hello hello! i am going to start posting my reader!fics here to end the probable torment of my followers on my og blog. when i stared writing reader!fic i honestly never expected to keep at it, but it's helped me process through grief and reignighted my love for writing. it has allowed me a space to try out new things i never thought i could create. another addition is ppl seem to enjoy it, thus the official creation of this blog
kiss kiss
-@whenyourunwiththemaster
taglist: this way
ficrecs: this way
reviews: this way
archive: impossiblesongs
caffeinate me??
✍️✍️✍️The Master/Reader series
and hanging on by the skin of our teeth
The Master(s)/Reader
summary: a situationship in time and space
↳part one
↳ part two
↳ part three
↳ part four
↳ part five
↳ part six
works in and around and hanging on by the skin of our teeth
the world’s forgotten boy
dhawan!master x reader
summary:You are here, you are there, you are everywhere and nowhere at all, and it’s everything.
↳over here
familiar like my mirror years ago
dhawan!master x reader
summary: Did you fancy me as Missy?
↳over here
i win (i-iv)
thirteenth doctor, dhawan!master x reader, simm!master x reader, gomez!master x reader
summary: The first time the Master runs into the Doctor in this regeneration (hint: it’s not her first run-in)
↳i. & ii., - iii. & iv.
right-wrong turn (i-iii)
simm!master x reader
summary: The Master gives a vicious grin before enunciating, “Remember.“
↳ i. - ii. - iii.
the hardest part is who we are
dhawan!master x reader, thirteenth Doctor
summary: He doesn’t like it when you suggest it.
↳ over here
put the fire out (i-ii)
gomez!master x reader
summary: To say she pounced on you the second she regenerated would be a non-sophisticated way to put it, but not an over-exaggeration.
↳ i. - ii.
it’s a god-awful small affair
simm!master x reader
summary: You jolt at the voice and the setting powder goes sprawling over the side of your vanity. A chorus of No’s falling from your lips as your eyes trace the culprit shoving the rest of your window open and sticking a boot inside.
↳ over here
nobody loves me, it’s true
dhawan!master x reader
summary:You don’t know why this kind of does it for you. What awful implications can be drawn from the outside, the probable one being that your husband hasn’t touched you in months. You are twin beings of woe, holed up in a frigid Russia.
↳ over here
something borrowed, something blue
dhawan!master x reader
summary:Becoming lovers isn’t new, for him, but it is for you. He’d gluttonously taken to ravaging you as soon as you were in reach when he was Missy, but he finds he simply cannot abide gorging himself on you, not until he’s courted you efficiently.
↳ over here
space-wives club: cell mates
reader, river song
summary: “Who are you?” you ask, trembling.
“Melody Malone.”
↳ over here
like a moth to a flame burned by the fire
simm!master x reader
summary:There are a billion possible whys to the reason and a very flimsy timetable for this to continue to go on without a stopping point. What could an age-old homicidal alien get from entertaining this experiment?
↳ over here
switch (i-v)
gomez!master x reader, dhawan!master x reader
summary: When Missy has a hankering to run a space heist on a Satellite X-734 ship with a bunch of wealthy tourists and suggests you be the pretty distraction, you lift a shoulder and tell her it sounds like a fun night out.
↳ i. - ii. - iii. - iv. - v.
again and again, i'd spend them with you
dhawan!master x reader
summary: "I dream of you. Have you any idea how bothersome that is for me?"
↳ i. - ii.
retaliate
river song & reader shenanigans, roberts!master x reader
summary: “2223,” River says softly, “Earth.”
↳ over here
on that last day i took her where the wild roses grow (i-iv)
dhawan!master x reader
summary: “Within candid assessment, the Master admits that there remains an appeal to fixed timelines.”
↳ i. - ii. - iii. - iv.
this is not allowed, you're uninvited (and unfortunate slight)
simm!master x reader
summary: Months have passed into half a year, in human-calculation, that has been spent within the walls of his ship, the universe and time itself steadily counting down this experimentalist affliction.
↳ over here
i will twist the knife and bleed my aching heart
samual rosshart, dhawan!master x reader
summary: The Master now sat at the only bus bench located just outside of Rampton High Security Hospital.
↳ over here
you are the best thing i've seen (you are not just a dream)
gomez!master x reader
summary: “I wish to keep you,” Missy says frankly. “I’d abscond with you, like it or not. Are you absolutely positive you won’t consider coming with me willingly?"
↳ over here
he would always laugh and say, 'remember when we used to play?"
simm!master x reader
summary: "You died,” you rasp, choking on the sudden outbreak of emotions being extracted from you.
↳ over here
- COMPLETED -
---
your mouth is like a funeral where kisses go to die
dhawan!master x reader
summary: He’s alerted to her presence by the hitch of breath in the back of her throat, his fingers dancing over the keys of the organ one second, and the next he’s swiveling around in his chair to find his little pet shadowing the archway.
↳ over here
===
✍️✍️✍️ Damon Salvatore/Reader
i need red flags and long nights (and she can tell)
damon salvatore/witch!reader
summary: Finding a drunk Salvatore brother brazenly haunting your doorstep at the hour of the wolf? Now that you’d never have seen coming.
↳ over here
===
✍️✍️✍️ Daemon Targaryen/Reader
as empires crumble and cathedrals flatten in my heart (i-ii)
daemon targaryen/royce!reader
summary: You know not who wrote the missive, however Daemon Targaryen has haunted your shadow like a ghost since girlhood. – The Crown(?) requests your presence at Lady Laena’s funeral.
↳ part i - part ii
and with your mermaid hair and your teeth so sharp
daemon targaryen/royce!reader
summary: In order to needle, you needed to be in the precise location to conduct your investigations. The Red Keep in itself is quite the fortress but rather than intimidated by her scale you are keen to learn its making.
↳ i. - ii. - iii. - iv. - v. - vi. - vii.
the heart of darkness is hope of finding you there (1/?)
daemon targaryen/royce!reader; aegon ii targaryen/reader
summary: 5, 10, and 15 years on
↳ i. - ii. -
---
baby, shut your mouth and turn me inside out (2/6)
(modern)daemon targaryen/viserys!wife reader
summary: Daemon Targaryen is unfortunately, also, the most insufferably attractive man you’ve ever seen. And worse yet, he knows it.
↳ i. - ii. - iii.
===
✍️✍️✍️ Joel Miller/Reader
aloud i pray, for calmer seas (1/?)
joel miller x reader
summary: He’s acutely aware of the tension igniting all throughout his body as he’s finally come face to face with you, taken aback by a surge that pushes straight through his gut and fills him with a sense of nervousness, a wariness. He thinks at first it’s the alcohol, that he’s overdone it, but then the familiar telltale of his cock twitching to life douses over him like a cold bucket of ice water.
↳ i. - ii. - iii. - iv. - v. - vi. - vii. -
===
✍️✍️✍️ Frank Castle/Reader
strumming my pain with his fingers (2/3)
frank castle x black!reader
summary: after you and frank firmly decide to put a drunken slip up behind you, frank drops in needing a place to lay low
↳ part one - part two - part three
===
✍️✍️✍️ Matt Murdock/Reader
and oh, poor atlas
matt murdock x reader
summary: father matthew is just trying to coax you into being a better student
↳ over here
aloud i pray, for calmer seas (joel miller x reader) 7
joel miller x reader
✍️✍️✍️fic masterlist
Summary: Joel tugs on the strands of your hair that have become disheveled, gentle as he traces them back to the bend of your ear, and you reach up to snatch his wrist, stilling his movements, eyes searing.
Disclaimer: Characters are NOT my own. This has been a disclaimer.
AN: fic title from ‘under the water’ by the pretty reckless
No beta, we die like pedro pascal characters
ratings/warnings: 18+ MDNI.
includes: neighbor!joel x reader (22 yrs old). daddy issues, physical violence/abuse implied, drug use implied, protective!joel, dubious consent, loose sub/dom roles & switching, older man x younger woman
Joel scoots back, his old man back protesting heartily, neck’s already got a crink he’ll live to lament come evening, but he can’t fight the vicious swarm of possession that swirls deep in his chest, gripping tight and depraved at the sight of you spread out beneath him on his pickup, his come plugged up inside of you, creaming your pussy salaciously.
He should probably worry about that, should ask and confirm measures are being taken, can’t go affording a mistake. You just look so pretty like this, though. So unmistakably fucked out and downright cozy, a damn kitten purring beneath him.
Joel tugs on the strands of your hair that have become disheveled, gentle as he traces them back to the bend of your ear, and you reach up to snatch his wrist, stilling his movements, eyes searing.
“I don’t want that,” you mutter breathlessly, scooting out from beneath him, back meeting the door, darting for your clothes with shaky hands.
Joel pushes himself back into the driver’s seat languidly, tucking himself back into his pants, slipping your reaction into the file in the back of his mind.
“Gonna let me feed you?” He probes, voice hoarse with the fierce sensation that claws up his throat, at just how bad he actually wants to offer some other form of shelter to you, rather than with the exertion of the intimacy you’ve just shared.
Clothes in proper place, you lift your hands up and shake out your hair, brushing through the strands with your fingers.
“Oh, I’m well fed, believe me,” you answer coyly, lips stretching out in that wickedly tempting smile that he couldn’t resist. “You can just drop me back. I’m good, really.”
“Wouldn’t kill you to eat something,” Joel presses, reining himself in not to push too hard but sour at the idea of letting you just run off. “M’ not your old man, but I’m sure you’d get a kick out of it if I’d be confused for him if you’re seen in public with me.”
“Joel,” your voice cuts out like a whip, “I mean this with all due respect, but stop lookin’ at me like you’re my fucking father. I’ve got your cum dripping out of my pussy and I really, really like it, so just accept that I’m fucking fine.”
The heat in your words hits him the wrong way and he’s unable to curb his temper, albeit it comes cool and calm when he says, “Listen, I’m sorry for saying this, baby, but if you think the way I been lookin’ at you is anywhere near fatherly, I may have to just go kick your old man’s face into the dirt since he ain’t in there already.”
He sees it plain, the way heat rises to your cheeks, lips parting in a wordless gasp.
His words bring you pleasure, plain as day.
“I really have to get back, Joel,” you mumble, eyes downcast as you explain further. “He should be getting out today. It’ll be easier once we’re back home, you know?”
He eats his words, decides to take your reason at face value, and gives a single sharp nod. His fingers curl around his steering wheel, tongue darting out to lick his lips. “Yeah, I know.”
He drives you back in total silence, with mounted tension, yes, but it don’t feel hard. It feels almost natural.
“I’ll text you when we’re back,” you offer kindly, jumping out of his truck like you’ve done it a hundred times before, all practice and ease. Hell does he know? He shouldn’t judge it either, knows he ain’t got the right. Still, the parting sits in his gut, turns around in his head for the rest of the workday. It doesn’t tempt him to reach out again, just breathes there, sticks deep in the hardened places at the root of his heart.
He realizes belatedly that night that nothing else has bloomed there except for Sarah.
Lo and behold, motion and life reappear at the house next door within the span of the week, and Sarah’s got him folding a hard mass of dough until it’s gone pillowy soft. He hates it on principle; food shouldn’t be so godamn stubborn.
“You’re doing well, Dad,” Sarah preens over his shoulder. She’s preparing a sugar mixture that will be poured over once the bread was baked. She didn’t decide on simple, straightforward banana bread; had to be some godamn hybrid called a cinnamon roll banana bread.
“Yeah, fucking lightweight,” Joel teases her, rolling the banana bread a dozen more times before Sarah instructs him to stop.
Much as he wants to go off, hide behind the couch, and turn on the game tonight, Joel watches Sarah prepare the bake with patience and diligence that bewilders the hell out of him. Her hands are sure and steady, arranging the soft dough in the pan, setting the timer once she’s got the pan in the oven.
Sarah claps her hands together with what Joel decides is probably the appropriate anticipation and starts jumping in her place, hands seeking and landing over his shoulders to entice him into joining in on her elation.
Joel bats her hands away with feigned disgust and instead decides to take hold of one of her arms to tug her nearer. He uses his other hand to rub his knuckles against the top of her scalp, her hair tussled to his content until he releases her.
“No, douche move!” Sarah exclaims, pressing her hands over her hair in an effort to arrange it presentably.
“Dad move,” Joel corrects, “and Dad exit.”
“Douche move!” Sarah calls over his shoulder, and he’s smirking even as he takes the stairs two at a time, heading for his room, to his phone charging near his bedside.
Joel’s text comes through later in the day, when you’re finally locked in your own bathroom, soaking in the tub to your heart’s content.
