming to satisfy him—then stepped away before raising the lens and finding you again, and this time there was nothing clinical about it.
Your gaze drops without meaning to, catching on the front of his jeans that pulled taut, the outline of him pressing against the denim in a way that made your mouth go dry.
"Go on," he said quietly before stepping back and angling the lens towards you once more.
You held his gaze for one second, then reached for the hem of your shirt, peeling it up and over your head.
The cool air hit your skin, nipples pebbling instantly under the camcorder’s indifferent stare.
Aerion’s eyes tracked every inch like he was memorizing you.
“Fuck, look at you,” he breathed. “Keep going.”
You hooked your thumbs into your waistband next, pushing your pants down your hips, stepping out of them until you stood in nothing but your underwear.
The lace was already damp, and you knew the camera would catch that dark little spot when you turned just right.
Aerion made a low, appreciative sound.
Without breaking eye contact, he sets the camcorder down on the coffee table. The red light keeps blinking, angled just right to keep both of you in frame.
Then he closes the distance again, his hands finding you. He cups your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples until you arched into him with a soft moan. One hand slid down, slipping beneath the lace to find you slick and aching.
“So wet already,” he murmured, two fingers gliding through your folds before circling your clit with firm pressure. “All this just from me pointing a camera at you?”
You bit your lip, hips rocking instinctively against his hand. “Aerion…”
He kissed the corner of your mouth, then your jaw and down until it reached the sensitive spot beneath your ear.
Suddenly he pushed two fingers inside you without warning, curling them just right, and your head fell back on a broken moan.
The wet, obscene sound of his fingers pumping in and out filled the room, accompanied by the faint mechanical hum of the camcorder still recording every second.
Aerion’s mouth found your throat, sucking a mark into your skin while his thumb kept working your clit in tight, relentless circles.
“That’s it, pretty girl,” he praised, voice dark and filthy. “Let the camera hear how pretty you sound when I touch you.”
Your legs trembled making you grab his shoulders for balance, nails digging in as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in your core.
He pulled his fingers free suddenly, making you whimper, before bringing them up to his mouth and sucking them clean with a low groan.
He looked at you with a smirk, his eyes dark with heat as he licked the last traces from his fingers.
Without breaking eye contact, he undid his belt before shoving his jeans and boxers down his thighs in one smooth motion, freeing his cock.
It sprang out, thick and heavy, the flushed head already glistening with a bead of precum. He wrapped a hand around the base and gave one slow stroke, his thumb smearing the slickness over the sensitive tip as he watched your reaction.
Then, softer but still commanding, he spoke with a wicked little smile, “On your knees, baby.”
The command sent a shiver down your spine.
You sank down without hesitation, the hardwood cool against your skin. Aerion moved closer, one hand tangling gently in your hair as he guided the head of his cock to your mouth, tapping it against your lower lip once, then twice.
“Wanna show the camera how good you use your mouth?” he murmured, the words dripping with filthy promise.
His thumb brushed your cheek, almost tender.
“Open up for me, pretty girl. Let it see how deep you can take me.”
Your pussy clenched at the words. You looked up at him through your lashes, then parted your lips before taking him in.
The first slide of his cock over your tongue drew a deep, guttural groan from his chest. He was thick—stretching your mouth in that perfect, slightly overwhelming way.
You hollowed your cheeks and sucked, tongue swirling around the head before you sank lower, taking as much of him as you could.
“Fuck,” Aerion hissed, fingers tightening in your hair. His hips twitched forward, pushing another inch past your lips. “That’s it… just like that. Look at the camera while you suck me.”
You turned your head slightly, eyes flicking toward the blinking red light.
The knowledge that it was recording every second, your spit-slick lips stretched wide around his cock and the way your throat worked when you took him deeper, made you moan around him. The vibration pulled another curse from Aerion.
He kept one hand in your hair as he started to rock his hips, fucking your mouth in slow, controlled thrusts.
“Gods, you look so perfect like this,” he rasped, voice strained with pleasure.
His gaze kept darting between your face and the camcorder.
“All sloppy and eager… taking my cock so well while the camera watches. You like knowing it’s filming how wet your mouth gets for me, don’t you?”
You hummed in agreement, the sound muffled and obscene. Drool had started to slip from the corners of your lips, dripping down your chin but you didn’t care.
You bobbed your head faster, one hand coming up to stroke what you couldn’t fit, twisting gently on every upstroke the way you knew he liked.
Aerion’s head tipped back for a moment, a low, broken moan escaping him. His stomach flexed visibly under the hem of his shirt, and his cock throbbed against your tongue.
“Shit—slow down or I’m gonna come too fast,” he warned, but he didn’t pull away.
Instead he looked straight at the camera, lips parted and cheeks flushed, his signature arrogance melting into raw lust.
“So fucking good with that pretty mouth… that’s my girl,” he groaned, violet eyes half-lidded as he stared back down at you.
He pulled out suddenly, strings of saliva connecting your lips to the glistening head of his cock.
You gasped for air, lips swollen and shiny, and he immediately tapped his cock against your tongue again, letting the camera catch the messy sight.
Aerion cursed under his breath, the sound raw and reverent.
“You’re going to be the death of me,” he muttered, thumb brushing away a tear that had slipped down your cheek.
His voice dropped even lower, thick with lust.
“But first I’m going to fuck that tight little cunt while the camera records every second of you falling apart on my cock.”
The words hit you like a spark.
You looked up at him, lips parted and shiny and you barely had time to respond before he was hauling you up off your knees with strong hands under your arms.
He spun you around and bent you over the arm of the couch in one smooth, possessive motion, your stomach pressed against the soft fabric, ass raised high for him—and for the camera.
He shifted the camera slightly so that the lens was perfectly positioned, capturing the curve of your back, the way your tits hung heavy and swaying, and the slick shine between your spread thighs.
Aerion stepped up behind you, one large hand smoothing possessively down your spine before gripping your hip hard enough to bruise.
His other hand guided his cock, dragging the thick head through your soaked folds, teasing your entrance with slow, deliberate strokes that made you push back against him desperately.
“Eyes on the camera,” he reminded you, voice a dark rumble.
He leaned over your back, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he finally pushed inside slowly, allowing you to drink in every inch as he stretched you open.
A broken moan tore from your throat the moment he bottomed out, buried to the hilt in your tight heat.
The stretch was perfect, almost too much, the slight burn only making the pleasure sharper.
“Fuck… so wet,” he groaned, hips flush against your ass.
He gave one shallow thrust, then another, letting you feel every thick inch.
He started moving faster, each snap of his hips driving deeper, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing obscenely through the quiet apartment.
One hand stayed anchored on your hip while the other reached around to rub tight circles over your swollen clit.
Your mouth fell open on a silent cry, eyes locked on the blinking red light as he fucked you harder, the couch creaking beneath you with every powerful thrust.
The pleasure was already spiraling, sharp and relentless, but Aerion wasn’t done with you yet.
Without warning he pulled out, the sudden emptiness dragging a needy whine from your throat.
Before you could protest, his hands were on you flipping you onto your back in one fluid motion.
Your shoulders hit the couch cushions, legs splayed wide as he loomed over you, silver-blond hair sticking to his forehead, chest heaving.
“Much better,” he murmured, voice rough. “I want to see your face properly when I ruin you.”
Aerion reached for the camcorder on the coffee table, scooping it up with one hand. The red light never faltered.
He held it steady, angling the lens down as he knelt between your spread thighs, framing the shot perfectly—your swollen, dripping cunt, the way your chest rose and fell, the desperate look in your eyes.
He stroked his cock before spreading your arousal along his length, then pressed the thick head against your entrance.
The camera captured every second, closer this time: the slow push as he sank back into you, inch by thick inch, stretching you open again with a wet, obscene sound.
A low groan tore from his chest the moment he bottomed out, buried to the hilt in your tight heat.
“Fuck… still so perfect. Gripping me like you never want me to leave.”
He started thrusting immediately—deep, rolling strokes that made your back arch off the couch.
The camcorder stayed in his grip, pointed shamelessly between your bodies so it could record the way his cock disappeared inside you over and over, slick and shining with your combined wetness.
“That’s it,” Aerion growled, voice strained with pleasure.
“Let the camera see your face. Show it how pretty you look getting ruined. How your eyes roll back when I hit that spot riiiiight…there—”
A broken moan tore from your throat as white-hot pleasure exploded behind your eyes from the new angle.
Your back arched sharply off the couch, legs trembling uncontrollably while your fingers clawed desperately at the cushions beneath you.
“Oh fuck— Aerion!” you cried out, voice cracking as another precise thrust sent sparks shooting through your veins.
The coil in your belly tightened viciously, threatening to snap at any second.
He groaned deeply, the sound vibrating against your skin as he leaned closer, lips brushing your ear.
“Listen to those sweet little sounds you’re making for the camera. You’re squeezing me so fucking tight, baby. You gonna come already? Gonna show the camera how beautifully you fall apart on my cock?”
“Gonna watch this later,” he snarled, slamming in deep with a brutal thrust.
“Gonna stroke my cock raw to the way your greedy little pussy clenches and milks me.”
Another vicious thrust.
“Gonna cum so hard to the sight of you falling apart while I flood…” thrust “this…” thrust “tight…” thrust “sloppy fucking cunt.”
Your moans grew louder, more desperate, the pressure building fast and overwhelming under his relentless pace and the wicked swirl of his fingers on your clit.
The camera kept recording, merciless and intimate, capturing every twitch of your face, every bounce of your breasts, every slick thrust as Aerion fucked you closer and closer to the edge.
“Cum for me,” he demanded, voice breaking with his own impending release.
“Cum on my cock while the camera watches. Let it see how good you look when you’re mine.”
The coil snapped.
Your orgasm crashed over you violently, walls fluttering and clenching hard around his thick length as you cried out, eyes squeezing shut for a moment before you forced them open again, staring straight at the red light like he’d ordered.
Your whole body shook with the force of it, a broken sob of pleasure tearing from your throat.
Aerion groaned loudly, hips stuttering as your pussy milked him.
“Fuck—yes, just like that—”
He fucked you through it, kept the camera trained on your face through it all as he chased his own release with deep, punishing strokes until, with a guttural moan of your name, he buried himself to the hilt and came hard.
You felt every pulse as he spilled inside you, hot and thick, filling you until it started to leak out around his cock with every shallow thrust he gave to ride it out.
He stayed buried for a moment, both of you panting, bodies slick with sweat. Then he leaned down, pulling out just enough for the lens to catch the thick white cum leaking from your swollen pussy before he pushed back in, fucking it deeper with lazy rolls of his hips.
Finally, he reached over and stopped the recording, setting the camera aside on the coffee table with a soft click.
He looked down at you, eyes still dark but sparkling with mischief, a cocky grin spreading across his face.
“Think I just got a new favorite movie,” he says lightly, voice rough around the edges but unmistakably pleased.
A/N | eeee this idea is based on my 1k heart event on my other account. so not original, but i thought it'd be funny!! this was supposed to be way longer, and originally nsfw but i just love fluff i'm sorry!! also, one of my beta readers told me i write too much, and my paragraphs are too long, so tell me if my writing is better in this!!
SYNOPSIS | for years ao'nung thought he could keep his feelings about you buried. but when someone starts to court you, and you turn to ao'nung for advice, he realizes he should've said something sooner.
Your words fluttered across the tidepool like startled fish, bright and quick, brushing his ear before drifting away. You had been rambling for so long that your own excitement lifted your tail off the sand, your knees hugging the edge of the woven net, your fingers dancing as you described every detail of your new admirer’s courting gifts. Aonung had stopped tying knots three minutes ago, though you didn’t notice. His hands moved, yes, but slower, clumsier, the twine twisting wrong beneath his thumbs.
He lifted his gaze. His eyes were a deep storm, unreadable at first glance, but the longer you watched, the more the irritation swirled beneath the surface.
“I hear you.” His voice was flat, clipped, a shell with its pearl removed. “You speak loud enough for the whole village to hear you.”
Your breath hitched. “Ma Aonung, I am asking you for advice. You are the one who knows how courting works.” You nudged his calf with your heel, playful, oblivious to the tension winding up his spine. “He brought me a carved tide-stone this morning. With a woven cord! Look—” You held it up to the sun. “It caught the light like the scales of an ilu. My chest felt… heavy. I do not know how to explain it.”
Aonung clicked his tongue, sharp as a blade touching bone. “I see the stone.”
“You do not sound impressed.”
“I am drowning in awe,” he muttered, tugging a knot so tight the twine snapped. His jaw flexed. A vein pulsed faintly at the edge of his temple. “Truly, I have never seen such a unique gift. A stone. A cord. My heart breaks under the weight of such romance.”
You blinked, ears tilting forward. “Are you teasing me?”
“Yes,” he snapped. “Because you are being ridiculous.”
A wave surged behind you both, its foam crackling across the sand. You watched him carefully, confusion tightening your brow. His tail thumped once, irritated, scattering sand across your shin.
You sank down beside him. Your thigh brushed his. The contact startled him more than it should have, but he hid it with a scoff.
“Ma Aonung… you always help me. Why are you acting like this?”
His breath left him in one long, disgruntled rush. “Because I do not want to hear you praise a man who cannot even choose a proper gift. That stone is dull.” His nose wrinkled. “The cord is poorly braided.”
Your mouth fell open. “It is not! It is beautiful.”
“It is not beautiful,” he insisted, voice rising with the tide. “It is the kind of thing boys give when they want to impress without trying.” His gaze cut sideways, sharp as a spearpoint. “Does he even know what colors suit your skin? What scents you like? Does he know the way your voice changes when you are proud?” His tone curled, frustrated. “I doubt he knows any of that.”
Warmth crept up your cheeks. You stared at him, startled by the force behind his words. “I did not know you paid that much attention to me.”
He stilled. Every part of him froze except for his throat, which bobbed with a hard swallow.
“We grew up together,” he said, voice lower now, wary, guarded. “It is not… strange that I notice these things.”
“I suppose not,” you murmured, though your heart fluttered at the intensity in his gaze.
Aonung grunted, returning to the net. Knots formed beneath his hands with the speed of practiced irritation. “So. What do you want from me? Advice on how to smile at this man? Advice on how to tell him you like his ugly stone?” He flicked sand from his fingers. “Speak, or let me finish this net in peace.”
“I want to know if I should accept his next visit,” you said quietly. “He said he wished to take a walk with me at sunset. It made my stomach flutter.”
Aonung’s head snapped toward you, ears pushing back hard enough to show the tension along their base. “Your stomach fluttered,” he echoed, tone dripping with disbelief.
“Yes. It felt—” You paused, hunting for a word, refusing the vague. “It felt like a wave rising inside me, it was… bright. I liked it.”
Aonung shut his eyes.
His fingers curled around the net so tightly the cords groaned.
“If your stomach is fluttering,” he said, voice thin with patience he did not have, “it is probably hunger. Eat before you speak nonsense.”
You shoved his shoulder. “Aonung!”
He shoved back, gentler than he pretended. “Do not make that sound at me. I am telling you the truth.”
“You are being mean.”
“I am being honest.” His gaze snapped to yours again, blazing now. “He does not deserve you.”
Your lips parted. “Why not?”
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Exhaled, slow, frustrated, like the truth was clawing up his throat and he was shoving it back down with both hands.
“He is… boring,” he finished lamely, flicking his tail with irritation at his own weak landing. “You would fall asleep listening to him talk about canoes. The man has the voice of a dying txursum (cuirass crab).”
You snorted despite yourself. “A dying txursum?”
“Yes. A txursum whose spirit has already left its body.”
You laughed harder. His expression brightened for half a second—just a spark—but the moment you mentioned your suitor again, that spark died.
“So you think I should refuse him?” you asked.
“I think you should stop talking about him before my ears fall off.”
“But I need help—”
“You need to stop asking me about a courtship you already seem ready to leap into,” he threw back, voice rising. “What do you want me to say? ‘Oh yes, go with him, let him tie his weak cord around your throat and call you his mate’? Is that what you want to hear?”
Your breath caught. “I… I did not know you felt so strongly.”
He turned away sharply, jaw locked so tight it trembled. “I do not feel strongly. I feel annoyed. There is a difference.”
His tail gave him away before anything else. It lay stiff behind him, every line drawn tight with jealousy he refused to name.
You leaned closer, studying his profile; the stubborn line of his mouth, the tension braced in his shoulders, the faint flick of blue across his cheekbones where irritation flushed his skin darker.
He avoided your eyes.
You touched his forearm lightly. His breath hitched.
“Aonung. Tell me truth.”
He shook his head once. “You do not want my truth.”
“I do.”
“No, you do not,” he repeated, a low snarl simmering beneath the words. “Because my truth is that you are too excited. Too blind. Too eager to believe the first man who smiles at you. You do not see the way others look at you. You do not see—” His voice cracked, just once, a thin fracture in his armor. He bit down on it immediately. “Forget it.”
You waited.
He did not look at you.
He tied another knot, too tight again, the cord squeaking.
“Aonung?”
Silence.
You tried again, softer. “Ma txeylan (bestie), I need your guidance.”
He huffed through his nose. “I am not your father.”
“No. You are my closest friend.”
That sentence struck him harder than a crashing wave. His shoulders rose as if bracing through pain. His breath left him in a quiet, defeated rush.
His next words emerged low, as if he was holding it together.
“Do not accept his courting gift until you think carefully,” he said. “Not because I forbid it. Because a mate is chosen with the heart, not the flutter in your belly.” His eyes, finally, lifted to yours. They burned. “Make sure the man who holds your heart understands it. Has earned it.”
Your pulse skipped.
“Aonung… you look upset.”
“I am not upset.”
“You are definitely upset.”
He shook his head violently. “I am annoyed at this net.”
“The net did not mention my courting gift.”
“It might as well have.”
You study him, realization trying to claw its way into your mind, but you shove it back. Of course Aonung did not like you that way. Of course you were imagining the warmth in his eyes. He was your friend. He was always protective.
He looked at your hands.
He looked at the tide-stone at your throat.
He looked away, as if the sight hurt.
When he finally spoke again, his voice had softened to a whisper at the edge of the waves.
“Be careful with your heart,” he murmured. “It is delicate. Not everyone deserves to touch it.”
You smiled, touched by his sudden gentleness. “I knew you would give good advice.”
Aonung grimaced, frustrated that you had taken his heart-cracking warning as friendly counsel.
“You hear nothing,” he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“What was that?”
“Nothing,” he sighed.
You returned to your netting with a newfound sense of excitement, humming under your breath about sunset walks. Aonung listened—unwillingly, painfully, helplessly—because he always listened.
Your marui felt too small for your breath, too warm for your pounding pulse, too loud with the frantic shuffle of wraps and beads hitting the woven floor. You had tossed half your clothing into a messy pile; turquoise chest wraps, soft teal cloth, darker ocean-dyed pieces, strips decorated with small shells that clattered against each other like restless teeth. Nothing looked right. Everything felt wrong. The light outside had begun shifting toward late-afternoon gold, the shadows lengthening, the breeze picking up with the promise of sunset.
It left you with an hour.
One hour before your suitor arrived with his carefully practiced smile and his impeccable posture and his carved tide-stone that you insisted was beautiful, even though Aonung had practically snarled at the sight of it.
Your hands trembled as you held two chest wraps side by side—a soft seafoam one, and a deeper blue that shimmered faintly when tilted. The deeper one would bring out your eyes. The lighter one made your shoulders look elegant. Or maybe neither did. Maybe the problem was not the wraps at all but the tightness in your chest whenever you imagined your suitor waiting outside your marui with a patient tilt of his head.
The thought of Aonung’s reaction had been much louder.
He had snapped so easily. He had glared at the tide-stone as if it were carved from poison. He kept tying knots wrong—Aonung never tied knots wrong. He could weave a net blindfolded, half-asleep, upside down if someone asked him. He always teased you, yes, always pushed and nudged and smirked in that infuriating way of his, but the moment your feelings were tangled, he knew how to soften, how to guide with a steadier hand.
Lately, his hand trembled whenever this suitor’s name left your mouth.
You dropped both wraps and reached for another, the coral-pink one with the shells stitched along the hem. It looked lovely in the glow of your lantern, but you held it up to your chest and grimaced. Too festive.
Your tail flicked in irritation as you threw it aside and sank to your knees. The pile of wraps slumped like a defeated animal.
Aonung was never like this with you. Never short, never brittle, never so quick to let irritation bleed through his voice. He might tease until your ears went hot, but he had always been the one you went to when your heart tangled itself in worry. He always listened. He always had advice; sometimes blunt enough to sting, sometimes surprisingly thoughtful. Sometimes he would tilt your chin just slightly and say, “Do not fear. You are stronger than you think.”
Back when you were children, he had been the first to help you climb the high roots near the mangroves. You had been afraid—you remembered the way your legs shook when you stood on the lowest branch. Aonung had snorted, grabbed your wrist, and tugged you up with ease. “Stop trembling,” he’d said, though there had been no real annoyance in it. “The branch will not bite you.”
Later, when you fell into tidewater during an eel migration and came out sputtering, embarrassed, he had laughed so hard he nearly toppled in after you—yet he had still wrapped his own cloth around your shoulders when you shivered and walked you home, proud as if he had been the one to defeat the waves.
His presence always felt steady. Unshakable. Like the salt-stone pillars on the shore.
So why did he look ready to bite the head off your new admirer?
Your fingers slipped over a deep cerulean loincloth, softer than the rest. You paused, the fabric draping over your knees like a memory. This was the cloth Aonung had gifted you two years ago after teasing you for outgrowing your old training set. He’d thrown it at you with a grin too big for his face, announcing, “Here. You run around so much your old one was crying for mercy.” You had worn it for weeks, even though its color was bold and drew attention.
Aonung had liked how it looked on you.
At the time, you didn’t think twice.
Now your stomach fluttered. An entirely different flutter than the one you felt when your suitor smiled. This one carried an ache beneath it, soft and confusing. You traced the cloth with your fingertips, smoothing the edges where the weave had loosened over time.
Aonung had so much experience. Many sought him. Many flirted. Many tried to court him—some with gifts of rare stones, others with elaborate braids or intricate bracelets. He brushed most away with the flick of a wrist, confident and disinterested, except for the occasional brief courtship that never lasted long. People adored him. Admired him. Swooned over him.
Yet he had never once looked as irritated as he had today.
You pressed the cerulean cloth to your chest, feeling its familiar texture. The light caught the worn fibers, turning them almost silver at the seams. It reminded you of that afternoon he helped you fix your ilu saddle, his hands brushing yours more often than they needed to, the sun painting his skin with bright flecks of turquoise. He had smiled at you, but not the smirk he wore with the boys, not the smug grin he used on people who flirted too boldly. The smile had been soft. Warm like the shallow tide.
You shook your head quickly, as if the movement could scatter every thought of Aonung like startled fish disappearing beneath the water’s surface. You shouldn’t be thinking of his stupid grin or his sharp tongue or the way his eyes softened when he thought you weren’t looking. He was being a jerk today. A massive jerk. His attitude alone should’ve been enough to drive his face far, far from your thoughts.
It didn’t work.
