callout posts in 2014: this user is sending mean messages to people! please be warned!
callout posts in 2015: this user is stealing bones from cemeteries for witch rituals!
callout posts in 2016: this user Actually A Nazi
callout posts in 2017: this user watches an anime I don’t like
callout posts in 2018: i went through this user’s youtube like history and found a video from JonTron that they liked in 2012, proving that they’re a bad person
callout posts in 2019: this user plays E-Rated Video Games, which are meant for children, which seems pretty sus to me idk :/
callout posts in 2020: this user stole 5 gallons of purified water from the New DC Resistance Camp and was last seen headed towards Sunken Brooklyn
Synopsis: You're childhood best friends with Satoru Gojo, who you've been avoiding ever since he got into a motorcycle accident. When your mutual friends force you to go to his birthday party, feelings arise, and clothes come off!
Pairing: Gojo x Reader
Content (MDNI): Biker!gojo, Scar!jo, childhood friends to lovers, gojo did almost die in a motorcycle accident, physical rehab, reader mentions being afraid to see gojo's lifeless body, but he's not dead, gojo is battered up (scar!jo), pwp if you squint for the first five hundred words, body worship, they're both pervs hk, p worshiping, p slapping, slight marathon if you also squint, idiots in love, filthy and i mean filthy dirty talk, fingering, creampies, man-handling...i think that's it
Word count: 10.2k...i got carried away. sue me.
A/N: I haven't published fan fiction in YEARS, mind you, but this one TikTok that talked about Scar!Jo being Biker!Jo, after an accident, and i just had to write it.
It was rare for you to hate anything. It was even rarer for you to hate anything related to your friends. You strongly disliked the way Toji would kick his feet up on your coffee table whenever he was over. You were agitated by how nitpicky Geto was whenever everyone went out to eat. You were irritated by the loud scream Yuji and Choso let out after they splashed you with water at Nanami’s last summer party.
You hated Gojo’s motorcycle. You downright despised the unnecessarily loud, clunky, piece of metal death machine that Gojo so happened to still proudly (stupidly) love. Your dislike for that motorcycle really started when he first showed up to your place at nine at night to pick you up for Shoko’s thirtieth birthday party. You walked for fifteen minutes out of the neighborhood before Gojo finally convinced you to get on, and you absolutely despised it. You especially detested the way your legs wobbled, both feeling so unsteady because of the motorcycle, and also from having to grip Gojo so hard that his cologne still hadn’t fully detached from your mind.
However, the biggest reason you hated that motorcycle was that it almost cost you your best friend. It’s been months since you got that call from Geto telling you Gojo was in the hospital because of a motorcycle accident. Apparently, it was pretty bad; he had been unconscious from the amount of blood he lost. Surgery was inevitable if he survived, and by Shoko’s words, it was a miracle that he did. Now every time you see a motorcycle, a pit of disgust builds inside of you, and it takes every part of your rational mind not to bash the thing apart outside of a random store. So, as is normally the case, you silently seethe throughout the day until it’s been so long you just get over it, though a motorcycle wasn’t always necessary for that to happen.
“So are we going to talk about it?” Shoko’s words confuse the hell out of you. It must be obvious the way she sighs, and Geto laughs without looking up from his phone, probably texting another girl. “Are you going to continue to sit there and pretend like you don’t know what I’m talking about?”
“So, I actually have no idea what you’re talking about?” Another bold-faced lie to two of the people you care about the most.
“Oh, c’mon, Y/N. Next week, not ringing any bells for you?” You retrace the days until you’re hit with an upcoming December 7th. Now Suguru's smugness makes sense. Instead of admitting that you know what they’re talking about, you slump back into the couch and pick the next best option— playing dumb.
“Hmmm, nope. Nothing’s coming up.” That finally pulls Geto away from his phone, and Shoko puts her unlit cigarette down, to just deadpan. Their stares linger long enough for you to finally give in with a sigh. You couldn’t ignore his existence forever. “Yeah, I know.”
“We’re throwing something for him. You should be there.” That uncomfortable pit in your stomach opened up again. It had been months since you last saw Gojo. You didn’t even see him when he was in the hospital; you couldn’t bring yourself to. Seeing him all managed up, tubes sticking out of him, face uncharacteristically unresponsive to you made you nauseous, but not seeing him all that time made seeing him now harder.
“I don’t think either of us wants to see each other, or else we would have by now.”
“You don’t want to see him for some reason, but he wants to see you.” Suguru’s words hit the dead center of your armor, stinging you a little.
“He asks about you all the time,” Shoko adds, another stinging sensation.
“It’s honestly starting to get annoying.” You can’t help but laugh at Geto’s words. If anyone was being forced to put up with Satoru, it’s Suguru. They’d been best friends for what felt like a lifetime. You’d know, you and Satoru had been friends for an actual lifetime. You remember when Suguru Geto first became friends with Satoru, after all, Satoru practically forced you two to get along. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t missed your shared obnoxious best friend.
You’d actually be doing more than lying, whatever is worse than lying. That's what you’d be doing if you said there wasn’t a Satoru-sized hole in your life.
Anyone in their right mind would miss their childhood best friend. Especially if they beat the odds against dying, but that feeling of seeing Gojo— stupidly walking around, talking, and somehow taking all the space when doing so, laughing loudly with no regard for volume—felt wrong. All you could imagine is his lifeless body on the operating table, and a bunch of words you wished you had said hanging on your lips. If you’re being honest, that’s the reason you won’t see him. You were too much of a coward to admit you were madly in love with your best friend, and after surviving, you don’t think you could hide it from him anymore.
If he didn’t feel the same, it might kill you on the spot. To know that the person you loved more than anything got the chance to live again, and you can’t be there because of something as potentially one-sided as feelings, was too much. The lump in your throat builds, and you’re blinking back tears, realizing the two other people in the room were watching you struggle.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea. He’s probably mad that I haven’t seen him, and I don’t blame him. Why would he even want me there?” Shoko sighs and turns around with a simple "whatever," but Suguru keeps his eyes on you, unmoved by your words.
“This is his first birthday after almost dying, and all he wants is to see you. I’m not saying you have to stay long, but…” His phone vibrates in his lap, a loud buzz filling the room and cutting him off, “…give the guy a proper goodbye if you’re set on not seeing him anymore. He deserves it.” With that, he hops up off the couch and answers whoever is on the other side of the phone.
You hate Suguru Geto so much. You hate how good he is at reading people and getting under their skin without all the information. However, you’re sure that he knows that you’re head over heels for his best friend. Which makes you standing inside of Satoru’s house dressed up, and almost about to pass out, even more sinister on his part. Shoko had warned you it was a surprise party, but you didn’t think sitting in Satoru’s place without him would make you feel so nauseated.
It was almost the same. The same art that you put up on his living walls still held in place, the couches you fell asleep on way too many times to count, even the busted KitchenAid mixer that Toji had gotten (stolen) from his ex (situationship) still sat on the polished marble counter—a perfect capsule of time, unmoved by the months of change in Satoru’s life.
You wondered if he had stayed the same?
“Nanami just texted me! Everyone in position!”
For those few minutes of you hiding alongside Suguru and Shoko, you felt the anxiety at its peak. Palms sweating profusely, heart about to break your ribcage, breathing rapid enough that it makes Shoko pull you towards her. Calming you down slightly enough to force a smile on your face when the lights come back on and scream surprise. For a moment, you forgot that you hadn’t seen your best friend in months until your eyes looked past his familiar white hair. His ghostly pale skin is covered in deep beige scars. They litter his body, one after the other, past his black top, and you assume the rest of his body.
That accident was written all over him. Seeing him didn’t make you as sad as you expected. It made you angry, angry at yourself for making him go through this change by himself. That anger almost completely takes you over before your eyes bounce to his— the same blue eyes that always make your breath catch. Gojo could never hide what he was thinking. The look of utter shock caught in his eyes pointed directly at you. He looked like he saw a ghost, and just as you were getting ready to say something, Haibara moved forward with his specially decorated birthday hat.
The party moved on as normal, or as normal as a party could while you’re actively dodging the host. Especially, after he stared you down whenever the group sang Happy Birthday. You managed to avoid the birthday boy at his own party. The getaway plan was even better. You’d go to the garage to grab another case of beers for everyone before saying goodbye. Fortunately for you, no one was nearby to see you sneak into the dark room. Clumsily, you look around trying to find the switch, praying you don’t accidentally open the garage door, before finding it.
Instead of your sweet ticket out of the party, you’re met with a motorcycle. Satoru’s motorcycle, specifically. In absolute pristine perfect condition. Something about seeing the motorcycle made you livid. Why the hell would he keep something like that around?
“If you were planning on never speaking to me again, I highly recommend not coming to my birthday party at my house.”
The words immediately freeze your anger into fear. Your heart drops to your feet when you turn to be met with a clearly very pissed-off Gojo. Arms crossed his broad chest, making him only look wider. Unlike most other people, Satoru's eyes get brighter when he’s angry, pissed, or irritated. Right now, two piercings, cold blue eyes stared down at you, locking you in place. You scramble for words to say, looking around for anything that could help you before you see it again, and your anger comes back.
“You still have the motorcycle?” The words come out with more bite than you mean, but right now, you really want to scream at him for being so reckless. He scoffs before laughing, almost maniacally.
“Are you kidding right now? You avoid me for months, and the first thing you have to say is some smart remark about the motorcycle? Seriously Y/N? No, how are you? No, are you okay? No, I’m sorry that I ghosted my childhood best friend during the hardest part of his life?!”
He’s right. You know he’s right. Anyone in their right mind would’ve cussed out. Screamed in your face, kicked you out of their home, and told you never to see them again. Yeah, that stupid motorcycle pissed you off, but he’s more right now.
“Gojo…”
“No! I’m not done.” He closes the door behind him. The music of the party muffled, leaving only you two truly in the moment. “You didn’t call. You didn’t text me. You didn’t let me know if you were okay. I’ve been up for months trying to get as much information about you as possible without crossing the random wall you put between us, Y/N.” He was beyond angry; he was livid.
“Gojo-“
“Do you know how awful it feels to have to learn how to walk again, all while worrying if the most important person in your life is okay? For the first person you think of when you wake up from almost dying, to not want anything to do with you?” His bright eyes start to redden with tears. Satoru was always sensitive, something you’ve always loved about him. “Every day, part of me hoped you would come through that hospital door, and every day you didn’t. My first friend, the last person I’d expect not to show up, did!”
“Gojo.”
“Why are you here now?! Why, after all this time, did you show up here? Especially if you were going to leave before I could say anything to you. If you were going to leave, haunt my fucking house and me, then you should’ve never come.” His voice cracks at the end, and that’s when he finally looks away from you. He’s right, you should’ve never come to his house or this party. You should’ve been a better friend. You should not have fallen in love with him. He was so upset with you in a way he had never been before; it felt like it was eating you alive. He shouldn’t be crying on his birthday. He should be laughing, making others laugh, annoying everyone in his general vicinity, being the Satoru Gojo you had the opportunity to fall in love with over the years.