[ My daughter wants to make nice with baked bread. So you’ve been warned ]
You squint your eyes, and it takes a good minute to recollect instances of what you know about Joel’s daughter. It’s not that you’ve never noticed or greeted the girl with the slightest acknowledgement when she’s off to school in the morning, and you’re just making it home. Surely it’s happened more than once or twice, but it’s not like you’ve ever had cause to pause and really think of her or interact further.
She’s older now, you do know that. No mother, either. Makes two of you.
{ old man’s out cold so should be safe }
{ what kind of baked goods }
The text bubble appears instantaneously.
[ Hungry now are ya? ]
You roll your eyes, sit up in the tub, and flick open your camera. You capture yourself, hair wet, suds clinging to your collarbones, and soapy water pooling beneath your breasts. You send the image, and turn your phone to silent, tossing it carelessly on the floor. You sink down into the steaming hot water, submerging yourself entirely. You hold your breath until your lungs pang with the pulse of animation.
The knock on your front door comes an hour on the dot. Your phone, once recharged fully, has several unopened texts you’ve left unopened.
Joel and his daughter stand on your doorstep, the offering plate of baked goods in her hands. Joel’s daughter looks so excited by the prospect of giving that she’s practically bouncing on the balls of her feet. Joel hovers behind, eyes dark and shoulders tense.
“Hi,” you say.
“We noticed you had been away and wanted to, well,” Sarah beams, offering the plate out for you to take, “here.”
You accept the kind gesture and shift your stance, opening the door further in welcome. “That’s so sweet. Please, come in.” The scent of cinnamon and sweetness fills your nostrils. “We should sample these together,” you offer.
“Hope we’re not interrupting,” Joel tacks on, following at Sarah’s heels as she steps into your home.
“No, not at all,” you assure quietly.
Joel’s hulking frame brushes your shoulder, and your stomach clenches involuntarily with fiery anticipation.
You clear your throat, gesturing for your guest to follow you into the kitchen.
“Oh, wow,” Sarah exhales behind your shoulder as she steps into the less-than-impressive layout of your kitchen.
The pale green paint of the cabinets are faded at the edges, and the feeble wood is exposed and cracking. The once sleek appearance of the circular elm table at the corner is weathered, a couple packets of cardboard holding up one leg. The chairs are at least the sturdiest piece in the room.
“Chairs are safe,” you say, just in case, just to mention.
You turn your back as Joel and Sarah slip into a seat at the table, setting the plate on the island and seeking the fancy China plates you assume your mom purchased. Can’t conceptualize your dad ever taking a second to get something so frilly.
You unwrap the cling foil from the plate and slice three pieces, sliding them onto the food-ware before joining your guest and dividing them towards their intended.
“Hope you don’t mind getting your fingers all sticky,” you say, scooping the sticky bread full of syrupy cinnamon up with your hand and chomping a mouthful.
You notice Joel smirk and follow your lead. Sarah smiles widely and does the same.
“It’s so good,” you moan in content, holding Joel’s eye as you do. Pointed, teasing.
Joel rolls his eyes at your antics, and Sarah parrots your compliment.
“So good!” Sarah licks her fingers enthusiastically, eager eyes turning towards her father. “Oh my god, we’re naturals, Dad! We need to capitalize!”
“Christ,” Joel chews his piece, hiding his mouth behind a clenched fist.
He’s instantly lamenting the indulgence of Sarah’s choices; you can read it so fucking well all over his handsome face.
“You really should, Joel,” you encourage, raising your brow as you take your index finger and slip it all the way into your mouth, swirling your tongue around as you extract it leisurely. “I’m barely restraining myself from stuffing it in my mouth as we speak.”
“So,” Sarah interrupts, “you two do know each other, huh?’
You turn your loaded, teasing eyes her way, smiling with ease. “Sure, I’ve run into your dad once or twice. Lived next to y’all my whole life.”
“Be honest, has he ever invited over to our barbecues?” Sarah hush-whispers, leaning towards you. “'Cause he’s a grouch; he should really learn to make friends.”
“Hey,” Joel reprimands half-heartedly, but you just grin at Sarah.
“I’m sure he has his reasons,” you allow magnanimously. “I’m gonna pass along an adult secret,” you hunch closer to his daughter, Sarah’s eyes widening with interest. “It’s almost impossible to find someone you like sometimes, but it’s good to be picky. It just means you know what you like, and what you don’t.”
Sarah turns proudly towards her father, “I like her!”
Joel huffs, near a laugh, and stuffs his face with more cinnamon banana bread.
Tags • semi-public sex, fingering, virgin reader, loss of innocence
Wordcount • 2,830
This a gift to the wonderful @lady-phasma ♡
As the younger sister to the Queen, you are left in King's Landing to find a good match after your father Otto Hightower is dismissed by the King. Daemon finds you instead.
HotD Masterlist
Despite the tragedy that had taken place during Princess Rhaenyra and Ser Laenor’s wedding celebration, most of the great houses had stayed in King’s Landing to continue the celebrations.
The atmosphere in the Keep was peculiar, between the drunken youngsters who drowned their shock in wine, and the older lords who ranged between bored and indifferent—the ladies, on the other hand, were clutching their pearls at the grapevine of rumors was thriving.
You hadn’t been involved at court very long. As the youngest daughter of the former Hand, Otto Hightower, you had been sheltered by your father from the idle talk of courtiers. Even so, you were aware of the greatest topic of conversation in the gardens.
The return of Prince Daemon at court, and the passing of his wife.
You had never seen much of the prince before he had left for war, as your Septa had kept you in the nursery, and when you weren’t enjoying the indoor activities fit for a lady of your station, the gardens were your only distraction.
You had of course heard the rumors, and the occasional complaint from your father at dinner, and you knew quite well to avoid the man’s company.
You could not deny you were curious, and there was an appeal to the Rogue Prince. Returning from the war with a mock crown and short-cropped hair, he had surprised everyone, even the king. The man had the silver hair of the Targaryens and their fiery temper, and for a young, sheltered lady as yourself, it was a welcome novelty.
Still, you knew better than to get caught in idle thinking, or worse, fantasizing about the man. You also knew that any passing fancy you might have had would be put to rest soon, as you were expecting to find a husband soon.
You were in a fine dress with delicate trimmings and embroideries, alone and loathing the prospective tea that awaited you in the gardens with the ladies Redwyne and Lannister. Both women were eager to introduce you to their young nephews, certainly hoping that as sister to the Queen, that you could secure them a lasting position in attending the king.
As you rounded a deserted corridor, hoping to find a moment of silence in a secluded alcove, you gasped as you almost collided with someone in your hurry.
Lifting your eyes from the ground, you realized the figure you had almost walked into was that of Prince Daemon. The man was grinning, visibly amused, and you couldn’t help but flush at your own clumsiness.
His piercing purple eyes creased at the corners as he greeted you, falsely deferent. “Lady Hightower,” his smooth voice resonated under the low ceiling of the alcove.
“Prince Daemon, my apologies,” you replied, less assured, with a trembling nod. Still, he did not step aside as would have been appropriate, but you knew the man was not known for his chivalry.
“Well, well, my lady, what has you in such a hurry?” he asked, lips parting to reveal white teeth.
“Nothing that concerns you, my prince,” you replied, pinched but polite. You forced your way past him, your hands lifting your skirts slightly as you made your way to the rounding staircase.
“I would have thought you’d have run back to Oldtown with your dear father,” Daemon crooned as you walked past him, the scent of your hair lingering in the air.
“My father has left me in the care of my sister, the Queen,” you replied, stopping to respond to him, chin raised in defiance.
He admired your fire, and the harsh way you always addressed him, self-righteous and defensive—he knew who had fed you this poison, and that if he were to ask how he had offended you, your father’s words would come out of your mouth.
“He also thought the court would be the best place for me to find a good match,” you continued proudly, hoping to convey the image of a noble lady with good prospects, rather than a frightened girl for him to mock.
“It is true, then, you are of marrying age,” he answered, and your show of pride didn’t seem to lessen his amusement in the least. If anything, he seemed delighted.
“Yes. I came of age during the spring,” you confirmed. “However I do not see how that concerns you, my prince. Good day,” you said curtly as you moved up the steps, but a large hand around your arm stopped you in your tracks—as perched as you were on the third step, the prince was barely taller than you, and it felt somehow even more intimidating to be in direct line with his piercing eyes.
“Not so fast, little mouse,” he said with a grin, and you couldn’t help the blush that rose to your cheeks.
“Remove your hand, please,” you commanded, but your voice wavered and your composure faltered.
You had learned to keep your interactions with the prince short and to the point, and he had never shown any interest in you as you were a mere child the last time he had seen you. Now you were a lady of marrying age, dressed to attract the most handsome suitor, and womanhood had carved your figure in the most enticing manner.
Daemon wasn’t one to look past a beautiful figure, or to ignore the freshest lady in search of a husband—those were always easy to make blush, easy to fluster and play with, and after four years of war, he longed for the crisp taste of fresh fruit.
There was also a perverse pleasure in putting his hand on the youngest daughter of the man who had plagued his existence at court. It tasted like a sweet revenge, and he wondered whether your lips would carry that taste—the sticky sweetness of retribution, and the satisfaction of plucking a fresh flower from a garden in first bloom.
“You will be married soon to the handsome son of a lord, or perhaps that lord himself will want your youth and beauty for himself…” he said, his other hand rising to your face, only to tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear.
The gentle gesture troubled you, especially from a man that never displayed any tenderness—you didn’t know if you could trust it, but part of you relished it in anyway.
“Many lords have come for the Princess’ wedding, I’m sure many of them have already set their eye on you,” he continued, and this time it sounded like a warning, almost like a threat.
It was true a few had asked for dances, but none had caught your attention nor pleased you in any way, and you shivered at the thought that one of them might ask for your hand.
“What do you suggest?” you asked despite yourself, your curiosity getting the best of you. Even though you had had limited interactions in the past, you knew the man wasn’t one for idle talk, and his words always had an endgame.
“Better your first taste of it be with a prince, rather than an old lord, don’t you think?” he asked, delight curling in his stomach at the way you obviously flushed down to your chest.
He ran the back of his knuckles from the hollow of your throat to the crease above the collar of your dress, your corset bringing your chest up. His little finger dipped into the valley between your breasts and you gasped, your flesh rising in goosebumps.
“This is inappropriate,” you gasped, and the hand retracted—instead he made a wide gesture to the staircase, silently inviting you to leave his company.
You remained where you were standing, and soon he was climbing the steps after you, forcing you to retreat. He backed you slowly into a small alcove in the wall, a dent where vases were sometimes put; he pressed you to the shelf carved into the stone, and soon you were the flower on display for his pleasure.
“What is inappropriate is an old lord lusting after such a sweet, young creature,” he said, his face dipping close to yours until the air around you was saturated with the scent of him. “Would you allow me a taste of your sweetness, little flower?” he crooned, his lips curling in delighted amusement.
Your voice had left you, and you could not deny how enticing the prince was. You felt slightly ridiculous, falling for a tale many ladies had before you, but the idea of kissing a prince exhilarated you. Your eyes fluttered as his mouth lingered over yours, barely touching you, and you made a soft sound in the back of your throat.
Your next sigh was swallowed greedily as he pressed his lips to yours fully, not wasting more than a second before dipping his tongue and tasting you. You allowed the kiss with trembling clumsiness, shivering as he pressed your mouth open.
So entranced as you were by his kiss, you barely noticed how his hand had reached down for your skirts, pulling them up until his warm palm was running up your thigh until it found bare skin above your stocking. You gasped as his hand wrapped around your leg, his thumb tracing half-moons dangerously close to the crease of your hip.
“What are you doing?” you asked, looking down at his wrist where it disappeared under the layers of muslin and linen.
“Showing you what you will not find in marriage,” he replied, self-assured, pressing his grin into the divot behind your jaw. His voice so close to your ear made you shiver and your hands came up to his chest, curling into the thick fabric of his doublet. “Just say the word, and I will let you go.”
Taking a deep breath through your nose, you shook your head, mesmerized as his wrist pushed up and soon his hand slipped under your smallclothes.
Your mouth dropped open as he found your core easily, and he wasn’t surprised to find you warm and slightly wet already. Your cheeks were flushed the loveliest pink and your eyes closed for a moment as he pressed his thumb where your folds met.
You shivered visibly under his hand, a soft moan rising from your throat—Daemon felt himself harden, victorious at being the first to please you. The darkest part of him wished for your father to be present at court, so that his little birds could chirp in his ear the terrible rumor that his enemy had defiled his own little girl.