A frustrated sigh escaped you as you dug into the pile of wraps again, determined to force your attention elsewhere. Eventually your fingers closed around an intricate weave you’d been saving for a future celebration: a piece dyed in layered blues and sea-greens, patterned with shell-thin stripes that shimmered when the fabric shifted. It suited you. It felt elegant, but not loud. Confident, but not showy. You paired it with a tewng woven with slender cords and small beads that chimed softly when you moved.
Perfect. Or close enough.
You dressed carefully, tying each knot with hands that refused to stay steady. The wrap hugged your ribs, flattering the lines of your shoulders, and the skirt settled against your hips with a gentle weight. You turned toward your polished shell-mirror, scrutinizing every detail. Nothing looked wrong, exactly—your skin glowed beneath the soft light, your posture straightened, but your pulse beat too quickly, chiming against your throat.
Your hair became the next enemy. You tried a high tail. Too formal. You let it fall free. Too wild. You braided a single strand—too plain. You tried two—no, too childish. You tugged everything loose again and groaned under your breath. Your fingers kept returning to a style Aonung once teased you about, saying it made you look like a reef-singer perched on a cliff, head held proud as a pa’li mare. At the time, you had shoved him into the water for that comment.
Yet you braided your hair that same way now.
The strands framed your face in a gentle sweep, the braid looping behind your ear and joining with another near the back. It lifted your features, drew attention to your eyes, and settled against your shoulders with a whisper of movement. You added a few small shells for detail, their pale glow tracing the curve of your cheek.
You inhaled deeply.
You exhaled shakily.
You were ready.
…at least, physically ready. Your mind was a very different story.
Your feet began carrying you back and forth across the marui before you even realized you were moving. The woven floor creaked beneath your steps, every pass stirring the woven curtains and brushing the lantern cords.
Your hands fidgeted at your wrap, then dropped. They lifted to your braid, then dropped again. Your tail flicked an erratic rhythm behind you, its tip tapping the floor as though knocking on your own nerves.
“What am I doing,” you muttered to yourself, pacing another length. “Why am I acting like a hatchling? It is just a walk at sunset. Just a man who wants to court me.”
You forced yourself to stand still.
The stillness lasted four seconds.
You resumed pacing.
You could already imagine footsteps heading toward your marui—steady, confident, unhurried. Reytan walked like someone who never doubted where he was going. And of course he’d call your name in that gentle tone he always used around you, chin lifted just a little, that tiny smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. He really was a nice guy. Strong, too. The kind of warrior mothers pointed at and whispered approvingly about. He’d pulled three hunters out of a rip current last season. Aonung liked him—well, liked him enough to spar with him, joke with him, maybe shoulder-bump him after training.
So why did thinking about Reytan coming to get you make your stomach pitch like you’d swallowed a handful of live crabs?
You pressed a palm to your middle, leaning forward slightly, breathing like you were seconds from throwing up. Great. Amazing. Perfect start to your first courting walk ever. You needed advice. You needed someone to tell you to get your shit together. You needed your friends, but every single one was off doing something extremely inconvenient.
Tsireya: busy with tsakarem duties and absolutely not someone you could barge in on with “hey, I’m panicking, help.”
Lo’ak and Neteyam: dragged into the forest to get yelled at by Jake for whatever new stunt Lo’ak pulled.
Kiri and Spider: almost certainly tucked somewhere behind a curtain of roots kissing until their lips fell off.
Rotxo: training young warriors and way too earnest to handle this without accidentally making you cry with a motivational speech.
Which left… no one.
Except your pulse did this stupid little jump, like it already knew where it wanted you to go.
Aonung.
Because of course it did.
You hated that. You absolutely hated that your brain’s emergency exit door was shaped exactly like his face—smug glare, sharp cheekbones, annoying smirk and all. He was the last person you should run to right now. He’d been a complete asshole earlier. He’d nearly snapped a net in half because you said Reytan’s name. He’d practically hissed at the tide-stone offering like Reytan carved it from rotten meat.
But you knew his routine as well as you knew your own heartbeat. When the village slipped into pre-eclipse calm, when the breeze cooled and the water flattened into a dark mirror, Aonung always disappeared to that patch of rock near the shallows. Alone time. Quiet time. Breathing practice. His whole “clear mind, steady heart” routine his mother drilled into him as a kid.
You’d found him there once—years ago—when he was a little shorter, a little softer, sitting with his knees pulled up and his fists balled tight like he was trying to hold himself together. You had dropped beside him without asking, not touching him but close enough that your elbows brushed. You copied his breathing until he calmed down. You never talked about it again.
Somewhere inside you, something twisted hard.
You looked at your reflection one last time—wrap neat, tewng straight, hair just the way you’d styled it—and none of it made the terror in your chest ease up. In fact, the more put-together you looked, the more your panic sank its teeth in.
You needed help.
Real help.
From someone who knew you, not just liked you.
Your mind fought it. Really, it put up a whole battle, but the truth shoved its way through anyway;
You needed Aonung.
You needed the one person who always, infuriatingly, saw through every version of you without trying. Even when he was being an absolute jerk. Especially when he was being an absolute jerk.
You stood there for a long moment, breathing too fast, hands shaking at your sides. You thought about every other option. None stuck. None felt right.
Fine.
Fine.
Okay.
Before you could overthink yourself into oblivion, you bolted out of your marui. Your feet hit the walkway in a mad, uneven rhythm, braids bouncing against your back, the shells in your hair chiming with every frantic step. The sky burned behind you, violet creeping into the horizon. Your breath came out in sharp little bursts, like your lungs were tripping over themselves.
You headed straight toward the shoreline, weaving past woven platforms and small groups preparing their evening meals. The world blurred around you; voices, torches, fading laughter until all that existed was the path leading to that quiet rise of rock where he always went.
Your stupid heart hammered harder the closer you got, each beat louder, more insistent, screaming words you refused to even consider. You tried to focus on forming a plan, something to say, anything that wouldn’t make you sound pathetic, but your mind was a churn of tangled thoughts that all overlapped and dissolved before you could grab one.
By the time you even attempted to rehearse an opening line, your feet had already carried you down the narrow sand slope toward the shallows. The air shifted—cooler, quieter, cleaner—and only then did you blink yourself back into the moment.
Aonung was right there.
Cross-legged on his favorite flat rock, spine straight, shoulders loose, palms resting on his knees. The ocean reflected the sky’s last colors around him, turning the shallows into a sheet of molten violet. He looked… peaceful. Completely lost in the slow rise and fall of his breath. You froze at the sight, every instinct screaming at you to turn around, run back to your marui, pretend you came out here for a walk and absolutely not because you were about to cry over a date like a fool.
But you were here.
You were already too close to pretend otherwise.
Your steps carried you forward before you consciously agreed to it. You came to a halt a few paces from him, hugging your elbows, staring at him because looking anywhere else felt impossible. Aonung didn’t move, but you felt the shift. He had sensed you coming long before you arrived. His breathing didn’t falter, yet something in the angle of his ears had changed, tilting just slightly, tracking you.
He finally opened his eyes.
A flash—there, gone in an instant—surprise flickering across his face like a spark catching on dry bark. It startled you how unguarded it was. It startled him too, apparently, because he crushed it into an unimpressed scowl so fast it was almost comical. His chin lifted a fraction. His tail twitched. He stared at you with that signature what are you doing here look he used whenever Lo’ak walked into a room.
Silence stretched between you. The kind that grew heavier with each passing second, thickening until you felt it pressing on your chest. Aonung clearly expected you to say something, anything, but your tongue had become useless. He waited with the patience of someone who absolutely did not have patience, which only made your stomach twist harder.
When you still didn’t speak, he exhaled sharply through his nose. “So… what?” he muttered, eyebrow lifting. “You come all the way out here just to stare at me like a lost eel?” His tone was light, but the edge was unmistakable—snide, defensive, his usual default whenever he didn’t understand what you were doing.
You flinched.
Your breath stuttered out of you, shaky and shallow, and your vision wavered for a moment before you blinked hard. You weren’t crying—at least, you didn’t want to be crying, but the tears gathered anyway, blurring the line of his shoulders, the shimmer of the water behind him. Your throat tightened. You swallowed. Nothing came out.
Aonung’s eyes widened.
It wasn’t big, not even dramatic, but enough to betray that he had not expected that. His whole posture changed in a heartbeat. His tail froze. His ears shot forward. His hands hovered uncertainly mid-air before he forced them back to his knees, like touching you might be illegal.
“Wait—what?” His voice pitched upward, unsteady. “No, no, hey—don’t do that. Don’t… don’t look like that.” He grimaced, scrambling for words. “I wasn’t—I didn’t mean—I’m not—skxawng (idiot), okay, that came out wrong.”
You let out a tiny, wet laugh. It slipped out without your permission, a sad little sound that made your shoulders shake once.
Aonung froze again.
He stared at you like you’d just cracked open in front of him, exposing a part of yourself he’d never seen, and he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to touch it or run away from it. His mouth parted, closed, parted again, like he kept trying to say something and abandoning the thought right before it escaped.
You wiped at your eyes with the back of your wrist, still sniffling, still trying to breathe through the mess of emotions tangled in your chest.
Aonung leaned forward a fraction—not enough to invade your space, just enough to show he wasn’t going to sit there and watch you cry like some heartless brute.
“Great,” he muttered under his breath, but his tone had softened significantly. “Now you’re laughing and crying. That’s… that’s perfect. That’s exactly what I needed tonight.”
You huffed another shaky laugh, wiping your nose. “Sorry.”
“You’re not sorry,” he shot back, but without any real heat. “If you were sorry, you wouldn’t be crying on my meditation rock like a—” He cut himself off so abruptly it almost hurt the air around him. “Never mind. Forget that.”
Your lips twitched. “A jerk?”
Aonung groaned into both hands. “Eywa.” He dragged his palms down his face, peeking between his fingers with a mix of panic and resignation.
You breathed out, uneven but calmer than before. The weight in your chest loosened. The sunset breeze shifted, rustling your braids, carrying the faint scent of saltwater and damp stone.
Aonung lowered his hands, eyes finally settling on you with concern.
“Alright,” he said, voice low. “What happened?”
Your breath left in one shaky rush. “Ma Aonung, my heart feels like it is going to leap out of my chest,” you blurted, hands fluttering near your ribs. “This is my first courting walk, the first time a warrior has offered me attention, real attention, and Reytan wants to take me out on the water at sunset, and I should be excited—actually, I am excited—but my thoughts are crashing into each other and my stomach feels as if it is turning in circles and I do not know how to breathe correctly or walk correctly or exist correctly—”
“I know it is your first,” he muttered.
Your ears angled toward him. “Do not interrupt me,” you murmured, side eyeing him sharply before your panic dragged you forward again. “Reytan is strong, and kind, and he looks at me like I am a woven lantern glowing in the dark. I know that should make me feel steady, but I feel like a fish trapped in a net, thrashing because every piece of this is new and bright and terrifying.”
Your feet began to trace circles in the sand. One tight turn. Another. Your arms moved with you, gesturing wildly as your breath hitched. “This is a real courtship. I could become his mate. My life could change. Eywa, I do not even know what cloth to wear, and I tried three different hair styles, and none of them looked right, and I almost cried over a braid—”
Aonung pinched the bridge of his nose, shoulders tensing with each frantic step you took. “Calm your breath.”
“I cannot!” You spun around so sharply the shells in your hair clacked together. “Of course you do not understand. You are Ao’nung of the Metkayina. You have warriors lining up to braid your hair. You barely need to lift your eyes, and three people trip over themselves to offer you gifts. You do not know what it feels like to be this nervous.”
His head snapped up, ears rigid. “Do not speak as if I walk through the village collecting hearts like shells,” he protested. “That is not—”
“Yes, it is!” You jabbed a finger toward him. “You have had so many chances to choose a mate that I have lost count. I have had none. This is all new to me, and you sit there with your perfect breathing, judging me as if I am foolish for shaking apart.”
Aonung opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again with more heat. “You are putting words in my mouth. I did not judge you. I only told you to breathe—”
“You scoffed—”
“I did not scoff—”
“You did,” you insisted, taking a step back from him as the waves lapped at your heels. “You looked at me as if my fear annoyed you.”
His jaw tightened, tail flicking once in irritation. A rebuttal rose in his throat—sharp, defensive, but it died the moment he saw your eyes glisten again. The shift was immediate. His whole face softened in alarm, ears lowering, gaze darting over you like he was checking for wounds.
Aonung stood with a suddenness that startled you, sand scattering around his feet. His hand shot forward, catching your wrist before you could whirl away again.
“Come here,” he said steadily. He tugged gently, guiding you down beside him on the flat stone he had been meditating on. The warmth of his palm lingered against your skin as he released you, his breath a low hum meant to settle, not scold.
Your knees bent beneath you, settling into the sand. The world felt quieter at his side, though your pulse still rattled against your ribs. Aonung angled his body toward you, not close enough to crowd you, but close enough that you felt the weight of his attention, the heat of it settling against your skin like sunlight after a storm.
“Sit,” he murmured again, softer now. “Let your breath steady. I am here.”
You obeyed before you had the chance to wonder why. Your legs folded beneath you with a faint rustle of sand, and when you settled beside him, the world felt a little less tilted, the horizon a little less sharp. The ocean breathed in slow, rhythmic pulses behind you and for a moment, you let the tide pull your breath into its pace.
Your gaze lifted toward him. Aonung was watching you from the corner of his eye, his posture deliberately relaxed, though the tension at the base of his neck betrayed him. You swallowed, heat collecting in your cheeks, and forced your voice into something resembling calm.
“Forgive me… I should not have spoken to you that way.”
Aonung shrugged, but this one wasn’t mocking. His shoulders rose with a slow breath, dropped with gentleness, as if he were brushing the whole moment aside, not because he didn’t care, but because he didn’t want you to feel embarrassed.
“No harm,” he said quietly. “Your heart was loud.” His lips twitched, not quite a smile, but something close enough to warm your chest. “You are allowed to shout when your spirit twists itself in knots.”
You blinked at him. Your ears tilted forward, waiting. The silence stretched only a few seconds, but it was enough for Aonung to see the expectation in your eyes—the plea for guidance you hadn’t spoken aloud. His throat bobbed once. He inhaled as if preparing for a long dive, and he turned fully toward you, knees shifting in the sand so his body aligned with yours.
“Ma lenomum 'aw (curious one),” he exhaled, staring briefly at the ground before forcing his gaze back to your face. “You wish to know how courtship… feels.”
“It would help,” you admitted, your voice small but steady. Your fingers twisted the edge of your wrap, coaxing courage from the fabric.
He hesitated. His jaw flexed once, a small sign of resistance, but it melted when he saw the earnest attention in your eyes. Aonung was many things; proud, boastful, impossible at times—but he had never been able to ignore you when you truly needed him.
He shifted again, folding one leg beneath him and resting an arm casually over his knee, making himself comfortable despite the discomfort pressing beneath his ribs.
“Courtship,” he began, sounding as reluctant as if you’d asked him to swim through a net of stinging jellyfish, “is never one thing. It is not just gifts or walks or showing off like fool warriors do. It is… learning the breath of another.” He tapped his chest lightly. “Here. The rhythm.”
Your eyes widened, caught by the tenderness threading through his tone.
Aonung cleared his throat, almost sounding irritated with himself for letting vulnerability slip. “When someone courts you, they watch you. Not in a sneaky way,” he added quickly. “In a way that says, ‘I know your steps. I know the shape of your smile. I know which shells you choose, which currents you like to swim.’”
His gaze flicked toward the water, expression softening with memory. The light caught his profile, highlighting the faint flush beneath his cheekbones.
“You will feel… noticed,” he continued. “Seen. Like the world stops shifting under your feet when they stand near you.”
You leaned in, completely enraptured. “Has it always felt that way for you?”
He huffed, rolling his eyes skyward for a moment. “Do not make this about me.”
“I was only asking,” you murmured, though your tail flicked in quiet amusement.
His own swayed once behind him—a betraying gesture he likely didn’t intend. The corner of his mouth twitched again, and he looked away briefly before returning to the lesson you’d demanded.
“Courting walks,” he said, steadying his voice, “are meant to show trust. You follow the steps of another. If your heart feels ready, you let them lead the path.” His fingers brushed the sand, drawing idle shapes. “A sunset walk means the suitor wishes to see you in quiet light, without noise from the clan. He wants you to feel ease with him.”
Your breath caught faintly. “Reytan chose the sunset.”
“He would,” Aonung muttered, not quite hiding the grunt in his tone. “He likes… gestures.” His nose wrinkled in mild disdain. “Warrior show-offs.”
A laugh bubbled out of you, light and soft, easing the tightness in your chest. “He is not showing off.”
“He is always showing off,” Aonung countered flatly. “Especially around you.”
Your cheeks warmed. The realization left your mind fluttering, as if a ripple ran beneath your skin. “He does try to impress me,” you admitted. “I can feel it.”
“That is not a bad thing,” Aonung replied, though his expression turned oddly tight. “A suitor should want you to feel treasured.”
You looked down at your hands, tracing an invisible line along your palm. “I want tonight to go well. I want to know what to do. How to walk beside him without tripping over my own feet. How to speak without my voice shaking. How to breathe without feeling as if my ribs have turned to stone.”
Aonung’s eyes slid over your features—your parted lips, your tense shoulders, the faint quiver in your breath. His voice softened further than before, almost hesitant.
“You will walk with him the way you walk with the tide,” he murmured. “Let the current guide you at first. You do not need to impress him. That is his task.” His tail tapped the stone once, firm. “Yours is simply to be open.”
You frowned slightly. “How does one… be open?”
He blinked as if the question surprised him, though he recovered quickly. “Lift your eyes. Do not hide your thoughts. If you feel joy, let it show. If he says a foolish thing, laugh. If he offers his arm, take it… but only if you wish to. Courtship is not a trap.”
Your breath steadied. The shivering in your shoulders faded. The space around the two of you warmed, despite the cooling air. Aonung watched your chest rise and fall, relief settling into him when he saw the panic finally loosen its grip.
“You make it sound easy,” you whispered.
“It is not meant to be easy, it is supposed to be honest.” he replied quietly.
Your pulse fluttered at the honesty of his words. He saw it—your surprise, the hope flickering through your eyes—and for a moment, Aonung looked as though he wished he could take half of it back. His tongue pressed against his teeth, searching for balance.
“You will do well,” he said at last, voice low, steady, and unmistakably sincere. “Reytan will be fortunate to walk beside you.”
Your breath caught again, though this time not from fear.
“Thank you, ma Aonung,” you whispered, leaning closer without fully realizing you were doing it.
His ears lifted in response.
“I… mm.” He cleared his throat fiercely. “Yes. Of course.”
Your smile bloomed without hesitation, warm enough to make your cheeks ache. You reached out and gave his knee a gentle squeeze, your fingers pressing into the firm muscle beneath his skin. Aonung rolled his eyes in the most dramatic, long-suffering arc imaginable, though the corners of his mouth tugged upward despite his best efforts. His tail gave a tiny flick—betrayal he didn’t notice, but you did.
Your giggle bubbled up before you could stop it, soft and airy, spilling into the quiet shallows around you. The sky above still held its pale gold light; you had time before sunset bled into full color.
Curiosity lit your eyes. You tilted your head, studying him. “What was your first courtship like?”
He groaned—loud, theatrical, a suffering animal noise so deep it could have come from the bottom of the ocean. His head tipped backward as if Eywa Herself had dropped a boulder onto his skull.
“Why?” he demanded, dragging a hand over his face. “Why must you do this to me?”
You squeaked when he reached out and pushed your face away with the flat of his palm. It wasn’t rough, only a practiced shove, the way he always did when your questions poked at the edges of his pride. You grabbed his wrist immediately, swatting him as you laughed.
“Stop that! I am being serious!”
“That is the problem,” he muttered, though the faint grin tugging at his lips betrayed him instantly. “You are always serious at the worst possible moments.”
“It is not fair,” you insisted, leaning in and poking his bicep with far more force than necessary. “You hide your whole love life from me.”
His ears snapped upright. “Love life? Who said there was a love life?”
“Oh, please,” you teased, scooting closer until your shoulder brushed his. “You have had so many suitors I cannot keep track. You cannot pretend none of that ever happened.”
“I can,” he said, “and I will.”
You clasped your hands dramatically beneath your chin. “Ma Aonung, I beg you. Tell me. Just one story. Only one. I want to learn. You said I must understand how courtship feels, so teach me.”
He stared at you with an expression that could only be described as exhausted disbelief. The look said: Great Mother, take me now.
“You are relentless,” he murmured.
“Yes,” you replied proudly. “Now speak.”
His head fell forward in defeat. A low growl rumbled in his chest, more embarrassed than angry, and he raked his fingers through his curls with a sharp exhale. For a long moment, he sat there absolutely still, as if he could delay the story through sheer force of will.
Finally, he spoke.
“Fine. If you must hear it… then listen.”
Your back straightened, eyes wide, tail swishing behind you like an excited pup’s.
Aonung shot you a glare for the tail movement alone, but he continued.
“She was a fisher,” he began, voice lower than before, steadier. “Older than me by two seasons. Strong arms, quick hands. She carved her own hooks from bone and taught younger hunters how to tie the deep-water knots. The whole village praised her.”
Your brows rose. “She sounds impressive.”
“She was,” he admitted through gritted teeth. “That was the problem.”
You had to bite your lip to hide your grin. Aonung pretended not to notice and kept talking.
“She asked for a courting walk. I did not expect it. I thought she was interested in someone else. But one day, she gave me a woven charm for luck and invited me to walk by the tide pools.”
His gaze drifted to the horizon, eyes softened by memory. A rare look on him.
“I agreed. Of course I agreed. She was skilled, respected… beautiful.”
Your breath caught, but you didn’t interrupt. Your knees tucked closer beneath you as you listened.
“We walked near the reef. She spoke about the migration of the tsurak (skimwing) and how the currents were changing. I barely heard any of it.” His ears angled back slightly. “I kept thinking she was too far above me. That I could not match her skill. That she would see through me and decide she chose wrong.”
The confession surprised you so much your mouth fell open. Aonung? Insecure?
He noticed your expression instantly.
“Stop looking at me like that,” he snapped. “I was young.”
“You were sixteen,” you reminded him, “not a baby.”
“Sixteen is practically a hatchling.”
You snorted. “If you say so.”
He rubbed his temples, muttering a curse under his breath before continuing.
“When the walk ended, she stood before me—very close. Closer than you are now.” His throat tightened, the tips of his ears flushing faintly. “She touched my jaw. Pulled me down. Kissed me by the tide pool.”
The world seemed to still around the two of you. Your breath left your chest in a quiet, stunned exhale.
“She kissed you?” you echoed.
“Yes,” he deadpanned. “Do not sound so shocked.”
“I am not shocked,” you said—way too quickly to be believable.
His brow arched. “Liar.”
“No!” you protested, swatting his arm.
He caught your wrist before you could pull away, holding your hand with a steady, gentle pressure. The touch burned warm against your skin, and your voice faded without warning.
Aonung watched you for a moment, something unreadable stirring beneath his gaze. He released your wrist slowly, as though it weighed more than he expected.