You hadn’t even noticed your own tears building before they dropped. Throat tightening, you struggle with what to say. So you settle for the easiest option.
“I’ll leave.”
“No.” His head whips around, as if the two words startled him. “Not until you tell me why you disappeared?”
“Gojo.”
“I deserve to know why my best friend of almost three decades decided to stop talking to me for no apparent reason.” The misty-eyed stare between you is strong. Neither of you is backing down in silence for what feels like an eternity. Somewhere in between his anger and frustration, a pleading look flashes across his face. He needed the truth, and you were too scared to admit it. The words taste like bile just thinking about them. “Y/N please. You don’t have to stay. We don’t ever have to speak again. Please tell me.” The words come out so sweet, sweeter than you deserve, and it finally makes you snap.
“I couldn’t- I couldn’t look at you like that. I didn’t know how I could ever look at you as lifeless. No one wants to see the person they’re in love with barely grasping onto life. I didn’t have the courage to face you, and I couldn’t see you again without telling you that I’m in love with you. I couldn’t take it knowing I’d lose you after you got a second chance, because I can’t help but love you, Satoru. I know I’m a coward, and you deserve a much better best friend, but if you want an answer. I’m scared that knowing how I feel will make you not want to be around me, and I just can’t take that.”
You’re a mess. The makeup you had on definitely was ruined. The anxiety of the confession burns through your body, followed by the lightheadedness of the relief. If you don’t get out of here soon, you’re definitely going to pass out.
“You’re in love with me?” All you can do is nod.
“I’m so sorry-” Satoru cuts you off. More specifically, his lips are what cut you off, and it takes you a full second to register that Satoru Gojo was kissing you. When the second did register, you’re quick to follow through. Hands finding his chest, and slowly up to his hair. His lips taste like whatever fruity seltzer he’d been drinking before, but they were as soft as they always looked. Slowly, but surely, the anxious and timid kiss grew needy and feverish. Somehow, your back is pressed against the fridge, and you’re clawing at both his shirt and hair. Satoru’s no better; his hands are focused on keeping you close, but his foot kicks your legs apart enough to slot his thigh right against you. Lips locking slower and messier each time, both of you practically out of your mind.
A loud thud is what pulls you away from the rather starving man in front of you. You don’t realize how desperate you were for air until you see how heavy you’re breathing. Satoru just kissed you. You two just made out. He has you pressed against his fridge because you two were making out. Sixteen-year-old you is probably somewhere losing her mind right now.
Before you can question what that noise was, Toru is pulling your face back towards him. He’s holding himself a few inches away, close enough that if you could lean and close the gap, you would, but far enough for Satoru to keep you back.
“You love me?” The question barely comes out above a whisper. You attempt to nod, but his hand keeps your head from moving. “Uh uh. I need you to say it.” His words are quick, but soft, like he’s afraid to break the moment with his need to hear you say the four simple words, so you do.
“I love you, Satoru.” His brows scrunch together like the words almost hurt him. “Are you okay with that?”
“What do I have to do to keep you here?” Maybe it’s the blood coming back to his head, but his question catches you off guard.
“Huh?”
“What do I have to do?” he repeats, “to make sure you don’t stop loving me, Y/N?” You can’t help but laugh at how ridiculous he sounds.
“I could never stop loving you, Satoru.” His eyes finally open to meet yours. He obviously was both amused and upset by your answer.
“Just tell me anything. I need you not to leave again. It’ll kill me.”
“Gojo. That’s not funny.” You try to move back to emphasize your seriousness, but the now warm stainless steel presses back against you.
“I’m not joking. I can’t have you leave again. I’ve been waiting since the day I met you for you to tell me you feel the same. If you leave me now, I don’t think my body can withstand that. So please.” Your eyes widened.
Gojo loves you back.
He’s been waiting on you this whole time, as you had. Two idiots dancing around the fact that you both were hopelessly in love with the other. You’re so happy you could cry, and the tears do start to come, but Satoru squeezes your jaw, pulling your attention back to him.
“Tell me what I need to do to make sure you don’t leave me again.” You try to think of anything, but you keep drawing a blank, until that stupid hunk of metal shines over Satoru’s shoulder. Your entire body freezes up, and you feel that irrational anger coming back.
“Get rid of the bike. That thing almost took you from me.” He looks behind him briefly before snapping back to you.
“Deal.” Before he can open his mouth to say another word, you’re putting your lips back on his, dragging him back to you. Just like a perfect match, it feels like second nature to kiss Satoru. He knows just where to put his hand without getting into deep water. Just a row of deep, slow kisses, until you go to pull him closer and he does the same. Leaving you to grind harder than expected on his thighs, a pathetic moan tumbling out of you. Satoru breaks the kiss, bright blue eyes peering down at you in shock.
“Sorr-” His hands drag your bunched-up dress across his thigh again, forcing another breathy moan out of you.
“You sound better than I could’ve ever imagined, and I’ve imagined a lot.” He does it again, this time flexing this strong muscle, making you fall forward in a shudder.
“Tell me what you’ve imagined?”
“Oh, my god.” The heat between your thighs builds as you gleam under Satoru’s gaze and shamelessly ride his thigh. “This. Turning you on. Making out. Making you feel good.” The way his soft lips lightly trail down your neck, kissing between the confessions. It’s dirty and pulls another moan from you. Grinding down on his thigh shamelessly harder this time. “Making you cum for me, and just for me. Over and over, just like how I’m going to now.”
It’s pathetic how much you’re chasing your own orgasm, but the high of the confession is lighting every nerve in your body on fire. He smells good, he tastes good, he feels good, and he’s all yours. As if he reads your mind, he presses his thigh into you, practically lifting against the fridge.
“Tell me you love me.”
“I love you, Satoru.” You pant, eyes rolling back in your head, at a particularly rough drag. “I’m so close. Oh my-”
He snaps his thigh from you, and it practically hurts. You chase the feeling of the rough denim material, only for him to press your hips into the fridge. Pulling you into a sloppy kiss, tongues lazily meeting, almost your dying protest. You try to get his attention even though you could barely focus, by pulling his hair, but it just makes him moan unashamedly, hands squeezing at your waist. When he finally pulls away, his eyes are so low you’d think he was high if it wasn't for the obvious blush across his face or the swollen, spit-covered lips. He stares at your eyes, slowly bouncing between your lips and your eyes, questioning something.
“I was so close.”
“I know. I heard.” You’re sure your blush is now matching his. His chest shudders with anticipation. “Can I ask you a big favor?” At this point, you’re convinced you’d do anything for this man.
“Yeah.”
“I’ll get rid of the bike if you get on it.” Scratch that. You’d do anything but get on Satoru’s once highway ticket to death.
“No.”
“Y/N-”
“No! I’m not letting you take me out on a ride. I hate that stupid bike.”
“We’re not going out. I just-” His eyes avert from yours, looking up at that garage ceiling. Are his ears turning red? “-I just want you to get off on it.” A beat of silence passed, and then another. By the time the fourth passes, Satoru closes his eyes and swallows in obvious embarrassment.
“What?” How the hell does one get off on a motorcycle? Let alone one that tried to kill your best friend?
“It would be in park! You wouldn’t have to go anywhere, but here. It’s a thing I’ve had for a while, and I dunno...” He rambles on and on before he finally looks back at you with an absolutely hopeless look in his eye. Past the point of pleading, this is his entire ego on the line.
“Is it something you really want?” He nods before the sentence ends. You think long and hard about it before looking in his eyes and sighing. You’re just as hopeless as he is. “Fine, but don’t be hurt when this doesn’t end up working.” His entire body lights up with a new vigor, arms wrapping around you and lifting you easily over the bike. You knew Satoru was strong, but he lifted you like it was nothing, which shouldn’t be possible after all his body had gone through.
You’re pressed against the metal head of the bike, thanking your earlier judgment that you wore a skirt. Satoru looks like he’s about to explode from just staring at you sitting on the damn thing. He swallows hard again—it’s kinda cute. His eyes are locked on where your panty-clad cunt is meeting the cold black metal.
“Satoru?” You squirm at the intensity of his stare.
“Right, m‘sorry. You have no idea how long I’ve thought about this. I thought it would never happen.” His eyes finally look at yours, softening when he sees the worry in your eyes. “If you don’t want to do this, you don’t have to.” You mull it over for a second before letting the fear creep in.
“No. I want to do this for you.”
“Jesus, don’t say that.”
“But I do. I want to recreate every little fantasy you have about me locked away.” Satoru shuts his eyes and drags a hand down his face, bringing a cocky grin to your face. You’ve always liked teasing Toru. He shakes his head in some form of restraint before narrowing in on the start.
“If you’re uncomfortable at any point or want it to be over, you tell me, and I’ll toss the thing to the curb faster than you can blink.” He’s serious, and it is sweet enough to warm your heart and ease your nerves, but you can’t help but giggle at him. “You ready?” You give him a small nod, and the engine revs, filling up the garage.
Your question about how one gets off on a motorcycle gets answered as soon as the metal rattles against your swollen clit. Immediately, your body slumps forward.
“Oh my god-” The vibrations are so strong, you know your entire body is shaking with the bike. It feels so good. It feels even better when you lift your eyes to see Satoru staring down at you like you just set off his world. Another strong vibration has you loudly moaning. There’s no way you’re not going to cum fast. “Satoru, it's so good.”
“Yeah?” You nod, unable to say anything that’s not an incoherent mess. How you two can hear each other over the loud ass engine is a miracle you’re not going to question. This stupid motorcycle is pushing closer to an orgasm than you’ve been able to bring yourself to in months. The harsh shift of the metal against your clit is too much; you’re too sensitive, forcing you back searching for some reprieve, but Satoru is quicker. “Nuh uh. Don’t run from it, baby.”
Oh, he’s an evil son of a bitch. Hands forcing your hips to grind hard into the rapidly shaking metal, leaving you with no escape. You reach out to grab his wrist, hoping it would alleviate the pressure, but it doesn’t.
“Want you to cover it, baby. Need you soaked so I can lick you clean and give you another one. So I can get you wet all again when I sink into that pretty pussy, and make you cum all over again.”
“Wan-ahh to fuck me, Toru? Oh fuck!” He smiles and wipes the thin line of drool you have yet to notice.
“Yes. More than anything. I think I can cum from just thinking about it. I’ve gotten off more times than I can count.” If you were in a better state of mind, you’d probably ask him why, but instead all you can say is—
“I’ve gotten off you, too, Toru.” It’s rushed, and there was definitely some kind of curse word thrown in there, but it works. Satoru’s ears are burning red, and his mouth is gaped open, hands slowing their motion to a teasing rhythm. “Ngh- All the time.”