Daemon instead found satisfaction in the way you rocked back against him, slowly at first, then more assuredly as you grew more familiar with the warm pressure at your core. The nub under his thumb hardened and swelled at his touch, a testament to your pleasure.
Your eyes were still fixed on his wrist where the fabrics of your skirts bunched, making a soft sound each time you ground up. He allowed you a few minutes of bliss, watching you raptly, taking in every minute flinch, every flutter of your eyes, every silent gasp.
“How lovely you are, little lady. How wet and pliant,” he hummed, and you flushed furiously as the indecent words.
To your shame, his praise only served to incense you further, a sharp lick of heat running down your pearl and setting your core on fire—an ache had lodged itself deep within you, and you didn’t quite understand it.
“Tell me, little mouse, do you ever touch yourself?” he asked, and you would have been outraged if you were not so entranced.
You shook your head despite your furious blush, biting your lip as he pressed harder, making you squirm under his thumb. You felt your flesh part around his finger as he prodded, spreading your wetness along your folds.
“No,” you replied feebly, and it only served to amuse him.
You were the most delicious creature under his hand, your obvious inexperience fueling your eagerness as you rocked back against his touch. It was obvious you had told a lie, and he wouldn’t allow you to get away with it, not since you were pinned under him.
He made a tutting sound, taking his thumb away as he continued to follow the crease of your folds, taking away your pleasure and leaving only a tease. “Please,” you whined.
“Tell me the truth, little mouse, and I will give you what you need,” he said, an edge of darkness in his tone, his eyes a deep purple as they bore into yours. You could tell he wouldn’t be pleased if you refused him, and that taste of danger only served to tighten the coil of arousal in your core.
“I touch myself sometimes,” you rushed to reply in one breath, stumbling over your words with your impatience, and he hummed, his lips twitching in the shadow of a smile.
“Only sometimes?” he pushed, but you couldn’t blame him for his insistence, as it came with a few firm presses against your pearl.
“It is unbecoming of a lady,” you breathed as he resumed a slow rhythm, his thumb drawing tight circles against your nub while one of his fingers circled your entrance. You clenched around the desperate desire to feel him press inside, but your virtue was still intact, and the prospective sting intimidated you.
Your eyelashes fluttered as you struggled to keep your eyes open; your entire body felt like it was floating above the ground, your knees weak and unsteady, your center of gravity dropping down to where the prince was touching you.
You were a lovely sight, and even though he hadn’t been chaste since returning from the Step Stones, he felt exhilarated at the prospect of taking your purity. You mewled as he pressed forward, teasing your entrance more firmly; you were wet, coating his fingers with your growing pleasure.
“I could take your virtue, right here and then,” he taunted in a murmur. “Or leave it for your husband to pierce it with his cock on your wedding night.”
“Please,” you pleaded, tears coming to your eyes, because the prince had been right—there was a frightening possibility that your match would not be harmonious, and you would rather be breached by a prince who was asking rather than a simple lord taking it as his right. “Please take it.”
Daemon’s mouth crashed against yours as he pushed his finger forward, the sensation as foreign as the sting was brief. He curled his knuckle inside, his thumb pressing slow and sweet against your pearl, his tongue prodding yours passionately.
If you had been floating before, you were now soaring, clinging to Daemon’s shoulders desperately as he kissed you, swallowing your moans.
“That’s it, little one, give it to me,” he breathed, his lips hovering over yours, and you were not certain of what he wanted from you—still you nodded and followed the pace of his hand, rocking up against him as your pleasure crested, the pressure inside your core mounting until it was unbearable.
You were speared to the spot, caught between his two fingers slowly pulling you over the edge, pressing on your pearl and curling against a sensitive place inside you. Unable to resist, to do anything but feel the wave of heat crash through you, you shook and trembled as your core pulsed.
Daemon chuckled against your neck as you peaked, your knees giving out. His hand on your thigh propped you up against the shelf, and you were grateful for the solid line of his shoulders under your clenched fingers.
“It’s done, little mouse. Your virtue fully belongs to me, now,” he crooned against the sensitive spot behind your ear, sucking a kiss into the soft skin.
You chuckled despite yourself, feeling free like never before, relieved of a burden you didn’t even know you were carrying—your limbs felt light and loose, your core clenching in aftershocks that spread a delicious weightlessness down to your very bones.
He slowly let you go, and you sagged against the wall, your hands coming to catch yourself on the stone shelf. You looked away in embarrassment as the prince wiped his fingers on the inner layer of your dress before releasing it. Your skirts fell back into place and he stepped away, hips and shoulders swaying slightly, his lips pulled into a satisfied grin.
You smoothed your clothes almost nervously, breathing out a sheepish chuckle, wondering if he was expecting you to return the favor somehow—instead he turned to make his way up the stairs, and your heart skipped a beat.
“Prince Daemon,” you called, slightly panicked, the reality of what you had just done crashing down on you.
“There is more of that where it came from, if you were so inclined,” he replied, throwing you a knowing glance over his shoulder, and as he disappeared down the corridor, you swore you heard his dark chuckle echo under the high ceilings.
Dividers by @saradika-graphics, Daemon pictures by @child-of-three
Beta read by the wonderful @arcielee ♡
Comment if you'd be interested in being tagged in a part 2, or in any future Daemon fic of mine.
18+ cw: unprotected [irresponsible] sex. just the tip (until it isn’t). mutual loss of virginity - slight bleeding. thighfucking. pussyjob. slippery slope. creampie. mutual pining. idiots in love. religious references/guilt. banter as foreplay lol
summary: your friend’s reputation of being good in bed is common knowledge to the entire living-and-breathing student population of columbia. confusion arises when he tells you he’s actually a virgin. (wc: 11k - i know 😔)
a/n: hello. :) this is PURELY self-indulgent wish fulfillment, initially written for the touch prompts “foreheads pressed against each other” + “two fingers against a pulse point,” then i swiftly lost control after the first 2k words. I LOVE LOVE LOVE MATT MURDOCK JUST THE TIP FICS, i love their authors, and so here is my contribution!!! addtl warnings: lots of talk about religion, purity culture talk, matt’s guilt (featuring my favorite: intrusive thoughts of bible verses during sex). matt & reader lose their virginity to each other. that’s it… enjoy my filth…
“No fucking way.”
It’s ridiculous: Matt’s desk isn’t made for two. Not even close. It’s for this reason that you’ve ended up almost on top of him, trying to act like your thigh isn’t pressed to his.
And if your excuse for all this was that you were trying to get any real learning in, you’d be a liar, and a bad one at that.
Because despite your valiant efforts at fighting the stubborn spine of your copy of The Phenomenon of Man flat, and despite Matt’s visibly pained attempts to not cringe so openly at the sound of its pages being manhandled, absolutely no studying has occurred.
The conversation has veered off course. Reliably, you’ve spiraled it toward the hot topic of hookups. It’s an area in which Matt seems to be constantly embroiled, as far as corridor gossip—and Foggy’s colorful commentary—is concerned. It’s also an area that feels masochistic to keep asking about, yet you do again and again with your needling and poking and prodding, for no other reason than to wind up that sick thrill of jealousy in your chest.
Of course, all of it is inconsequential to Matt. He never seems to take offense. He plays along with impeccable composure, which all the more confirms that your chances of getting with him live somewhere in the zip code of Fuck All and Nowhere. It’s your conviction he’s on a much different playing field than you—his revolving door of ruthless future litigators/intense poets/vowelless heiresses. All undeniably drop-dead gorgeous, much so that you weren’t even sure at first who you were jealous of, them or him.
Besides, it’s not that you like to wallow. You’d like to believe you’re fairly attractive yourself, thank you very much—but there’s much ease in giving in to joyless comparison when, like right now, Matt’s face is lit golden from the afternoon sun and he’s so beautiful, the shapes and lines of him so harmonious it’s only natural he’d be surrounded by people just like him.
Not like you.
So, rash girl that you are, you lash out the only way you can. Sarcasm, disbelief.
“You’re telling me,” you say slowly, jabbing your highlighter into the air, “that you, Matthew Murdock, are a virgin. You. You?”
His lips twitch at the corners, amused. “Is that so hard to believe?”
“What the fuck were they doing in and out of your room then? And I quote–‘he was really good’? You giving them confession or something?”
Matt feigns innocence, presses a hand to his chest. With an air of clipped smugness, “Who knows, maybe they were talking about Foggy.”
Your silence must clue him to the fact that you’re gaping.
“What? Girls love him!” he says, grinning wide. You can’t argue with that, at least, that much is true. “Besides, it’s a question of semantics. For one, what the word ‘virgin’ even entails when—”
“Just strangle me if you’re going to quote Wittgenstein again, Murdock. You’re a virgin or you’re not.”
Newly emboldened, Matt holds out a thumb to press it against your arm, pushing you playfully.
“Well, then, enlighten me.”
Enlighten me.
You’re being confronted at your own game and clearly, your prodding can’t hold its own water—embarrassment flooding you instantly at discussing something this bold with someone you’re wildly, secretly in love with. Matt seems to pick up on this, granting you a little reprieve. His mouth quirks, “Alright, I’ll tell you what I think, and you tell me if you agree.”
You have to hope you’re doing a good job of pretending his suddenly stern, even tone doesn’t send your blood pressure skyrocketing.
Calm as ever, he continues, “One would define a virgin as someone who’s never had sexual intercourse.”
One would also define your face as going nuclear, hotter and hotter with each second he discusses this so breezily. Just another day of laying out the facts, like he’s in a debate.
“Yeah,” you manage.
“Sexual intercourse, to mean sexual contact with penetration. Yes?”
“Oh, stop it, Matt,” you groan, hands fidgeting with the page.
“Well—yes?”
“Okay. Yes.”
“Okay.” He leans back, casual, like this is the simplest thing in the world. “If penetration has to be the only metric—then yes, I’m a virgin. Again, if it has to be.”
As if that made any sense, you nod at him, blinking. “Yeah, yeah.” Another blink, upon finally coming to your senses. “Has to be? The fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“Well,” he repeats airily, biting down a smile. Oh no, he’s enjoying this—“do you think sex is just penetration?”
It takes you a second.
To be more precise, it takes you three seconds. Your confused gaze flicks from his shielded eyes to his mouth, to the tip of his tongue, that which has darted out to wet his pink, pink lips…
Oh.
“Oh my God,” you utter. Cheeks aflame, you bury your face in your hands instantly, eager to escape his puppylike yips of laughter at your mortification. “Oh my God.”
Jesus. Of course he’d eat pussy like a champ.
“What? What?” His voice has gone high and incredulous.
“Shut up! This paints you more like an asshole in my book, actually.”
He’s grinning wide. “Because?”
“Because!” Dropping your hands, you stab a finger at him. “I’m pointing at you very disapprovingly, by the way. It’s one thing to brag about being good at sex, y’know, the–uh–uh…p..”
Just say the word, goddammit! You’re giving yourself away!
“C’mon,” he teases lowly, that delicious rasp in his voice. “You can do it. P-p-p–”
“Penetration,” you spit. “Ugh, Matt!”
You smack his chest and, scandalously pleased with himself, unbidden laughter escapes him. You have half a mind to simply leave the room; perhaps by doing so, you’ll be spared the punishment of suffering that immaculately handsome smile. Instead, you do nothing but groan.
“You are such an asshole. Anyway—being good at that is one thing, but you’re saying all that praise was for oral? That’s even worse.”
“Worse? How is that worse?”
“You can’t really coast on– on mutual friction with that. You gotta… um… actually be good at it.”
Immediate regret bubbles up as soon as the words leave your mouth. Because consequently you’re now picturing Matt’s face between an array of legs, all immaculately smooth, un-stubbly legs, shapely deerlike legs that aren’t yours.
A grotesque fantasy; it may be the worst thing you’ve ever done to yourself.
Matt raises his hands in mock surrender. “They said it, not me. I don’t kiss and tell.”
“Sure. Right.” Eyes returning to the textbook, you grumble low and bitter words you yourself can’t even make form of. Jealous, though you’d sooner bite your tongue in half than admit aloud that you are. In front of you, the chapter title reads The Season of Life—and Christ take yours now, you’re praying. Matt’s lucky enough he can’t see the withering look you’re leveling at him, but never one to pass up the opportunity to be petty, you utter, “That’s all fiction anyway.”
His head tilts fractionally.
“Sorry?”
“It’s all fiction.”
“Being good at oral is fiction?”
“Yes.”
“As in, not real?”
“Yes.”