“That was my first,” he said quietly. “A good memory… but not the one Eywa meant for me.”
Your chest tightened—not with jealousy, not quite, but with a strange ache you couldn’t place your finger on.
“What happened after?” you murmured.
“She realized her path led elsewhere.” Aonung shrugged again, though this one carried a flicker of sadness. “We remained friendly. It was not a poor ending. Some hearts meet only to drift apart.”
You let the words sink into the air between you.
Aonung’s voice lowered, almost thoughtful. “A first courtship does not decide your future. It merely shows you how your spirit responds when another reaches for you.”
Your heart thudded against your ribs—slower this time, steadier, guided by his calm.
“That is why,” he added, eyes catching yours, “you must let yourself feel tonight.”
You nodded so fast your braids brushed your shoulders. His words poured into you like warm tidewater, steadying everything that had been shaking loose inside your chest. You soaked in every syllable—how his voice dipped when he spoke of trust, how his gaze held yours without wavering, how he offered guidance even when you knew it embarrassed him. The more he talked, the more your nerves smoothed, the more your breath eased.
“You are… surprisingly insightful,” you said, a little breathless, a smile tugging at your lips.
Aonung made a face like you had insulted three generations of his ancestors. His hand darted out and pinched your side sharply, enough to make you yelp. “Do not speak foolishness,” he grumbled.
You giggled, batting his hand away. “Truly! You speak like a tsahìk in training. Maybe the next life, you will be tsahìk instead of olo’eyktan.”
His entire expression twisted into dramatic offense. “Ma Eywa, take this skxawng away from me,” he muttered, shoving your shoulder just enough to make you wobble. “Leave me. Go prepare your face or your hair or whatever you must do. I helped you, so now I am free from your torment.”
You shoved him back lightly. “You are so dramatic.”
“You are so irritating,” he countered, though his grin betrayed him. “Go. Or I will drag you to Reytan myself and throw you at him.”
Your laughter came bright and genuine. Yet beneath the humor, gratitude bloomed full and warm in your chest. You leaned forward, letting your voice soften. “Irayo (thank you), ma Aonung. Truly. You helped more than you know.”
He rolled his eyes hard enough to shake the tide. “Yes, yes. Go before you start crying again.”
“You aren’t funny,” you said, rising to your feet.
“Whatever,” he replied, shooing you away with a flick of his wrist.
You turned toward the path leading back to the village, ready to walk away, ready to breathe through the nervousness and follow Aonung’s advice.
Three steps formed beneath your feet before a thought slammed into you hard enough to stop you mid-stride.
Your entire body went still.
Your breath stopped.
She kissed him.
Your ears lifted in alarm. You spun around so fast your braids whipped your cheek.
He had just begun to settle back into his meditation posture when he froze. His eyes narrowed the moment he saw your expression. “What now?”
“She kissed you?” you blurted—loud, too loud, voice cracking under the weight of the revelation. “At the end of the walk?”
Aonung blinked. “Yes? I said that.”
You stared at him, horror dawning across your features. “So… Reytan… he might… he might—” Your voice shrank to a strangled whisper. “He might kiss me?”
Aonung’s brows shot up.
Then down.
Then up again, as if he genuinely could not find a stable reaction to your panic.
“Possibly,” he said slowly. “If he is bold. Or if your heart invites it.”
“My heart?” Your voice squeaked. “My heart is barely staying inside my body!”
You clutched your head with both hands, pacing in a tiny frantic circle in the sand. “No. No, no, no. I cannot kiss him. I do not know how to kiss. I have never kissed anyone. My mouth will do— Eywa, I do not even know what my mouth will do! What if I miss? What if I hit his nose? What if I knock our teeth together? What if—”
“You are—are you serious?” Aonung stood so quickly sand kicked up around him. His tail stiffened behind him in what looked very much like alarm.
“I do not know how to kiss!” you wailed.
“You do not need lessons!” he countered, stepping closer, hands half-raised like he feared you might fall apart entirely. “It is instinct.”
“My instincts are terrible!”
“That is true,” he muttered under his breath, then yelped when you smacked his arm.
You paced harder, clutching the sides of your face, your pupils blown wide in pure terror. “What if he leans in and I forget how to move? What if I make a strange sound? What if—what if he thinks I am awful at it and changes his mind about courting me?”
Aonung stared at you as though you had sprouted a second head.
“Do not look at me like that!” you cried.
He pressed his hand to his forehead, dragging his fingers down in agony. “Great Mother… you are going to faint.”
“I might!”
“You will not faint.”
“I will faint!”
Aonung grabbed your shoulders before you could spin yourself into the ocean. His grip was steady, firm, anchoring you like a pole driven deep into the sand. His breath came low and sharp. “Enough. Stop. Stop pacing, stop shouting. Look at me.”
You froze.
Your chest heaved.
Your eyes lifted to his.
Aonung swallowed and softened his tone to something that wrapped around your panic like calming hands on your spine.
“Kissing,” he said carefully, “is not a performance. No one wins a hunt because they kiss perfectly. No one chooses a mate because of the angle of their mouth.” He stepped closer, easing your shoulders down from your ears. “It is simply an exchange of breath. Two spirits meeting for a moment.”
You stared up at him, wide-eyed, trembling.
He continued, voice barely above the sound of the tide.
“If Reytan kisses you… it will not be a test you must pass. It will be curiosity. A quiet joining. That is all.”
You stared at him, chest tight, breath trembling, and shook your head so fast your braids tapped your collarbones. “Ma Aonung, no. No. Those words do nothing. They are too pretty. Too calm. My brain does not feel calm. My brain feels like a nantang (viperwolf) swallowed it and chewed.”
Aonung blinked. “That is… dramatic.”
“You have kissed many people,” you accused, jabbing a finger at his chest. “So you do not get to talk like you are some untouched flower of the reef. You have practice.”
His mouth fell open. “Practice?”
“Yes!” you nearly shouted. “Do not pretend you do not know what I am talking about! You have kissed Neteyam—”
“That was a dare!” Aonung exploded, ears shooting upright in horror.
“Still counts,” you said, crossing your arms. “And there were all those girls—Säri, Lonu, Reiaru—”
Aonung spluttered. “Those were greetings—”
“You had your tongue in Reiaru’s mouth!”
“That is—no—what—”
“You did!” your voice climbed to a pitch that wasn’t sustainable for living creatures. “I walked in on you two by the storage racks! I was looking for shell twine and nearly fell over a basket because the two of you were—”
“Great Mother!” he barked, dragging both hands over his face in mortified agony. “Why must you remind me—what does that have to do with anything? Why are we speaking of that right now?!”
“Because I need real advice,” you said, louder than you meant to, because your chest was tightening again, and the sky was getting darker, and your pulse felt like it was trying to punch its way out of your ribcage. “Not poetic breathing. Not ‘joinings of spirit.’ I need to know what to do. You have experience. I do not. Teach me.”
His expression went blank in that way it did whenever he refused to engage with utter madness. “I am not giving you advice on how to kiss another man.”
“Why not?!”
He lifted both hands helplessly. “Because—why would I—no! That is not—no!”
You grabbed his shoulders and shook him, not hard, but frantic, your voice breaking. “You are my best friend! My day one! The one who helped me climb roots and taught me how to hold my breath underwater and carried me home when I sprained my ankle—why will you not help me now?”
Aonung stared at you, lips parted, breath caught somewhere in his chest. His hands rose as if to steady you, but he stopped halfway, fists curling uselessly in the air.
His voice cracked when he spoke.
“Do you want me to kiss you?”
The question struck like a spear thrown too close. The world seemed to pause; air thinning, tide whispering, your heartbeat lurching in a single, wild leap. Aonung looked just as startled as you, as though his mouth had betrayed him, releasing a truth dug too deep to remain buried.
His pupils were blown wide, fixed on yours. His breathing had gone shallow. His tail, usually expressive, hung still behind him.
He did not take the words back.
He didn’t blink.
You didn’t blink either.
The world narrowed to the space between his eyes and yours, a tight, breathless thread you couldn’t seem to cut. Your pulse hammered in your ears, louder than the tide, louder than your own thoughts.
“Aonung…” you whispered, throat tight. “Do not joke like that.”
His expression sharpened. He lifted his hand and flicked your forehead with clear irritation. “I am not joking, skxawng.”
You jolted back, rubbing the spot. “Ow! You cannot just—wait—what do you mean you’re not joking?”
His jaw ticked. “I mean,” he said slowly, like he was guiding a child through a shallow reef, “I will kiss you.”
Your entire body seized.
“Kiss—kiss me?” The words tangled together on your tongue. “You? No. No, absolutely not. You are— you are icky, Aonung. Your lips? No. No thank you.”
He stared at you like you had personally offended the spirits.
“Icky?” he repeated, voice dangerously soft.
“Yes!” you squeaked, pointing an accusing finger at his mouth. “Those lips have been everywhere!”
His ears folded back sharply. “Everywhere?” he echoed, tone rising. “What do you imagine I do in my free time?”
“You! Kiss! Everyone!” you accused, each word punctuated with another frantic gesture. “Your mouth is like—like—public water!”
Aonung recoiled. “Public—? You little—”
He cut himself off, inhaled sharply through his nose, and narrowed his eyes until they were thin slits of blue fire.
“My lips,” he said, each syllable chosen like a weapon, “are not icky. They are not public water. They are—”
“I do not want to hear this,” you yelped, slapping your hands over your ears.
Aonung grabbed your wrists and pulled them down immediately. “You asked for advice. I am giving advice.”
“I asked for help, not for you to put your mouth on me!”
“You said you needed to learn!”
“I did not mean with you!”
“You said I was your day one!”
“That does not mean you get to lick me!”
“Who said anything about licking?!”
“You will!” you cried, jabbing his chest again. “You always do!”
“That is slander!” he barked back.
The two of you were practically nose-to-nose now, breathing hard, eyes blazing like two children fighting over a toy neither of you wanted to admit you loved. Your tails flicked wildly behind you—yours with panic, his with something far more explosive.
He leaned in just a fraction, lips pressed into a furious line. “Say I am icky again.”
You opened your mouth without hesitation. “You are—”
His hand shot up, covering your lips before the word escaped.
Your breath stopped.
So did his.
For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. Aonung’s palm was warm against your mouth, his thumb resting at the corner of your lips, his fingers splayed along your cheek. His eyes flicked down, just once, before snapping back up as if caught by his own betrayal.
Heat roared up your neck.
He swallowed, throat bobbing visibly.
“Do you want me to kiss you?” he blurted again, louder than before, voice cracking around the edges.
You stared at him, wide-eyed, mouth parted. He stared back with the raw, unguarded panic of someone who had stepped off a cliff before checking the depth of the drop.
His hands hovered near your waist, not touching, but close enough to feel the heat of them.
Your heartbeat tumbled wildly.
Your voice trembled.
“Yes,” you whispered. “I… please.”
Aonung blinked like he’d been struck. His breath caught, shoulders lifting a fraction before dropping again in a slow, cautious roll. His ears flicked downward in a jittery tremor you had only ever seen when he didn’t know what to do with his own feelings. He bit his lower lip—too quick to be intentional—and tore his gaze away from you as if the sand might offer answers. A muttered curse slipped from him, low and frustrated, and he shook his head sharply.
“This is crazy,” he said, though his voice lacked its usual bite. It sounded strained instead, stretched thin by disbelief. “Truly, you have lost your mind.”
Your heart didn’t bolt the way you feared it would.
Instead, you stared at him and quietly reminded yourself that this was Aonung. Your childhood best friend. The boy who once let you braid shells into his hair even though he pretended to hate it. The one who dragged you out of tidepools when you slipped, who pushed you back in when you annoyed him, who stuck to your side through every season of your life. This wasn’t strange. It wasn’t forbidden. It wasn’t romantic. He didn’t look at you like that. He didn’t feel like that. He was being a good best friend, offering guidance the same way he had taught you how to hold your breath underwater or balance on a moving ilu without falling into its wake.
Yet your cheeks burned, hotter than the sunset glow brushing your skin. You didn’t know why shyness crept into your limbs now, tightening your chest, making your voice softer than the tide’s whisper. You watched his jaw flex, his throat work, and your pulse fluttered in a rhythm that startled you.
“You are a good friend,” you said gently, searching his face for reassurance, for steadiness, for anything that would ground this unfamiliar heat swirling inside you.
He didn’t answer. He didn’t nod, didn’t shrug, didn’t offer a single sarcastic remark. His silence stretched between you, filling the air with a tension that made the tiny hairs on the back of your neck lift. Instead, he let his hands rise slowly to rest on your waist.
The contact hit you like warm current against chilled skin. His palms were broad and firm, fingers curving around the lines of your hips as though settling into familiar terrain. It wasn’t possessive, but it wasn’t casual either. His touch held intention, anchoring you as though he feared you might drift away before he spoke again.
Your breath quivered. You lifted your gaze, finding his darkening eyes fixed on yours. Their intensity made your knees soften, though you remained seated; his hold saw to that.
“This won’t be weird,” you murmured, your voice barely above the low hush of the tide. “It is just… lessons. Like when you taught me how to breathe underwater.”
Aonung’s expression flickered—one brief, fragile moment where every guarded part of him seemed to crack open beneath the weight of your trust. His brows drew together, not displeased, but conflicted, as though he walked a tightrope and wasn’t sure which way he would fall if he lifted his foot.
His hands tightened slightly at your waist, making your pulse throb where his fingers pressed into your skin. His breath brushed your cheek, warm and uneven, revealing just how not-calm he actually felt.
“It is not the same,” he murmured finally, voice low, voice rough, voice barely holding itself together. “This is not breathing lessons.”
You swallowed hard and leaned in despite his warning, despite the tremor in your stomach, despite the strange, rising warmth that made your chest feel too small. You needed guidance. You needed understanding. You needed him.
“Show me anyway,” you whispered.
His ears flattened, his pupils widening as though a wave had just surged beneath his feet. Aonung searched your face once, twice, his breath tightening. “Are you sure?” he asked, voice low enough that the breeze nearly stole it.
You nodded.
His brows pinched together. “Are you truly sure?”
Your nod came quicker this time; eager, earnest, almost desperate to close the space between you.
Aonung swallowed, throat moving visibly. A deep breath expanded his chest as he steadied himself, as though bracing for a dive into cold water. He shifted closer, the warmth of his body moving into your space, his knees brushing yours, his hands still firm on your waist. When he spoke again, his voice had dropped further, carrying a heaviness you felt down your spine.
“A kiss starts before lips touch,” he murmured. “You look. You wait. You give the other a chance to lean away. It is respect. It is asking without words.”
His face hovered close enough that you felt the warmth of each breath, the faint brush of air against your cheek. Your heart pounded. Your fingers curled against your thighs. The closeness did not frighten you—it pulled you in, held you captive, made you forget every thought except the sound of his voice and the sharp, focused intensity in his eyes.
“You meet halfway,” he continued, gaze flicking from your eyes to your lips and back again. “Slowly. The first touch should feel like a question.”
You were so focused, so utterly absorbed that he had to snap you out of your trance with a soft click of his tongue.
“Ma…,” he breathed, “I am going to kiss you now. Okay?”
Your hum was a whisper of sound, small and trembling, but completely certain.
Aonung drew in one final breath, steadying himself. His fingers tightened just slightly at your waist as he leaned in, closing the remaining gap.
His lips met yours with a care you had never imagined from him. The touch was warm, soft, deliberate—so gentle you almost didn’t feel it at first. His lips molded to yours in a slow, tentative brush, an unspoken is this alright? woven into the contact. He didn’t rush. He didn’t take. He moved with a patience that sent a shiver down your spine, his breath mixing with yours, the faint scent of saltwater clinging to his skin.
Your hands rose instinctively, fingertips grazing the firm line of his shoulder as he kissed you again—slightly deeper, still slow, still careful. The world narrowed to the shape of his mouth, the warmth of him, the steady anchor of his hands holding you in place. His lips moved with measured pressure, coaxing you to follow, guiding you without words.
The kiss stretched on, Aonung’s lips learning yours in quiet, thoughtful touches. He angled his head the slightest bit, deepening the connection with a tenderness that made your breath stutter. Heat fluttered low in your belly. Your pulse climbed into your throat. You leaned in without meaning to, wanting more of that warmth, that softness, that sense of safety wrapped in a single point of contact.
Halfway through the kiss, something bold flickered inside you. You wanted to match his pace, wanted to prove you could respond the way a real partner would, wanted to give back what he was giving. You lifted your chin to deepen the kiss—too fast, too eager—and your forehead collided hard with his.
A solid thunk echoed between you.
Aonung jerked back instantly, eyes wide, hand flying up to his head. You gasped, clutching your own brow where the impact still vibrated. The kiss shattered. The air rushed between you in a startled silence.
For a heartbeat, Aonung just stared at you—stunned, breathless, motionless.
Then his expression cracked.
A sound burst out of him, sharp and bright, and then he doubled forward with laughter. Not a small chuckle. Not a polite laugh. A full, uncontrollable, shoulders-shaking, head-thrown-back roar of amusement that echoed across the shallows.
“Oh Great Mother,” he gasped between wheezes. “You nearly headbutted me!”
Your face ignited with heat. “I did not—it was an accident—stop laughing!”
But he couldn’t. He laughed harder, clutching his stomach as if the joy physically hurt him, tears pricking the corners of his eyes.
You folded your arms, your cheeks blazing, lips still tingling from the kiss. “Aonung!”
He tried, genuinely tried, to stop, but every time he looked at your scandalized expression, another wave of laughter overtook him. He tipped sideways, nearly falling off the rock, still breathless from mirth.
“You—you were doing so well—and then—your face—”
You groaned into your hands, though a tiny, reluctant smile tugged at your lips because despite everything—your embarrassment, his teasing—you had kissed Aonung. Or he had kissed you. Or both. And it had been slow and warm and careful and nothing like the disaster you thought a first kiss would be.
He straightened finally, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, the last echoes of laughter still shaking through his chest. His grin hadn’t dimmed at all—wide, bright, infuriatingly pleased with himself. You tried to glare at him, but your lips kept twitching, and he noticed immediately because his grin softened around the edges, turning almost… fond.
He reached for you again without hesitation, his palms sliding back to your waist with that same steady warmth, thumbs brushing slow arcs against your skin as if grounding you. “Ma…,” he murmured, voice still thick with mirth, “it is alright. Truly. The second time will be better.”
You blinked, head tilting. “Second time?”
Aonung’s brows lifted like are you truly this slow? “Srane (yes). Unless you plan to kiss Reytan the way you just headbutted me.”
Heat flooded your face so violently you squealed, shoving at his chest with both hands. He rocked backward with an exaggerated oomph, laughing through it, clearly delighted that he’d gotten a rise out of you.
“You are—”
He leaned in before you finished the sentence, voice dropping low enough to skim along your skin. “Come here,” he said, not forceful, but certain. “Let me show you properly.”
Your breath hitched. You didn’t argue. You simply went still as his hands tightened subtly at your waist, guiding you closer. His chest brushed yours, the warmth of him radiating through your wrap, and he dipped his head with slow intention, giving you time, always giving you time, to pull back.
You didn’t.
You wanted the kiss. You wanted the lesson. You wanted him.
Aonung’s lips met yours again, but this time they didn’t feel tentative or instructional. They felt assured; warm, steady, coaxing rather than asking. His mouth pressed to yours with quiet confidence, shaping itself to your lips as though learning your rhythm from the inside out. His kiss was unhurried, a soft glide, a slow pull, a lingering brush that made your spine arc slightly toward him.
His fingers dug into your waist with a deeper grip, drawing you closer until your knees brushed his thigh. His breath mingled with yours, warm and faintly salted from the sea air, and his lips stayed gentle yet firm, guiding you through the motion, waiting for you to follow.
You did—hesitant at first, then with growing certainty. The soft smack of your lips parting and meeting filled the quiet space around you. Aonung hummed low in his throat, pleased, and you felt the vibration through his chest before you heard it. He kissed you again, slower this time, savoring the press of your mouth, the give of your lips beneath his. His smile formed against your kiss—small at first, then fuller as you leaned in more boldly.
You could feel it curve, feel the warmth of it, feel how much he enjoyed teaching you like this.
But you were far too focused on doing well—on making your kiss match his steadiness, to analyze the meaning behind that smile. You wanted to be good at this.
You attempted to deepen the kiss again, this time carefully angling your head so you wouldn’t collide with him. But nerves surged at the last moment, and boldness struck too fast. Your lips parted, your breath quickened—
—and you shoved your tongue into his mouth.
Aonung let out a startled sound somewhere between a gasp and a choked hiss. His hand spasmed at your waist. His whole body jolted, and he tore his mouth from yours with a wet break of sound, staring at you like you had just turned into a palulukan before his eyes.
His shock lasted half a heartbeat.
Then laughter—loud, uncontrollable, so sudden he bent at the waist—broke out of him like a wave hitting rock.
“There is no way—” he wheezed, pointing at you like he couldn’t believe you were real, “no way you told me I lick everyone, when you—you just—Eywa help me—”
He laughed harder, nearly falling backwards, hands braced in the sand as he gasped for air.
You covered your face with both hands, mortified. “I panicked!”
“You attacked me!” he howled, slapping his thigh as fresh laughter tore out of him. “Your tongue—your tongue went to war!”
“That is not—Aonung, STOP LAUGHING—”
But he couldn’t. He was laughing so hard tears gathered at the corners of his eyes, his head tipping back toward the fading sky, his chest rising and falling in wild, messy heaves.
“You—” he managed between breaths, “are—without doubt—the worst—and best—student I have ever had.”
You glared at him through your fingers, cheeks blazing, heart ricocheting inside your chest like a startled fish. “Shut up, skxawng,” you snapped, lowering your hands just enough to send him a murderous squint. “I swear, I will spear you right here.”
Aonung hiccuped mid-laugh, the sound cracking in his throat as he tried to recover. His shoulders rose once, sharply, and he inhaled like he was attempting to reel himself back into his body. His eyes lifted to yours, still shining from laughter, but something shifted underneath. The brightness didn’t fade, yet it deepened, turning warm and searching.
The sound around you softened. The waves quieted. Even your pulse seemed to hush.
Aonung exhaled once, long and slow, and moved toward you. His hands rose with a steadiness that made your breath catch. When his palms cupped your face, his thumbs brushing your cheekbones, every trace of teasing melted into sincereness.
“Third time is the charm,” he murmured. His grin lingered, sharp and self-satisfied, but affection glowed beneath it like heat beneath embers.
You stuck your tongue out at him, refusing to let the moment swallow you. “Still icky,” you whispered, even though your voice wavered.
Aonung’s hum curled around you like warm water. “’Icky,’” he repeated, leaning closer, his breath grazing your lips. “Sure. Keep saying that, and I will have to prove you wrong again and again.” His teasing slid lower as he murmured near your mouth, “Maybe I should have kissed you seasons ago.”
Your inhale stuttered. He noticed.
He always noticed.
His thumbs stroked your cheeks, guiding your chin up gently, and his forehead touched yours for a heartbeat—a grounding press. Then he closed the distance and kissed you.