“Tell me more.” His words are just as quick as yours. “Y/N, please tell me more.” You’re trying so hard to focus on him and his words, but the way Satoru keeps pushing you into the vibrations is making you want to tip your head back and ride out the feeling that’s starting to cool in you. One of his hands holds your face, forcing you to look at him.
“I- I think about you touching me, Toru.” It’s all you can manage.
“Like how I am now?” You nod, or nod as best as you can in Satoru’s grip.
“Think about how good your hands feel when you touch me. H-oh, how- they’d feel better in me.”
“Want to know what I think about when I’ve gotten off to you?” You’re quick and eager to nod. “When we were sixteen, the first time I ever saw you in a real swimsuit, I wanted to lay you on my bed and eat you out until you were begging me to stop. I think I fucked my hand raw to the thought of it.” Your eyes widen at the confession. You’re sure there’s a huge sopping mark on the metal, from how wet you were.
“I still had braces-”
“And they were cute. You’ve never not been beautiful. There’s never been a moment when I haven’t thought you were beautiful.” What? The rush of emotions fills you, almost over-taking the lust-hazed brain you had. The tears in your eyes are becoming more out of the random sincerity, than the overwhelming pleasure between your legs.
“You think I’m beautiful?”
“Yes.” He’s quick with it. Mouth dropping right on your pulse point, and dragging his way to your ear. “Always will. Thought you were beautiful the first time I met you. I thought you were beautiful when you gave me that pity dance at prom. I thought you were beautiful at graduation. I think you’re beautiful now, riding my motorcycle in an inch of your life, and I know you’ll be beautiful when I take you upstairs and fuck you full.”
Everything is too much. His cologne, the sweetness of his words, the filth rolling off his tongue, the battering of the shaking metal against your clit. It’s no surprise when your vision starts to go white.
“S-Satoru. I’m gonna-”
“Yeah? You want that?” You’re nodding dumbly, as to be expected by now. “Baby, you’re dripping off the bike.” Were you? Oh well. “Gonna let me clean you up with my tongue before I take you inside and show you everything I’ve wanted to do to you for years?”
“Oh my god, Satoru.” Your hand flies on the bike onto one of Satoru’s forearms for leverage. Nails digging into his skin so hard that it would surely leave marks.
“I know, baby. Just say yes for me. You can do that, c’mon.”
“Yes-fuck. Yes! Please.” His face lifts from your ear, blue eyes focused on your face in just enough time to watch you fall over the edge. Eyes rolling back, mouth hanging open, surely nothing but obscenities and Satoru’s name coming out. You don’t know if you’ve ever cum this hard in your life, but it just won't stop. It’s probably embarrassing how pathetic you look on Satoru’s bike, the same bike that you hated for so long. That now you probably hate just a little bit less.
By the time you’re coming down, the motorcycle is off, and Satoru is peppering sweet kisses up the side of your neck. The sweetest of words leave him that are barely being comprehended. His face finally comes into view again, albeit a little hazy.
“You did great, baby.” That signature Satoru smile was there again, pointed at you. It felt great, almost better than that insanely strong orgasm you just had. You hadn’t realized just how desperately you needed a Satoru Gojo smile aimed at you until you finally got it again. The music inside the house cuts through the moment.
“Satoru, the party-” His hands leave your face, swinging your body towards him before he drops to his knees.
“It can wait.”
“Satoru-”
“I distinctly remember someone telling me I have a mess to attend to, and from the looks of it, I got a lot to clean up.” Curse Satoru and his height. There’s no way any normal man could get on his knees and still be taller than his bike, but Satoru Gojo has never been normal. His slow kisses up your still quivering thighs make you also want to forget the party. Hell, if you could make everyone in this house disappear right now, you would.
“Everyone is inside.” He leans in closer, with another sloppy kiss.
“I’m aware.” His breath tickles the inside of your sensitive thighs.
“Everyone wants to celebrate you.”
“They’ll want to celebrate me later.”
“Satoru, it's your birthday.” You hate the way your voice wavers.
“I’ll have other birthdays, but since it’s my birthday, why don’t you let me have my gift?”
“Be serious.” Satoru’s eyes flicker up to yours, a look so stern it snatches the air out of you. He is being serious.
“If you don’t want to do this, I will walk away right now, happily. I’d never make you do something or do something to you that you don’t want, but I’m not leaving unless you and you alone don’t want me.” The intensity in his voice makes a shiver go down your spine. “Because right now, Y/N, I couldn’t care less about this damn birthday party.”
That throb in your heart gets mistranslated somewhere down in the pussy, because you’re practically inching your lower half closer to Satoru’s face, forcing him to be face to face with your soaked panties.
“Fuck, you’re soaked.” Satoru’s eyes glistened over as he'd just seen something amazing. Before you can say anything, he pulls your legs closer and further apart before slotting his face right against your core and taking a deep inhale. Only to let out the most pathetic moan ever. “And you smell so good. Wonder if you taste just as good?”
You practically jolt at the long drag of Satoru’s tongue against your covered pussy. The sensation was almost too much; you’re still so sensitive from your orgasm from just a few minutes prior. Here he was eating you out through your panties like a madman.
“T-Toru!” Your body tenses at the unabashed groan he lets out, against you. When his mouth latches against your clit, sucking the sensitive bud, you damn near scream his name out. Your hands find their way into his messy white locks, tugging harder than you meant to.
“Haa— do it again.” Oh, Satoru was overly freaked out. His sharp nose catches your clit perfectly, long tongue stuffing itself into your core through the cloth, sure enough, your hands are pulling Satoru’s pale hair again, earning yourself a pathetic moan from him.
“T-Toru, are you, shit- gonna take them off?” Without a word, he yanks them down like he’s crazy. The fanning of hot breath against your core makes you twitch. He pulls away slightly enough before dragging two fingers through you; the loud pop of your wetness is almost deafening against the muffled music. You watch him gather your sex all down his fingers, watching your previous orgasm damn near run down his wrist before he drags his eyes to yours, and puts the fingers in his mouth.
Your jaw unhinges at the sight. Satoru Gojo is lapping at his fingers, greedily sucking and making out with them. Pale skin flushed, eyes so hazed over they could be mistaken for black, moaning like a porn star over the taste of your pussy. His other free hand comes down to palm himself over the jeans that seem way too tight for him, eyes rolling back. It was almost like he was alone, but it was you he was tasting. It was downright pornographic and depraved, and it was severely turning you on. Your body is turning into a furnace from how hot the scene made you.
This would be an image that would stick with you forever.
“Fuck you taste perfect. You are perfect.” Is he…pussy drunk?
“Satoru…are you okay?”
“Yes.” He pops the digits out of his mouth. “Gonna be better after I eat this pussy, and get her all ready and stretched for me.” Satoru’s mouth is back on you before you can do anything. If his hands hadn’t already locked your legs back into place, you surely would’ve fallen off the bike.
Satoru was starved. Lewd slurps fill the air enough to make your ears hot in embarrassment and pleasure. Satoru could’ve sworn he was in heaven.
That he ever actually got out of that hospital bed, and died right there on the table, but the very real sounds of your pretty moans, the feeling of your twitching legs around his head, the addictive taste of your wet cunt, it was all too real to be fake. So much better than all the filthy fantasies he had stored in his head for years. If the perfect rough drag of his scarred lips right before they latch to your clif again didn’t get you, then the feeling of his fingers pressing against your opening will.
“Toru, I’m s-so sensitive.” If he heard you, he didn’t say anything, instead letting out a high-pitched, muffled moan against your core that has you shutting your eyes. When those pretty fingers you’d always wished were in you instead of yours were, it takes everything in you not to ride them, as the work past the ring of muscle, stretching you so good.
Satoru is so close to cumming his pants. You’re just as fucking warm and wet as he knew you’d be, and it’s driving him insane. Well, he’d already gone insane when he watched you cum on his bike, eyes rolling back with his name on your swollen lips. If he were any less of a man, he would’ve gotten it on camera and watched it over and over again, have it etched into every part of his body until his wrist snapped in half, every fleshlight he owned was battered, and his dick fell off.
Squelch.
Squelch.
Squelch.
You had the nosiest fucking pussy, and it was making him weaker with every push of his fingers that you cunt greedily swallowed.
“Satoru, you eat it so good.” Had you even meant to say that? No, but Satoru was both so happy and angry when you said that. Happy because you couldn’t keep yourself together enough to keep those inside thoughts inside. He was eating it good; he had been practicing for this day since he found a stray thong you accidentally left at his dorm years ago. He put it on a Fleshlight and taught himself how to eat your pussy. Making his jaw ache until he knew that he’d have you crying out for him to stop because it was too good. Almost cumming in his pants the first fifteen times.
Now that’s why Satoru’s angry. All those fantasies don’t live up to the real thing. He could only imagine what you would say to him in those moments, but you’re here in real life, saying all the dirtiest words he could’ve prayed for. He knew how not to cum in his pants when practicing, but the real thing, oh, it was too much. Which is why he practically sobs into your soaked core, mouth, and fingers, desperately picking up speed to hide the way his hips pathetically fucked up into the tip of dangling foot for any kind of pressure like some ravaged animal.
“Hnng-ah fuck! Are you b-breathing?” Satoru Gojo couldn’t care less about air. He could go back on a ventilator for all he cares. He needs to make you come as soon as possible. His tongue circled your clit, desperate to hear those tantalizing sounds leave you. You were practically dripping down his wrist. When his long fingers graze that sweet spot, that’s when it unravels. “Satoru, I’m gonna-” You try to pull him away, tugging at his hair only for him to smack your hand away and push even further into you.
He needed to make you cum more than anything right now, and he’ll be damned if you don’t cum on his face after he worked so hard.
“So good, so good, so good, I’m- cumming. Satoru, I’m gonna-” Right over the edge you went again. This time, with so much intensity, you think you actually do black out. Satoru doesn’t dare let up, his eyes roll to the back of his skull, watching the thin line of drool hang from your lips as your head tilts back. Wet patch in pants growing as stream after stream of cum leaves his weeping cock right as your foot presses down in uncontrolled pleasure. Obscenely loud, moans escaping you both like you’re getting ready to fuck on camera.
It takes you, silently begging, and both of your hands to get Satoru to come off your poor, battered pussy. Neither of you says a word, just desperately staring at one another, breathing heavily. Satoru’s face is almost completely red except for the beige scars that almost look pink against his skin. Eyes low like eating, you put him in a daze. The entire lower half of his face is soaked, soft lips puffy and glistening, just begging to be kissed. Though you’re not fully down, after waves of your orgasm are still hitting you, you can’t help but lick your lips.