Where you’re going with this, you don’t know either. Your brain and your mouth are no longer on speaking terms.
There’s a pause before he speaks again, his voice amused but careful.
“So in the entire span of human existence—through all of time—you’re telling me not one person has been good at going down on a woman? Not a singular one?”
“Yes!” You throw your hands up, giggling. All rational thought has hurled itself out the window, given way to stubborn absurdity. “Because I’m horrible. And egocentric, and I have to see to believe. Or—feel, sorry. So as far as I’m concerned, no, it has not existed.”
A barrage of your thoughts fill the silence that comes after. What are you even saying? What are you trying to insinuate? Are you coming onto him? Why can’t you just control the goddamn words coming out of your mouth?!
“That’s a terrible worldview,” Matt says at last.
“You’re welcome to leave,” you utter, plenty aware that this is his dorm room.
“Mm. Fiction,” he drawls, mouthing the word again like he’s testing wine. You dare to glance up at him and immediately know you’ve made a mistake: he’s got that smug thing going, head cocked and looking too entertained for his own good.
“I don’t know,” he muses, “it seemed pretty real to me. And to the very respectable women you’re currently calling liars.”
You roll your eyes hard enough you’re sure you can see your brain.
“No, I’m serious. Not only is that dismissive of their agency–”
“Oh God.”
“–but you’re also insinuating I was– What? Pity-praised?” Matt leans forward just slightly, that damned tongue darting out again to lick his smirking lips. “You think it was pity praise for the blind guy?”
“What?! No! I think–” You reel back, flailing, face hotter than it’s ever been in recorded history and you tug away from him as if that’ll help. “Matt, fuck you for real.”
Matt’s grinning so hard now, showing teeth and you can’t bear to face him so you rub your cheeks with your palms again.
“Christ. Okay fine, I walked right into that one.”
“Yeah, you did,” Matt repeats your words, mouthing fiction, shaking his head. “I hope that’s not from experience.” He pauses, tipping his head, a funny expression crossing his face. “Is it?”
“I- I– Well.” You swallow, finally slamming your textbook shut.
So as not to give anything away to his freakishly good perception, your next words are as matter-of-fact and carefully enunciated as you can manage:
“Who I put between my legs is none of your business, Murdock.”
Matt raises his brows, frowning and nodding as if to say, ah, alright then, if you say so. Sinking back in his seat, he lets out a sigh so dramatic, you’d roll your eyes again if your entire bloodstream weren’t currently on fire.
“Duly noted,” he says coolly. “And who I put between mine is fair game. Good to know.”
You blink. Fuck.
He’s right. You’re unsure what the etiquette here ought to be. What is it one does when your stupid-smart, obscenely hot crush hits you with an uno reverse that’s technically correct? And now you have to face the fact that you’re the asshole for slut-shaming him when really you’re just…
A little bit, catastrophically, stupidly jealous…?
“I– um– shit…” you answer brilliantly. “Um… Shit… Okay-you’reright-I’msorry.”
But Matt doesn’t have an answer to give you, no quip to shoot back. He dips his head low, and his shoulders start shaking incessantly. You can’t see much of his face like this—only his mouth twitching in a tight line.
He’s… crying.
That made him cry?
No way. You’ve never seen him cry before.
No, no. He’s wheezing.
From laughter.
“Ha!” he says, eyes bright behind his glasses as a full-bodied laugh finally breaks free from him, smug and delighted. “Got you!”
“Oh fuck OFF, Matt!” you snap, the heat clawing its way down your neck. “I thought you were crying! That’s not–!”
“You walked into that one again.”
“That’s not funny!”
.
Ever the asshole, Matt does find it pretty funny, though.
Your outrage, your flushed face, the ridiculousness of it all at your expense. And if he weren’t currently fighting for his goddamn life, he’d have the presence of mind to really savor it. Teasing is what the two of you do, an unconsciously learned dance. Yet for Matt, evidently, this back-and-forth holds more weight for him, it being what he can do to deflect from that… what even is it?
That bite in your voice, every time the topic turns to that.
Disdain, maybe. Disgust. Pity, if he’s being generous.
An indulgent part of him wants to believe it’s jealousy.
But why would it be? You’ve never given him any sign, done anything to be an indication that you’d think of him as anything more than a friend. He knows you: smart, uncompromisingly honest.
The kind of person who’d never waste time on someone who can’t keep his dick in his pants.
Which is clearly how you see him.
So that edge, those jabs and barbs and the snide twist with which you said really good… For lack of a better expression, he’s not blind to the fact that you’re disgusted at how careless he must seem. At the thought of him being cheap, shallow, shameless, all of it. Your image of him must be comical, he’s certain: throwing himself in half-clothed thrill, a meaningless chase of affirmation—since anything deeper would be too much.
Matt likes being your Friend. Loves it, if he’s honest. Which is why he lets you believe what you believe, and he does what he always does: grins, gets on your nerves, then backs off. Just like he’s supposed to.
Still, it’s not so easy, especially not like this. It’s not so easy now when he’s in sensory hell, and he can smell your apple-scented lotion and the ghost of sunscreen warm on the backs of your knees from walking across campus in the sun. He must catalogue it all: your clean sweat, blooming its sweet human humidity in the bend of your elbows; your anklet clinking and betraying your every restless shift; your rapid heartbeat he can’t even begin to dissect.
He can smell all of it, hear it, feel it, and God help him—just from this stupid conversation, he’s already hard.
Be self-controlled and sober-minded, for the sake of your prayers.
Matt exhales, long-suffering, trying to summon some humor for a shield.
“Fine,” he says at last, aiming for flippant and failing spectacularly. “I plead guilty. The rumors are true.”
Your dry snort hits him square, and he can practically feel the eye-roll radiating from you. Still, he goes on, fully aware of what he’s risking. Sentimentality scares you away, he knows this. “The nuns at the orphanage, they’d say it was something special. To share with someone within the sacrament of marriage.” Matt says it grandly, the theatricality making you snort again. Then a little pointedly, because he can sense your mouth already poised for a quip, “I’m not exactly waiting for my wedding night. If that’s what you’re thinking.”
The little hitch in your breath betrays you before you can speak.
“It’s just…” voice dropping, shoulders curling slightly, Matt doesn’t even know why he feels the need to explain this to you. A bid for understanding, maybe, though he knows that’s too much to hope for. “I haven’t found it in myself to go all the way yet, what with the”—he waves a hand vaguely, words quieting down into a mumble—“the words… in my head, and all.”
“What?” Your brow furrows. “What words?”
He shrugs, lips quirking into a cornered smile. “Nothing.”
“What?!” Before you can even finish talking you’re laughing, grabbing at his wrists in mock outrage. It makes him inhale sharply, your two fingers grazing the tender skin there, and he thanks God you don’t have his senses or you’d know how embarrassingly fast his pulse had leapt beneath your touch.
“What words, Matt? Do you hear the Holy Spirit or something? Is that a thing?”
He huffs. “I think it’s called a conscience, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart.
For a second—just a second—your heartbeat skips after he says it. Usually, for anyone else, it’d be that tell he knew by heart: Gotcha. Granted, it’s a useful gift, one that’s gotten him into more agreeable doors and down more girls’ jeans that he’d expect. Only it’s not like that with you. He’s long learned that you’re anything but usual to him, the opposite of an open book.
“Don’t call me sweetheart.”
Just as he’d expected, it’s annoyance. Not interest.
Matt glances away, smile wavering. “Ah. Sorry.”
But like it’s nothing you’re already chuckling and saying, more quietly, “All that repression, Matt. M’starting to believe your rumors now.”
Tilting his head back again, he nods to himself. There’s not much to say anymore, the two of you falling into a sort of ambivalent silence as you bury yourself back into the study material as if it’s suddenly become fascinating. But for him, it’s less studying the text and more studying you, picking up your heartbeat that seems to be beating quicker and quicker in… Anticipation?
Erratic, like a caught moth, like you’ve found something to say that’s titillating, or inappropriate.
He could do you one better. He could do inappropriate. He could ruin your friendship right now.
No, no. He has to bite his tongue, chastising himself. Bad Matt. Friendship. Don’t.
Still, your pulse keeps climbing faster and faster.
“Okay,” you finally eke out, mouselike. “My turn.”
Matt tilts his head.
“I’m a virgin too.”
Oh?
That’s not what he expected, and he’s not entirely sure how to react, brows lifting slightly. Keeping his expression careful, one hand rises to rub between his eyes the way he does only when he’s attempting to buy himself time.
Of course, there’s nothing wrong with your admission. It’s not a big deal; it shouldn’t even be one at all. Only, it’s sparked something in him that feels too much like relief. Yet it’s for this reason Matt had shut it down the second it reared its head. He knows himself well enough. If he lets that door open, lets himself want anything from that admission, that greedy part of him will enter and everything else he’s spent so long trying to hold back will come barreling with it.
He can’t afford that. So he shoves it down, hard.
“Okay,” Matt says gently. “That makes two of us then.”
You groan and collapse so far back into your chair it creaks in protest under you.
“Ugh. Actually, I’m like half a virgin too or something. Aren’t you gonna be a little weird about it? I was so weird about yours, I feel horrible.”
“No, not at all. I’m deeply moved by your honesty, actually.”
“Dick.”
He smiles.
You sigh, scratching at your temple. “I know there’s more leniency when it comes to girls, and I kind of hate that that’s a thing. Like, I don’t give a crap about it, which is why I do? Does that make sense?”
Matt nods solemnly, though the smile’s still tugging at his mouth. “No flaws in logic there.”
You swat at him again, but it’s lighthearted and your hand finds his arm and stays there, fingers drumming absently at the fabric of his sleeve.
“It’s not even about the sex,” you continue. “A lot of stuff makes me feel like it’s a lot more important than it actually is—”
“Hey.” He cuts you off, soft and steady, “You don’t have to justify yourself, you know. Not to me. I get it.”
You nod, shoulders relaxing. You’d gotten completely unaware of how worked up you were getting, the heat starting to pool again in your face.
“Thanks. Sorry.” You pause for a bit, thinking. “I’d just… I’d like it to be with someone I like. Doesn’t even have to be someone I love– I think I’d actually prefer that, just so it isn’t that big a deal. Just… not some random asshole.”
Right.
Matt has to chew the inside of his cheek until he starts to taste blood.
He could be that asshole. He really could. He could make this easy, make it soft, careful, good for you. For both of you.
“Mm,” he says, noncommittal. “Yeah, I know.”
“Just do it once—then it’s over.”
“Then it’s over,” he agrees helpfully.
“Stop repeating my sentences!” You laugh and slap his chest again, and by that touch he’s a little breathless. He exhales, tongue running along the back of his teeth. There goes the apple-scented waft from your skin again, mingling with the sun-warmed salt.
“Right,” Matt says promptly, forcing himself to lean back. He places his earbuds back in—a futile effort, he’s unable to hear anything over the blood rushing in his ears—and swipes back at his notes with the pad of his finger to seek where he left off.
The issue, of course, is that he’s hard.
Hard and sweating and stuck.
If God were any bit the merciful being He claimed to be, Foggy would walk in right now. He’d take any easy excuse to stop and force him out of his predicament. But Matt knows he won’t. He knows it’s just you and him, and nothing but his own will could stop him now.
Set a guard, o Lord, over my mouth. Keep watch over the door of my lips.
You’re murmuring to yourself over the book again, lips shaping out words he can’t hear because all his focus has narrowed down to the sound of your heartbeat. Then you’re leaning closer, pointing something out, and the hem of your top’s brushing his arm. You don’t realize how much he’s shifted, so when you turn to finally look at him, your breath’s fanning his cheek and he stills. You stop laughing, then you laugh again at the sight of his jaw tightening like he’s bracing for impact.
“You okay?” you murmur.
He forces a tired smile, an expression soothed to something carefully neutral. “Just trying to focus.”
“Oh, sorry.” You duck your head, meek, guilty. Suddenly abundantly aware of the weight in the air, you say, “I can move–”
“No, no.” Matt’s hand finds your waist with unerring accuracy, fingertips skimming your side in a featherlight touch. “Stay. I like it when you’re close.”
Something in your chest flutters, and Matt’s more than a little pleased at the shift in your pulse, the way his words had landed and rippled through you.
Christ, Matt. This how you do it?
He’s so close now he can hear every heavy thump of your heartbeat, and he’s listening hard, desperate in his search for anything to prove it’s more than biology, more than proximity, more than his wishful thinking.
But he can’t take it anymore. He can’t care anymore.
His thumb strokes your side.