This kiss wasn’t like the first two. It wasn’t hesitant. It wasn’t interrupted by panic or laughter. Aonung’s lips met yours with warm pressure that sent a tremor down your spine, a kiss that held intent rather than caution. His mouth shaped itself to yours in a slow, unhurried rhythm, savoring you. His lips brushed, pressed, lingered. Each movement felt like a tide rolling in, soft at first, gaining warmth and pull with every pass.
You melted before you meant to. Your body leaned into him, shoulders softening, chest brushing his. His grip shifted from your cheeks to cradle your jaw, tilting your face with a tenderness so unexpected that your eyes fluttered shut. His fingers traced the line of your cheek, sliding back to stroke the curve beneath your ear. The gesture pulled a soft sigh from you; quiet, almost embarrassed, but undeniably real.
Your hands rose slowly, as though drawn by instinct rather than thought. Your palms found his shoulders and you slid them upward, fingers grazing the strong line of his neck before looping around it. Aonung exhaled sharply into your mouth the moment your arms tightened around him. His hands shifted again, one cupping the back of your head, the other steadying your waist, pulling you closer until your knees brushed his thigh and the space between you dissolved entirely.
The kiss deepened as he angled his head, guiding your lips apart with a careful, warm pressure. A low sound vibrated in his chest—approval, want, affection tangled into one. He kissed you as though tasting something new and precious, something he wanted to learn by heart. His lips brushed yours again—slower, fuller—before retreating just a breath and returning with more intention, more weight.
You followed him, instinct catching up at last. Your mouth pressed back with growing confidence, soft noises slipping into the kiss. Little hums, breaths, quiet whimpers you couldn’t hold in. Aonung swallowed them eagerly, smiling against your lips when one particularly sweet sound escaped you. The curve of that smile pressed into the kiss, and your heart lurched in your chest because Eywa, he was a good kisser. Better than any panic-fueled imagination, better than any story you’d been told, better than you had any right to expect.
His tongue brushed lightly against your lower lip, just a ghosting, but the warmth of it drew another soft noise from your throat. He deepened the kiss again, slow and sure, not rushing, not taking too much, guiding you into the rhythm until your body responded without fear.
Your fingers twisted in the braids at the back of his neck, holding him closer, and he let out a low groan before pulling you flush against him. His heartbeat thundered where your hand rested along his shoulder. His breath grew warmer against your cheek. His lips softened, then pressed harder, then softened again, kissing you with a growing hunger he kept carefully controlled, as though afraid of overwhelming you.
It felt endless. It felt grounding. It felt like a part of your life you had been missing without knowing.
When the kiss finally broke, it was a slow, gentle pull away, his lips brushing yours once more as though reluctant to leave.
His forehead rested against yours, breath uneven, eyes half-lidded, as though he were trying to memorize the feeling of being this close to you. His chest rose sharply against yours, fell just as sharply, a rhythm he couldn’t steady no matter how he tried. For a moment, he looked like he wanted to stay there forever.
You blinked up at him, dazed, warm, breathless… and then you pulled your arms from around his neck with a delighted gasp.
“Oh!” you squealed, bouncing slightly where you sat. “I did it! I kissed you properly!”
Aonung froze. Completely. His hands slipped from your waist as though he’d forgotten how to hold anything at all.
You pressed your fingers to your lips, eyes shining. “That was good, right? That felt good! I think—Eywa—I think I actually did it!”
His mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out.
“I kissed properly,” you repeated, laughing breathlessly. “Reytan will not know what hit him!”
The words sliced through him like a spear thrown too close. His face did not crumple—Aonung did not crumble—but emotion deep in his eyes shifted, dimming the bright ember that had burned there moments ago. His ears dipped downward just a fraction, his jaw tightening as though he’d clenched a thought between his teeth to keep it from escaping.
He didn’t say a word.
He watched you instead.
You were too giddy to notice. You smoothed your wrap, brushing off sand with frantic little pats. You adjusted your shell ornaments, tugged your braid forward, checked the fall of your tewng (loincloth). The kiss had left your cheeks flushed and glowing, and instead of marveling at the warmth of it, you fussed at your outfit like a girl preparing for her first ceremony.
“Oh Great Mother—look at the sky!” you gasped, scrambling to your feet. The colors of sunset had deepened into that rich molten orange, the kind that only lasted a few minutes before the world slipped into violet. “I am late. I am so late.”
Aonung’s gaze followed you upward, but his expression didn’t change. That quiet sadness stayed seated in his eyes, heavy as low tide against stone.
You didn’t see it.
You were too busy fluttering around, brushing sand from your legs, checking your hair with trembling fingers. “I have to go,” you babbled, heart racing again, but for an entirely different reason than before. “Reytan is expecting me. I—I should run.”
Aonung’s throat worked. “Srane,” he murmured, voice too soft for his usual self. “Go.”
You didn’t hear the break in the word.
You didn’t see the way his shoulders pulled inward, subtly, as though bracing against a wave he couldn’t fight.
You were halfway down the sand before you turned back, beaming. “I will tell you all about it afterward!”
He stiffened.
Your smile stayed bright, unbothered, full of excitement for a future you didn’t realize excluded him. You lifted your hand in a quick little wave before spinning and sprinting toward the village path.
Aonung remained seated on the rock long after you disappeared from sight, his hands still resting palm-up on his knees, fingertips trembling with the memory of your lips. The salt breeze lifted his braids. The tide hissed quietly against the stone.
after the kissing lesson, u were supposed to come back and tell aonung how well it went, and he doesn't care, then u ask him for a lesson in bj's and he's like ???????
Pairing: Valarr Targaryen x Undercover!Soldier!Reader
Genre: disguise, SLOW burn, eventual smut, very slow
Description: You took your father's place in the army, bound your chest, cut your hair, and became Davos Stokeworth. You survived the latrines, the drills, and Ser Mace's cock. You even survived catching Prince Valarr's attention with your archery, but, when an arrow meant for Blackfyre's scouts hits you instead, your secret gets cut away with your tunic—and the Crown Prince discovers his best new archer is a woman who committed treason to save her father's life.
Notes: this chapter is very much a set-up, mulan-meets-kotsk, identity porn, forbidden attraction, he knows you're a girl now and he's fucked, you're fucked, everyone's fucked lmao, war is hell but the sexual tension is much worse i fear, the gender fuckery of it all, im warning you now victorian-level hand touching except it's after he finds out you have tits, cross-posted on ao3, updates will be on here as well tho , i wrote this bit on the plane (no shame)
Word Count: 9.5k (short im sorry), AO3 LINK
You were going to die.
Not in battle. Not with honor. No, you were going to die because you couldn’t figure out how to piss standing up without someone noticing you were doing it incorrectly.
The latrines were a communal sack of shit—just a ditch with a plank over it, no privacy with men lined up shoulder to shoulder like cattle in a field. You'd been holding your piss in for hours, long past the point of pain, but eventually instinct would win. You'd have to figure this out or your bladder would burst.
Think. There has to be a way, you dumb idiot.
“You sick, boy?”
You jumped. One of your tent mates—Ser Mace, a loud gloat with a broken nose and crooked teeth—was watching you with sparked amusement.
“No,” you retorted.
"Then why are you hovering round’ the toilet like you've never seen one before?" He grinned. "Unless you're shy? That it? Shy little Davos doesn't want the other boys to see his tiny cock?"
Heat flooded across your cheeks. Damn him.
“Fuck off, Mace.” Petyr—another tentmate, the one with the thick northern burr—spoke from somewhere to your left.
"Ain't nothing wrong with embarrassing the young ones," Mace said, grinning wider. Then, before you could turn away, the fat bastard shoved his breeches down and revealed the thickest—no, the first cock you'd ever seen.
Oh, Seven Hells.
Your stomach lurched and before you knew it, you were heaving, bent double at eye-level with Ser Mace's obscenely large, hairy, pale cock, vomiting the last of tonight's supper onto the ground.
"Seven hells, the boy's never seen a cock before! What, did your mother raise you in a sept?"
You spat, trying to clear the taste from your mouth, and didn't answer.
"Come on." Petyr's hand gripped your shoulder, hauling you upright before Mace had the chance to say anything else. "Let's get you away from this shit before you embarrass yourself further."
You didn't protest, and allowed Petyr to steer you away from the latrines, away from Mace's wheezing laughter and the stink of piss and vomit. Your boots dragged in the mud, and the taste of bile still coated your tongue.
"Boy's got a weak stomach," Petyr called back over his shoulder, loud enough for the others to hear. "Probably ate something that didn't agree with him. You know how it is."
A few men muttered in agreement, some laughed. But Petyr kept walking, kept his grip firm on your shoulder, until you were well away from the crowd. He stopped near the horse lines, far enough from the tents that no one would overhear. Then he let go and turned to face you. The dim light cut shadows across his face—you couldn't tell if he looked concerned or just tired.
"You all right?"
"Fine," you managed, your throat burned as you spoke. "I'm fine."
"You don't look fine. You look like you're about to be sick again."
"I'm not,” You stopped and took a breath. "Thank you. For getting me out of there."
Petyr studied you for a long moment. He was older than you by at least a decade, with a weathered face and pale eyes that looked like they'd far more battle than most. Northern, definitely—you could hear it in his accent, the flat vowels and rolling r's.
"First time away from home?" he asked finally.
"Yes."
"Thought so." He crossed his arms. "Let me give you some advice, boy. Men like Mace, they can smell fear. Uncertainty. And they'll go after it like hounds on a blood trail. You want to survive this, you need to grow a thicker skin."
You swallowed hard and nodded.
"And for the love of the Seven," Petyr added, his tone softening slightly, "stay away from the latrines when Mace is around. Man's got no sense of decency."
Despite everything, you almost smiled. “Aye.”
"Good." Petyr clapped you once on the shoulder—lighter this time, almost friendly. "Now get yourself cleaned up. We've got drills at dawn, and if you show up looking like you've been dragged through the mud, Ser Alyn will have your head."
He started to walk away, then paused and glanced back.
"And Davos? Next time you need to piss, go at night. Find a tree that’s less crowded."
Then he was gone, leaving you standing alone in the dark.
For a moment, you just stood there, caught between shame and something close to gratitude. Petyr's kindness was strange and certainly unearned. You didn't deserve it—not when everything about you was a lie.
Your feet dragged through the mud as you made your way toward the treeline, away from the glow of cookfires and the noise of the camp. You found a sturdy oak set back from the others, glanced left, then right, and only when you were certain no one was watching did you shove your breeches down and squat.
Finally. The relief was immediate, almost painful.
You rested your forehead against the rough bark and let yourself breathe. Out here, alone in the dark with nothing but the sound of your own piss hitting the ground, the reality of what you'd done settled over you like a weight.
This was a mistake. A grave, monumental mistake.
You'd joined the army in your father's place, wearing his name, pretending to be a son who didn't exist. And for what? Your father had been a strong man once—a knight who'd fought at the Redgrass Field, who'd earned his scars defending the Crown. Now he was weak. Brittle. But at least he was honest.
You were neither strong nor honest. Just desperate and stupid enough to think you could pull this off. Oh Seven Hells, you prayed your parents would forgive you. For stealing your fathers armor, for lying, and above all, for saving him from what would be a certain death.
Dawn arrived too soon, dragging you from fitful sleep with all the gentleness of a boot to the ribs.
Actually, it was a boot to the ribs.
"Up, you lazy cunts!" Ser Alyn's voice cut through the pre-dawn gloom like a blade. "Prince Valarr arrives within the hour, and if any of you look like the sorry sacks of shit you are, I'll have you mucking out the latrines for a fortnight!"
You scrambled upright instantly, heart hammering against your ribs.
"Move!" Ser Alyn kicked at another prone form—Mace, who cursed and rolled over with a grunt. "Full kit, weapons sharp, armor polished. I want you lot looking like proper soldiers, not hedge knights that crawled out of a ditch."
The tent erupted into instantaneous madness. Men stumbling over each other in the dark, fumbling for boots and belts, cursing as someone stepped on someone else's hand. You pulled on your father's mail shirt—still too big in the shoulders, too long in the sleeves—and tried to ignore the way your hands shook.
A prince. Gods be good, a prince.
"Davos, you look green," Petyr muttered as he shouldered past you, already half-dressed. "Don't tell me you're going to puke again."
"I'm fine."
"You said that last night too."
You had no answer for Petyr. Your fingers fumbled with the buckles of your sword belt, and you had to start over twice before you got it right. Around you, the other men were doing the same—strapping on armor, checking blades, some of them grumbling about the early hour but most of them looked eager.
And why wouldn’t they be? This was a chance to impress a prince. The prince, to catch the eye of Valarr Targaryen himself, heir to the bloody throne was worth more than winning every fucking upcoming battle.
You, however, just wanted to survive the day without anyone noticing you were a girl.
The drill yard was a mud-churned mess by the time you assembled, boots squelching in the muck as Ser Alyn paced before the ragged line of soldiers. Fifty men, give or take. Some were knights, others common-born soldiers like you were pretending to be. All of them looked rough and tired, though a few had clearly made an effort—armor buffed to a dull shine, beards trimmed, tabards only mostly stained.
"Listen up!" Ser Alyn ordered. "Prince Valarr is inspecting the camp today. That means you stand straight, you keep your mouths shut unless spoken to, and you do not—I repeat, do not—embarrass me or yourselves. Understood?"
"Yes, ser!" The response was uneven, half-hearted.
Ser Alyn's face darkened. "I said, understood, you fucking lump of idiots?”
"YES, SER!"
Better. You shouted along with the rest of them, throat still raw from last night.
"Good. Now we're going to run drills. Formation work, nothing fancy. When the prince arrives, you'll be in the middle of a proper bloody exercise, not standing around with your thumbs up your arses. Got it?"
"Yes, ser!"
And so, the circus began.
Shield wall drills. Over and over, forming up in lines, shields overlapping, holding the formation as Ser Alyn walked the line and kicked at anyone whose stance was too wide or too narrow. Your shield was too heavy, the rim digging into your forearm, and your shoulder already ached from the weight of the mail. But you held on, you had to.
"Tighter!" Ser Alyn roared. "If a man can shove a dagger through that gap, Davos, you're a dead man! Closer!"
You adjusted, pressing your shield against Petyr's on your left. The man on your right—some grizzled old bastard whose name you didn't know—shoved back, and you nearly stumbled.
"Steady, boy," the old man muttered.
You gritted your teeth and held. The sun climbed higher. Sweat trickled down your spine, soaking into the padded gambeson beneath the mail. Your arms burned. Your legs trembled. But you didn't break, you refused, especially not with a prince coming.
And then—
"COMPANY, HALT!"
The entire line went still, shields snapping up, breaths ragged.
Hoofbeats. From the edge of the yard, riders appeared. Three of them. No—four. The first was a Kingsguard knight, white cloak billowing behind him, armor brilliant even in the morning haze. Behind him came a pair of squires, both young and finely dressed.
Then, Prince Valarr.
You'd expected what exactly? A golden god? A dragon in human flesh?
What you saw instead was a man. Handsome, yes—dark-haired with that telltale streak of silver running through it, bright as a banner. He sat his horse, his armor black enameled steel chased with red, the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen emblazoned on his breastplate. Younger than you'd imagined. No more than five and twenty, if even that.
He dismounted and handed his reins to one of the squires, and started toward the formation. You kept your eyes forward, focusing on the back of the man's head in front of you, on the mud, on anything except the prince walking closer. Around you, the other soldiers stood straighter, chests puffed out like roosters.
Valarr walked the line slowly, hands clasped behind his back. You could hear the soft clink of his armor, the squelch of his boots in the mud. He stopped here and there to exchange words with the men—asked their names, where they hailed from, how long they'd been in service. "You're all here because the realm needs you," Valarr said, raising his voice so the whole line could hear.
"Some of you are knights. Some are common-born. That doesn't matter. What matters is whether you can hold a line when steel is singing and men are dying around you. Whether you'll stand for your brothers, for the king, for the realm." He paused, letting the words settle. "Do that, and you'll have my respect. Fail..." He didn't finish the sentence. Didn't need to.
The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the restless stamp of a horse's hoof and the distant clang of a smithy.
"Carry on, Ser Alyn," Valarr said, turning back toward his mount.
"Yes, Your Grace!" Ser Alyn's voice cracked like a whip. "You heard the prince! Back to it! Shield wall, reform!"
The line broke apart and began reassembling, and you moved with it, grateful for something to do with your hands. Your heart was still hammering, your palms slick with sweat inside your gloves. You'd been so certain he would see through you. That those pale blue eyes would land on you and know, somehow, that you didn't belong here. That you were a lie, but he hadn't even looked your way.
"Not so bad, eh?" Petyr muttered as he slotted into place beside you, shield raised. "Thought you were going to piss yourself when he started talking."
"Fuck off," you said, but there was no heat in it.
Petyr snorted. "There's the spirit. Now shut up and hold your shield higher. Ser Alyn's watching."
Supper was a grim affair.
Stew again—watery and flavorless, with chunks of something that might have been turnip or might have been boot leather. You ate it anyway, scooping it up with stale bread and trying not to think about the meals you'd had at home. Around you, the men were louder than usual, their voices carrying over the crackle of the cookfire.
"Three days," Garrett was saying, grinning wide enough to show the gap where he'd lost a tooth. "Heard it from one of the quartermasters. Supply train's coming in three days, and there's a whole wagon of whores with it."
"About fucking time," Mace said, shoving a hunk of bread into his mouth. "Been here two weeks and I haven't had a woman since we left King's Landing. I'm about ready to fuck a knothole in a tree."
Laughter rippled through the group. Even Petyr cracked a smile, though he didn't join in the commentary.
"You think they'll be pretty?" the young one—Benedict—asked. He couldn't have been more than six and ten, all gangly limbs.
"Pretty?" Tym snorted. "Boy, they're camp followers. They're not pretty, they're available. That's all that matters."
More laughter. You kept your eyes on your bowl, chewing mechanically.
"What about you, Davos?" Mace leaned across the fire, his grin turning sharp. "You ever had a woman? Or are you still a blushing maiden?"
Your face heated. "I've had women."
"Right." Mace laughed. "You probably pissed yourself the first time you saw a pair of tits, same as you did with my cock."
"I didn't piss myself.”
"Close enough!" Mace clapped his hands together, delighted. "The boy's a virgin. I'm calling it now. When those whores get here, we're all chipping in to buy Davos his first fuck."
"Leave him alone," Petyr said mildly, not looking up from his stew.
"C’mon Petyr, I'm not being cruel," Mace spread his hands in mock innocence. "Every boy needs his first. Might as well make it memorable."
You wanted to tell him to fuck off. Wanted to throw your bowl at his smug face. Instead, you forced yourself to take another bite of bread and said nothing. The conversation moved on—speculation about which whores would be prettiest, arguments over pricing, Tym boasting about some woman he'd bedded in Flea Bottom who could allegedly do things with her mouth that defied the laws of gods and men. You let it wash over you, background noise, and focused on finishing your supper.
You were scraping the last of the stew from your bowl when a shadow fell over the fire.
"Davos Stokeworth."
You looked up to see Ser Alyn standing at the edge of the circle, his expression unreadable in the firelight.
Your stomach dropped. "Ser?"
"With me. Now."
The men around the fire went quiet, watching. You set down your bowl and stood, wiping your hands on your breeches. Petyr caught your eye, gave you a small nod—you'll be fine—but it did nothing to settle the dread coiling in your gut. You followed Ser Alyn away from the fire, into the shadows between the tents.
"You're serving wine tonight," he said without preamble. "The prince is hosting his officers for supper. They need someone to pour, and you're,” he looked you up and down, his lip curling slightly. “Well you’re small boy. We need someone who’s obtrusive. So, you'll do just fine.”
"Ser, but, I'm a soldier." You began to protest.
"You're a boy who can barely hold a shield," Ser Alyn cut you off. "This is where you're useful. Now stop arguing and get yourself to the quartermaster. He'll give you something clean to wear. You report to the prince's pavilion at sundown. If you spill so much as a drop on anyone important, I'll have you mucking out the latrines for a month. Understood?"
Your jaw clenched. "Yes, ser."
"Good. Now go."
He turned and walked away, leaving you standing alone in the dark. Behind you, you could hear the men around the fire laughing again, their voices carrying on the night air. Talking about whores. About their women back home. About things you were supposed to want but couldn't even pretend to care about.
You closed your eyes and exhaled slowly. Serving wine to the fucking prince of the realm nonetheless. To a pavilion full of officers who would be looking at you, studying you, waiting for you to make a mistake.
This was going to be a goddamn disaster.
The quartermaster's tent smelled like sweat, leather, and a mix of other shit. You ducked inside, blinking against the sudden brightness. Lanterns hung from the tent poles, casting flickering light over tables piled high with supplies—boots, belts, rolls of cloth, dented helmets waiting to be repaired. At the far end, hunched over a ledger, sat the quartermaster himself.
He was a wiry man, older, with ink-stained fingers eyes that squinted from too much close work. He didn't look up when you entered.
"Name," he said.
"Davos Stokeworth. Ser Alyn sent me. Said I need—"
"I know what you need." He set down his quill and stood, moving to one of the tables. "Serving the officers tonight, are you? Lucky boy."
He didn't sound like he thought you were lucky. The quartermaster pulled a tunic from one of the piles and held it up, and eyed you. "You're a small one. This should fit." He tossed it to you. "Put it on. Let's see."
You caught the tunic and hesitated. It was clean, at least—dark blue wool, simple but well-made. Better than anything you'd worn since arriving at camp.
"Well? I haven't got all night, boy."
You turned your back, fingers fumbling with the laces of your gambeson. The binding beneath was still tight, still holding, but your ribs ached with every breath. You pulled the gambeson over your head as quickly as you could, then shrugged into the tunic.
It fit. Barely. The shoulders were a bit wide, but it would do.
"Turn around."
You obeyed and the quartermaster circled you slowly, tugging at the fabric here and there, making small disapproving noises.
"You'll pass," he said finally. "Barely. Do you know how to serve wine, or am I going to have to explain that too?"
"I know how."
"Good. Because if you embarrass Ser Alyn, he'll take it out on me, and I'll take it out on you. Understood?"
"Yes, ser."
"I'm not a ser, I'm a quartermaster. Just call me Orys." He moved back to his ledger, already dismissing you. "The prince's pavilion is at the center of camp. Big one, you can't miss it. Be there before sundown, and for the love of the Seven, don't drop anything."
You nodded and turned to leave.
"And boy?"
You stopped, glanced back.
Orys was watching you with an odd expression—something like pity. "Keep your head down. Don't speak unless spoken to. The officers, they like their wine and they like their talk. You do not exist there remember that and you'll be fine."
"Aye," you said quietly.
Then you stepped back out into the evening air and started walking toward the center of camp.
The prince's pavilion was impossible to miss. It stood at the heart of the camp, twice the size of any other tent, pitch black with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen flying from the peak. Torches burned on either side of the entrance, and two guards in crimson cloaks stood at attention, their hands resting on the pommels of their swords.
You slowed as you approached, your mouth going dry. This was insane. You were about to walk into a tent full of knights and officers and pour their wine like some—like some servant. Like you weren't the daughter of a knight yourself, like you hadn't been raised with tutors and music lessons.