“Don’t.” Satoru’s voice is hoarser and deeper than it was when you two first walked in here. Something about him was laced with lust and want. It sent sparks down your body. He sounded so fuckable.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t lick your lips like that. Don’t look at me like you’re starving for me. I can’t-” He takes in a shuddering breath like he’s barely holding on before he pops up. One hand pulling you by your throat for a kiss, making you taste yourself on him, and damn, do you both taste good. Satoru’s hands are the only reason why your wobbly legs haven’t given out from underneath you.
Sloppy kisses that end with loud smacks, an inappropriate amount of whining, and the need to touch everything you could. The scene was enough to make someone look away in embarrassment. You two are stuck on each other, obsessed even. You pull away when the air supply runs out, shivers going down your body.
Have you ever been this turned on? The answer is obviously no. Even fantasizing about Satoru wasn’t enough to get you like this. Satoru has that effect on you.
“I can't resist you.” Seems you have the same effect on him. He can’t help but get a couple more small kisses in before trailing down your face again. “Are you okay?” Satoru’s voice is soft; it's almost sickening.
“I can barely feel my legs.” He laughs, eyes crinkling at the end. He’s still your Satoru.
“That’s a problem.”
“I know, how am I going to walk back in there without looking stupid?” Without so much as a grunt (or a warning), you’re being lifted off your feet, body held bridal style with no ease.
“Nah, I mean you shouldn’t be able to walk at all. Guess I got to fuck that mobility out of you?” Your hand swats his chest like an impulse. Cheeks feel as if they could turn red. He makes quick steps to get inside, but before he can open the door, you stop him.
“Everyone is still inside.”
“Then they’ll get out.” He says it like it's obvious.
“Satoru.”
“I’m serious. They’ll either get out, or they’ll hear us. I don’t care about them right now.” He’s insane. That accident took all the common sense out of his head.
“Sat-” It’s too late, the garage door flies open, and you close your eyes, hoping the dark lights hide your ruined makeup, disheveled dress, and loose ponytail. The music doesn’t stop, neither does Satoru, but he does laugh.
“You can open your eyes; no one is here.” What?
You do open your eyes only to be met with the fact that a single soul is in the house. Not even any on the balcony like they were before.
“Wait, does that mean-”
“Now we really don’t have to be quiet.” Satoru doesn’t even pay attention to the empty room, circling the apartment to find his bedroom. He doesn’t even bother closing the door behind him, making quick strides with you in his arms before he gently tosses you on the bed. He’s almost immediately taking his clothes off, blue eyes almost glowing in the darkness of the room. Satoru practically rips his black shirt off his body before he goes for the belt.
“Wait.” His eyes widened in fear, halting immediately. “Can I take them off?” You think the question might’ve killed him because he stares at you in shock before nodding his head like an idiot. He’s rushing over to the side of the bed, and he has to hold his smile back when he watches you struggle to balance your weight on your knees.
Yeah, he needs one more round.
The moment you get your hands on the belt, it’s over. Heat zaps down Satoru’s spine. As crude as it sounds, he’s never had you this close to his dick before. He doesn’t know just how long he’d last if you were even to stare at it long enough. Before he can bring himself to tell you to stop, you’re already pulling his pants down, damp boxers on display.
“Did you-”
“Yes.” He answers embarrassingly too fast.
“You got off eating me out?” That blush creeps up Satoru’s neck all the way up to his ears.
“Yeah, I’ve gotten off from your perfume lingering in my bed.” He hadn’t meant to say that, but it makes your jaw unhinged enough to flash another sinful image through Satoru Gojo’s head. Making him visibly twitch.
“You’re such a perv, Toru.” The words are meant to be mean, but in all actuality, you’re not any better. The number of times you’ve gotten off to his cologne being stuck in your passenger side seat belt is one too many for you to admit. You shift closer, planting a kiss on his tip through his boxer, making his hips buck into your mouth.
“Don’t.”
“You can get a taste of me, but I can’t get a taste of you?” You drag your tongue across his print and the damp patch, watching his mouth drop slightly, a coy hum on your lips. “That’s unfair, don’t you think?” Toru nods dumbly, body unconsciously leaning into you. “Can I go down on you, Toru? I’ve thought about it so much.”
“Yes. Fuck yes, please.” Satoru knows this is a bad idea. He cannot cum again before he has sex with you, but as he made clear earlier, he can’t say no to you. So when you pull down his boxers only for his dick to smack right against his stomach pulling a weak moan from him, he just prays he has it in him to pull you off before he comes down your throat.
“Toru-” You’re in utter shock. Satoru’s dick is big. Not just big, it’s humongous, he’s fucking hung. No wonder he was so arrogant all the time; he had the size to back it up. “You’re so big.” There’s enough lubricant from his previous orgasm for you to stroke him comfortably.
“Fuck, you can’t say that.” He twitches in your hand as you let the spit from your mouth dribble down his oh so sensitive, bright red tip. He was so cute under your hand, slightly bucking up into your hand unknowingly.
“But you are, and it’s so pretty.” Satoru Gojo loved to be praised. Any person with working eyes could tell you that. “Need to taste it.” You don’t let him say anything before you kiss the tip, earning a soft whimper from him.
So he does whimper? Good to know.
One torturous, slow lick after the other has him clenching his fist by his side until they look like they’re going to pop. When you finally take him in your mouth, every thread in him snaps. Hands find purchase around the back of your head. He was right, you guys don’t have to worry about being quiet anymore. He’s practically moaning like a bitch in heat at every bob of your head. You’re not much better, loud slurps filling the room if it’s not your own pathetic moans around him.
“Shit! I’m- you feel so good-ahh. Hnng- please don’t stop.” Like you would ever, Satoru Gojo has you wrapped around his finger just as much as he’s wrapped around yours. You’re practically dripping all over his sheets at every thrust, gagging a moan every time he tip hits the back of your throat. Spit spilling at the corners of your lips like the Satoru only slut you are. Watching his eyes roll to the back of his head, his chest rise at a sharp breath, the way your name rolled off his tongue. It was breathtaking being the one to make Satoru Gojo fall apart like this.
Just a little more, and he’ll cum down your throat just the way you wanted. Your hand that was absent mindedly drawing rough circles on your clit, moves to cup his spit-covered balls, fondling them gently. The change made Satoru stop with a particularly rough thrust to your throat and rather loud broken whine. One hand gripping your hair with a tight lock, and the other holding your throat in place. His tilted head comes back down, his chest erratically heaving as he gives you an almost pained look.
“Don’t do that.” It’s quick, and thought it didn’t sound as assertive as it was meant to be you pause befoe pushing your luck, moving your hand again, which makes Gojo thrust forward again, a loud gag coming from you, your hand constricting your throat. His other hand knocked yours away. He looks almost lost, torn as he works your throat over him. “I’m not cumming anywhere that’s not inside of you. If you do that, I’ll cum all over your face and waste all of it. We wouldn’t want that now?”
Satoru was so close to coming that the corner of his vision started to turn fuzzy. If he hadn’t stopped when he did this night might’ve taken a different turn. Mouth still full of his cock you shake your head no, eyes hazed over in your own lust. He painfully removes himself from your mouth, cussing himself out internally the entire time. It’s taking everything in him not to pull your warm, wet, hot mouth back over here and fuck it raw.
“Take the dress off.” You scramble to pull the dress over you, moving to the middle of the bed and tossing it somewhere into the abyss. “You’re so good for me, baby. I love it.”
“Yeah?” Oh yeah, you’re gone. Who wouldn’t be looking at Satoru’s perfect body, even if all scared up, he’s still undeniably sexy. “You’re so good for me, Toru.” His weight shifts the mattress as he makes his way over to you.
“I always want to be good for my girl.” His hands grab your ankles, pulling you. towards him. “Need to fuck you good.” That fucked out look on his face is all you see before he’s pushing your hands into the mattress for another sloppy makeout. You could kiss Satoru forever. His tongue knows just what way to lock with yours in the most lewd way, like he was made to kiss you. He pulls back, grabbing the base of his dick, which his hand could barely fit around.
He slowly glides his jerky cock through your wetness, making you both twitch. Saying nothing but watching it slip through and gather more lubricants, the tip hitting your abused clit so sinfully it made your jaw drop.
“She’s so messy.” You couldn’t care less what he was babbling about right now. You just needed him to put it in already.
“Stop teasing Toruuu.” You whine only to get a cocky grin from him. He was letting up, picking up the pace, to watch you squirm.
“You want it that bad-oh.” All that squirming managed to slip the tip in, stopping you both. The smile is wiped clean off his face. Instead, one of awe replaces it as he watches himself fuck the same inch into you, sensitive head trapped between your warm, gummy, wet walls. “You- you- feel so-”
“Yeah, bet it would be better if you actually fucked me.” His eyes meet yours with a hard glare.
“Count.”
“What- oh my god.” Your mouth forms a ‘o’ as he sinks more into you.
“Count. C’mon, my smart girl can tell me how. How many inches are in her right?”
“T-Two.”
“There we go.” He pushes in more, holding back on his bodily urges that are telling him to quit with all the teasing, but he can’t.
Three follows with four, five with six, and by the time you’re at the last two inches, you’re practically shaking. There’s a line of drool hanging from Satoru’s mouth like he’s gone completely brain dead, eyes not disconnecting from where you two meet, like he’s hypnotized.
He is hypnotized.
“Just two more, baby.”
“Eight-ngh Satoru, please. I can’t!” Your body burned at the stretch. No one’s been as big as Toru.
“No. You can.” You let out a high-pitched whine when he finally bottoms out.
“Nine! Fuck Satoru, I’m so full.” Those words bounce off deaf ears. Satoru is falling off this plane of existence; the only thing keeping him grounded is the clench of your core around him, sending shivers down his spine. When he doesn’t move, you call his name, only to hear a muffled moan into your neck. It takes pulling him out of your neck to see what’s happening, finally.
He’s so fucked out he’s not comprehending right. His blue eyes are crossed in pleasure, line of spit rolling down to his thick neck, shaking body completely flushed red.
“Pussy so good. It’s gonna kill me.”
“Toru, I need you to move.”
“I can’t. Need a second. It’s too good.”
“Toru, please, I want you to fuck me. Need you to fill me up.” It’s those words that put Satoru out of his daze, or at least his body out of its daze. His hips roll into yours with a sinfully quick pace. His hands roam your body, trying to find something to feel.
“Want me to cum inside?” He grumbles in your ear with another fast snap of his hips. “Want me to fuck you full?” You nod as best as you can, mouth hanging open with pathetic noises coming from you, and another lewd squelch comes from you. “I think this pretty pussy wants that too. Just listen to her.”
Nothing but the nasty wet smacks filling the room makes your ears burn.
Plap, Plap, Plap.