“Alright,” Matt whispers, breath escaping ragged, “I’m gonna kiss you, okay?”
You nod before your brain can even catch up.
“…Okay.”
For an agonizing second, neither of you moves. Then he tilts his head, closing the distance slowly—almost painfully so, like he’s giving you every last chance to pull away. Your heart’s ricocheting so hard he can hear the shape of it.
And then his mouth is on yours.
The kiss when it comes is soft. His hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek as he presses his lips to yours. You make a sound—a little hum, surprised at yourself—and that’s all it takes for him to deepen it. He’s clued in infinitely to the goings-on in your body, the stutter in your breath, the way your hand lifts hesitantly before settling against his chest, fingers splayed over the steady hammer of his heart.
There’s the faint tang of your lip balm on his tongue when it dares to flicker against you, coaxing your mouth open. Strawberry, kiwi—no matter, he hungers to swipe all of it off you with his own lips. His tongue slides against yours and Christ, he can’t help the soft noise that rumbles in his own throat. When Matt pulls back it’s only enough to breathe, noses bumping, but before you can think any better of it—before you can even think about what you’ve ruined, what you’ve just begun—you’re already leaning back in for more, and he catches your bottom lip between his teeth in a fleeting, tender bite before kissing you again, harder this time and less careful.
Your fingers clutch at the fabric over his chest like you need something to anchor you. And just as you’re shifting closer and closer, the kiss much deeper, the chair under you creaks ominously and then—
It jerks, slipping sideways.
You yelp and flail gracelessly, but Matt’s faster by years, catching you before the fall can register. His arms wrap around your back, a firm hand finding your thigh to steady you as you land hard against his chest, your body flushed against his. You burst out laughing, breathless and embarrassed.
“I got you,” he murmurs, voice roughening at the edges. His black glasses have slid slightly crooked in the commotion, making him look just a little disheveled. His smirk is nothing short of devilish now that you’re straddling his lap fully, thighs bracketing his own with snug pressure.
It’s then that you both feel it: the heat and the hardness of him beneath you. Even through the barrier of clothing it’s impossible to ignore; by instinct, your body shifts to feed its own want, the hot ridge of his cock grinding against your center through your own clothes.
“Should we…” you start, unsure what it is you’re even asking.
“Yeah,” Matt says shakily, “Bed. Before you fall again and actually get hurt.”
You nod and start to move off him awkwardly, but he catches you again—arms looping around you without effort—and then he’s standing, lifting you against him like it’s nothing. By reflex, your thighs wrap around his strong waist, arms snaking around his neck as he carries you across the room. There’s a second you consider offering directions, murmur clumsy instruction, but Matt moves with complete certainty—exactly where to place you, exactly how to touch you. The surety makes your stomach knot with something sharp and bitter: experience, you think, even as you tell yourself not to—don’t ruin this, don’t rob yourself of how good it feels just to be wanted by him. Fighting against impulse, you swallow it down and let yourself surrender to the moment.
Matt deposits you gently onto the bed: a twin-sized mess of rumpled sheets and textbooks shoved aside. Coming up to between your legs, when he kisses you this time it’s worlds away from the one before—it’s deeper, hungrier, tongue slick and mouths sliding together in a mess of panting breath and soft noises, your fingers curling into the hem of his shirt.
“Can I—?” he asks between kisses, and you nod, already tugging it up. The dark shirt comes off easily, pulled one-handed over the back of his neck. Like an errant magpie, your gaze is caught momentarily by the silver glint of his cross necklace catching the light, just before your eyes slide down his broad chest, lean and defined, the clean cut of his abs tapering down with a trail of dark hair arrowing below.
Jesus.
But you don’t get to ogle him as long as you’d like—it’s your turn then, his hands at your sides, slipping beneath your shirt. Matt’s an impatient man and sure enough, sooner than soon your band shirt comes off, tossed somewhere over the bedframe.
“Goodbye, Nick Cave,” you murmur solemnly.
Matt huffs a laugh, and his lips scorch your newly-bare shoulder, then your collarbone, trailing heat as his hands roam—sliding over your soft stomach, then up to cup your breasts gingerly through your bra, thumbs brushing the edges of the material. You’re tugging at each other again, kissing between whimpers, your fingers fumbling at the button of your shorts, and Matt’s hand covering yours to help.
Cursing under your breath, you kick the shorts off with a frustrated huff, left in your underwear now, damp and clinging. Unfairly so, Matt’s still wearing those goddamn grey sweatpants that make everything impossible to ignore. You can see everything. You can feel everything. Still above you, now between your legs he ruts forward without meaning to, and his cock grinds against your soaked, clothed core through the layers of cotton and elastic. Like the rhizomatic nature of your conversations with him, natural and free-flowing, the both of you move in unconscious rhythm now, tuned in completely to the feeling of his thick ridge dragging across your core.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters into your mouth.
“For what?” you ask, breathless, trying not to fall apart too quickly.
He hesitates. “I just… didn’t know if you wanted to keep going.”
“Are you kidding?” you whisper. “I was about to ask you that.”
A giggle breaks out from both of you, soft and nervous, mouths brushing, and he kisses you again, desperate. “This feels good,” he mumbles against your lips.
“Yeah?” you breathe.
“Yeah. Yeah.” His fingers slide behind your back, fumbling at your bra clasp. You arch slightly, trying to help, but he curses softly. “Fuck—sorry—can’t—”
“Let me,” you say, laughing again, sitting up just enough to undo it yourself. His ears are flushed now, the tips red with embarrassment, and he opens his mouth to apologize again but your kiss finds him instead, as you reach for his hand and guide it to your chest.
Matt groans into your mouth when you place his palm over your exposed breasts, and he wastes no time, pawing at you greedily, kneading and squeezing like he’s starved for it. Fingers finding your furled nipples, pinching lightly, you shudder under him, clutching his wrist. Summer be damned, the velvet feel of his skin on your skin makes your head swim, and you can’t steal enough of his warmth to be sated.
His kisses then trail lower, down your neck now, down your sternum, each breath ghosting sultry heat across your skin, and then he’s at your navel, tongue flicking briefly at the dip there. But just as he ghosts lower, nose nudging at the waistband of your panties, you jerk. Acrid panic comes up your throat; before you can think you’re already tugging him up by his hair and the back of his neck, heart hammering against your ribs.
“Wait. Wait—”
He stills instantly, blinking up at you unseeing. His hair is mussed, lips wet, mouth open like he’d been caught mid-word. “…What?”
“I don’t—” The words knot in your mortified throat, and you can’t find the nerve to look at him directly. “Um—I just—”
It’s a burn not solely from want but from the shadow of uncertainty: the thought of him down there, to see you with such closeness, tasting you, and what if you’re disappointing, what if you’re not worth it, if every rumor you’ve pretended not to care about has been true after all and you’re nothing compared to them—
“What’s this, then?” His voice is low, teasing, sufficient enough to puncture your own spiral. Chuckling softly, he asks, “Gonna keep pretending it’s fiction?”
You flush so hard it makes your ears ring. “Shut up. Next time, okay?”
His brow quirks. “‘Next time,’” he echoes, savoring the phrase on his tongue like it’s proof you’ll never get away from him now.
“Ugh, Matt—just come here—” Flushing hot and annoyed, you yank him up by the necklace, mouth crashing against his before he can say another word, swallowing his grin into your kiss. Slick and consuming, it feels euphoric to slot your own mouth against his like this—lying down, full-body, you could kiss him for hours, your recent indiscretion forgotten—and you’re melting beneath him, your hips grinding up against his, your hands pulling at his pants.
Picking up on your insistence, Matt pulls back, breath ragged, and peels off his sweatpants. They catch at one ankle as you help him tug them off, hands brushing his calves. What’s left then is the stretched fabric of tight black boxer briefs, the full outline of his cock thick and unmistakable, a dark patch of damp where precome’s already leaked through.
You reach for the waistband, teasing it down with one finger. “This okay?”
His voice is strained. Nearly breaking. “Yeah. Please.”
Pulling the briefs down, you have to take a second as his cock springs free, flushed and leaking while it curves toward his stomach, the base nestled in a thatch of dark hair. You swallow hard, because he’s beautiful, Christ, he’s so hard, and he’s already twitching.
You shimmy your hips forward to be closer to him, legs parting, and he groans loudly the second your plush thighs close around his cock. Beginning to rut forward, he grinds against you slowly, dragging the thick length along your clothed slit, again and again, the damp cotton thankfully doing little to dull the obscene friction. The pressure of each hardened pass catches your clit just slightly makes you gasp, makes you rut back up against him. You can feel the heat bleeding off him, your cunt pulsing with how close he is, how much you need more.
It’s everything and nothing and still not enough. Then, as if to notice this, Matt’s hand drifts down, thumb brushing the waistband of your panties.
“These…” he murmurs lowly, fingertips tracing the edge of your panties with the kind of searing touch that makes your lungs forget their rhythm, “describe them to me.”
For a beat you’re not even sure you heard him right. “What?” you manage, though it’s hardly more than a whisper.
That damned smirk of him has made a reappearance, lips glossy from your kisses. The mockery in his tone is pure provocation, prodding at you endlessly, testing your limits. “Tell me what they look like.”
At his demand, the rush of blood behind your ears is instantaneous. You’re not sure whether it’s that or simply the love-addled lens you’re viewing him through, but a ridiculous little giggle betrays you, shy and uncontainable, as though your body is already conspiring with him. And so despite your attempts to suppress, you relent because he’s waiting, and frankly, because his devilish smile has unmoored you completely.
“They’re… white,” you begin, voice faltering as though you’re confessing something forbidden, “cotton. Lace at the sides.”
And because this is Matt, you can’t seem to stop, seizing his hand and tugging it down until his broad palm rests against the soft material, your pulse jumping beneath prickling skin.
Matt tilts his head as if he can see every detail anyway. Savoring the description, tasting it out as his smile curves wickedly. “Mm. Fancy?”
“Not really.”
“They expensive?”
“What? Jesus. No, you perv.”
“Good.” His tone’s dropped lower, thicker with play; its cadence is so warm it flushes heat straight between your thighs, beneath his palm most especially. And as if that singular word has become verdict— his purposeful fingers hook into the waistband sharply.
RRRIP—!
Your thighs jerk, eyes flying wide as the cotton gives under his decisive grip. Matt tears the panties apart at the seam as though they’re paper, unable to find patience to stop himself from wrenching the ruined fabric aside until you’re bared to him completely. It takes you a second to catch your breath, but you finally break into incredulous laughter, shock and arousal having knotted together in your chest so tight it feels like a stone in your sternum.
“Couldn’t wait,” Matt pants, “Sorry.”
“You’re not sorry.”
“No, I’m not.” His grin widens, flashing wolfish teeth. “Not even a little.”
“You’re gonna have to pay for that, Murdock.”
His laugh tumbles directly into your mouth as he kisses you again to shut you up, hot and reckless, and then drags lower once more— “This is okay, right? You’re okay with this?”
“Yeah. God, yes. Oh—” Yet despite thinking you’ve already tamped it down, the reality is that the two of you are now completely bared to each other; hence the voice of reason from inside your head still emerges, causing you to swallow hard. “Wait, Matt. Are we gonna— I mean, is this—?”
Christ, you don’t even need to finish. He knows what you’re asking, he can tell. And the fact of the matter is, it’s not simply the nature of his suggestibility. Matt’s will is strong, mostly unshakable. The only counterpoint is that it’s you. You’re the one offering, wanting, needing. He’s the one with the conscience clawing at him and telling him to stop.
But how the fuck can he stop, when you’re whimpering under him, begging for him so openly?
The thought of whether this is the line he’ll cross, it hammers in his chest and remains. Matt can’t bring himself to say it out loud, can’t let the words be real, because despite all his guilt, all his restraint, he wants it too much. He wants to do it right this time. He wants it with you.
He should stop.
“C’mon,” you whisper, bold and desperate in equal measure. “As long as it doesn’t go in, it’s okay. Right? For you?”
Matt’s breath shudders out of him, chest pressing hard against yours. His lips part on a half-formed prayer you don’t understand, and then he’s nodding, rendered helpless by the way you’ve said it.
“Jesus,” he mutters, breaking. “Yeah. Okay. Yeah.”
Wetting his lips, he pulls back and he pushes your pillowy thighs together slowly, and slides his cock between them, the swollen head dragging slickly between your bare folds, through your wetness. Slow at first, drawing each movement out until he feels like he’s about to die from lack of it. Every pass coats him more, precum mixing with your arousal, smearing the softness of your thighs as his cock glides in tight, controlled thrusts.