Stop it. You're not that person anymore. You're Davos. A soldier. A nobody.
"Davos Stokeworth," you said, pitching your voice low. "Ser Alyn sent me. I'm to serve tonight."
One of the guards—a broad-shouldered man with a scar running down his cheek—looked you up and down. "You're late."
"I—"
"Get inside. They're already seated."
He jerked his head toward the entrance. You didn't wait to be told twice.
Inside, the pavilion was warm and bright, lit by what felt like a dozen lanterns hanging from the support beams. A long table dominated the center of the space, and around it sat perhaps a dozen men—knights, officers, all of them older and harder-looking than you'd expected. Their armor was piled near the tent walls, and they'd stripped down to tunics and leather jerkins, sleeves rolled up, looking almost human.
Almost.
At the head of the table sat Prince Valarr.
He was laughing at something one of the other men had said, his head tilted back, that streak of silver in his hair catching the lamplight. He looked different like this. Younger, less a prince and more just a man sharing a meal with his friends.
Then his eyes swept across the room and landed on you and the laughter died.
"Ah," he said, straightening. "You must be the cupbearer Ser Alyn mentioned."
Every head at the table turned to look at you.
Your throat closed up and you managed what would be a very, very, sad, and stiff bow. "Yes, Your Grace. Davos Stokeworth."
"Stokeworth." Valarr's brow furrowed slightly, like he was trying to place the name. Then he nodded. "Well, Davos Stokeworth, welcome. The wine is there—" He gestured to a table set against the side of the pavilion, where several pitchers and flagons waited. "Start with Ser Alyn, if you would. The man looks like he needs it."
A few of the officers chuckled. Ser Alyn, seated near the middle of the table, grunted and held out his cup without looking at you.
"Move, boy," someone muttered. "We're thirsty."
Right. Move. You crossed to the side table, hands trembling as you picked up one of the pitchers. It was heavier than you'd expected, the wine sloshing inside. You carried it carefully to Ser Alyn and poured, focusing on keeping your hands steady, on not spilling a single drop.
The wine filled his cup. You stepped back.
"Next," Ser Alyn said.
You moved down the line. One officer after another, pouring wine, setting down the pitcher, picking up another when the first ran dry. The men barely looked at you. A few muttered thanks. Most ignored you entirely, already deep in conversation.
"—heard Daemon's forces are larger than we thought—"
"—doesn't matter, we've got the numbers—"
"—if it comes to a siege, we're fucked. We don't have the supplies—"
You kept your head down, kept pouring, kept being invisible.
And then you reached the head of the table. Prince Valarr held out his cup, his eyes on one of the other officers as he spoke. "Ser Jorin, you were saying about the Stormlands?"
"Yes, Your Grace." The man—Ser Jorin, apparently—was older, grizzled, with a thick beard gone mostly gray. "Reports say Blackfyre's already taken Bronzegate. If he pushes north—"
You poured the wine. Your hands were steadier now, the repetition helping. The cup filled. You started to step back.
"Careful, boy." Valarr's hand shot out, steadying the pitcher before you could pull it away too quickly. His fingers brushed yours—warm, calloused—and you froze.
He was looking at you now. Truly looking with those blue eyes sharp and curious. Your heart pounded against your chest, and you looked away from the intense gaze.
Seven Hells, get it fucking together.
"Easy," he said quietly. "No rush."
"Yes, Your Grace," you managed. “My apologies, Your Grace."
He smiled—just a flicker, there and gone. "No harm done." Then he released the pitcher and turned back to Ser Jorin. "Go on."
You stepped back, heart hammering, and moved to the next officer.
He touched you. He looked at you. It's fine. You're fine. He doesn't know. He can't know.
You finished pouring and retreated to the side table, standing with your back to the wall, waiting for someone to need a refill. The conversation at the table continued, voices rising and falling, debates about strategy and supplies and how many men Daemon Blackfyre had really brought with him. You tried to listen, tried to focus on anything other than the way your pulse was still racing.
And then Valarr laughed again, and despite every nerve in your body telling you to do the goddamn opposite, you looked up. He was smiling at something Ser Alyn had said, his whole face transformed by it. He looked, gods, he looked like someone you could actually talk to.
You forced your eyes back down and prayed for the night to end quickly.
The wine flowed freely.
You'd lost count of how many times you'd circled the table, pitcher in hand, filling cups that never seemed to stay full for long. The officers drank like men who knew tomorrow might be their last day, and the conversation grew louder, looser, as the night wore on.
"—swear to you, she had tits out to here—" Ser Jorin was gesturing wildly, nearly knocking over his cup. You darted forward to steady it, refilled it without a word, stepped back.
"You're full of shit," another officer said, laughing. "No woman in Flea Bottom has tits that big."
"I'm telling you, she did!”
"What about you, Your Grace?" This from a younger knight, his face flushed with drink. "Any ladies caught your eye? Half the realm's probably throwing their daughters at you by now."
Valarr leaned back in his chair, swirling the wine in his cup. His eyes were bright—not quite drunk, but well on his way. "I've had offers."
"Offers!" Ser Alyn barked out a laugh. "The boy's had every lord from here to the Wall trying to marry off their daughters. I've seen the letters."
"And?"
"And nothing." Valarr drank, set his cup down with a soft thunk. "I'm not interested in marrying another lords political ambitions wrapped up in a pretty dress."
"Aye, so you want an ugly wife, then?" Ser Jorin grinned.
"I want a wife I can actually talk to." Valarr's voice was easy, but there was something sharper underneath. "Someone with a mind. Someone who isn't going to smile and nod and bore me to death at the breakfast table."
"Good luck finding that," someone muttered.
"Maybe I'll marry a warrior." Valarr was smiling now, the wine making him reckless. "Someone who can hold a sword. Wouldn't that scandalize the court?"
Laughter rippled around the table. You refilled Ser Alyn's cup, moved to the next man, kept your face blank.
"A warrior wife," Ser Jorin mused. "I'd pay good coin to see that. Can you imagine? Some woman in armor, telling the prince what to do."
"Sounds like a nightmare," another officer said.
"Sounds like a good time," Valarr countered. He drained his cup and held it out. You stepped forward automatically, pitcher raised. His eyes flicked up to yours as you poured—just for a moment—and you felt the weight of it. Your hand trembled, just slightly. The wine splashed against the rim of the cup.
Steady. Steady.
You pulled back before you could spill.
"Thank you," Valarr said quietly.
You nodded, stepped away. Your heart was beating too fast, a sick, fluttering organ trapped behind your ribs. The talk shifted again and someone was telling a story about a brothel in Lys. Another was complaining about his horse. The voices blurred together, and you stood against the wall, hands clasped behind your back, and tried to breathe.
The binding was too tight. Your chest ached, every breath felt like dragging air through wet cloth.
Not now. Not here.
You locked your knees and waited. It was well past midnight when Valarr finally pushed back from the table.
"Enough," he said, standing. The word was slightly softer at the edges, blurred by wine. "We ride at dawn. Get some sleep."
The officers rose—some steadier than others—and began filtering out of the pavilion in twos and threes, clapping each other on the shoulders, still laughing about something. Ser Alyn paused to mutter something to Valarr, too low for you to hear, and then he was gone too. You stayed where you were, back against the wall. You were supposed to wait until the tent cleared. Until someone dismissed you.
And then it was just you and the prince.
Valarr stood by the table, one hand braced against the back of his chair, staring down at the maps spread across the surface. For a long moment, he said nothing. Just stood there, silent, his shoulders tight. Then he spoke without looking up.
"You're dismissed," he said.
You bowed and left, thanking the gods.
You woke to Mace's boot nudging your ribs.
"Up, cupbearer. Can't sleep all day just because you spent the night pouring wine for fancy lords."
You groaned and rolled over, every muscle in your body screaming. The ground beneath your bedroll was hard as stone, and the binding around your chest had left deep aches in your ribs. You'd barely slept three hours.
"Fuck off, Mace," you mumbled.
"Ooh, the boy's got a mouth on him this morning." Mace grinned down at you. "How was it? They treat you nice? Feed you scraps from the prince's table?"
"It was fine." You sat up slowly, rubbing your face. Your head pounded. Around you, the tent was already half-empty. Petyr was gone—probably at the latrines or getting food. Benedict sat in the corner, polishing his sword and looking like someone who had no idea what he was doing. Tym was still asleep, snoring like a dying animal.
"Word is there's archery practice today," Mace said, pulling on his boots. "Ser Alyn wants to see who can actually shoot and who's been lying about it."
Your head snapped up. "Archery?"
"Aye. Apparently we're short on archers, and if Blackfyre's forces have the high ground when we meet them, we're fucked." He stood, stretching. "You know how to shoot, Davos?"
You hesitated. "A bit."
"A bit." Mace snorted. "Well, you'd better pray you're better than 'a bit,' because Ser Alyn's in a foul mood. Anyone who can't hit a target's getting assigned to cleaning shit for a week."
He ducked out of the tent, still laughing. You sat there for a moment, heart pounding.
Archery. Gods.
The range was set up in a wide clearing beyond the horse lines—a dozen straw targets propped against wooden frames, each marked with rough circles of charcoal. Men were already gathering, maybe forty or fifty of them, talking in low voices while Ser Alyn stood at the front with his arms crossed.
You hung back near the edge of the crowd, trying to stay invisible.
"All right, listen up!" Ser Alyn's voice cut through the chatter like a blade. "We need archers. Good ones. If you can shoot, step forward. If you can't, fuck off back to your tents."
A few men stepped forward immediately—older soldiers, veterans with the scarred hands of bowmen. Others hesitated, shuffling their feet.
"Come on, don't be shy!" Ser Alyn barked. "I don't care if you've only shot a bow twice in your life. Get up here."
More men moved forward. You stayed where you were.
"You too, boy."
You looked up. Ser Alyn was staring directly at you.
"Me, ser?"
"Yes, you. You've got the build for it. Small, light. Good for a longbowman." He jerked his chin toward the line forming near the targets. "Get over there."
Your stomach sank. "Ser, I don’t.”
"That wasn't a request, boy.”
You swallowed and stepped forward, joining the ragged line of men. Mace caught your eye from across the clearing and grinned, mouthing good luck. Ser Alyn walked down the line, eyeing each man. When he reached you, he paused.
"You ever shot a bow before, Davos?"
"A few times, ser," you lied. Or—no, it wasn't a lie. You just didn't mention how many times. "My father taught me."
"Good. Let's see what you've got." He moved to the center of the range and raised his voice. "First round! Fifty paces! You'll each get three arrows. Hit the target, you stay. Miss all three, you're done. Understood?"
"Yes, ser!"
One of the soldiers handed you a bow—a simple recurve, nothing fancy, but solid enough. The wood was worn smooth from use. You tested the string, felt the tension. It was heavier than the bow you'd trained with at home, but not by much. Three arrows. You nocked the first one, feeling the familiar weight of it, the way the fletching brushed against your fingers.
The first man stepped up to the line. He drew, aimed, loosed.
The arrow hit the edge of the target. Barely.
"Next!"
Another man. Another shot. This one missed entirely, burying itself in the dirt three feet to the left.
“Fucking pathetic! Next!"
You watched them, one after another. Some hit. Most didn't. Your turn was coming, and your heart was pounding so hard you could feel it in your throat.
"You! Boy! Step up!"
You moved to the line. Fifty paces. The target looked small from here, just a circle of straw and charcoal. You raised the bow, feeling the weight of it settle into your grip and drew the string back. You loosed and the arrow flew straight and true, slamming into the target dead center.
Silence.
You blinked, staring at the target. You hadn't meant to—you'd just shot. Just let your body do what it knew how to do.
"Well, shit," someone muttered behind you.
Ser Alyn was staring at you, his expression unreadable. "Again."
You nocked the second arrow. Drew. Loosed.
It hit an inch from the first.
"Again."
Third arrow. This one split the difference between the first two, all three clustered in the center of the target so close together you could barely see the gaps. The clearing had gone quiet. Every man was staring at you now. Ser Alyn walked over to the target, examined the arrows, then turned back to look at you. His face was hard to read—somewhere between impressed and suspicious.
"Where the fuck did you learn to shoot like that?" he asked.
Your mouth went dry. "My father, ser. He—he was good. Taught me when I was young."
"Your father must've been a gods-damned master archer." Ser Alyn pulled one of the arrows from the target and turned it over in his hands. "I've seen knights who can't shoot this clean."
You didn't know what to say to that. Ser Alyn looked at you for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "You're staying on the line. Let's see if you can do it again."
The next round started. Seventy-five paces this time. You hit the target. So did a handful of others, but most fell away, their shots going wide or falling short. One hundred paces. You hit the center again. Only three other men managed to hit the target at all.
One hundred and fifty paces. The target was barely visible now, just a smudge of straw in the distance.
You drew. Aimed. Felt the wind against your face, adjusted for it without thinking.
Loosed.
The arrow arced high, then dropped, slamming into the target just left of center. When Ser Alyn walked down to check, he stood there for a long moment, hands on his hips, staring at the arrow.
Then he turned and shouted back toward the range: "Someone get the prince. He needs to see this."
Your blood went cold.
No. No no no—
But it was too late. Across the clearing, one of the squires was already running toward the center of camp.
Prince Valarr arrived on horseback, flanked by two of his knights. He dismounted and walked toward the range as you kept your eyes down, your heart hammering so hard you thought it might crack your ribs. This was bad, very fucking bad.
Ser Alyn met him halfway, speaking too low for you to hear. Valarr listened, his expression unreadable, then his eyes swept across the line of men until they landed on you. He studied you for a moment and then nodded to Ser Alyn.
"Show me," he said.
Ser Alyn gestured you forward. "Davos. One more shot. Two hundred paces."
Two hundred paces. The target was barely a speck at this distance, the wind strong enough that you could feel it pulling at your clothes. You nocked an arrow with hands that wanted to shake, forced them steady. You could feel every eye on you—the soldiers, Ser Alyn, the prince. Especially the prince. You drew the string back until your fingers touched the corner of your mouth, felt the tension singing through the bow, and let everything else fall away. Just you and the target. Just the wind and the weight of the arrow and the moment before release.
You loosed.
The arrow flew in a long, clean arc, cutting through the air like it had been drawn there by an invisible hand. It struck the target high and right, just inside the outer ring. Not perfect. But at two hundred paces, in the wind, it was more than good enough. Valarr walked down to the target himself this time, Ser Alyn trailing behind him. He pulled the arrow free, examined it, then looked back at you across the distance. You couldn't read his expression from here, but the fact that he was looking at all made your stomach clench.
When he returned, he stopped in front of you, turning the arrow over in his hands. "Your father taught you to shoot?" he asked.
“Yes, Your Grace," you said, keeping your voice low and steady.
"He must have been very skilled." Valarr handed the arrow back to you. "Or you're a natural. Either way, I have use for someone who can shoot like that." He glanced at Ser Alyn. "I'll take him."
Ser Alyn's brow furrowed. "Your Grace?"
"Send him to my tent after midday. I want to speak with him privately." Valarr's eyes flicked back to you. "Well done, Davos. It seems you're full of surprises."
Then he turned and walked back to his horse. You stood there, heart in your throat, arrow still clutched in your hand.
What in Seven Hells have you gotten yourself into?
You stood outside the prince's pavilion, trying to steady your breathing.
Midday had come too quickly. You'd spent the morning in a haze of dread, barely hearing the jokes and questions from your tentmates. Mace had clapped you on the shoulder so hard you'd nearly stumbled, crowing about how "little Davos" had shown up half the camp. Petyr had just looked at you with something like concern and said nothing.
Now you were here, and the guards were watching you, and there was no avoiding it.
"The prince is expecting you," one of them said, jerking his head toward the entrance.
You ducked inside. The pavilion was quieter than it had been last night. No crowd of officers, no wine-loosened laughter. Just Valarr, standing at the table with maps spread out before him, still in his riding leathers. He looked up when you entered.
"Davos. Come here."
You crossed to the table, stopped a respectful distance away. Your hands wanted to fidget. You locked them behind your back.
Valarr studied you for a moment, then gestured to the maps. "Do you know what these are?"
You glanced down. Terrain maps, troop movements marked in different colored ink. "Battle plans, Your Grace."
"Close enough." He tapped a spot on the largest map—a river crossing, forests marked on either side. "Daemon Blackfyre's forces are moving north. We know their general direction, but not their numbers. Not their exact position. If we're going to meet them, we need better intelligence."
You nodded, unsure where this was going.
"I need scouts," Valarr continued. "Fast, quiet, with good eyes. Someone who can get close without being seen and get out again without getting killed." His gaze flicked up to you. "You're small and light. And clearly you can shoot well enough to defend yourself if things go wrong. That makes you useful."
Your stomach dropped through the floor. "Your Grace, I'm not—"
"You're not a soldier?" He raised an eyebrow. "You volunteered, didn't you? Came here in your father's place?"
"Yes, Your Grace.”
"Then you're a soldier. And soldiers do what they're told." He straightened, crossing his arms. "I'm assigning you to reconnaissance. You'll ride out tomorrow with two others, get close to Blackfyre's camp, count what you can, and report back. Think you can manage that?"
No. Absolutely fucking not. This was insane.
"Yes, Your Grace," you heard yourself say.
Valarr's expression softened slightly. "You're scared. That's good. Means you're not stupid." He moved around the table, closer now. "The men you're going with are experienced. They'll keep you alive if you listen to them. And if you see something—anything—you come straight back here and tell me. Understood?"
"Yes, Your Grace."
"Good." He held your gaze for a moment longer, and you couldn't look away. His eyes were sharp, assessing, but there was something else there too. "Dismissed. Report to Ser Alyn before dawn. He'll give you the details."
You bowed and turned to leave.
"Davos."
You stopped, glanced back.
"Don't get yourself killed," Valarr said. "I'd hate to lose a decent archer."
You nodded and left before you could say something stupid.
You'd been crouched in the same position for hours, muscles screaming, barely daring to breathe.
The other two scouts—Harwin and a lean, quiet man named Durran—had split off at sunset to circle Blackfyre's camp from different angles. The plan was simple: watch, count, don't get caught. You'd drawn the shortest straw, which meant you got the closest position, tucked behind a fallen log at the edge of the treeline with nothing but darkness and luck to keep you hidden.
Blackfyre's camp sprawled below you, a sea of cookfires and tents that seemed to go on forever. Too many. Far too fucking many. You'd tried to count them at first, but gave up somewhere past three hundred. The prince needed to know this. Needed to know how badly outnumbered you were.
Your shoulder ached from holding still. Your legs had gone numb an hour ago. The night air was cold enough that you could see your breath, and every slight movement made the leaves around you rustle. You'd been here since dusk. It had to be near midnight now.
Then you heard voices.
Close. Too close.
You froze, pressing yourself flatter against the ground. Two men were walking up the hill toward your position, their boots crunching through the underbrush. Blackfyre soldiers, had to be. You could see the dark shapes of them through the trees, close enough that you could hear their conversation.
"—don't see why it matters," one of them was saying. His voice was rough, annoyed. "Just kill him and be done with it."
"Because it has to look right," the other man said. He sounded older, calmer. "The prince dies in battle, fine. The prince dies in his tent with a knife in his back? That raises questions."
Your blood went cold.
"So what, we wait for the fighting to start?"
"We wait for the signal. Martyn's got someone on the inside, close to the prince. When the time comes, it'll look like an accident. Friendly fire, it happens all the time in wars.”
"And we're sure this source is good?"
"Good enough that Daemon's paying him in gold. The Targaryen prince dies, their army falls apart, we win." The older man spat into the dirt. "Just be patient."
They were maybe twenty feet away now. Moving closer. You didn't dare move, didn't dare breathe. Your heart was slamming against your ribs so hard you were sure they'd hear it.
Assassination? Worse, an nside job. This had to be someone close to Valarr.
You had to get back. Had to warn him. Your foot shifted and a branch snapped under your boot. Suddenly, the voices drew to a stop.
"What was that?"
"Over there. By the log."
"Fuck."
You stood at once and ran. Didn't think, didn't plan, just scrambled to your feet and bolted into the trees. Behind you, shouting erupted. Boots pounding. Someone yelled for a bow.
The forest was a blur of shadows and branches tearing at your face. You ran blind, lungs burning, legs pumping. You didn't know where Harwin and Durran were. Didn't know which way was camp. Just ran.
The arrow hit you from behind. It punched into your left shoulder with a force that sent you sprawling forward into the dirt. The pain was white-hot, blinding, and for a moment you couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but lie there with your face in the leaves and feel the warm spread of blood soaking into your tunic.
Get up. Get up get up get up, you fucking idiot, you have to get up.
You dragged yourself to your feet, gasping. Your left arm hung useless, the arrow shaft jutting from your shoulder like some obscene flag. Blood was running down your back, hot and wet. You could hear them crashing through the brush behind you, closer now.
You ran again.
The world tilted and swayed. Your vision blurred. You tripped over roots, slammed into trees, kept going. The sounds of pursuit faded—or maybe you just couldn't hear them anymore over the roaring in your ears.
You didn't know how long you ran. It felt like hours. It felt like seconds.
When you finally saw the lights of camp through the trees, you nearly sobbed with relief. You stumbled out of the forest and into the outer ring of tents, legs giving out. Someone shouted. Hands caught you before you hit the ground.
"Gods—he's been shot—"
"Wake Ser Alyn and the maester—“
You tried to speak, tried to tell them about the prince, about the assassin, but your mouth wouldn't work. The world was going dark at the edges, folding in on itself.
The last thing you heard before everything went black was someone yelling for Prince Valarr.
Pain woke you. Sharp, burning, radiating from your shoulder down through your ribs like someone was twisting a hot poker into your bones. You tried to move and your body screamed at you—don't, don't, stop—and you froze, gasping.
Something was wrong, really fucking wrong. Not just the arrow wound. Something else. Something worse.
Your eyes snapped open. Canvas overhead with dim lantern light. The smell of blood and herbs and something medicinal that made your stomach turn. You were lying on a cot, blankets pulled up to your collarbone, and your chest felt wrong—loose, unbound, the pressure gone.
No. No no no.
You tried to sit up. Hands pressed you back down—gentle but firm—and a voice spoke from somewhere above you.
"Don't."
You knew that voice.
Your head turned and there he was. Prince Valarr. Sitting on a low stool beside the cot, close enough to touch, his face drawn and pale in the lamplight. He looked like he hadn't slept. His hair was a mess, the streak of silver falling across his forehead, and his eyes, gods, his eyes were fixed on you. Sharp and watching.
"Your Grace," you managed. Your voice came out rough, cracked, barely audible.
He didn't answer right away. Just kept staring at you, and the silence stretched so long your heart started slamming against your ribs. His jaw was tight. Too tight. "Davos," he said finally. "Or should I say—" He stopped. Jaw working. "What's your real name?"
The world dropped out from under you. You couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Your hand moved without permission—reached for your chest, felt the bandages wrapped around your ribs where the binding should have been gone. It was gone. They'd cut it off.
"I—" You tried to sit up again, panic flooding through you hot and terrible. "Your Grace, I can explain."
"Don't." His hand shot out, pressed against your good shoulder, holding you down. "You'll tear the stitches."