“She’s practically begging me to pump her full of my cum. She’s so good. She’s so fucking addictive. So much better than anything I’ve used.” You’re half paying attention to him. More focused on how deep his dick is in you. Every thrust feels like the air is getting snatched from you in the best way. Besides, you’re not too far behind him in sounding incoherent.
“Toru, it’s so deep-ngh. I-hic” Were you crying? “Fuck don’t stop. Please don’t, don’t, don’t.”
“Wouldn’t fucking dream of it. Your pussy is so good to me, you’re so good to me.” One of his hands comes down, forcing your legs to wrap around his shoulders. “I need to fill you. Need to fuck you good. Need it. Need it. Fuck I need it.” The new angle, the stretch, the pressure, it has you seeing stars, and when Satoru hits that one spot, your entire body tenses.
Something’s different.
“Oh my god, Satoru!”
“Right there?” He whines out, head reeling back every time he hits that spongy spot inside. You nod, fat tears rolling down your body, it’s almost too much, but before you can even think about Toru’s already pinning your hips. “Don’t you dare think about running from me. Waited too long for this, for you.” Each bed shaking brutal smack brings you closer, but something is different.
More intense, it’s deeper. It makes your entire body tremble.
“Sssatoru I- something feels-”
“Nuh-uh. That’s not my name.” Fuck he’s hitting it so good you may not be able to tell him. Your back is starting to arch in, tasting your release, which makes your vision come in and out.
“Baby! Something’s different! I’m-” Your cut off entirely by the smack of Satoru’s fingers against your clit, making you jolt in pleasure. You’re so close.
“Don’t call me that. That’s not what you call me. You want to cum, you want me to fill you up so good you’ll be dripping me for days? Then you call me by- FUCK-” Your cunt clenches around him, making his head pop from your ear to the air, making him look at you. He’s just like you—unfocused eyes, pathetic moaning, completely fucked out and pussydrunk to your dickmatized. “You-you call me by my name.”
“T-t-t-” You’re right there.
“C’mon, be good for me and say it.”
“Toru! I’m gonna cum. I’m gonna-” His fingers come down in a harsh rub of your throbbing clit, and you’re gone. Your warning is a faded memory of the past, as the tremors of your orgasm take over. Vision completely gone, ears ringing, in what is the strongest orgasm of your life, given to you by none other than your childhood best friend.
“Oh, my god.” Satoru watches you spray the entirety of the sheets beneath you, his hand, lower stomach, and most importantly, his cock. Never in his wildest dreams did he think watching the girl he loves the most squirt all over would happen, but when it does, it hits him like a bag of bricks. Making him cum so hard he slumps forward, letting out the most pornographic cries, eyes almost shut as he watches his seed mix in with your cum, and it sends lightning down his spine. “It won’t stop.” He doesn’t know who he’s talking about, but you still haven’t stopped. He fucks you through it, almost losing his fucking mind doing so, house full of sounds that would surely get him a noise complaint.
When you both come down from the mutual orgasms, neither of you dares to move an inch. Both of you are still shaking too hard to be fully conscious. It’s only when that tear hits your stomach that you start to come back. Satoru’s head is down, in shoulder trembling just like you.
“Toru?”
“Don’t move. I can’t- don’t move, please.” He sounded so weak, it damn near made your heart clench. “Listen, baby.” You almost yelp at the overstimulation when Satoru gives a few weak, shallow thrusts. A popping squelch rings through the room. “Sounds so beautiful.”
“Satoru, come here.” He doesn’t hesitate, meeting your lips one more time, with the shakiest and sweetest kisses of the night. He gently pulls out, and you groan at the big loss. Missing the fill now that it’s gone. How were you ever going to get anything done now that you know what sex with the love of your life feels like? His head falls to your shoulder, making sure to keep his weight off you. It’s silent for a little while, you two bathe in the post-sex afterglow, until the question in the air rings too loud in your mind. “So what does this mean for us?”
“Don’t ask such dumb questions.”
“I’m serious-”
“I am too. You’re not going anywhere, Y/N. Whether that's you being my girlfriend or, preferably, my wife, you’re here to stay. I’m here to stay. We’ve spent too much time avoiding the obvious to be picky about what we are now. We’re in love. Simple.” His arms sling around you, pulling you closer. The warmth of his body felt grounding.
“I love you, Toru.” You declare for the umpteenth time.
“I love you, Y/N.”
It’s your phone that wakes you up from your deep sleep with your boyfriend(?) at what had to be noon.
“Satoru.” You grumble against his chest, refusing to open your eyes.
“Ignore it.” He makes no effort to move. The ringtone faded for all of three seconds before it blares up again, making you sigh.
“I got it.” He pulls you against him again, weakly trying to hold you back. “Toru.”
“Fine.” He rolls over, allowing you to crawl over him to grab the blaring phone, but not before smacking your ass as you bend to do so. You shoot him a dirty look, and he shrugs. “What? It’s great ass, and it’s mine.”
“Yours?”
“Yeah, baby, that’s my ass, that's my pussy, that’s my heart, you’re my girl.” You have to bite back a smile at his words. The thought of finally being Satoru’s girl makes your chest all fuzzy.
“So does that mean that’s my dick and my heart?”
“You know it. Now I highly suggest you answer that phone, or else I’ll show you what else your dick can do.” You scoff, but it’s clear by the way your nipples perk up that you’re turned on. Satoru pulls you on top of him, pressing his half-hard dick against your bare cunt. Disregarding who can hear you two, as he kisses down your bare body. You press the accept button before you have half the mind to ride him and show him what his pussy can do.
“Hello?”
“Oh. My. God.” Geto and Shoko’s voices flood the other side of the phone. “This was better than we could’ve imagined.”
“What are you two going on about?” Satoru looks up at you through his pretty lashes, a confused look on his face.
“We called Satoru, not you.”
Oh.
Oh.
“Please tell me you two have finally sorted things out. I was plastered by the time Geto was kicking everyone out of the house.”
“I think they did more than just sort it out. I’m never touching that motorcycle again.” Your jaw drops in horror before Satoru grabs the phone from your hands.
“You two really need to get a life.” You make out the words “dumbass” on the other end of the phone. “Uh-huh. Anyway, I got some time to make up for. I'll talk to guys later.” He tosses the phone to the other side of the bed, pulling you closer to him. “Good afternoon, baby.” You giggle at his antics, heart swelling with joy. Everything feels perfect.
“Good afternoon, Toru.”
A/N: I wrote this over the cycle of two ovulation cycles...no regrets! I'm hella rusty too, this might be a mess potench. Also, this wasn't proofread... so my bad!
✿ after coming into contact with a strange flower, maekar seeks the help of his trusted healer (or, a sex pollen fic with our favourite grumpy targaryen).
✿ 18+
✿ wc: 7.5k
✿ cw: fem!reader/healer!reader, no y/n, reader is not physically described and she’s well-travelled asfff (slay), sex pollen, SMUT, finger-sucking, oral (m!receiving), throat-fucking, pussy pronouns, unprotected piv, mentions of anal, rough sex, painful sex (initially), praise, pet names (sweetheart, etc), use of ‘woman’ as a term of endearment lol, foul-mouthed and moody maekar, a bit of fluff, strong language, maekar being maekar <3
Maekar groans atop his horse, slumping forward slightly as he watches his hunting party fumble with their bows in an attempt to shoot a distant stag. The creature bellows as it spots its hunters, vanishing into the brush as the smartly-dressed hunters take off on foot, pursuing the animal with too-loud shouts.
“Fucking idiots,” Maekar mumbles, watching the lords disappear deeper into the woods. He rolls his eyes before looking around, finding himself alone save for a pair of guards lingering several metres away.
The prince dismounts his horse, giving her a solid pat on her flank, before he pulls his riding gloves from his hands and pockets them. His thighs are aching from being in the saddle for too long, his knees creaking upon his dismount. Pressure builds at the base of his spine, and he reaches his arms up, cracking his lower vertebrae in a satisfying pop.
He needs to go for a walk. And he has no interest in joining the hunting party in pursuit of a stag they most definitely will not catch.
Maekar makes for the opposite direction, ducking between a pair of towering pines. Behind him, the shuffle of footsteps, and with a disgruntled huff, he turns and shoots daggers at his approaching guards.
One of them pauses, nodding at his prince. “Your grace, you must not stray far.”
“Yes, yes, fuck off,” Maekar mumbles in response, before disappearing between the trees and leaving his guards behind.
The air is thick with the smell of pine needles and wildflowers, and Maekar finds himself drawing in a deep breath, his eyes fluttering closed. A lovely spring afternoon, Summerhall glimmering on the nearby hills, sunlight reflecting from its multitude of windows. There is hardly a breeze, and the space around the prince is warm enough that the thinnest sheen of sweat collects beneath the thick collar of his tunic.
He continues walking, hearing the distant shouts of the hunting party he was supposed to be a part of. He didn’t even want to be out here. If it were up to him, he’d be lounging around his own gardens and doing, for lack of better words, fuck all. But the Prince of Summerhall, his older brother had insisted, must keep up appearances.
Eventually, Maekar’s legs bring him into a small clearing surrounded by an array of trees. Their branches weave together overhead, creating an intricate patchwork of greens and browns. Bright white sunlight filters between their thin leaves, bathing the area in angelic light. The ground is thick with soft grass which sprouts small purple flowers, their petals dainty and delicate as though they’re made of silk.
Maekar’s knees crack as he squats to pluck one of the flowers between his thumb and forefinger. The dark violet petals are soft beneath the pads of his fingers: they felt like silk just as much as they looked like silk. He has never seen anything like it, and when he raises it to his nose, he smells a rose-like sweetness that he can almost taste. It lingers in the back of his throat, and when he brings it away from his face, the smell seems to stick to his sinuses.
Maekar looks around the small clearing, not much bigger than his solar in Summerhall. The little flowers grow plentiful, and his mind wanders to his pretty healer back at the castle, wondering if she knows what these things are.
He shakes his head, grumbling curses to himself. He drops the flower.
He should not be thinking of you.
The best healer in all the realm, it seems, and yet you’re right here in Summerhall. He can remember the day you arrived at the royal residence—bright eyed, smiling ear-to-ear, looking so much… happier than any of the home’s previous healers. You weren’t like the other maesters with their scowls and curt instructions. You were the personification of sunshine: you helped anyone and everyone, you were cheerful and amiable and so incredibly easy to talk to.
Which is why Maekar couldn’t stop thinking about you. He still can’t stop thinking about you, and you have resided in his castle for long enough, having spent three of his namedays brewing remedies for his frightful hangovers.
He decides he’ll bring a few home for you. He likes the way they look, and the way they smell, so surely they must do something.