You’re wet. So wet he can hear it. The sounds filling the room are lewd and rhythmic, your thighs slick, your cunt clenching around nothing, desperate.
And Matt’s losing it.
He’s not even inside you and already he feels like he’s going to break.
His hands tighten on your hips, heavy enough to remind you he’s holding back by the skin of his teeth. With each pass of his shaft it’s cushioned indulgently by the soft flesh of your thighs, dragging along your folds, hot and wet and thick, the ridge of the swollen head bumping against your clit with every motion and sending zings of pleasure shooting up your spine until you’re breathless, gasping, toes curling.
You don’t realize you’re whining loudly until he leans over you, breathing hard onto your cheek, his chest heaving. Mouth brushing your ear, he mutters, “Mine.”
His claim on you makes your whole body arch, makes your cunt clench down uselessly on nothing, aching.
And it’s true. You’re his, no question now about it. All of it is proof enough: the wetness slicking your inner thighs, your bare pussy glistening and desperate and utterly bare beneath him.
You roll your hips up instinctively, desperate to catch more of him, to press harder against the hot, swollen weight grinding between your thighs, chasing the flash of electricity when the crown of his cock skims your clit. But his grip only tightens, fingers biting bruises into your waist, holding you down like he knows better than to let you move, like he’s the only thing keeping you tethered to sanity.
It feels like sin. This little game the two of you are playing at, it feels better than it has any right to, filthy and exquisite in equal measure. Each rut of his cock through the slick vise of your thighs drags the swollen tip across your folds, every pass smearing you wetter, every sound between you growing louder, lewder. The air is thick with it, every breath you take steeped in sex. It feels so fucking good—all of it, all of it—all building towards something, something you realize to be this conclusion: it’s not nearly enough.
“I want more,” you gasp, the words tumbling out unbidden as your eyes flick helplessly downward, caught on the sight of his cock sliding in and out of the tight press of your thighs. The swollen head keeps vanishing and reappearing, glazed with you, every filthy pass making you shiver harder, “Want you.”
“I know,” Matt exhales, and the sound is ragged, breaking in his throat. He presses his forehead against yours, his feverish skin scorching yours completely. “Me too. But we can’t.”
As if a spoiled child, you whine, “Why not?” high and frustrated as you rock your hips against him anyway, greedy, begging with your body even as he keeps you pinned.
Without needing to speak aloud, the answer to your question comes to him with absolute certainty. A hoarse rasp of conscience: Because I’m an asshole.
“Please,” you whimper, every instinct in your body screaming for more. His hands only tighten to keep you down, yet it finds no success in having you stop; it only makes your need bloom sharper, makes your pleas spill faster. “Please, it won’t change anything. We’re still friends, right? Right?”
And then, just for an instant, just enough to catch at your entrance, the head of his cock slips and pushes blunt and hot and shocking against the swollen threshold of your body.
The air is torn from both of you in the same instant, gasps ripping through the thick silence.
The shock of it intoxicates you, blinds you—just that sliver of him breaching you, and you’re undone.
Beside your head, his arm strains to brace his weight, with biceps taut and straining, veins standing out as though his whole body is about to snap. The silver cross around his neck swings free, dangling above your face, catching the faint light with every tremor.
Matt doesn’t move, shouldn’t, but his cock throbs where it presses into you, every instinct commanding him to push deeper, to sink, to lose himself. To give you what you’re pleading for.
“Fuck—m’sorry,” he grits, wrenching back, pulling himself back out. He’s shaking, chest heaving, the words tumbling from him wild and frantic. “Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to—I didn’t—You’re just so wet, fuck, I’m sorry—”
And if your hand causes you to sin…
“It’s o-okay—” You’re trembling, nails biting into the meat of his bicep. Your body is buzzing, still lit by the electric shock of him almost inside, and what terrifies you most is the clarity flooding you.
Singular and decisive: you can’t stop now.
“Matt,” you whisper, sordid with want, “what if—what if you put it in, just a little. A little, please. It’s not enough. It won’t even count.”
You sound like you’re begging for your life. Reduced to nothing but a bitch in heat.
Matt’s hand slides up to your jaw, thumb dragging across your cheek in a trembling, sultry caress, and his head dips, unsteady laughter rasping out of him, “Don’t tease.”
“I’m not,” you plead, “S’long as… s’long as it’s not fully in, it doesn’t count, right?”
“Fuck—” Matt exhales hard, head hanging as if the weight of it will break him. His throat works as he swallows, trying to claw the words out of his conscience.
He needs to stop. He knows he needs to stop.
Do not let my heart incline to any evil, to busy myself with wicked deeds.
But how can he refuse you?
“Fuck. Okay. Are you sure?”
You nod, frantic. For Matt, whose senses are paradoxically both focused entirely on you and tuned out by the intense arousal in his head, this simple gesture is insufficient. He shakes his head. “I need you to tell me you’re sure.” His lips brush over yours as he breathes it, a coded message of him desperately begging you to say stop, to absolve him, control him from his own sin.
You do no such thing.
“Fuck, I’m sure,” your eyes are wet, and you cling to him as if he’s the only thing keeping you alive. “I need you, Matt.”
Need you, Matt.
He squeezes his eyes shut. “Fuck. Okay. Just the tip, okay?”
You nod quickly, almost giddy with relief.
God can forgive him if it’s just the tip. It doesn’t even count. He’ll be forgiven.
No temptation has overtaken you that is not common to man. He will not let you be tempted beyond your ability…
Having made his decision, Matt bites down on a groan, then kisses you so hard it steals the breath from your lungs once more. You have the sense his mouth is fierce and desperate to seemingly smother the truth of what he’s about to do. And, ever obliging, his hand reaches down, fumbling between your bodies, guiding himself to your entrance.
Then he’s pushing forward.
Just the tip—barely inside, barely breaching. Enough to tear the air from your lungs, enough to lock every muscle in your body.
“Mmff—” the sound wrenches from him, low and ragged, almost a growl as your heat swallows the thick crown of him. His head drops, sweaty hair brushing your face. “Fuck—that’s tight. You okay?”
You nod quickly, clinging to his arm, your teeth sinking into your bottom lip as you feel him stretching you out.
“Y-yeah,” you gasp, fighting for your voice not to tremble, “it just… hurts. A little.”
Hurts.
Stop now, Matt. Stop it. Stop it.
If he’s looking for a sign, this is it. He’s hurting you. Right? He should stop. Pull out. Apologize. Pretend this never—
But your body won’t allow him to believe it. Not with the way you’re squirming under him with need. Still, he must keep to his word—just the tip. So he doesn’t move, though his cock throbs thick inside you, just the swollen crown wedged in that slick tight heat that’s clenching and fluttering so helplessly around him.
The moment he’s lodged fully inside your entrance, you instantly wish you hadn’t begged for it. The taste of it is too good, too much, and now that you’ve had it, there’s no way this could ever be enough. You want more. You want all of him.
As if hearing your own thoughts, Matt grunts low in his chest, the sound guttural. He grits his teeth, refusing: he knows better than this.
Instead, one hand braces you at the waist, keeping you still, the other fisting the rest of his exposed length. His hand slides up and down his shaft in a desperate grip, every stroke smeared with the arousal you’re drooling down his cock, wetting him to the base. He shouldn’t be doing this. He really shouldn’t. No condom, no plan, no fucking clue how to stop. All he’d need to do was push forward, slide the rest of his cock in and bury himself to the hilt. And as if to compound his own struggle you’re writhing, too, trying to roll your hips the tiniest bit, trying to fuck yourself on him, his grip on your waist being the only thing stopping you.
“Unfair,” you whined, trying to defy the iron clamp of his hand.
“What’s unfair?”
Jesus. He’s so hoarse he can’t even recognize his own voice.
“You get to—” your chest heaves, words tripping over the wreck of your own pathetic desperation, “—get to jerk yourself off while I—while I can’t even—” Another sharp whimper breaks you off, and for a second Matt thinks you’re going to start completely sobbing right then, with your cunt clenching down helplessly on the head of his cock buried inside you. “I can’t even take it all.”
Christ.
Matt swallows.
This girl is gonna be the death of me.
“S’not—” he tries, but the word shreds out of his throat like gravel, sweat dripping down his temple. His fist works himself tighter, faster, the slide of it wet and obscene from the mess you’re making all over him. You’re so fucking slick; all of it his, yours, both of you, smeared together down his cock and onto his knuckles.
“No, no– see–” As if to abate the mounting tension his fingers find your clit, rubbing in frantic little circles with your own wetness. The effect is instant: your back arching, cunt clamping down on his cockhead.
“See?” he rasps, eyes wild. “See? You can feel good too, sweetheart. Just like this.”
Thumb working circles onto your clit, you squirm helplessly under him, sobbing into his mouth when he kisses you again. Every squeeze of your pussy around him frees another curse from his lips, another jerk of his hips forward without his permission, the thick crown driving a fraction deeper before he can stop himself.
“Fuck—” his forehead drops to yours, trembling with effort, “fuck, sweetheart, I can’t—”
The moment his fingers drag again over your clit, you buck deeper onto his cock with a sob.
“I’m not gonna move,” he pants, nipping at your lip to keep himself tethered, “I’m not gonna—fuck—”
But even as he says it, his hips are already rocking, shallow thrusts plunging his cock just barely in and out of your pussy, every ridge of him catching on the trembling mouth of you. Just the tip, he tells himself. Just the tip. Over and over like a prayer.
The truth is, Matt doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing. A live wire embodied, he’s guided by instinct and need alone, no practiced rhythm, no skill, just messy, urgent biology taking the reins. Having given way to baser impulses, his body moves the way it wants to, chasing what feels good, listening to every slick sound, every clench of your cunt, every gasp from your pretty mouth.
“Shit—sorry—sorry—” he grunts, rocking forward again, every shallow thrust ratcheting up the tension inside him like he’s being wound too tight, like he’d snap if he stopped.
“Matt—” you beg, arching up to claw at his arm. “More. Please. More.”
“I can’t,” he says hoarsely, but he doesn’t stop either, still working the tip of his cock into you with ragged little thrusts. “I shouldn’t.”
But your body’s melting open beneath him already, milking him just from that shallow stretch. Just the tip, just the tip, he repeats to himself, but every second inside you only makes him wonder how much better it would feel if he gave you all of it.
He shouldn’t, but Christ, it’s you.
You. Always you. Not just his friend, not just the girl he teases and studies with, but the one his hands ache to memorize, the one whose heartbeat he knows better than his own.
“Fuck—” the curse shudders out of him, his breath stinging your face, “You’re—Christ, you’re so good to me, my girl—”
Sweat’s beginning to sting his unseeing eyes now as he focuses on the way your pussy squeezes around him. But each time he pulls out, his hips push back in deeper—just a fraction, just a millimeter more. It’s not conscious, not yet, but his cock’s greedy, his body aching for more, and he lets it happen again. And again. And again.
His mouth is everywhere—kissing you hard, biting your lip, licking the sweat from your collarbone as his hips twitch, plunging deeper. Bit by bit. Inch by inch. Until he’s slipping past the point of no return, your walls stretching to take him, your moans soft and broken in his ear.
You gasp when the thick crest of his cock pierces deeper than ever.
“It’s alright,” Matt rasps, between his sultry claims of my girl into your neck. “It’s just a bit, just a little, it’s okay, right? S’okay? Sorry, sorry, shit—”
Make every effort to supplement your faith with virtue.
And then suddenly, inevitably, he’s in all the way.
Bottomed out, buried to the hilt, his hips pressed flush to yours. His cock seated deep inside your body, throbbing, pulsing, sheathed fully in your wet heat to the very base. He can’t breathe, can’t think, and the only thing tethering him to the moment is the frantic hammer of your pulse and the tight, fluttering clutch of your pussy strangling his cock like you were made to fit him.
Knowledge with self-control… self-control with steadfastness… steadfastness with godliness…
Fuck off, he thinks viciously, growling it in his head to drown the endless refrain of scripture that batters at him even as he trembled above you. He’s not praying anymore—he’s fighting to silence the voice that tells him this is wrong, that this is sin, when all he wants is to make you feel good.
“Matt,” you whimper, soft and urgent. “Move. Please.”
He squeezes his eyes shut, exhales raggedly against your jaw, and then—hesitantly, testing—he slides his cock out.
It’s too slow. Painfully so. Your swollen folds cling to him desperately, like your pussy is trying to suck him back in, each inch dragging fire across his length until he nearly loses his mind. Your cunt stretches, weeps around him, and when he pushes forward again, even slower, the shaft sinks back inside with obscene resistance, the slick sound of your bodies meeting loud in the overheated room.