You froze. His palm was warm through the thin blanket. You could feel the calluses on his fingers, the same ones that had brushed yours when he'd steadied the wine pitcher. When he'd looked at you and you'd thought—gods, you'd been so stupid.
"The maester had to cut away your tunic to get to the arrow," Valarr said. His voice was quiet, too quiet. "He found the binding." A pause. "And then he found everything else."
Your throat closed up. You wanted to run. Wanted to bolt upright and sprint for the tent flap and just fucking run until your legs gave out, but you couldn't move. His hand was still on your shoulder and his eyes were still on your face and you were trapped.
"So I'll ask you again." Valarr leaned forward—close enough that you could see the dark smudges under his eyes, the way his jaw was clenched so tight a muscle jumped in his cheek. Close enough that you couldn't look away. "What's your name?"
You opened your mouth and nothing came out.
He waited. In the corner of the tent, an old man sat on a stool—the maester, grey-haired and sharp-eyed, watching the two of you . He'd seen. He knew. "I sent everyone else away," Valarr continued, reading your panic. "As far as the camp knows, you're still just Davos. Wounded, but alive." His eyes flicked toward the maester. "Maester Harrion has agreed to keep silent for now."
For now.
"But I need the truth," Valarr said. His hand was still on your shoulder. You could feel the weight of it, pinning you down, holding you there. "All of it. Starting with your name."
Your shoulder throbbed. Your ribs ached. Blood had soaked through the bandages and you could feel it—warm and sticky against your skin. Everything hurt. Everything was wrong. And Valarr was looking at you like he didn't recognize you anymore.
"It doesn't matter," you heard yourself say. Your voice sounded thin. "Your Grace, my name doesn't matter—you need to listen to me, there's going to be an assassination—"
"Don't."
The word came out sharp. Hard. Valarr's hand tightened on your shoulder—not enough to hurt, but enough to make you flinch. His jaw was clenched, his eyes blazing.
"Don't you dare try to change the subject," he said, and there it was—the anger you'd been waiting for, finally breaking through. "You've been lying to me since the moment I met you. You stood in formation with my men. You poured wine in my tent. You—" He stopped and swallowed. "I touched you."
His hand jerked back like you'd burned him.
The absence of his touch felt worse than the arrow wound. "You let me believe you were someone you're not," Valarr continued, and his voice had gone quiet again. Dangerously quiet. "You lied to Ser Alyn. To the men in your tent. To me." He stood abruptly, the stool scraping against the ground, and turned away from you. "Do you have any idea what you've done? What this means?"
"I didn't have a choice—"
"There's always a choice!" He spun back toward you, and you flinched. "You could have stayed home. You could have let your father answer the call himself. You could have—" He stopped. Dragged both hands through his hair. "Gods. Gods. You're—you're a woman."
He said it like he still couldn't believe it. Like the word didn't fit in his mouth. You wanted to argue. Wanted to scream at him that your father would have died, that you'd saved his life, that you'd done what you had to do. But the words stuck in your throat because Valarr was looking at you like he'd trusted you. And you'd broken that.
"I could have you executed for this," he said finally. "Lying to the Crown. Deceiving the army. and impersonating a soldier." He paused. "Do you understand that?"
"Yes." Your voice was barely a whisper.
"Do you understand that I should have you executed for this?"
"Yes."
Valarr stared at you. His hand moved—unconscious, automatic—toward the hilt of his sword. You watched it happen. Watched his fingers brush the pommel, hover there for a second.
Then drop.
"Fuck," he muttered, turning away again. He paced to the other side of the tent, put his back to you. His shoulders were rigid. You could see the way his hands clenched into fists at his sides.
The silence stretched. Seconds. Minutes. You couldn't tell. Finally, he spoke without turning around.
"Why?"
"My father," you said again. The words came easier this time, like something inside you had cracked open. "He was called to fight. He's—he's old, Your Grace. Wounded. He fought at the Redgrass Field. He gave everything for the Crown. And they—" Your voice broke and you forced it steady. "They were going to send him anyway. Even though he can barely hold a sword anymore. Even though it would have killed him."
Valarr didn't move.
"So I took his armor," you continued. "Cut my hair. Bound my chest and I came here in his place." You swallowed. "I knew it was treason. I knew what would happen if anyone found out. But he's my father, and I couldn't—I couldn't just let him die."
More silence.
Then, quietly he said, "What's your name?"
You told him your real name. The one only your father had called you for the past month. Valarr finally turned around. He looked at you for a long moment, and you couldn't read his expression anymore. Couldn't tell if he was angry or confused or something else entirely.
"You took an arrow for me," he said.
"I—" You blinked. "What?"
"You heard the assassins. You could have run. Could have disappeared into the forest and no one would have known." His eyes were fixed on yours now, searching. "But you came back. You warned me."
"Of course I did." The words came out sharper than you intended. "Your Grace, they're planning to kill you. Someone close to you, someone on the inside—I heard them talking about Martyn, about waiting for a signal."
"I know."
You stopped. Stared at him.
"You—what?"
"You've been unconscious for hours," Valarr said. "Kept mumbling about assassins. About someone close to me." He moved back toward the cot, sat down heavily on the stool. "I've already doubled the guard. Ser Alyn is questioning everyone who has access to my tent."
Relief crashed through you so hard you nearly sobbed. "Then you—you believe me?"
"Why wouldn't I?" Valarr asked quietly. "You got shot trying to warn me. Why would you lie about that?"
You didn't have an answer and he studied you for another long moment. Then, slowly, he reached out—hesitated—and rested his hand on the edge of the cot. Not touching you. But close.
"I don't know what to do with you," he admitted.
Your heart was pounding. "Your Grace."
"You saved my life," Valarr continued. "But you also lied to me. Deceived me. Committed treason." He exhaled. "I should have you executed. I should. But—" He stopped and looked away, his jaw ticking.
"But?" you pressed.
"But you're the best damn archer I've seen in years," Valarr said. "And you took an arrow in the back trying to save me." He dragged a hand down his face. "And I—" He stopped again. Shook his head.
"I can't execute you," he finished quietly. "I should. But I can't."
The tent was too small. Too hot. You could feel your pulse in your throat, your shoulder, everywhere.
"So what happens now?" you asked.
Valarr looked at you. Really looked at you, like he was seeing you for who you were, truly, the first time. "Now," he said slowly, "you tell me everything those men said. Every word. Every detail. And then—" He paused. "Then we figure out how to keep you alive."
A/N | this originally wasn't supposed to be this long, but i got carried away... cough cough. so sorry about that!! it's just my personal belief lo'ak is the best character and i love him so much a9ijougeriujg. also lo'ak can be seen as ooc in this, so sorry :,)
SYNOPSIS | lo'ak's new camera obsession takes an unexpected turn when a night away from the festival leaves him with footage of you he definitely shouldn’t have.
CONTENT WARNING(S) | aged up characters, explicit smut, MDNI, pervy lo'ak, heavy kissing, fingering, p in v, creampie, teasing, recording during sex, embarrassment, lo'ak calls you bro
WORD COUNT: 12.6k
Lo’ak lay stretched across the swaynivi (family hammock) like he was trying to take up every inch of space possible, one ankle hooked over yours, his back half-curved so he could keep the camera close to both of you. The canopy above you breathed with the night, leaves rolling in slow waves, the faint remnants of festival firelight flickering through the weave of the branches. The quiet made your family’s space feel enormous, like the whole forest had stepped back to give the two of you room to breathe.
His shoulders still held the restless energy of the festival—his muscles not yet convinced the dancing and running and joking were over. His tail flicked every few seconds without rhythm and without his awareness. He kept pushing his braids behind his shoulder only for them to slip forward again as he leaned closer, trying to show you the next blurry disaster of a photo.
“Bro,” he muttered to himself, staring at the screen with squinted irritation, “why did the camera grab my elbow like that? It wasn’t even the thing in front of me.” His ears angled back in embarrassment mixed with disbelief. “Norm swears this thing is easy.”
You bit back a laugh, but it still escaped in a soft burst the moment Lo’ak turned the camera and showed you the picture. The angle was off-balance, catching him half-grinning and half mid-sneeze as glowing lanterns blurred behind his head. You slapped a hand over your mouth, shoulders lifting as the giggle fought its way out.
His head snapped toward you. “Hey—hey!” His brows rose high, his grin already forming because your laughter always got him smiling even while he pretended to be offended. “You better not be laughing at me, ma—” He stopped himself before saying the endearment too quickly, tongue stumbling, ears twitching. “At the picture,” he corrected, voice cracking into a flustered laugh.
Your giggles only grew, warm and soft against the side of his neck where your face threatened to hide.
Lo’ak huffed, but the dramatic sound dissolved almost immediately when his eyes softened. “Of course you find this funny,” he muttered with the tone of someone who very deeply loved that you did.
He leaned in and kissed you quickly, more instinct than plan. His lips pressed to yours in a warm brush meant to silence you, but the second he pulled away, the giggles bubbled right back out. Your nose scrunched, your smile wide, and Lo’ak’s breath left him in a defeated groan.
“Oh my Eywa,” he said, flopping his head back against the hammock. “You’re killing me.”
You nudged his ribs with a gentle grin. “Keep showing me your pictures.”
He lifted his head, warmth creeping up his neck in a flush. “Yeah? You sure?” There was hope tucked beneath the words, hope he didn’t hide fast enough.
“Yes,” you murmured. “Show me everything.”
The change in him was immediate. His chest loosened, his shoulders sinking deeper into the hammock’s curve. A shy, crooked smile tugged at his mouth as he swiped to the next photo—a shot of you reaching for fruit at a stall, fire-light turning your face soft and bright. He didn’t look at the picture long. His gaze moved to you instead, his ears lifting, his expression turning real and unguarded in a way Lo’ak rarely let anyone see.
You felt heat rise to your cheeks. “You took this without telling me,” you whispered, laughing breathlessly.
His tail thumped once against the woven floor. “Uh… yeah,” he admitted, scratching lightly at the back of his neck. “Like—yeah. A lot of them, actually.” His voice dropped, losing its swagger. “You look… I don’t know. You look really happy in moments like that.”
Your breath softened as you leaned closer, shoulder brushing his chest. “You could have told me.”
He shot you a look, ears lowering in embarrassment. “No way,” he muttered, tail curling around your ankle in a traitorous display of affection. “You’d think I was weird.”
You giggled softly. “I already think you’re weird.”
His eyes widened, his hand smacking lightly against his chest. “Wow. Cruel.” A grin slipped through before he could hide it. “But you’re still here, so the weirdness must not be that bad.”
You nudged your forehead against his again. “It makes me like you more.”
His breath caught. The reaction was immediate and unfiltered; the slight jerk of his shoulders, the twitch of his tail, the glow rising behind his eyes as if someone had lit a flame there.
He swallowed hard and turned the camera back to the screen like he needed something else to look at before he melted on the spot. The next photo appeared: another blurry festival shot where your laugh shone even if nothing else was clear. You burst into giggles again, and Lo’ak hid his face behind his hand for a moment, ears pinned tight to his skull.
“This is so bad,” he groaned. “Bro, how did I even—was I running? Did someone bump me? Did I blink wrong?”
You leaned against him fully now, your body curled into his side, your laughter vibrating through his ribs. His arm slid around your waist automatically, a protective gesture he didn’t even realize he made.
“It’s perfect,” you said between quiet breaths.
His stare snapped to you, disbelief softening like dawn spreading over his face. “Perfect?” he echoed, nose scrunching in a shy grin. “I mean… yeah. Obviously. That’s what I was going for. Very artistic.”
You hummed knowingly, lips curled in a teasing smile as you shifted just enough for your knee to press into his thigh. “So humble. Truly the most modest warrior of the clan.”
Lo’ak rolled his eyes, but the way his ears flicked betrayed how pleased he was. “Of course I am. Probably the humblest,” he muttered, leaning his cheek briefly against the top of your head like he hoped you wouldn’t notice the affection tucked inside the sarcasm.
You nudged him lightly with your shoulder, and he let out a soft sound—half laugh, half sigh—as he swiped to the next photo. Your breath puffed in a surprised giggle when the image appeared: you again, caught mid-step, your braid swinging behind you and your expression focused on a group of young children painting festival patterns on each other’s arms.
Lo’ak’s lips twitched as the next swipe revealed yet another picture of you, this time leaning over a tray of fruit, your face scrunched in concentration as you inspected each piece. The third revealed you laughing with Kiri, your head thrown back, your entire posture bright with joy. A fourth, a fifth, a sixth. It became undeniable.
Your laughter deepened, warm and gleaming. “Lo’ak,” you said, dragging his name out as your hand drifted up to his braids. “These are all of me.”
His tail jerked behind him in a wild, startled flick. “No, they’re not,” he protested, ears flattening. “There were… other things happening too. I swear I took pictures of the dancers and the carvings and—” He swiped wildly, only to expose yet another photo of you, your profile in soft light, your lips parted in a tiny smile as you watched a storyteller.
Your fingers curled into one of his braids, giving it a gentle tug. “Skxawng (idiot),” you teased, leaning in so your lips brushed the shell of his ear. “You are obsessed.”
Lo’ak’s breath caught hard. He made no retort, not because he didn’t have one, but because his brain clearly short-circuited the moment you tugged his braid. His ears burned bright violet at the tips, and his entire posture stiffened with a sudden, overwhelming self-consciousness. The camera nearly slipped from his hand as he fumbled to grip it tighter.
“I’m— I’m not obsessed,” he mumbled, staring intensely at the screen as if the device itself held the answers to all of life’s mysteries. “I just… liked the lighting. On your face. A lot. The sun was doing a thing.”
You laughed again, low and delighted. “A thing?”
“Yes,” he snapped gently, his voice cracking in the middle. “A thing.”
Your eyes sparkled. His never left the camera.
He tried to swipe again, but his thumb froze mid-motion. The picture on the screen wasn’t still. It moved. Your recorded form shifted—your hands waving animatedly as you spoke to someone off-camera, your smile bright and lively before you disappeared from the frame entirely.
You blinked, startled. “It is moving. Why is it doing that?”
Lo’ak perked up, suddenly full of pride again, tail curling smugly behind him as if he’d personally invented the device. “Oh—yeah. Norm said this one is not a picture. It is a video.”
Your brows furrowed. “A… what?”
He puffed up slightly, relishing the chance to explain something sky-person-related for once. “A video is like… many pictures inside one,” he said, gesturing broadly with his free hand. “They go together very fast, so it looks like the moment keeps living. You can watch it happen again. Like… the forest when it breathes. Moving. Not frozen.”
Your mouth parted slowly, your eyes widening with a wonder so pure it made Lo’ak’s entire expression soften. You leaned closer, fully absorbed by the moving image on the screen. “It keeps the moment alive?” you whispered, your voice so small and awed that Lo’ak felt his heart ache in a way he did not have words for.
“Yeah,” he said, smiling helplessly. “Pretty much.”
You sat up so quickly the hammock swung, sending Lo’ak grabbing your waist with both hands to steady you. His eyes darted up to your face, startled, confused, instantly alert.
“Lo’ak,” you said breathlessly, excitement glowing in your cheeks. “Take a video of me.”
He blinked hard, ears shooting forward so fast they nearly touched. “You… want me to?”
Your grin widened, bright as bioluminescent blossoms when they flare awake at night. “Yes! I want to see how it works. I want to see myself move inside the tiny box. Take one.”
Lo’ak stared at you with a mix of disbelief and absolute, starstruck devotion, his fingers tightening slightly on your hips before he realized he was still holding you and slowly let his hands slide back, but only a little.
He lifted the camera, trying—and failing—not to beam.
“Okay,” he breathed. “Sit how you want. Tell me when you’re ready. I’ll… I’ll film you.”
His tail wrapped lightly around the back of your calf, holding you close without him realizing it.
You glowed beneath his gaze.
“I am ready now,” you said softly.
Lo’ak’s breath caught in that small, unmistakable way he always failed to hide whenever you looked at him without walls. His thumb hovered for half a heartbeat before it pressed the recording button, the quiet chirp of the device signaling that it had begun capturing the moment. His posture straightened a little, the gleam in his eyes brightening as the camera screen lit your face in a faint, soft glow.
You blinked slow and owlish-y, your spine going stiff as though the forest itself had frozen around you. The swaynivi swayed in the faint breeze, the ropes creaking with your tension. Lo’ak peeked over the top of the camera, one brow lifting in pure, amused judgment. There was no hiding anything from him; the boy read your expressions like he had been blessed with a personal song from Eywa explaining your emotions.
“Uh… what is that face?” he asked, fighting a smile that dripped into his voice. “Why are you sitting like you swallowed a bug?”
Heat flooded your cheeks immediately, blooming from your neck to the tips of your ears. “I—Lo’ak, I do not know what to do,” you confessed, mortified by how small your voice sounded.
Lo’ak lost it in an instant.
His laughter burst out bright and loud, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made his tail whip the air in unrestrained delight. He nearly tipped the camera because he actually leaned back from how hard he laughed, his chest shaking beneath the thin festival beads still strung across his shoulder.
“Oh, Great Mother,” he wheezed, trying to steady the camera. “You said you were ready! I thought you were about to perform for the whole clan. Look at you. You look like you want the ground to eat you.”
Your ears flattened as you burned hotter. “Stop recording me,” you demanded, reaching toward the camera with an embarrassed groan.
Lo’ak jerked it out of reach instantly, his grin wicked and impossibly pleased. “No way. This is gold.” His laughter simmered into a teasing drawl. “I am keeping this forever.”
You pouted, your shoulders curling inward, lower lip sticking out as your tail thumped against the swaynivi in irritated little flicks. “Lo’ak…”
He rolled his eyes in a way only he could—dramatic and drawn-out—before giving you a look dripping with sass. “What? You asked for this. Literally. You begged me to record you like you were joining the sky people movies. Now you’re acting like a baby nantang.”
You whined softly, lifting your hands to cover your face, which only made Lo’ak laugh harder. His voice softened beneath the teasing, though, a quiet fondness threading through his tone as he lowered the camera slightly. His expression shifted, not completely losing the mischief, but warming enough to coax you into looking at him again.
He reached out, hooked two fingers gently into the fabric near your hip, and tugged you toward him with practiced ease. The hammock rocked with your combined weight, the woven fibers groaning softly as your body slid closer to his. You steadied yourself with a hand against his chest, feeling the warm, steady rise and fall beneath your palm.
Lo’ak held the camera out to the side, flipping it so the lens faced the two of you. The screen showed your bodies pressed together, your mortified expression beside his smug, glowing grin.
“Alright,” he said, angling the camera to frame both your faces. “If you’re gonna freeze like a baby hexapede in front of the lens, we’ll do this together.”
You tried to glare at him, but the pout still clung to your mouth, making it difficult to look even slightly intimidating. Lo’ak grinned wider at your struggle, leaning his cheek to yours briefly just to increase your fluster.
“Look at her,” he said to the camera in a mock serious tone, his voice dropping into a dramatic storyteller cadence. “First time on a video and she turns into a stone carving. Very impressive. Truly a natural performer.”
“I hate you,” you muttered without heat, which only made his tail curl gleefully around your thigh in response.
“You love me,” he shot back instantly, effortless and automatic, as if the truth sat constantly on the tip of his tongue. The second the words left him, his ears twitched, but he played it off with an even cockier tilt of his chin.
Your heart tripped over itself, but before you could respond, Lo’ak shifted the camera closer, capturing the soft shape of your blush. His grin gentled as he leaned toward you, the teasing fading into something warmer, quieter, unbearably sweet.
“Smile for the video, ma yawntu (my beloved),” he murmured, his voice lowered to a velvet whisper that made your breath tremble.
You swallowed, your lips pulling into a small, shy curve—nothing like the bright festival smiles he always caught, but honest in a way that made Lo’ak’s breath hitch.
His expression softened to something you’d only seen a handful of times. His free hand rose slowly, brushing a knuckle along your jaw with equal parts hesitation and certainty. The camera trembled slightly as his fingers slid to your cheek.
He angled his head, eyes flicking once to your lips, then back to your eyes.
“Perfect,” he whispered, this time not teasing at all.
His mouth found yours with gentle warmth, soft and steady, the kiss blooming with all the affection he never managed to articulate in words. The camera recorded everything; the way your lashes fluttered closed, the way his thumb stroked your cheekbone, the quiet sound you made when he pressed just a little closer.
Lo’ak kissed you slowly, savoring, as though realizing the moment would be preserved forever made him want to pour every feeling into it. The hammock cradled you both, the night air humming softly, the camera capturing the way his lips lingered against yours long after the kiss technically ended.
When he finally pulled back, barely an inch, he whispered against your lips with a smile you could feel rather than see.
“Now that’s a video worth keeping.”
The words brushed across your lips like warm breath, and the heat that had already gathered in your cheeks flared even deeper, sinking down into your chest. Your ears flattened against your skull, not in anger but in a helpless wave of bashful panic that pushed through you with startling strength. You exhaled in a shaky whisper, raising both hands to cover the blush spreading across your face. “Stop recording,” you pleaded, though your voice lacked conviction.
Lo’ak snickered immediately, his fangs catching the light as he grinned down at you. His tail flicked behind him in triumphant amusement, curling with every pulse of satisfaction that rolled through him. “No chance. You look too sweet right now,” he murmured, tipping the camera slightly to frame your flushed face.
Your cheeks burned hotter, your breath caught between embarrassment and a pulse of affection that made you ache. Before you could argue again, Lo’ak leaned in and kissed you, the camera still pointed at the two of you as if he refused to let the moment slip away unnoticed. His lips met yours with a warmth that folded your thoughts inward, soft at first, brushing gently like he wanted to coax the tension from your frame.
Your hand rose quickly to try to snatch the camera from his other hand, fingertips brushing the edge of the device. Lo’ak reacted instantly, lifting it up and back with a playful flick of his wrist, keeping it just beyond your reach. His laughter vibrated through the kiss, a warm hum against your mouth that tightened your chest with flustered frustration.
“Lo’ak,” you whined into the kiss, your voice muffled, your lips still pressed to his. The sound was small, pleading, your breath trembling against him as your fingers curled weakly in the air where the camera had been.
He smiled into your mouth, the curve of his lips unmistakable in the way it changed the shape of the kiss. His brows lowered in focused affection; his eyes half-lidded as he leaned closer with a deepening hunger hushed by tenderness. The hammock swayed beneath you both as he shifted his weight, angling his body over yours, one arm supporting him, the other still holding the camera high and steady with infuriating confidence.
“You sound so tempted to steal it,” he teased quietly, brushing the words against your lips before he kissed you again, deeper this time. “But I like this too much. The way you act when you know I am watching.”
Your breath shuddered as his lips moved against yours with growing pressure, each pass of his mouth dissolving your thoughts more completely. The heat coiling through you softened your muscles until your hands dropped to his waist, clutching the warm line of his frame. His chest pressed to yours in a slow glide, and the hammock cradled the two of you with its gentle sway, letting him fold you deeper into the moment.
Your soft moan escaped before you could hold it back. It trembled into his mouth, charged with surprise and longing, and Lo’ak inhaled sharply through his nose as if the sound powered him. His tail wrapped around your thigh with instinctive need, securing you, drawing you closer into the cradle of his hips. His kiss grew fuller, richer, guided by the heat in your breath and the way your lips parted for him without hesitation.