With surprisingly gentle hands, Maekar plucks several flowers from the base of their stems. He collects a bunch, holding them between pale fingers, and when his fingers struggle to hold around the collection, he stops. He peers down curiously at the cluster of violet flowers in his hand and notices something glistening on his skin. From their ivory centre, a shimmering powder dusts out as they’re jostled together.
He swaps the bundle to his other hand and raises his fingers, appraising the sparkling substance that settles between the grooves of his fingerprints. It’s as though he had run his fingers across the surface of a pearl and the sheen had stuck to the dew of his skin.
“Strange,” he thought aloud, then almost on impulse, he brought his hand to his face. Inhaling, he once again caught the pungent aroma of roses. Sweeter than roses, as though they had been drenched in sugar water.
His mouth began to water.
“The fuck?” Maekar frowned, feeling his saliva pool around the base of his lower teeth. But it was subconscious: the flowers smelt so sweet, so dessert-like, and he had been out in the sun for way too long.
So he licked the powder off of his finger before his brain could tell him otherwise. Before his brain could tell him that No, Maekar, we don’t lick strange powder from strange flowers in the middle of the forest.
But he felt like a child, finding something he just had to try. He has to.
The powder was almost better than he imagined. A thinner, lighter version of the sugar stocked in the kitchens back in the castle. Smoother on his tongue, the flavour brighter, almost floral in its aftertaste. He couldn’t help himself from licking the dust from his other fingers, his brain telling him to. Something swirling around his brain like a gentle breeze, urging him to taste more: it tastes good, your body needs it, it’s not poisonous.
Well, he deduces it isn’t poisonous when, after a three minute stroll back to his guards and his steed, he hasn’t keeled over and sicked his guts out. In fact, he feels great. His sinuses have cleared of a small spring sniffle he had developed several days ago, his vision seems clearer and less misty, and his thighs no longer ache as he boosts himself onto his mare.
Maekar stuffs the flowers carefully into a small pouch and fastens it to his belt.
The hunting party returns, as he expected, empty-handed. They look up at him bashfully, and he simply shakes his head. A couple of the lords look at him strangely: the prince didn’t reprimand them for their incompetence? He didn’t chide them for being too slow, or too stupid, or too pathetic?
No, he didn’t.
Because Maekar is too busy staring off into the distance, his bright vision now beginning to blur at the edges. That pleasant heat trapped beneath his collar is now beginning to blaze, his skin prickling as sweat begins to build. His tongue feels too heavy in his mouth, and he can still taste rose-tainted sugar along the lines of his teeth. Something is happening to him, but his brain is telling him that everything is fine. Everything is great.
“I must… return to… my castle…” Maekar manages to say despite the lead weight of his tongue. His tone remains the same—stern and measured—so no one questions him as he abruptly pulls his horse around and flicks the reins hard.
—✿—
Your quarters are in a shadowy, quiet corner of Summerhall, but you don’t mind. It serves both as your work space and as your chambers, with your bed pushed into the corner of the cramped room surrounded by drapes of black and green silk. A long wooden table is pinned against the adjacent wall, the wall above crammed full of plants and jars filled with all sorts of natural remedies. They are all carefully labelled, and even colour coded, and you often find yourself staring up at your creations with pride bursting from your chest.
You have lived here for three years, and have come to be very fond of the Targaryen’s who so often spent the warmer months within the stone walls. Despite the work of other maesters, it seems Prince Maekar has developed an affinity for you—seeking you out for medicaments to treat the seemingly never-ending ailments of his children.
You have become an expert in applying salves to the cuts and scrapes Rhae receives toppling from her palfrey; brewing soothing teas to ease the pain of Daella’s moonblood; tending to the wounds of the adventuring Aegon; and, of course, ensuring the troubled Prince Daeron did not drown in his own sickness. Even the wayward Aerion allows you to clean and bandage the lacerations he receives after a day’s training.
For most of your life, people have referred to you as a woods witch. But here, within the walls of Summerhall, you are a healer. A maester, of sorts.
Sunlight streams in mottled stripes through the tall windows on the far wall of your chambers. The trees that grow outside obscure most of the light, but enough gets in to settle the room in a pleasant, milky glow. You busy yourself at your workstation, replenishing a large vial of ground herbs used as the base of moon tea: a heap of tansy and wormwood, and a bunch of mint.
You hum to yourself as you pop a cork onto the vial, and as you slot the bottled powder onto its slot on your shelf, your door bangs open.
The heavy oak door slamming against the stone wall trembles the glasses sitting on your shelf, and you jump, yelping as you whirl around. Your eyes grow wide as Prince Maekar’s tall frame fills your doorway, one large hand splayed over the door, the other balled at his side. His shoulders move as he pants, and when he takes a step inside, he slams the door behind him with just as much strength as when he had opened it.
You hurriedly sink into a curtsy. “My prince—”
“Tell me what these are.” Maekar produces a small pouch from his belt and tosses them onto the table.
You eye him curiously as he continues to suck in laboured breaths. You carefully pry open the pouch and spot small flowers, their silky violet petals coated in a shiny white powder. You catch a whiff of roses, and immediately draw the pouch shut.
“Where did you find these, your grace?” You ask him, turning quickly to find him approaching.
He grabs the edge of the table with both hands, leaning his entire body weight onto it, his knuckles white with his grip. He groans and you frown, noting the way his white hair clings to his sweaty forehead. His cheeks are flaming red beneath his beard too.
You speak again, “My prince? Where did you find these?”
“The fucking forest,” he replies curtly, head hanging between his arms. You note the strong expanse of his shoulders and back beneath the stretch of his black hunting tunic. He grunts. “You didn’t answer me.”
You sigh through your nose, watching the prince tremble where he stands. You have half the mind to run your hand down his back as if you were soothing Rhae to sleep.
“They’re an incredibly rare floret, I didn’t even know they grew around here! I believe they were brought over from Essos, possibly from the forests of Lesser Moraq—”
“I didn’t ask for a fucking history lesson,” Maekar grumbles, lifting his head. His light eyes are black beneath the expansion of his pupils, his white eyelashes fluttering as he sucks in another troubled breath. “What are they?”
“...Flowers,” you say slowly and simply, noting the way his eyes drop down your body.
You have only ever seen the effects of these flowers once, and that was long ago on your travels around the known world. You found a small pot being cultivated on the roof of a pleasure house in Lys, and watched the way experienced courtesans applied the sugared pollen to their necks before allowing patrons to lick their way across their shimmering skin.
Your stomach dropped. “Oh, gods, your grace, did you consume the pollen?”
Maekar grunts, eyes snapping up to yours. “What?”
“The pollen,” you repeat. “The white powder. Did you taste it?”
Maekar’s eyes drop. This time, he appears bashful as he stares down at the ground. He’s still gripping the edge of your table, willing himself not to topple over under the weight of the burning pleasure no doubt coursing through him. You almost feel bad.
“My prince,” you say sternly. “Why did you do that? You should know better—”
“Do not berate me,” Maekar growls, finally pushing himself away from your table.
He walks across the room, sweat slick across his skin. He begins to unbutton his tunic, his doublet likely tossed somewhere down one of Summerhall’s winding corridors. Across the room, he turns to you and you swallow thickly as he finally unbuttons his tunic, exposing his pale chest and stomach. He’s wet with sweat, moisture beading between the soft grooves along his strong abdomen.
He gestures to himself. “Fix this.”
You shake your head. “My prince, there is no medicinal cure.”
“I find that hard to believe,” he tells you. “You can fix anything.”
His tone softens as he tells you that last part, and you find yourself leaning back against your table as your knees tremor slightly. With a loud groan, Maekar sits down on the edge of your bed, the straw mattress dipping deeply beneath his weight. He sheds himself of his tunic, exposing his strong, scarred shoulders and the muscled length of his arms.
“My prince,” you squeak, averting your eyes. Your body heats up beneath your cotton robes at the usually reserved prince’s boldness. “Please, there is nothing I can do—”
“Tell me plainly,” Maekar utters, his breathing erratic. There is a noticeable tent in the front of his trousers, and he covers it with his forearm, groaning before speaking again. “How do… how do I get this to stop?”
You swallow nervously. It was such a simple answer, yet you struggle to articulate the right words. Maekar stares at you, eyes dark with desire, his brows furrowing as his patience wears thin. Thinner and thinner like a fraying string.
“Out with it,” he snaps, a few strands of his hair falling over his forehead.
“Release,” you spit out as quickly as you can. “You… you need to release.”
Maekar’s brows furrow deeper. “What?”
Gods, this was humiliating. Shame crawls up your spine, invading your nervous system as you fidget with a ring on your finger. A prince of the realm was under the effects of an aphrodisiac, half-naked on your bed, looking at you as if he wanted to rip you apart.
Just get on with it, you think.
“You need to come,” you tell him almost breathlessly. “You—”
“I heard you,” Maekar interrupts, his voice low. He stares at you, head cocking to the side. “So… I can pleasure myself and I will feel better?”
“Well…” You’re still fidgeting with your ring. “I believe you can, but it is more beneficial… it will ease quicker if you… release within someone.”
“Ah,” Maekar replies. “I see.”
His voice is scarily calm despite his entire body being on fire. You can see it within him: the dewy red flush across his pale skin indicates the burning of his blood in his veins, heading south. He’s panting like a dog too, still perching on the edge of your bed. You look at him carefully, your backside pinned to the edge of the table.
Maekar continues to cock his head, looking you up and down appraisingly. His eyes linger on where you fidget with your ring, the smooth metal hugging the base of your middle finger. His eyes lie on the movement, watching you spin, spin, spin the ring around until he finds himself growing dizzy.
“Your grace?” You speak softly, still not moving from your position across the room. You point to the door though, finally removing your fingers from your ring. “Shall I inform your maester? Or perhaps organise for… for a woman to be brought to your—”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” the prince interrupts. He removes his forearm from his pelvis with a breathy groan that makes you squeeze your thighs together. His handsome face screws up a little in pleasure as he presses his palm flat to the bulge in the fabric of his trousers. “You can fix anything,” he says for the second time.
Your mouth goes dry. “My prince?”
“Fix me.”
“Maekar, please—”
Maekar gets to his feet, fingers deftly unbuckling and untying the intricacies of his trousers. They drape open, but he leaves them hanging around his hips as he crosses the small chambers. Your eyes flicker down momentarily to the thick stripe of white hair that delves below his waistband from the base of his navel. There’s a deep, well-healed scar that runs horizontally through the line of hair too, like a bridge across a river.
“Fix me,” he repeats, looming over you now. You lean backwards, scared not of him, but of his proximity. You are lowborn, a commoner, a woods witch. He is the Prince of Summerhall. He is Maekar Targaryen.
“My prince,” you breath out, eyes finding his.
You can see the scars that mottle his rouged skin beneath the white hair of his beard, and you can see a small knick across the bridge of his nose. You remember the day he came to you with it—you had sat him down on his chair in his solar and applied a soothing balm to it, your hand cradling his face, his eyes closed in what you now realise would have been bliss.