“Fuck, so tight,” he gasps, forehead dropping to yours.
He pulls out again. Slides back in again. Every retreat slick, every push met with a bearing down so tight he chokes on his own breath.
And then he does it again.
And again.
And again.
Your thighs tremble against his hips, your back arching, your mouth falling open as you watch him—watch the way his cock disappears inside you, coated thick in your wetness, then reappears glistening, only to sink back inside to the hilt. A ring of wet white clings to the base of his shaft, spreading with every stroke, proof of how thoroughly he’s splitting you open.
“Oh my God,” you whimper, voice thin, eyes glued to the sight. “Matt.”
As if through otherworldly understanding, he says your name back to you, siphoning heat into your mouth—and almost without meaning to, his pace picks up. The slow grind of his hips becomes sharper, his thrusts longer, the rhythm picking up with every drag of your pussy milking him tighter. He pulls back halfway and drives forward again, harder this time, and the sound it makes—the wet slap of your bodies, the squelch of your slick around him—nearly unspools him.
“Fucking hell,” he pants, brow furrowed, eyes shut tight, as if concentration alone can keep him from losing himself entirely. “You’re so—so fucking tight, sweetheart.”
Your hands clutch his shoulders, helpless against the pace as he pumps into you now, faster, deeper, your cries tumbling into the room in a shameless chorus. And still you can’t stop watching his cock slide in and out of your pussy, faster and faster, his stomach clenching, his silver cross swinging tauntingly above you.
One moment he’s easing in, trying to keep that tight rhythm steady, whispering prayers and half-formed apologies against your mouth, and the next he’s simply gone, for lack of a better word. Crossing the threshold of his own control, he’s resorted to straight up fucking you, hips hammering into you, cock pistoning in and out like something feral’s taken hold of him. He’s sloppy, untrained, rutting wildly, but again, biology doesn’t need finesse, and when someone’s fucking you like this—driving into you hard, desperate, needy—the result is still more than enough to make you arch and moan and claw at his back like you’ll die if he stops.
“Fuck—fuck—” Matt pants, forehead slick and pressed against yours, his voice dissolving into hoarse groans each time his fat cock slams all the way in. He’s greedy with it, chasing his own high with reckless abandon. Ever errant, his mouth searches blindly for balmy skin—your neck, your jaw, your shoulder—pressing wet, scorching kisses between bitten gasps. He tastes sunscreen and sweat, your salt and his and that damned apple-scented lotion, the tang so sweet it makes him dizzy, and when your anklet clinks in counterpoint to his every thrust, the tinkling chime fills his ears like music, like a hymn that drives him to thrust harder.
The bedframe protests, the cramped mattress squeaking beneath the combined weight of his body pressing yours down into it. There’s no space left between you at all; he’s smothering you in heat, his musk, his ragged breath against your lips, and you’re drowning in it, in him. His cane clatters to the floor when his thrusts jostle it loose from the headboard, forgotten completely, as though he’s swearing off every marker of restraint with every thrust.
“Matt,” you breathe, and then again, louder, chanting it helplessly, “Matt, Matt, Matt…” with the same fervent rhythm he’d once used to pray the rosary, your cries his new litany.
He can’t get enough. Your cunt is so wet, so tight, clenching around him like it was made to keep him, and he can’t stop laughing breathlessly into your face, disbelieving, “So fucking tight—Christ, you’re so tight—” before his hand’s sliding down again to abuse your swollen clit, your shared wetness slicking his touch until your body jolts violently against him.
Knowing you so well, that’s all it takes—your whole body seizes, your mouth falling open on a silent cry as your orgasm rips through you like a snapped cable. Your vision goes white and you writhe beneath him, clutching and pawing at his back, shaking so hard your knees knock into his hips.
By reflex, Matt buries his face against your neck, his body surging with yours as your cunt spasms around him, soaking him even more. He knows he should pull out. He knows. But the way your pussy’s gripping him, sucking him back in, the soaked evidence of your orgasm leaking down his cock, the way you’re still trembling and panting his name like it’s salvation—
He can’t.
He’s not thinking anymore. Just fucking.
And the bed’s tiny, barely big enough for both of you, and there’s nowhere to go but into each other, sweat dripping off his forehead onto your own, your skin hot and shiny under his, your nails dragging down his spine, and he’s laughing now—breathless, manic—between thrusts.
…That each one must know to control his own body in holiness and honor…
It should shame him, too. Matt catches it: the slight copper tang of blood lacing the air, the sting of your body stretched too suddenly—but instead it makes him shake, makes him rut harder, makes his cock twitch greedily inside you. Some dark part of him finds the trace of blood endlessly alluring, proof that you’ve ruined each other for anyone else. He doesn’t stop to think, finding himself unable to.
…not in the passion of lust.
Was he this much of a fucking freak, that verses floated up unbidden even while his cock was bullying your cervix, stretching you indecently deep?
He’ll be forgiven. He’ll be forgiven.
As long as he doesn’t come inside you.
That’s the line. That’s the last shred of self-control he has left, and he clings to it while his hips rut and slam with abandon, while your body milks him so good he’s dazed with it.
But he wasn’t supposed to go this far, so what’s a little farther?
He doesn’t believe in halfway sins. If he’s going to hell, then he’ll make it worth everything.
“I’ll pull out,” Matt rasps, his voice half-promise, half-prayer. “I’ll pull out, I swear—just a little longer, just—fuck—”
But “a little longer” turns into a little too long. His rhythm breaks down into sloppy, desperate pounding, each slam of his cock inside you wetter, louder, deeper than the last, his breath coming in ragged sobs. His cross necklace clinks wildly above your breasts, slick against your skin where his chest presses you down. His mouth drags open over your lips, teeth nipping, tongue sloppily seeking to catch yours, and when you kiss him back he groans like he’s being possessed, his entire body jolting with the force of his thrusts, helpless as he says again without thinking, “Mine.”
And finally, in acquiescence, you whisper back, “Yours,” clamping down so tight, twitching and moaning under the maddened stroke of his thumb over your overstimulated clit, and he can’t take it, can’t fight it anymore. The thought of pulling out vanishes as though it never existed.
“Oh fuck—fuck—” he chokes, hips slamming forward one last time, burying himself deep as he can go and his cock pulses violently, spilling hot, thick spurts of his seed into your cunt.
It gushes out of him, painting your walls with ropes of it, mixing with your creamy slick as he groans loud and shameless into your open mouth, kissing you through the ruin. His body wracks with it, every muscle seizing, every thrust reduced to helpless little jerks determined to push his spend as deep inside you as he can.
And all you can do is take it—take every spurt, every twitch, your body clenching and milking him desperately as though it refuses to let him go, your name and his name blurring together into moans and gasps until there’s nothing left but the sound of your hearts, hammering in tandem, and the wet, lewd squelch of his cock still seated in your dripping, stuffed cunt.
Matt gasps against your throat, body twitching with aftershocks as his cum leaks out around his cock and down the curve of your ass. You whimper at the warm, slippery sensation, still pulsing around him, still clinging, your cunt reluctant to let him go.
Afterwards, there’s nothing but silence.
Neither of you has any mind to move. His cock is still lodged deep inside you, twitching weakly with every tremor that runs through him. You’re trembling together, not from cold or the heat but from everything, from the enormity of what you’ve just done and the enormity of how right it still feels despite that.
Finally, Matt groans in defeat and rolls his weight just enough to keep from crushing you. It’s not far, though. Not far enough to leave, which relieves you immensely.
His arm slides beneath your back, gathering you against him like he has no intention of ever letting you go, anchoring you to him, anchoring himself to you. Your legs slip apart at the shift and a tiny whimper of protest spills from your throat, but his grip only tightens, grounding you as if to say, don’t drift away from me.
The sheets are damp beneath your back, your thighs tacky where sweat has sealed you together. Matt’s hand spreads broad at your ribs, thumb stroking lazy arcs into your slick skin. His other arm stays firm beneath you to lock your bodies together, his cross cool and sticky where it’s fallen between you.
“…Jesus Christ,” you finally whisper, the words barely more than breath.
“Yeah.”
Your lips are still swollen from his mouth. “That was intense.”
The pause that follows is thin and fragile as an oyster windowpane. He has no desire to break it at all, but he has to for your sake, and you’re aware of the conscious effort he makes to soften his voice, stripped raw: “You okay?”
“Yeah.” You turn your head toward him, brows faintly knitting, heart twisting. This must be it, he’s going to tell you he wishes it hadn’t happened. “...I was about to ask you.”
Oblivious as you usually might be, you know you’re feeling each other out, testing the waters.
“Yeah. I’m okay,” he answers finally, then, so quiet in comparison, he continues, “but you’re not… freaking out?”
“No,” you murmur. Your throat tightens as you add, almost shyly, “I liked it.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
Matt huffs affectionately against your hair, and tilts to nudge his nose against your temple, pressing dazed little kisses along your cheek, your face, your jaw. Tension having snapped, the silence fractures into soft, exhausted laughter—half relief, half disbelief. And for a long moment you’re content to drown in it, until Matt shifts, arm bracing to push himself up, muscles trembling.
Your hands clutch at him before he can slip free. “Don’t.”
“I should—I should get you cleaned up.”
“Later,” you insist, pulling him down again, hooking your leg over his to keep him trapped. Your voice is small but iron-willed. “Let me have this, Matt.”
There’s no fight in him, not when you ask like that. He finds it to be what’s ubiquitous across it all: the inability to deny you what you want, no matter what. And so he collapses back into you obligingly, burying his face in your neck.
A small giggle slips out of you. He lifts his head, curious. “What?”
“I think my brain’s finally coming back online,” you say, stretching enough to wince at the soreness between your thighs.
“Aw, tragic,” Matt drones, “You were so agreeable when it was melted.”
You smack his arm weakly. He catches your hand, presses a kiss to the back of it, and keeps it there against his mouth.
“We should probably get back to studying.”
“Speak for yourself. You’re the one who said you were behind.”
“You’re the one who made me more behind!”
His laugh is a vibrating buzz against your collarbone, tickling you as he nuzzles in closer. “Five more minutes, then.”
You hum, pliant, with no snide retort to shoot back.
For once, you don’t care. For once, you're not afraid of what comes after.
The clatter of dice hits the table, and someone curses irately at rolling another nat one. The campaign pauses just long enough for Marci to look up from the character sheet she’s been only half-invested in, propping her chin in her hand, still a little incredulous that she let Foggy drag her out to D&D instead of spending the afternoon at his place. But he’d been mysteriously insistent on it, and now, watching Foggy grin like a man sitting on a royal flush, it dawns on her what he’d had planned all along.
“They better not hook up,” she mutters idly.
“You might as well just pay up now,” Foggy says without missing a beat, sliding his root beer aside to make room for his pile of winnings. He doesn’t even look at her, oozing smug satisfaction. “I told you it was gonna be today. No way it was gonna take another month.”
Marci glares at him. “How the hell do you even know?”
“I’ve been watching those two make goo-goo eyes since freshman year. It was only a matter of time,” Foggy says, matter-of-fact. “Besides, she was wearing the apple lotion today. That stuff drives Matt crazy. He’s toast.”
There’s a beat of silence around the table before Marci groans, digging into her purse reluctantly.
“You guys are so weird. And disgusting.”
“Yes we are,” Foggy agrees cheerfully, plucking the bill from her hand. He tucks it neatly into his wallet and tips his dice bag toward her in mock toast. “To young love, and finally getting its head out of its ass.”
strumming my pain with his fingers (frank castle x black!reader) 2/3
frank castle x reader (f/m)
rating: pg13
✍️✍️✍️fic masterlist
summary: after you and frank firmly decide to put a drunken slip up behind you, frank drops in needing a place to lay low
disclaimer: not my characters, this has been a disclaimer
AN: fic title from 'killing me softly with his song' by fugees
AN2: no beta pray for us
includes: poc/woc reader (in my head, specifically black!reader)
if it was something you wanted you deserve to know that i want it too
The second the words are out of his mouth, he wishes he could stuff them right back in, not because he doesn’t mean every godamn word, but because there’s the fifty-fifty chance he’s gonna get shot down. Shit, he hasn’t wanted anything like this in years. He’s not the kind of guy who offers something stable, no sunshine and rainbows, just blood and dirt. He’s not even a man at all some days. But there’s something here, something that makes his fist clench tight, and he’d be an asshole to deny it. Maybe in another life, he could offer something more like the shape of his heart beating far too loud, too soft, and wide open. Right now, all he’s got is his heart on a weathered platter, bleeding out all over your spotless floor, and it’s a mess. It’s right godamn mess, but he’s here, and he’s no coward.