Quiet lingered around your moans, the kind of quiet that comes only from reverence. Lo’ak kissed you as though the rest of Eywa’s forest had faded into shadow. His hand slid along your side, tracing the curve of your waist with fingertips that trembled slightly. His heart thudded against your sternum, heavy and uneven, the cadence revealing how deeply he felt every inch of you pressed against him.
Your mind blurred at the edges, overwhelmed by the warmth of his mouth, the firmness of his grip, the scent of forest resin and festival smoke still clinging to his skin. Lo’ak felt impossibly addicting, like the touch you had known for only a short time yet longed for as though he had always been meant for you. Every time his lips dragged softly against yours, every gentle pull and press, made the sliding weight of the world disappear. You forgot the camera existed at all, forgot that he was still recording, forgot anything existed beyond the circle of his arms and the heat blooming between you.
His breaths grew uneven, matching yours, and his lips brushed yours repeatedly, lingering as if reluctant to leave your skin for even the length of a heartbeat. The hammock swayed with the rhythmic movement of your bodies, creating a soft rustling beneath the sound of his breathing and your needy sighs.
Lo’ak pulled back only enough to look at you through half-lidded eyes, his chest rising and falling in a steady, smoldering rhythm. His voice dropped to a low murmur, the warmth of it brushing over your damp lips. “Oe tìyawn nga (i love you),” he whispered, the truth pulled from deep in his ribs. The camera dipped slightly as his grip loosened for a moment, too overwhelmed by the sight of you beneath him.
Your breath hitched, your head spinning, the words melting into the heat that already clouded your senses. You lifted one hand and cupped his face, your palm warm on his cheekbone, your thumb brushing slowly across the stripe on his skin. His eyes fluttered a little at the touch, his lips parting as though the simple contact unraveled him.
He leaned down once more, kissing you with a full, consuming tenderness that made the hammock sway again. The kiss deepened intently, filling you with an irresistible pull that made your chest tighten with yearning.
Your hands tightened against him, and your moans softened into his mouth, each one trembling with breath you couldn’t hold. Lo’ak felt that change instantly. His body leaned into it like instinct, the kind of instinct he never bothered hiding around you. His hand skimmed up your side, the pads of his fingers dragging over every curve he knew by memory now. His breath warmed your cheek as his palm slid higher, settling over the soft weight of your tits with a touch that was careful but undeniably eager. The second his thumb brushed you there, you broke the kiss with a sharp gasp, your chest rising fast beneath his hand.
Lo’ak froze only for a heartbeat, blinking down at you with wide, faux-innocent eyes that not even Eywa would believe. His ears perked just slightly, betraying his interest before he tried to bury it under a weak attempt at cluelessness. “What?” he asked, tilting his head in the most unconvincing display of purity you had ever seen.
Your eyes narrowed, heat climbing up your neck in a mixture of fluster and irritation. There was no hiding the tremor still in your breath, and Lo’ak’s grin sharpened at the edges when he heard it. That stupid grin made your tail flick hard at the hammock. “Do not pretend you do not know. You are so dirty.”
Lo’ak clutched his chest dramatically. “Dirty? Me?” His voice cracked into a laugh mid-fake gasp. “Bro—what? I literally touched you. That’s it. You’re the one making little noises like I just—” He cut himself off, grinning wickedly. “Actually, no. Say it. What did I do?”
“You touched my chest,” you snapped quietly, the heat in your cheeks blooming hotter. “You did it on purpose.”
His smirk grew so smugly boyish you wanted to shove him off the hammock. “Okay, first of all, yes I did,” he admitted immediately, ears flicking back in playful pride. “Second of all, you liked it.” His tail thumped the hammock with excitement he absolutely failed to hide. “Don’t glare at me like that. I can feel you. You’re warm all over.”
Your breath faltered again, which only made his smile deepen. “You twist everything,” you muttered. “Skxawng.”
Lo’ak leaned closer, close enough that his breath brushed your lips, his voice dropping into that cocky whisper he used whenever he had you cornered. “Awnga lu twisted fìtseng, prrnen (we’re both twisted, baby). Don’t put all the blame on me.”
The argument spiraled, half real irritation, half helpless arousal, every word feeding the tension thrumming under your skin. You accused him of being an uncontrollable pervert. He countered that you were shaking under him in a way that said you wanted more. You told him his brain lived in his tswin (kuru). He laughed and told you that if it did, you wouldn’t be complaining.
Lo’ak eventually silenced you with his mouth, kissing you with a heat sharpened by the back-and-forth. His lips were hungry, coaxing, claiming in little pulses that matched the sway of the hammock beneath you. Your breaths tangled, your fingers curling into his broad shoulders while the hand he’d used to tease you drifted back down to your waist. The camera in his other hand slipped farther into the background of your awareness, the soft glow of its screen bouncing faintly against his knuckles.
He kissed you until your frustration dissolved into soft, helpless sounds, the kind he couldn’t pretend not to hear. His lips dragged along your jaw, your cheek, the edge of your mouth before he kissed you again with a slow, sweet press that left your heart stumbling in your chest.
“I got an idea,” he whispered between kisses, his voice low and vibrating against your lips.
Your answering hum was foggy, shaped by the warmth coiling in your stomach rather than any real processing of his words. Lo’ak pulled back just enough to look at you, his pupils blown wide, his ears lowering in shy excitement as he sucked in a breath like he was bracing himself.
“Okay—uh. Don’t laugh,” he muttered, rubbing his thumb over your hip in a nervous little rhythm that betrayed the boldness he was working up to. His tail curled tighter around your thigh as if anchoring him to courage. His gaze flicked down to your lips, then to the camera in his hand, then back to your face.
The quiet between you grew full, warm, expectant.
Lo’ak swallowed, his voice barely above a whisper when it finally came.
“… Can I record us?”
Your breath hitched, your entire body going still beneath him as his words settled.
He rushed on, ears folding back as a flush lit his cheeks. “Like—not just kissing. I mean…” His tail twitched wildly. “All of it. You and me. I wanna—” His voice cracked, and he huffed sharply. “I wanna have it. The way you look when you—” He bit the inside of his cheek, flustered beyond belief. “You know. When you want me. When you fall apart for me.”
His gaze held yours, his embarrassment fighting with his desire in every line of his face. His ears were pulled back in that mortified way he only got when he said something way too bold even for him. His fingers flexed at your waist, his tail tightening around your thigh like his body refused to let you go even while his brain panicked.
You gaped at him for a second, your mouth falling open as your breath caught on the stunned silence. “Lo’ak,” you finally whispered, disbelief thickening your voice. “You actually are so dirty.” Your palm pressed lightly to his chest as if pushing the words into him. “I should tell your sa’nok (mom) about this.”
Lo’ak’s entire soul left his body.
His eyes widened so violently it almost looked painful. “Whoa—woah, hold up, hold up,” he sputtered, leaning forward until his forehead nearly bumped yours. “Do not—do not bring my mom into this. What is wrong with you?” The sheer horror on his face nearly made you laugh, but he quickly realized you weren’t joking, and the panic doubled. His hands slid up your waist in a frantic gesture, gripping just enough to stop you from slipping out of his arms. “Please,” he begged in a whisper, his voice rough and desperate. “Have mercy. I’m trying to live here.”
The puppy-dog eyes came out full force.
Lo’ak leaned back just enough to lock onto your face, his pupils wide and shimmering, the gold in his irises catching the faint bioluminescent glow from the canopy above. His ears dipped low, his mouth tugging into a small, hopelessly soft pout.
He knew exactly what he was doing to you.
He always knew.
Your chest tightened at the sight of him staring up at you like that, so hopelessly in love he couldn’t hide it even if he tried. The heat rose up your neck, blooming across your cheeks in a shade you knew he could see perfectly under the dim light. You dropped your gaze to avoid the weight of his eyes, but he tilted his head just enough to follow, keeping your attention pinned to him.
“Muntxate (wifey),” he whispered teasingly, his voice still laced with that desperate tremor, “don’t torture me.”
His tail curled tighter around your thigh, stroking once in a helpless plea.
Your blush deepened until you felt almost feverish. The warmth spreading inside you wasn’t just embarrassment anymore; it was the sharp, aching curl of desire mixed with how deeply you adored him.
You drew in a slow breath before speaking, barely able to lift your voice above a whisper. “Okay,” you murmured, biting your lip when his ears shot forward with a hopeful twitch. “But you have to make sure no one else sees it. No one. Ever.”
Lo’ak nodded so fast he looked like he might strain a muscle. “Yes. Yes, of course—yes.” His grin broke wide across his face, bright and boyish and triumphant. The raw happiness pouring off him was so strong you could practically feel it buzzing through the hammock. He leaned closer like he couldn’t help it, pressing a flurry of tiny kisses to the corner of your mouth, your cheek, your jaw. “I swear on Eywa, on Toruk Makto, on every spirit animal in the forest—this is just for us..”
His tail thumped eagerly against the hammock with every vow, and the sheer enthusiasm radiating off him made your lips tug into a helpless smile. The more he beamed, the deeper your blush rooted, until you had to roll your eyes just to break the intensity of his excitement.
Lo’ak saw the eye roll and gasped in playful offense. “Wow. Look at you, pretending you’re not into this,” he teased, dragging his nose along yours with soft affection. “You’re blushing so hard you might start glowing.”
Your hand flicked his braid in retaliation, though your smile betrayed you. Lo’ak let out a soft laugh, the sound rumbling through his chest as he dipped his head toward your throat. Your breath caught just before his lips touched your skin, and the moment they did, heat unfurled beneath the surface like a slow-moving spark.
He kissed along the curve of your neck with that maddening mix of affection and smugness he always carried.. Each kiss dragged just enough to make your pulse stutter, his breath ghosting over sensitive skin as he murmured, “You look so cute when you get all embarrassed like this.” The teasing words brushed your throat in a whisper, warm enough to fog your thoughts. His voice dropped lower, the hint of a smirk audible against your skin. “Can’t help myself.”
Your fingers curled into the hammock’s woven edge, trying to ground yourself. “Why are you like this?” you whispered, the words thin and shaky as you tried not to melt beneath him.
Lo’ak hummed in response, a low, smug vibration pressed right into your skin. His lips sealed softly around a spot just beneath your jaw, sucking until your breath broke in a strangled gasp you couldn’t swallow back. You felt the smile stretch across his mouth before he trailed kisses down the length of your neck toward your collarbone.
The camera shifted in his grip—closer, too close. You tried to avert your face, biting the inside of your cheek to stop another sound from escaping you, but Lo’ak caught the way your breath shook.
“Ohhh, trying to be quiet for the camera?” he teased, barely holding back a laugh as he angled the device toward your face. “Bro, don’t do that. I want all of it.” He pushed the lens even closer, practically capturing the flush creeping across your cheeks.
A whine slipped from you before you could stop it. Lo’ak’s grin sharpened with pleased triumph. “There it is,” he murmured, returning his mouth to your neck with a kiss that felt more like a brand than a touch. His lips traveled downward, tracing your collarbone, trailing warmth over each ridge and dip of bone until your back arched faintly on instinct.
His free hand slid beneath the soft line of your chest, cupping the underside gently before his fingers prodded your breast with a teasing push that made your breath stutter again. You felt painfully aware of how close he was to taking more. His thumb swept lightly, brushing the swell until your knees tightened around his hips.
Before he could say whatever filthy thought was gathering behind his grin, he sat up abruptly, shifting his weight just enough to balance himself while bringing the camera directly in front of your face. His pupils were blown wide with hunger, but his smile was pure boyish mischief.
“Baby,” he said slowly, savoring each word, “can you take your top off?”
You blinked up at him, stunned into silence. The disbelief washed over your features, and your ears twitched back as your mouth parted. Truly, you could not believe he had the nerve. Lo’ak saw the look and lifted one hand, the one not holding the camera, in a defensive gesture.
“What? Don’t look at me like that,” he whined, though the edge of excitement in his voice ruined any attempt at sounding innocent. “Come on—please? You’ll look so hot. Like… unbelievably hot.” His tail whipped behind him in an uncontrollable flick of anticipation. He leaned closer, lowering his voice to a husky murmur. “You know what I’m gonna do with this video later, right? I’m gonna—”
The rest of the sentence dissolved into noise in your ears because you raised a hand quickly, urgently, to stop him from saying more. Your face burned so fiercely you felt heat spill down your neck. Hearing him say that out loud would be the end of you. Your heart thumped erratically as you sucked in a breath, shaking from the intensity of it all.
Before he could continue, you reached up and untied your beaded top in one swift, mortified motion. Your breath trembled as the fabric slipped away from your chest, the cool air of the canopy brushing over newly exposed skin.
Lo’ak’s mouth dropped open so widely he looked genuinely stunned, pupils blown, ears shooting straight up. The camera wobbled dangerously in his hand, nearly falling out of his grip as he choked on his own breath and hissed, “Holy shit.”
You kicked him lightly with your ankle, your face burning hotter than any festival torch.
He blinked, breaking out of his trance, and scrambled to laugh it off. “Sorry—sorry!” he rushed out, his words tripping over each other. “Eywa, okay—I’m cool, I’m cool—” He was absolutely not cool. His entire face was flushed purple, all the way to the tips of his ears.
Despite the apology, his awe didn’t fade for even a second.
He angled the camera down toward your chest with a trembling, reverent slowness, breath shuddering out of him as if he couldn’t believe you had actually done it. The lens framed the soft rise of your breasts, the faint shimmer of bioluminescence across your skin. The hammock rocked under you both, amplifying your awkwardness.
A tiny, strangled sound escaped your throat. “Lo’ak… this is so embarrassing.”
Lo’ak shook his head immediately, almost violently. “No. No, are you kidding?” His grin split wide, crooked and disbelieving. “This is the best day of my entire life.”
Your laugh burst out before you could contain it. You slapped a hand over your mouth, shoulders trembling, the mix of embarrassment and affection swirling inside you until you felt dizzy.
Lo’ak rolled his eyes in dramatic satisfaction. “Don’t pretend you don’t know how insane you look right now,” he muttered under his breath, his voice dropping an octave as his free hand lifted.
His fingers brushed your skin first, slow, testing, like he was checking if you were real. The warmth of his palm settled beneath both tits before he squeezed lightly, jiggling you playfully.
Your breath punched out in a shocked, muffled squeal.
“Eywa, look at them,” Lo’ak murmured, eyes locked completely onto your chest. “Bouncing for me. I swear, I’m never forgetting this. Ever. This is going in my—”
“LO’AK!” you squeaked, slapping your hands over your face as heat flooded downward in a rush. “Where did you learn to speak like that?!”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t even pretend to answer.
He was far too busy watching his own hand move over your chest, thumbs brushing your nipples in slow circles. His stare had turned heavy and hungry. Each rub made your breath catch harder, your voice cracking on each protest. You berated him through broken whispers—“You are so perverted—stop talking like that—” but your thighs squeezed together helplessly, your body betraying every word.
Lo’ak smiled at your flustered outrage while pretending to adjust the camera angle.
You were too distracted by his teasing touch, too overwhelmed by your own embarrassment, too intent on glaring at him through your fingers to notice the subtle shift in his left hand.
His fingers brushed your hip, then your waistband.
He tugged once.
The knot of your loincloth loosened.
You didn’t feel the full drop yet—you were too focused on his filthy grin, but the fabric was halfway undone, hanging by a breath. Lo’ak kept nodding along as you scolded him, humming little acknowledgments as if paying attention, though his fingers worked with determination at the ties of your loincloth. His face held the perfect mix of innocence and mischief, the kind of expression that always made you want to smack him and kiss him at the same time. The camera hovered steadily in his right hand while his left continued its tugging at the loosened knot, each pull imperceptibly gentle until the remaining tension in the fabric gave way.
His lashes flickered as the cloth slipped free, his breath catching in a low mutter under his breath.The sound barely reached your ears, but the shift in his posture, the slight widening of his eyes, told you everything. The cool night air brushed between your thighs, kissing the newly bared heat of your cunt with a sting of cold that tore the words from your tongue. You went silent so abruptly that Lo’ak froze for half a second, savoring the moment your voice cut off because of what he had revealed.
Lo’ak angled the camera downwards in a smooth, practiced tilt, the lens capturing the soft gleam of your arousal under the bioluminescent glow. His breath left him in a low, stunned exhale. His tail twitched behind him, betraying excitement that he couldn’t hide, and his mouth curved into the slowest, filthiest smile he had ever worn.
“Oh, shit,” he murmured, his voice thick with wonder as he stared at the screen. “Look at her, bro. Look at this.” He adjusted the camera a little closer, his grin stretching wider as he focused on the slick sheen glistening between your thighs. “You’re already wet? For real? That fast?”
You made no sound. You couldn’t. The humiliation crashed into you in a wave so powerful your entire body tensed. Your hands flew up to your face in pure panic, palms pressed hard against your cheeks as if you could shield yourself from the intensity of being seen so intimately. Your ears flattened back, your breath hitched, your thighs instinctively pressed together even as Lo’ak’s fingers ghosted over your knee to gently nudge them apart again.
Lo’ak laughed, the sound bright and delighted rather than mocking. He loved your reaction, he always loved your shy streak, especially when it burst through your bravado. “Come on, don’t hide,” he coaxed, lowering himself slightly so he could see your expression even behind your hands. “You look so damn pretty right now. Like, insanely pretty. I’m not even joking.”
His voice softened with genuine affection, washing over your burning embarrassment like a steady hand soothing a trembling flame. “You’re the best mate anyone could ever pray for. I swear on every spirit in this forest.” His tail curled around your calf again.
He lifted the camera with care, adjusting the angle so your face and body both came into view. His smile gentled, almost shy despite the boldness of everything he was doing. “Let me see you,” he whispered, a coax full of wonder that eclipsed the teasing from moments before.
Your fingers trembled against your face, your heart pounding so loudly you could feel it echo through your ribs. Lo’ak watched your hesitation with a patient fondness, his free hand resting lightly on your thigh, tracing slow circles with his thumb to soothe the nerves he knew were spiraling through you.
Lo’ak leaned in until his forehead nearly met your temple. His voice dropped into a tone low enough to ripple across your skin. “Hey,” he murmured, coaxing, warm. “You’re okay. I got you.” He pressed a slow kiss just below your ear, letting his breath linger.
Your thighs squeezed around him without conscious thought, clamping down on the tension that broke through you with electric force. The reaction pulled a quiet, smug hum from him, like he had been waiting for that exact moment. His thumb stopped its circles and pressed lightly into the soft skin of your inner thigh, encouraging you to part your legs again.
“Easy,” he whispered, the sound threaded with delight.
His hand drifted closer. When his fingers reached the slick heat between your thighs, his breath hitched in his chest. His middle finger slid through the wetness leaking from you, gathering it in slow strokes that sent tremors racing through your belly. His thumb grazed the top of your slit deliberately, dragging your arousal up and coating your trembling folds with a warm, teasing glide.
A broken whine escaped you before you could stop it, high and needy, your palms pressing harder over your face.
“Stop being mean,” you whispered, your voice cracking under the strain of embarrassment and pleasure twisting together. “It is already bad enough you are recording me.”
Lo’ak grinned against your cheek, the shape of it smug and thrilled. He tilted the camera slightly for a better angle, the low hum of the device adding a subtle vibration to the air between you. “Oh it’s bad, huh?” he mocked lightly, lowering his voice in a dramatic imitation. “Lo’ak, stop being meaaaan, Lo’ak, don’t tease meee.”
Your whole body tensed as mortification shot through you. “Shut up,” you hissed, but your voice lacked bite, softened by the wet friction of his fingers still gliding lazily along your slit.
His laughter came gently, almost musical, rich with affection even through the teasing. The sound brushed over your skin like a warm hand, relaxing your muscles just enough to let him nudge his fingers lower. His middle finger slipped between your folds, sinking into the welcoming heat in one smooth push.
Your breath fractured instantly.
Lo’ak stilled for a heartbeat, savoring the shock written across your body. His gaze dropped to the place where his hand disappeared between your thighs, his pupils dilating even further at the sight of how easily you took him in. The warmth around his finger tightened, drawing another quiet curse from him under his breath.
“Holy shit,” he whispered, awe threading through each word. “You’re gripping me like you’ve been waiting all night.”
Another involuntary sound tore out of you, your hands clamping harder over your face. Every nerve in your core pulsed around his finger. The hammock swayed beneath the two of you, reacting to the sudden shift of your hips as your body instinctively pushed deeper onto him.
Lo’ak drew in a sharp breath, the sound sharp with delight. “Ohh, that surprised you, didn’t it?” he murmured, his tone dripping with smug warmth.
His finger withdrew halfway only to slide back in again with a smooth stroke that sent your head tipping back against the hammock’s woven curve. The slow glide of him pulling out and pressing back in claimed your breath in an uneven rhythm, every movement carefully controlled, savoring your reactions.
He curled the finger just enough to drag across the tender spot inside you, testing, feeling how your walls fluttered desperately around him.
Your hips jolted, a gasp escaping despite your attempts to swallow it.
Lo’ak’s grin grew sharper. His voice dropped to a husky whisper that vibrated against your skin. “Yeah,” he breathed, kissing your cheekbone lazily. “There you go. That’s it.”
His thumb pressed lightly against your clit, resting with enough pressure to make your thighs twitch.
“You’re doing so good for the camera,” he added in a low purr, eyes half-lidded with desire and pride as he watched your trembling under his touch.
His finger pushed deeper, curling again.
Your body arched, breath catching in your throat.
Lo’ak’s next laugh came softer, the warmth in it wrapping around your heart even as the pleasure pulsed harder between your thighs. Your attempts to hold your voice back failed completely. The moans slipped out, trembling through your lips as your hips twitched toward his hand. Lo’ak’s entire face lit up with boyish triumph, teeth flashing in a grin you could feel even without looking at him.
“Ohhh, there she is,” he murmured, angling the camera down so the lens focused on your glistening cunt. “That’s you, baby. That’s all you.” His voice dropped into that husky register that always gave away how overwhelmed he truly was, even when he tried to play it cool.
Your walls clenched around his finger, and Lo’ak’s ears twitched up at the same instant his grin widened. He pushed a second finger inside you with a slow, deliberate twist of his wrist, fitting them together and pressing forward until your thighs jerked around him. His breath left him in a shaky curse. “Damn, you’re tight—Eywa, how do you do that?”
The stretch made your breath tumble out in a ragged moan that spilled out far louder than you meant. Heat stained your cheeks, but you couldn’t form the words to tell him to stop. Your voice fractured before it left your mouth. Your chest rose in sharp, uneven rhythm as he curled both fingers upward, seeking the sensitive spot inside you with instinct that surprised even himself.
Lo’ak looked down at your face briefly before returning the camera to your cunt. His expression carried a fierce kind of awe, the kind a young warrior might wear while gazing at a legendary creature he thought he’d never get close to. “Bro, you’re losing it,” he muttered, stunned and delighted. “Look how you’re sucking me in.”