Maekar watches you. “Can you fix me?”
The tent in his trousers presses to your lower belly, and you can’t help the whine that escapes you. A low hiss leaves his mouth, the muscles of his jaw working as he fights to capture a groan before it rolls unfiltered from his tongue.
“Yes,” you whisper, but it’s timid. “But I can’t. I–I shouldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“You’re—” You suck in a breath, and all you can smell is him. Sweat, pine needles, polished leather, fresh spring air. You shake your head. “I can call for a woman for—”
Maekar grunts. “I don’t want a fucking whore, woman. I want you.”
You gape, body hot beneath your cloak.
He continues. “I want you. I want you to fix me, for fuck sake. Are you blind to what you do to me?”
You stammer over your words, the heat of his clothed cock warm through the thick cotton of your cloak. “It–it’s the flowers, my prince.”
“Maybe it is,” Maekar whispers, shrugging. “But why was the first person I thought of you? Why did I need you, hm?”
I don’t know, you want to say.
The silence that stretches allows him to continue undeterred. “So, will you fix me?”
You bite your lip. It was no secret that the prince was a handsome man, even in his age now. He was always regarded as a handsome young man, but now? You heard the maids’ whispers from the first day you arrived, you heard the shy murmurs of the stablehands and the cooks and hell, even Aegon and Rhae’s tutor. Maekar’s a handsome prince, s’just a shame he’s such a moody bastard. A brewing storm, widowed for years now, stalking the halls of Summerhall or skulking around the gardens when the castle grew too loud.
And you’d be lying if you said you didn’t find him attractive. Your eyes would linger when you rubbed ointments on bruises along his back; your hands would skim his warm skin when you applied bandages; you would try not to stare as you cuddled Aegon in your lap whilst his fever broke, Maekar watching from a chair across the room, legs splayed wide.
“Come on, sweetheart,” Maekar mutters, slightly impatient, but his tone is too breathless to hold any real weight. He peers down at you with his swollen pupils and his red cheeks, his sweat-slick forehead and his hair brushing his eyebrows. “I need you to be good and fix me.”
You nod, and the smile that splits across the prince’s face is vulpine. He crowds you now, a delighted groan slipping up and out of his chest as his hand reaches behind you as his face lowers. You gasp lightly as he traps you against the table, and you note the shimmer along the lines of his lips.
“How do you feel?” You ask quietly, your hands finding his bare chest.
He groans loudly, eyes falling shut. Your hands are heaven against his burning skin, fingers soft along the curve of his pectorals. When your thumbs brush over his nipples, his cock twitches heavily in his breeches and another groan slips between his teeth. One of his hands finds the back of your neck, and he simply holds you.
“Like I’ve been dragged through hot coals,” he hisses, hips grinding against you, the bulge of his erection hard on your soft belly. Your hands skirt lower, over the ridges of his abdomen. Maekar curses, eyes flying open when one of your thumbs drags over the dip of his navel. “Fuck, fuck, woman, Seven above.”
“How’s your head?” You ask, thumb pressing to the scar that cuts through his trail of hair above his waistband. “Are you dizzy? Does it hurt?”
“Yeah, yeah—uh, wait, no, not dizzy,” Maekar rambles as you stroke the scar, watching curiously as the lower muscles of his abdomen contract as his hips jerk. “Doesn’t hurt. Doesn’t… yeah, doesn’t hurt.”
He pants as he watches your fingers toy with the flaps of his trousers, nails tapping briefly on the unfastened buckles there. The point of your tongue presses to the corner of your mouth as you focus, eyes fixing up and along the sweat-slick skin of his abdomen.
“What about your cock?” You look up at him, eyelashes fluttering. “Does it hurt?”
Your hand slips down between you two, beneath the material of his trousers but overtop of his breeches. Your palm slides against his hard length, warm and leaking against the linen. The moan that leaves his throat is broken into shards of pleasure, strung together on thinning whimpers as his hips jerk, attempting to chase the contact.
“S’fine, s’fucking fine, it doesn’t hurt,” the prince grits out, but then opens his eyes. He stares at you, eyes narrowing, and you smile up at him shyly. He shakes his head. “Are you seriously trying—fuck, t-trying to map my symptoms? N-now?”
You stroke your palm up and down the imprint of his cock, relishing in the way his eyes gloss over as he watches you. He doesn’t seem so moody now.
“I’m a healer, my prince,” you tell him simply. “It is my job.”
“Fuck your job.”
“I need to know—”
“No, you don’t.”
You huff, vexed. “Maekar—”
Maekar bends and slams his mouth to yours, silencing your protests. His hand on the back of your neck forces you to arch up to meet him. He groans into your mouth as your lips part for him, and he finally slips his tongue against yours, flicking over your teeth momentarily. A sick thrill runs through you, something like fear, but he soothes you with his warmth: the warmth of his hands, his body, his tongue. Even the kiss is warm as the force knocks your teeth together, saliva slick against your tongue as his slides along it. It’s messy, and you find yourself digging your nails into the fat of his biceps as he curves you against the edge of the table.
His other hand crawls towards the pouch of flowers. He blindly opens it, his thumb delving inside until he can feel the silken petals, rubbing along the florets and collecting a fine layer of pollen. He does this while kissing you, drinking the little mewls that escape your mouth. Your lips are soft against his hard ones, supple from your herb-based remedies. He wonders if you can taste the rosy sweetness along his teeth.
You can. The smell of the flowers seems to be trapped in his saliva as your tongue struggles to keep up with his. The kiss is all Maekar—dominant, rough, particular. You succumb to it, letting yourself move in languid strokes to meet each of his. He seems pleased with this, a deep grumble vibrating where you hold his biceps. He continues to rut his hips, the tent in his trousers firm against you.
Maekar pulls out of the kiss with a quick lick to your lower lip. It makes you squirm, and he chuckles as he withdraws. Your hands drag down from his biceps, along his chest and abdomen, before finding his breeches and open trousers. You curl your fingers around the strings of his breeches, tugging gently until they begin to loosen, the knots unravelling.
Maekar hums, pleased. “Mm, that’s it. Y’gonna fix me, sweetheart? Gonna make all this go away, huh?”
You nod eagerly, guilt long gone now. You pull the laces undone and tear open his breeches, shucking them down until his cock can fall out. You manage to trap your gasp between your teeth as you take in the sight of his cock, heavy with pleasure and flushing a brilliant red towards the head. The velvet skin at the base is paler than the rest of his body, sitting before a patch of white hair that is an exact match to the hair on his head. Not a shade lighter or darker.
You look up at Maekar, all starry-eyed and wanting. If it weren’t for the pollen running molten in his veins, he would have kissed you again. But his cock was drooling, slit wet with precum as your small hand enclosed around the base. The hiss that leaves his throat is serpent-like, and he only just manages to squeeze the back of your neck to get your attention, your fingers barely touching where they grasp him.
He holds his thumb to your lips now, the pad shining with the white pollen. You look at it, then blink up at him.
“You want to suck it?” Maekar asks, voice dark. He doesn’t wait for a reply before his thumb presses to your closed lips, waiting.
Your response is to open your mouth. You part your lips, allowing the prince to slide the pollen-coated digit past the ridges of your teeth and onto the flat of your tongue. You whimper as your lips wrap around his knuckle, tongue laving across his thumb and tasting the sweetness of the pollen. It’s like nothing you’ve ever tasted before.
“There we go,” Maekar utters, running his thumb along your tongue. “What a good girl. Bet that taste’s real good, doesn’t it?”
You nod.
“Yeah… yeah it does.” His eyes are black with lust and it makes your stomach flip.
His gaze is predatory, and you’re completely pliant beneath him. Vulnerable. His thumb pushes further, the base knuckle bumping against your lips, and he presses down, making you gag. He appears transfixed as he repeats the actions, making you gag again, and then once more after that, until tears build in your lash line.
“Y’’know what else’ll taste good?” He whispers, almost to himself then to you, but you know it’s for you by the way he drags his thumb until he can hook your bottom teeth.
You yelp around his thumb as he pushes firmly, pressure on your jaw, other hand still on the back of your neck. He carefully guides you down until you understand what he wants, and you drop to your knees on the worn Myrish carpet beneath you.
The prince grips the base of his cock firmly as he aligns it with your face. He retracts his thumb, wiping it across your lips before patting your cheek.
“Gods, you’re beautiful,” he mutters, hips inclining forward until he can rub his wet tip across your parted lips. You pout at him, and he groans, the hand he had on your neck now resting on the top of your head. “Don’t look at me like that.”
With a gravelly groan, he continues to drag the head of his cock against the warm skin of your face. Precum smears across your chin, then your cheek, and you whimper at the heat that passes through your core. He moves his hand from your head to grip the edge of the table for support as he finally presses his tip to your mouth once more. Your face feels sticky, and he peers down at you proudly, no doubt committing the gloss across your skin to memory.
“Pretty fuckin’ girl,” Maekar mumbles as you open your mouth and he slowly begins to feed his cock inside. He groans, bending over you, crowding your space, trapping you parallel to the table’s edge. Your cunt is slick and molten-hot within your smallclothes, and you desperately want to rock against your heel, but Maekar keeps you pinned between him and the table. He groans again. “That’s it, that’s it, that’s a good girl.”
His cock stretches your mouth wide, and you find yourself gagging again as the thick tip nudges towards the back of your throat as he bottoms out as far as he can go. You take a deep breath, your nose brushing against the hair at the base. A string of grumbling noises falls from his mouth as he ruts his hips a couple of times, testing the waters, feeling the quivering of your throat around him, feeling the hot slide of your tongue against the vein on the underside. He spares a glance down at you, and you meet his gaze—your eyes watery, pleading as your hands shift to rest on his thighs.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart. Don’t cry for me just yet,” he says, but it isn’t gentle. It’s desperate, nearly whiny. He pulls his hips back and then jerks back in, cock slamming against the back of your throat, and this time you manage to hold back a gag. “Let me use your mouth and then—uhh, f-uh-ck—then I’ll fill t-that pretty little pussy.”
He groans at his own words, and at the suction you apply when you hollow your cheeks. You’d picked up a thing or two from the working girls you had befriended while travelling the Free Cities, and the girls in Lys were especially knowledgeable.
“Gods, woman, fuck,” the prince curses, his cock twitching in your mouth, his balls drawing up already somewhere close to your chin. That draws your attention: you reach a tentative hand away from his thigh and cup his balls, running your fingers gently along the soft skin. That makes his hips buck, the back of your head nearly hitting the table. “M’gonna spill down your fuckin’ throat, sweetheart, y’know that? And you’re gonna swallow it like a good—fuckin’—girl—”
Maekar punctuates his sentence with firm thrusts into your mouth, tip slamming into the back of your throat. A tear rolls from each eye as you take him, mindful of your teeth, fingers still working over his sensitive skin. A moan is torn from your throat when you swallow around him, and you feel his cock, burning hot against your tongue, give one last final jerk before he’s shoving himself to the hilt. You don’t have time to gag as your nose is pushed flush with his pelvis and he’s spurting down your throat with your name loud on his lips.
He heaves above you, still hunched over. His eyes open though, looking down at you in awe. Never in his life has he spilled that quickly before, and he can’t help the shame that further reddens his cheeks. But the pollen’s effects stop him from dwelling on it too much.
He’s still hard, and when he pulls himself from your mouth, the tip is still dribbling strings of cum and blood continues to pump hotly in the head. That makes him grumble, frustrated, as he fists the base and slaps it across your lips again.
“Fix it,” he mutters, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple. “Kiss it better.”
Your brows furrow, lips jutting out in an unimpressed pout. “I told you, my prince, the best fix for this is if you spill—”
“Inside,” Maekar grits out, as if only just remembering.
The word is loud in the small chambers of your room, and you can’t help the yelp that escapes you as he hauls you to your feet with unsurprising strength. His mouth finds yours once again, and it’s just as desperate as before. His tongue is quick to breach past your lips, licking his spend from your tongue while his hands find the metal clasp of your cloak. Black and red, the House colours.
He remembers the day you wore it for the first time. Merely a month after your arrival, finally out of the old brown rag you had been wearing whilst you traipsed the Free Cities like some wandering merchant. It suited you well, he deduced, the moment he saw you whisk down the halls in it, his daughters in tow, giggling happily as you recounted a story of how your hair was pink for a month after visiting Tyrosh.
You looked like you belonged here.
The clasp comes undone and Maekar tears the cloak from your body. You wear only a simple linen dress, the warmth of the day making you reluctant to dress in your usual layers of skirts.
Maekar’s hands are warm on your waist as he pulls you to him. His mouth kisses away from your lips now, across your cheek, until he can suckle at the curve of your jaw. You moan for him, hands scraping down the strong expanse of his back as you arch against the table. His beard scratches against your skin. You moan even louder, sensations heightened as sweat peaks on your forehead. The pollen’s effects are well kicking in.
“Need you right now,” the prince mutters against you, teeth nipping. His hands find the ties at the back of your dress and he begins to blindly undo them. “I know you can fix me. Just know your pretty pussy’ll do it for me.”
Testament to his six children, you expect a lot from Maekar, but the filth that spills from his mouth is something else entirely. He undoes the ties at your back in record timing, your dress falling loose at your shoulders and waist as he continues to whisper to you. His rough hands push the fabric down, and you hurriedly pull your chemise over your head.
“Seven forgive me,” Maekar whispers as he pulls back and takes two large handfuls of your breasts, kneading the flesh roughly and making you keen.
“My prince,” you respond around a mewl, and he tuts at you in turn.
While his hands are occupied, you help finally rid him of his trousers and breeches, until finally, you’re both bare and the heat of the chambers feels suffocating. You gasp out as he rolls a hardening nipple between his thumb and forefinger.
With no warning, Maekar grabs you once more by the back of the neck and hauls you across the room. You stumble, body falling across the edge of the mattress, your breasts pushing harshly into the soft sheets.
He kicks your legs apart as he holds you down. “S’this what I need to do?”
Your body is on fire, the dappled sunlight bright in your cleared vision. Visions of Maekar swirl around your mind, and you struggle to look back over your shoulder at him.
He clutches the base of his cock, slick with his spend and your spit, and fists himself a few times. He does this while he drags the leaking tip across the curve of your arsecheeks—the left, and then the right, before finally settling the length of himself between them. A pathetic whimper is your response, back arching, spine dipping further, and he simply chuckles, the hand around the back of your neck tightening.
Not squeezing, just holding.
“Something tells me you’d let me in here, too,” Maekar says lowly as he taps the tip against your arsehole. You draw in a deep breath before biting down hard on your lip, something clenching tightly in your tummy. The prince hums, intrigued. “Yeah… bet she’ll let me right in, won’t she?”
You shake your head, biting your lip so hard you taste copper over the rosy sweetness still on your tongue—somehow, even over the musk of Maekar’s cum, the sweetness still lingers, and it’s starting to make you dizzy.
“S’alright, sweetheart, not today,” he says, then drags his cock down. It catches at the entrance to your cunt, which is slick and wet in such a way it makes him choke on an unexpected moan. “Oh, now I know she’ll fix me.”
And then he’s pushing in.
There’s no warning, no trawl of his cock through your folds or a poorly drawn circle against your puffy clit. Nothing. The prince simply pushes in and doesn’t stop.
You thrash against the mattress, pussy splitting apart as Maekar shoves himself inside. Your walls stretch to accommodate him, and you can’t help the embarrassingly loud moan that leaves you as a heady mixture of pleasure and pain manifests in your brain. Your heart hammers wildly in your chest, sweat clinging to the line of your spine as he holds you still, other hand moving to grip your hip now as he feeds his cock into you.
He had groaned when the tip sunk in with a wet pop, but the rest of his thrust consists of dog-like panting that ends in whines. It’s pure, unbridled desperation: his hips roll low as he fills you, gummy walls contracting tightly around the thick of him. You arch so perfectly for him, your legs tremble and your noises are music to his ears. His cock seems to pulse in time with his concerningly fast heartbeat, and he wonders, for a moment, if he’ll spill straight away.
“Maekar.”
He loves the way you say his name. And he feels no need to reprimand you for using it so openly.
“Am I doing it right?” He utters as his hips finally come to a rest against the fat of your arse. His cock throbs deep inside you, head nestled right up against the plug of your cervix. He sees you wince a little when he rocks his hips experimentally.
“Yes,” you hiss out, unable—but wishing—to turn around and look at him. But you keep your cheek pressed to your sheets as he holds the back of your neck and leans over you.
“This’ll fix me?” He pants, withdrawing.
Air fills your lungs and you gulp in a deep breath, but the thick head of his cock is still inside you. You try to answer him, but he thrusts back in again and cuts you off. Well, you cut yourself off, words strangled by a dry gasp as he fills you.
“Course it will,” Maekar mutters, answering himself. He continues to anchor himself with a hand to your neck and hip as he builds a rhythm, pollen potent in his bloodstream. His face stings with heat, and another orgasm is already contracting low in his abdomen. “All I have to do is come inside this tight little pussy and I’ll be better, won’t I, sweetheart? S’what you said. S’what you said I need.”
His thrusts drown you deeper and deeper into the tangle of sheets on your bed. Your hands grip them uselessly, attempting to steady yourself as the prince shifts in and out. Skin-on-skin echoes through the small chambers, and the force of his movements have your rickety bed creaking against the wall. His balls slap heavily against your clit too, and that makes you bleat out his name like a lamb, heat blooming through you.
“She’s so wet,” Maekar whispers behind you, watching a frothy white ring build at the base of his cock as he slams your hips back onto him. He watches the sweat build up along your spine too as your pussy sucks him in, the wet plap-plap-plap of his movements forcing him to draw in faster. “Fuckin’ listen to her. She’s just as wet in my dreams, y’know. Gods, woman, you soak me in my dreams, y’know that?”
You squirm beneath him, his cock hitting right up against your cervix. You want to cry, to sob out, the pleasure all too much as a huge ball of tension nestles itself deep in your gut. It sits low, tugging at the nerves that shoot up your spine and down your legs.
He dreams of you. Maekar Targaryen dreams of you.
“Maekar, please,” you moan, wriggling against him. Pleasure begins to prick down your spinal cord, tension building taut in your abdomen, pussy clenching tightly around the thick of his cock. “Uh–oh, fu–please, please, please—”
“M’not stopping you,” he slurs out as he rails into you. He’s chasing his high, his thrusts rough and ill-timed and barely rhythmic now. He grunts with each push and pull inside of you, your slick leaking down the seam of his cock each time he rolls his pelvis outwards. His thumb massages the side of your neck. “Be good and squeeze me nice and tight, okay? Then I’ll do what you said—I’ll spill deep inside this pretty little pussy, yeah?”
You’ve never heard him speak this much in a proper sentence, let alone speak with this much conviction. He’s a man possessed, his words churning together, forward and vulgar, and the ends of his sentences are beginning to taper off with each of his laboured grunts or whines.
“Yeah, let me feel you, sweetheart–uh, uh,” Maekar ends in a loud pair of groans. His cock knocks up against the perfect spot inside you, angling so deep you see stars.
That’s when you come, your back arching even deeper, your fists balling your sheets and his name tumbling from your mouth like it’s the only word you know. Your body trembles violently as your cunt clenches around him, drawing a resounding moan from the depths of his chest. He sounds wounded, almost. He watches with hooded eyes as your body wracks with tremors as you come around his cock, and he finally lets go of your neck to let you melt comfortably into the sheets.
Your pussy is so wet, so warm, so perfect, he doesn’t last much longer.
He comes. A lot.
Right up against the plug of your womb, Maekar empties himself into you with a yearning gasp of your name. His seed spills in hot, continuous spurts, and you can’t help but let out a feeble complaint as it fills, and fills, and fills you until you can swear you feel it sloshing around in your belly as you shift to peer over your shoulder.
Maekar grunts, his cock twitching, and twitching again, a sharp pain shooting through his head before suddenly, he blinks, and his vision is clear. He can’t help but gasp as his cock finally begins to soften inside you, the ache in his stomach dissipating as his orgasm recedes, and he finally, finally stops coming. He doesn’t have to look down to know he’s leaking out of you and onto the Myrish carpet.
But he doesn’t pull out.
“See?” Maekar says, hands shifting to slide up and down your damp back. The subtle sting of regret is evident in the back of his mind, but he doesn’t pay it any attention. Instead, he takes the time to gently lay himself over you, draping his body against yours, placing kisses along your bare shoulder as he pins you to the mattress. He whispers in your ear, “Told you you’d fix me.”
You huff. “You weren’t broken to begin with.”
He nuzzles your cheek, and your common sense urges you to pull away. But you don’t, and instead, you angle your head to drag your nose against his before your mouths meet again. He groans against you, rolling his hips against your arse enough times that his cock gives a tired jerk inside you.
“Actually…” You pull out of the kiss and Maekar grunts, annoyed, and continues peppering kisses along every inch of your face he can reach while being practically completely on top of you. “If you want it more potent, I can grind it up, petals and all, and you can put the powder straight onto your gums.”
Maekar licks the corner of your mouth and you shudder.
“And you know this… how?” He tries to draw your mouth back to his but you resist.
You can’t help but laugh. “I’m well travelled, my prince. I know plenty.”
———
i need him so bad it’s sickening
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