Your inner muscles fluttered around him again, your thighs tightening around his hips. The tension in your belly coiled sharp and fast. He felt it immediately—your clench, your shaky breath, the desperate tilt of your hips.
“Ohh, you’re close,” he breathed, leaning nearer, his braids slipping over his shoulder. “I feel it. C’mon.”
Your hand flew toward his wrist weakly, not to push him away but to ground yourself, to keep from floating apart. He took that as encouragement and sped up, fingers plunging faster with wet, rhythmic strokes. Your whines sharpened into gasps as he curled his fingers repeatedly, rubbing that spot inside you that made your entire back arch away from the hammock.
“Lo’ak—slow—” you managed, though the plea dissolved into a cry when his thumb finally pressed into your clit, rubbing in tight, dizzying circles that shattered the last of your composure.
“Nope,” he whispered with a grin so smug it bordered on sinful. “Not slowing down now. You’re right there.”
Your climax slammed into you so hard you couldn’t even warn him. Your thighs clamped around his hips in a desperate, shaking squeeze, trapping him exactly where he was as your body convulsed around his fingers. Heat exploded outward from your core, pulling your breath into sharp, staggering gasps that broke into helpless whimpers. Your vision blurred as spasms pulsed through you, curling your spine as the pleasure wrecked through your entire body.
Lo’ak’s breath caught in a stunned, reverent inhale as your cunt tightened rhythmically around his fingers, squeezing him with waves of heat and slick. “Oh shit—look at that,” he whispered, voice cracking with unfiltered awe.
The embarrassment surged so violently through your body that you squeezed your thighs tighter around him, hiding your face behind your forearm as heat flooded up your neck. Your ears flattened entirely as another involuntary whine escaped against your arm.
Lo’ak laughed quietly, a breathless, affectionate sound, still grinning like he couldn’t believe what he was witnessing. His fingers stayed inside you, slowing just enough to help you ride the aftershocks. His free hand rubbed your trembling thigh with the kind of tenderness that made your chest ache.
“Baby,” he murmured, leaning closer while still filming you, “that was insane. You’re insane. You just—” He shook his head, still dazzled. “Best view I’ve ever seen in my life.”
He kissed your knee softly, still guiding you through the fading tremors of your orgasm. His fingers slipped free from your body with a final, tender stroke that left a trembling afterglow in its wake. When he lifted his head, he froze for a moment, realizing you were staring at him—trying to process how brazen he’d become tonight.
The expression on your face made his ears flick back for a moment before they perked again with shy pride. Lo’ak leaned up on his elbows, sliding closer, and captured your mouth in a kiss that still carried the taste of your moans. The kiss was warm, breathless, messy at the edges because he couldn’t stop smiling into it. His lips curved against yours with every soft press, and his grip on the camera wobbled once, almost slipping from his hand before he caught it with a quiet huff of laughter against your mouth.
Your thoughts darted in too many directions at once—embarrassment, heat, affection, disbelief—a dizzy spiral that left you barely aware of how he moved between your thighs. Your hips shifted with each kiss, and only when the subtle pressure against your core grew firmer did you realize what he was doing.
His hips were rolling, needy and impatient, rutting into the space between your thighs with desperation he wasn’t even trying to hide anymore. His cock was hard, pressed against your inner thigh, leaving faint trails of slick where he thrust against you. His breath stuttered through his nose each time he rocked forward.
You broke the kiss to breathe, your lips damp and swollen. The words came out small, barely there, threaded with shyness you couldn’t swallow back. “... are you going to stop recording?”
Lo’ak looked down at you with the deepest pout you had ever seen him make, ears drooping, tail flicking in a frustrated thump. His brows pulled together, and for a second he looked genuinely heartbroken by the idea.
“What? Nooo,” he groaned dramatically, lowering the camera a little but still keeping it angled at your bodies. “C’mon, baby, don’t do that to me. I wanna fuck you on camera.” His voice cracked on the want, raw at the edges, full of an excitement he couldn’t mask even if he tried. He inched closer, nudging your legs open with his knee. “Please,” he whispered, tilting his head in that stupidly persuasive way that always made your stomach twist. “Please?
He leaned down further, brushing his nose against your cheek, whining with impatience. “You look unreal right now. I’m dying over here.”
You glared weakly at him, though the heat blooming up your neck gave you away. “What has gotten into you?” You muttered, narrowing your eyes. “This sky people technology has poisoned your brain.”
Lo’ak grinned instantly, victory flashing bright in his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, blame the tech,” he said, kissing your jaw, your cheek, the corner of your mouth.
You swallowed, breath shaking, every nerve still tender from the orgasm he’d pulled from you. Your thighs parted for him without thinking, your hips lifting just slightly as if your body made the choice before you did.
“Fine,” you whispered.
Lo’ak’s whole body reacted; ears shooting up, breath catching, tail curling behind him in one delighted loop. His smile stretched triumphant and adoring all at once.
“Eywa… thank you,” he breathed, lowering himself between your thighs with the camera following his movements like a second pair of hungry eyes. You let out a small huff of laughter at how intense he looked.
Lo’ak shifted his weight and brought one hand to the knot of his loincloth. He kept the camera angled on your pussy with the other, holding it steady despite the tremor in his fingers. His breath came shallow and uneven as he fumbled with the ties.
The moment the strip of cloth fell away from his hips, your breath hitched.
He was so hard it almost hurt to look at him directly—thick, flushed, the deep stretch of him framed by the glow of his skin. His tanhì (bioluminescent freckles) dotted his length like tiny stars spilled over firm tendon, traveling all the way up to the head, where the same soft pink that tipped his nose bloomed across the swollen ridge. The contrast was mesmerizing. The visual made heat unfurl sharply in your belly.
Your jealousy came fierce and silent—jealousy at how beautiful he was, jealousy at the fact that even his arousal glowed, jealousy that no one else would ever get to see him like this. He was beautiful in a way that didn’t make sense, beautiful in a way that made your chest tighten.
A bead of bioluminescent pre gathered at his tip, shimmering bright and blue-white before slipping downward in a slow trail. Lo’ak hissed through his teeth at the sensation, eyes fluttering closed for a breath before he guided himself with a shaking hand. The glow smeared across your folds when he pressed the head of his cock against your entrance.
Your toes curled instantly, gripping the hammock’s weave as a high, thin whine escaped you. The heat of him against your slit made your back arch off the hammock, your thighs tensing around his hips. The slick head nudged up along your folds, spreading your arousal in a warm, dizzying stroke that made your stomach clench sharply.
Lo’ak’s entire face burned a deep, dark violet. The blush spread across his cheeks, down his neck, even coloring the tips of his ears. He looked almost embarrassed at how overwhelmed he was, but his eyes never left the place where his cock slid through your slick. His breath stuttered, soft whimpers slipping through his lips each time he passed over your clit.
“Fuck,” he whispered, voice cracking into a shaky, reverent sound. “Holy shit, gonna… gonna lose it just from this.” His hand trembled around the camera, the image wobbling for a moment before he forced himself to steady it.
His breath hitched again when your hips lifted in a weak, needy jerk, your body seeking him on instinct. The smear of warmth across your folds made your head tip back, your moan spilling out helplessly. Your thighs tightened, trembling around his hips, urging him without words.
Lo’ak’s hips bucked forward in a reflexive grind, the head of his cock sliding along your slick folds in one long, trembling stroke that had both of you gasping.
He sounded undone—soft whimpers, low huffs, tiny curses under his breath. His voice wavered every time he pushed forward, and the hand holding the camera shook openly now, each tremor syncing with the roll of his hips.
“I can’t—” he panted, eyes blown wide and wild,
Your breath shuddered in response, your thighs clamping reflexively around his hips again. The feeling of his cock dragging through your folds, the glow of his body lighting the hammock, the desperate sounds falling out of him—it all melted together into a heat so overwhelming you couldn’t even form a coherent word.
You tried anyway, tried to force anything out of your throat, but another moan broke across your tongue before speech could form. Your body betrayed you over and over, answering him with tremors and soft cries.
Lo’ak’s gaze flicked up for a single heartbeat, catching sight of your flushed cheeks, your parted lips, the way your chest rose and fell in rapid little bursts. His jaw slackened with unfiltered awe.
“You’re… fuck, you’re beautiful,” he groaned, rutting against you again. “Every single part of you…”
His voice cracked as the head of his cock slid over your clit again. The sensation jolted through your belly, sharp and warm, and you pouted instinctively, your ankle knocking against his hip in a weak reprimand. Your voice came out breathy and frustrated, the sound slipping from you before you could tame it. “Lo’ak, stop teasing me,” you whispered, the tremble in your tone exposing how much you needed him.
He lifted his gaze immediately, meeting your eyes with a spark that crinkled at the corners. Mischief bloomed across his expression, bright and unbearably smug, his ears twitching up in victory. “Ohhh, stop teasing me,” he echoed in a high, mocking tone that barely resembled you, deliberately exaggerating every syllable. “Lo’ak, you’re soooo mean—”
The way he pitched his voice made your cheeks burn hotter. You refused to let him get the last word. Your brows pulled together as you took a quick breath and threw it right back at him, mimicking his breathy moans with brutal accuracy. “Ohh, look at her—shit—she’s soaking me—oh nooo,” you mocked, hitting the exact shaky whimper he’d made earlier.
His ears shot up in shock before his entire face cracked into a laugh that shook his shoulders. The sound was unguarded and warm, rich with affection rather than embarrassment. “Alright, alright—okay, you got me,” he chuckled, biting the inside of his cheek to control his grin. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”
He refocused on the camera, that giddy concentration returning as he adjusted the angle to capture the place where your bodies met. His free hand moved down to his cock, guiding himself forward until the swollen head rested against your entrance. The weight of him pressed warmly against your slick folds, forcing a moan to spill from your lips. Your back arched slightly at the pressure, your thighs trembling as your body leaned into the touch without hesitation.
Lo’ak sucked in a quiet breath at the sight, his pupils blown wide as he watched through the lens. His voice dropped into a low murmur, not really speaking to you, more to himself, as if the camera was witnessing a miracle he needed to narrate. “Holy shit… look at that. She’s just… she’s right there. So ready for me.” The awe in his tone made your pulse stumble, your heat spiraling tighter around the anticipation.
His cock remained resting against your entrance, heavy and throbbing, the tip nudging gently into the slick dip but not pushing in. Every subtle rock of his hips made your cunt pulse harder, your breath hitching with every small shift. Lo’ak could feel the impatience in the way your thighs twitched, the way your voice trembled at every tiny movement, the way your hand gripped the hammock in a white-knuckled hold.
He grinned at the sight, a quiet, pleased rumble rising from his chest. “C’mon, baby,” he whispered to the lens, though his gaze flicked briefly to your flushed face. “You need it so bad. I can feel how you’re pulling me in already.”
Your hips lifted with a jerk, instinct overriding embarrassment. You tried to speak, but your voice dissolved into another weak moan as he dragged the head of his cock down through your slick folds again. The camera caught the way your arousal clung to him, glowing faintly as he spread you open.
Lo’ak’s breath broke, a soft choking whimper puncturing the quiet space between you. His hand shook as he positioned himself again, the two of you framed perfectly in the swaying hammock.
“You want it?” he whispered, but it wasn’t a question—it was a confirmation of what he already felt from your body.
His hips lowered.
His cock pushed forward.
The head breached you in one slow, trembling press, sinking past the tight initial resistance until the heat of your body enveloped him. The angle of the camera caught everything; the stretch, the shine, the way your walls parted around him—and Lo’ak groaned loudly at the sight, his entire body shuddering as he slid deeper.
“Eywa—fuck—” he breathed, eyes glued to the screen, staring at the moment he entered you as though he wanted to carve it into memory.
Your moan broke into the air, high and breathless, your entire form curling inward around the pleasure. Your thighs trembled around his hips, your toes digging into the hammock’s weave. The fullness overwhelmed you instantly, stretching you in a way that made heat bloom through your belly like fire rising too quickly to contain.
Lo’ak’s voice trembled with awe. “… you’re swallowing me whole.” His hips pushed forward again, sinking deeper with a slow, hungry control that left both of you trembling.
His gaze flickered between your face and the camera, torn in a way that made his breathing falter. He watched your expression twist with pleasure, then looked down through the lens to see himself sinking into you. The contrast pushed a soft, cracked moan out of him, trembling through his chest and brushing against your skin.
You whined, the plea slipping out before you could hold it back. “More… please.” Your thighs trembled around his hips, your body arching up as if hoping the hammock itself would lift you closer.
The sound shattered whatever patience Lo’ak had left.
He pushed deeper in one slow, consuming glide, driving himself into the very center of your heat until his hips pressed snugly against yours. The full stretch stole the air from your lungs. Both of you moaned, the hammock swaying violently for a heartbeat before settling beneath the weight of your joined bodies.
Lo’ak’s free hand clamped onto your thigh, fingers digging into the plush curve as if he needed to hold something solid to keep from losing control. His chest rose and fell in heavy breaths, each one shakier than the last. The camera trembled in his other hand, catching the image of your cunt stretched around him, glowing with slick and faint bioluminescence.
You couldn’t find words. The fullness, the stretch, the heat—it all swallowed your thoughts. You could only react, your body pulling him deeper with involuntary pulses. Lo’ak felt every squeeze, and he groaned, rolling his hips back before pushing forward again.
His thrusts started slow and savoring. Each movement pressed a little deeper, dragged a little longer, coaxed another ragged sound from your throat. You knew your moans must have been loud, reverberating against the woven canopy walls and echoing in the camera’s mic. Embarrassment flickered inside you, but Lo’ak only breathed harder, his praise spilling into the air like worship.
“Sounds perfect,” he murmured, his voice wrecked. “Keep making them. Don’t hold back.”
His free hand moved upward, sliding from your thigh to your waist and up to your breasts. He cupped them with greedy affection, thumbs flicking softly across your nipples. Your back arched, pushing into his touch, your breath stuttering as he squeezed just enough to make your nerves spark.
Lo’ak adjusted the camera again, this time angling it toward your chest. His grin grew crooked and starstruck, his pupils blown wide as he watched your breasts bounce with each steady thrust of his hips. He lingered there, drinking in the sight through the screen.
He dragged the lens upward, focusing on your face. “Smile,” he teased, voice thick with heat. “Come on, give me one. Please?”
You glared at him with all the strength you could muster, your lips parted in panting breaths, your blush deepening. The glare softened under the weight of his gaze—he looked so in love it almost hurt. You felt your expression crumble into a tiny, shy smile, barely more than a twitch of your lips.
Lo’ak lost it for a moment. His whole face flushed, ears twitching wildly, pupils practically swallowing the gold in his eyes. His hips jerked forward in a sudden, needy thrust he didn’t plan. “Oh—fuck, you’re gonna make me blow just from that,” he groaned, breath staggering, voice cracking into a helpless whine.
Your walls clenched at the sound, your head tipping back into the hammock as pleasure flooded through you in a dizzy rush. His groans, his trembling hands, the glow of his skin leaning over you—it all hit at once. A sharp, overwhelming wave crashed through your core, pulling the climax out of you too fast to brace for it.
Your thighs squeezed around him so tightly he gasped, your voice breaking in a cry that shook through your whole body. The pleasure ripped through you in fierce pulses, your walls fluttering around his cock, milking him in rhythmic waves you couldn’t control.
Lo’ak’s breath punched out of him, a strangled sound of disbelief and hunger. His hips faltered but didn’t stop; he kept chasing his own release through your aftershocks, eyes half-rolled, mouth hanging open in stunned devotion. He leaned closer, camera still held above you, capturing every tremor, every pulse, every glow of your skin as you came undone beneath him.
“That’s it…” he breathed, voice breaking as he thrust into the tight clutch of your orgasm. “Don’t get embarrassed—you look perfect. Keep holding me like that ma muntxate.”
His pace grew desperate, less controlled, each thrust driven by instinct and the growing quake in his voice as he chased his own climax with a low, needy whine building in his chest. Every push of his hips carried a trembling urgency that told you he was seconds away from coming apart. His breath fanned over your lips in shallow bursts, growing more uneven with each thrust.
You could tell how close he was; the tension in his thighs, the strain in his voice, the way he clutched your hip as if anchoring himself. Your body moved before thought caught up. You lifted yourself shakily onto your elbows, your muscles still trembling from the fading waves of your orgasm, and leaned up to meet him. Your hands cupped his jaw, thumbs brushing his flushed cheeks as you pulled him into a kiss.
The moment your lips touched his, Lo’ak gasped softly into your mouth, completely caught off guard. His breath faltered, hips jerking as he lost his rhythm for a heartbeat. That split-second of surprise melted instantly. His hands slid to your waist, fingers digging into the warm curve of it as he kissed you back with an intensity that nearly unbalanced him. His moan spilled directly into your mouth, broken and loud, his whole body tightening as your kiss pushed him over the edge.
He came with a shuddering thrust, burying himself deep inside you as his release rushed out in thick, hot pulses. His moans vibrated against your lips, growing softer, more breathless, turning into little stuttered sounds he couldn’t hold back. His hips twitched helplessly as he emptied into you, filling you so completely you felt the warmth bloom deep inside, spreading with each small after-spasm of his cock.
Lo’ak broke away from the kiss with a sharp inhale, his pupils blown and glazed with pleasure. His forehead dropped to your shoulder with a thud, breath hot and shaky against your neck. He nuzzled into your skin, kissing wherever his lips landed, weak and bliss-drunk, before collapsing fully onto you in the cradle of the hammock. His chest pressed against yours, still rising and falling too fast, the weight of him grounding you in a way that made your heart stutter.
The warmth between your thighs shifted, and you felt the slow trickle of his release sliding out of you, leaking down onto the hammock’s woven fibers. It was unmistakable—thick, hot, far too much for your body to hold in place after such a deep thrust.
The realization hit all at once.
He gave you a creampie.
Your breath jolted, and a shudder ran through your whole body. You stared at the canopy above in disbelief before swatting at his back with a mortified groan. “Gross, dude,” you blurted loudly, voice cracking as the embarrassment surged through you. “Seriously? Lo’ak—ugh—”
He chuckled instantly, breath puffing against your neck as he lifted his head just enough to laugh directly against your skin. His tail thumped lazily behind him, full of post-orgasm satisfaction. “Bro, relax,” he mumbled, pressing a warm, sleepy kiss into the crook of your neck. “You’re fine. You loved it.”
You hit his shoulder again in weak protest, face burning, but he only laughed harder, wrapping his arm tighter around your waist as if you could slip away. His movements were sluggish with exhaustion, but he still reached blindly for the camera, lifting it with a shaky hand to angle it toward the two of you.
The lens framed your flushed face and his messy grin pressed against your cheek. He tilted the camera slightly, lowering his head to pepper soft, lingering kisses across your jaw, your cheekbone, the corner of your mouth.
You squealed at the damp tickle of his breath, your hands shooting up to push at his face. Your palms met the heat of his cheeks, sticky with sweat, and you groaned loudly in mortification. “Stop, we’re all gross and sweaty.”
He hummed against your cheek, lips still brushing your skin. “Don’t care,” he said simply, as if it were the most obvious truth in the world. His voice carried the lazy slur of satisfaction, deep and warm. “You taste good right now.” Another kiss landed below your ear, this one slower, your name murmured into your skin like it was something he could only speak while touching you.
You pushed at him again, palms smushing his face sideways, but it only made him laugh. He tilted his head back toward you and kept kissing whatever part of you he could reach—your temple, your cheek, the corner of your nose—all while holding the camera steady with ridiculous determination.
“Lo’ak,” you hissed, mortified and breathless, “turn off the camera, freak.”
He paused just long enough to pull back and give you a wide-eyed look that was equal parts wounded and mischievous. His ears perked forward, his smile growing crooked and undeniably smug. “What? Right now?” His gaze flicked down to the screen again, watching the two of you tangled together. “No way. I’m keeping this forever.”
You opened your mouth to argue, but he leaned in and kissed you again, cutting off the words with a soft, maddening brush of his lips. He pulled back just enough to speak against your mouth, smiling so hard you could feel it. “You think this is the last time I’m gonna record us?”
Your stomach tightened, heat exploding across your cheeks.
He grinned brighter, eyes half-lidded and glowing with affection and trouble. “No chance,” he murmured, voice low and certain. “I’m doing this again. A lot.” He kissed the tip of your nose, still smiling. “You’re way too pretty not to.”
Morning light sifted through the lab windows in long, bright stripes, casting a cool glow over the scattered tech across the counter. The room hummed with the low drone of machinery and the faint, rhythmic tapping of Jake fingers against the frame of Norm’s old camera. He squinted down at the device, brows drawn tightly together, mumbling under his breath as he flicked through the interface with the baffled patience of someone who refused to admit he didn’t fully understand human tech.
“C’mon…” Jake muttered, tapping the screen again. “Norm said these were the festival shots… where the hell did they go?”
Lo’ak froze in the doorway.
His stomach dropped so violently he swayed. His ears flattened instantly, tail bristling up behind him like it had a mind of its own. A slow, creeping dread crawled down his spine, heavier with each step he took toward the sight of his dad fiddling with the very device he had sworn he would keep hidden at sunrise.
“Hey, uh… hey, Dad,” Lo’ak stammered, voice cracking embarrassingly. “What’re—what’re you doing with my camera?”
Jake didn’t look up. “Looking for the pictures of your Mom at the festival,” he said casually, still tapping the screen. “She wanted them for the family book. Figured I’d get them off here before you lose the damn thing in the woods.”
Lo’ak’s heart stopped. He stepped forward so fast he tripped over his own foot, catching himself on the counter. “No—no, it’s fine, I got it,” he blurted, reaching out with a shaking hand. “Seriously, Dad, I’ll find them. Just give me—just—here, I can—”
Jake held the camera just out of reach with a single, effortless shift of his arm, still scrolling. “Relax, kid. I’m not deleting anything.”
Lo’ak’s vision tunneled. “No no no okay but just—seriously—Dad—give it—”
A soft chirp came from the speaker.
Jake froze.
Lo’ak froze harder.
The camera automatically opened the last played file.
A video.
Jake blinked. Once. Twice. His brows lifted slowly as the audio filled the lab—breathy moans, the creak of a hammock, Lo’ak’s unmistakable voice whispering, “Look at her, bro…”
The color drained from Lo’ak’s face so fast it could’ve been a medical emergency.
Jake stared at the screen for a full two seconds—long enough to process the tangled limbs, the angle, the sounds.
His jaw dropped open.
“Oh—Jesus.” Jake nearly dropped the camera as he jerked his hand away from it like it had burned him. His entire expression locked between horror and disbelief. “Lo’ak—please tell me this is—please tell me I’m not seeing—”
Lo’ak’s soul left his body.
“DAD STOP LOOKING—!” he shouted, lunging across the counter in pure panic as he slapped both hands over the screen.
Jake stumbled back a step, hands up like he’d just witnessed a live grenade explode at his feet.
“WHAT—” he barked, voice cracking upward into a pitch Lo’ak had never heard. “WHAT THE HELL, SON?! HOW DO YOU EVEN KNOW WHAT A SEX TAPE IS?”
i thought it would be funny for lo'ak to say "say cheese" but does he even know what cheese is?
even the Devil needs time alone sometimes @finnsstyles - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
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