The silence, cut through by your exhale, but he can’t so much as read if it’s a sound born of frustration, if he’s brought another fucking problem into your life that you’d both already agreed was a done deal, one he’s completely wasting your precious time by dragging up again. A decision he’d gone along with, too. Second you said, let’s forget it, he didn’t take a single second to think about what it would cost him. The godawful sourness he’d hidden to the best of his ability, the plain upset begging to pull across his face when he shared any space within an inch of you.
He’d wanted it. Wanted it a long time if he’s honest. He’d be sitting in his hideout, cleaning his guns methodically, when the shape of your full lips drew his concentration away from his task, plump and berry-red. Your textured hair; dark locks you loved to pile loosely on your head or left to fall down past your shoulders. Sometimes you’d been to your loctician, or other times your natural hairstylist, and come back with micro-braids that you piled up into three ballerina buns atop your head.
You were cute as hell, always had a style all your own. Indulgent, but confident. Sexy.
He was captivated by your eyes, always warm and inviting. Easy to fall into.
The night you slept together, it wasn’t fair. He could hold his liquor far better than you could. It took half as many glasses for you to start swaying while he sat there perfectly fine, basking in your company uninhibited. That’s why he went at it in earnest by the end. He figured if you were both on a level playing field….
He shouldn’t have done it. Should’ve pried your hands away from his chest, wandering hands pulling at his blouse. Shouldn’t have fallen prey to the alluring magnetism of your smile, the softness of your skin tempting his touch to linger, body pressing into his, soft and inviting. His restraint wavered the longer you looked up at him, so full of limitless grace and gentle sagacity.
Frank is many things, but doesn’t think he knows how to be a good man anymore. That was lost somewhere along the way; he has a directive, one he follows without deviation.
It’s not the same thing, though. He knows it’s not the same thing.
“Normal isn’t really my thing – ” you answer, pausing with suggestion. Igniting a kindling hope and a shard of shrapnel feels like it lodges its way into the center of his chest, fed from pure muscle memory, and he lets out an incredulous breath, throat closing up at the possibility.
It’s an opening – a stupid, stupidly reckless ‘could be’. It should be a firm ‘no.’ You should be shutting the door on him, drawing a firm line in this delusional haze he’s entertained; he’s doing nothing but dragging you into his own self-made hell.
You finish your sentence, “ – in case you hadn’t noticed.”
You’re all but sealing a deal you’re not fully aware of; you can’t be. But then, maybe you are. Maybe you know just what kind of hell you’re walking full into. Maybe you think he’s worth it.
Frank blinks, asks point-blank if you want him in your bed again, and the want that surges through his body when you utter please. He very nearly comes undone where he sits.
Frank’s intent is to stand, to scoop you up and show you just what he’s wanted to do to you since that night you shared, but the broken rib at his side decides to make itself known, bars any more attempts to be a godamn man about it, and he’s left grunting in pain at his own damn consequences.
You’re already bent back on your knees, slotting yourself between his own and encouraging him to lean into the couch cushions by urging his shoulders back.
“Frank,” you press the issue, face grave, and he belatedly notices he’s started bleeding through the gauze. “If you have any contact that can help you, you let me call them now, or I swear to God – ”
“Uh,” Frank licks his lips, shuts his eyes with a momentary breath of mortification. Most of his ire is spent on his sad, sorry luck rather than the pile of unwanted shit he’s about to pile on a past acquaintance. “Give me your phone,” he requests softly, breath coming quick.
He opens his eyes again and notices a cooling rag has been pressed onto his forehead. Your face is close, eyebrows creased, worried, and alert.
“You’re real cute like that, when you're caring,” Frank’s words stumble from his mouth, but you catch them, lips curling ruefully.
“Asshole,” you reply.
The knock comes to your door, and he watches as you all but bolt across the room. Hears the caution as you greet your new, unknown guests, the silence given to you in return.
Momentarily, Madani appears before his ailing body, a furious look etched upon her near-perfect features. Her fingers are already poised at the top of her gun, trustingly holstered at her side.
“Castle,” she acknowledges, full resentment layering her words. “The godamn nerve on you.”
“Dinah,” Hamid Madani gently reprimands as he joins them. The presence of her father cools Madani’s stance a fraction.
“Yeah, yeah,” Frank smirks crookedly, “put it on my tab.”
“Let’s see what we have here,” Hamid cuts through the teasing and settles into work.
Frank stirs to a sliver of light. Daybreak looks like. Shuttered windows don’t keep everything out. Next, he notices the outline of your body beside him. Seems he’s made it to your bed despite. He’s shirtless and newly bandaged with the obvious precision of a physician’s touch. He must have passed out as Madani’s father ruthlessly poked and prodded at him, not so much from the pain, but he’d been exhausted. Sleep never came around as often after Maria and the kids. He almost pictured it with Karen. Knows for a fact it’s less likely now, when he’s not with you.
Your soft voice breaks his introspection.
“You’re awake.”
Frank blinks over your waking face, eyeliner faded, locs cascading down your shoulder. You’re still in the clothes you wore last night. Jeans and boots and everything. You slept above the sheets, too.
“Hell of a first date, huh?” Frank’s voice rasps, rough as sandpaper.
“Took a page right out of Sleeping Beauty, Frank,” you reply evenly, mouth opening on a yawn you can’t suppress.
“Shit, sweetheart,” he says, “had to make it memorable somehow.”
You crack a smile, “Boy, you got blood all over my couch, and I don’t see a spare one lying around here.”
“We’d have broken it breaking it in anyway,” he quips, quiet, but clear on his point.
“Think so?” You rise up on your elbow, leaning your head in your open palm. “That sure?”
“You only got off on a technicality,” Frank assures softly. “I had no other honorable intentions.”
A smile breaks out across your face, and you avert your eyes. Bashful all of a sudden.
“C’mere,” he murmurs, expecting to have to fight his injured body to sit up against the headboard but finds the pain a simple, dull ache. He shifts his body until he’s propped up, ready, and anticipating.
“Frank,” you sound out his name faintly, an objection about to slip from your perfect lips, but he’s done waiting.
“Hey,” he reaches out for you, fingers making contact with your jaw first, hand curling and caressing down your neck, taking hold. Pleading now. “Just come over here.”
summary: 6.5k words. Dr. Reed Richards doesn’t pay you much attention. You’re just another intern in the lab—quiet, efficient, always taking notes. But you’re also a telepath. And Reed has no idea you can hear every filthy, unspoken thought he has about you.
rating: E. dirty talk. no infidelity, I promise! rough piv sex. oral (fem receiving). mind reading. mutual pining. semi-public sex. come on face.
a/n: omggggggggggggg I loved writing this. I only saw Fantastic Four: First Steps yesterday but I feel like I've been obsessed for months already. I actually wrote this before seeing the movie, but held off until today to post. hope you like it!!!! 💙
You don’t like Reed Richards.
You tell yourself this the moment you meet him. He barely acknowledges your existence. He doesn’t shake your hand. Doesn’t even make eye contact.
You say something polite—something like, "Pleasure to meet you, Dr. Richards."
He says, without glancing up from the display in front of him, "The data’s unstable. Did you notice the gravitic skew in quadrant six?"
Oh.
Okay. That kind of guy.
Later, you categorize him like you’re filing a report: Brilliant. Socially stunted. One of those too-smart-to-be-nice types who treats human interaction like a necessary evil.
It makes your job easier. You’re not here to be liked.
You’re here to assist with the joint-mutant initiative. Quietly. Professionally. Keep your head down, do your work, keep the mental channel muted unless someone explicitly asks for help. Your mutation makes people nervous. Not everyone wants to know what they’re broadcasting.
But Reed Richards?
Reed Richards is broadcasting filth.
The first time it happens, you think you’ve misread. You’re across the lab, checking output from a cracked containment dome, and his thoughts slip past your mental wall like a hot breath on the back of your neck:
God, what those lips would look like around my cock.
How tight she’d be, wet and warm and surprised.
Bet she tastes sweet. Fuck, I’d drag it out. Make her beg.
She wouldn’t beg. She’s too proud. I’d make her anyway.
You jolt. Your pen jerks off the page. A shaky line across your log sheet. You don’t dare look up. You’ve never heard him speak like that. You’ve barely heard him speak at all. Reed is curt. Precise. Dismissive, even. But now you hear it in his head, like it’s on a loop, layered with vivid images — your thighs spread across his desk, his fingers prying you open while he murmurs clinical observations that make your cheeks burn.
She’d be wet already. I’d test her reaction time. Graph her pulse. Hypothesize what makes her shake.
You swallow, shift in your seat, force your hands to stay still. You should block him out. You usually do. No one wants to hear what people are really thinking. It’s invasive, and it’s dangerous, and it’s too much to carry.
But this? This is—
“Is something wrong?” His voice cuts across the room. Crisp. Flat. Like he doesn’t have his hand buried in your imaginary cunt.
You look up. Just once.
He’s watching you. Eyes sharp behind his glasses. No heat in his expression — none of the filth you just heard. He looks the same way he always does. Unreadable. Detached.
“No,” you say. Too quickly. “Nothing’s wrong.”
Reed nods once and returns to typing, but his thoughts don’t stop.
I wonder if she’d moan when I touch her or bite her lip to stay quiet.
Bet I could break her composure. Bet I could ruin her neat little posture.
You grip the edge of the counter until your knuckles ache.
You’ve made a huge mistake.
Because now that you’ve tuned in, you don’t think you can stop.
-
The worst part isn’t how filthy it is.
It’s the contrast.
Reed Richards — Dr. Richards, to everyone — never even swears in conversation. He refers to the human body like it’s a schematic. He’ll say “pleasure response” instead of orgasm, and you’ve heard him refer to Sue’s divorce attorney as “a challenging presence,” which you think is his version of calling someone a dick.
So the first time you hear him think the word cunt, your brain short-circuits.
Bet it’s tight. Warm. Slick around my fingers. Her cunt would grip me like it knows me.
You grip the edge of the lab table.
Reed hasn’t moved. He’s still typing, back straight, posture annoyingly perfect. A model scientist. The embodiment of control.
But in his head—
I’d stretch her out with my tongue first. Just to taste. Just to make her shiver.
Then I’d fuck her open with two fingers. Maybe three. Just to see how much she could take.
You feel your face flush hot.
His voice in your head is the same one he uses when he’s narrating quantum anomalies. Methodical. Fascinated. Detached.
Like your body is a phenomenon he wants to understand. Just for the data.
She’s got sensitive tits, I think. Would need a gentle mouth. Then a rough one.
I’d chart how many licks until she breaks.
You turn away before he can see the expression on your face. Not that he’d be looking.
Reed doesn’t look at you.
Not unless you speak first. Even then, his gaze usually lands near your shoulder or just past your head — like you’re a part of the room’s architecture. Necessary. Functional. Forgettable.
Which is why you can’t fathom the sudden, overwhelming specificity of his thoughts.
Would she come if I sucked on her nipples and slid my thumb over her clit?
Or would she need to be fucked?
Deep. Slow. Me inside her while she tries not to cry out.
You have to leave.
You mumble something — “back in ten” or “need a break” — and Reed doesn’t respond. He doesn’t glance your way. Just lifts a hand absently in acknowledgment, still facing the board, still immersed in whatever algorithm or image his mind is chewing on.
Except now you know that algorithm is you.
Your wet heat. Your thighs. Your pulse as he imagines pressing his mouth to it and whispering, “Come for me. Let me see.”
You flee to the hallway, breath stuttering in your throat, shame and heat and disbelief running a relay race in your chest.
You’ve heard dirty thoughts before. You’ve had them.
But never from someone so composed. So quiet. So far removed from the possibility of ever touching you.
And that’s what makes it dangerous.
He has no idea you can hear him.
And worse — he’s not trying to stop.
-
The rest of the day, you try to block him out.
You build mental walls. Steel-plated. Brick-layered. Reinforced with every ounce of discipline you’ve learned since puberty, when people’s thoughts started bleeding into your skull like background noise you couldn’t shut off.
But Reed’s thoughts don’t bleed. They pierce.
They stab through.
You’re elbow-deep in diagnostics when it happens again — no warning, no break in his typing cadence, no shift in posture.
Just a whisper inside your head like a hand between your thighs.
She’d come so pretty if I rubbed her clit just right. Not hard. Just enough to make her beg.
Your knees go weak.
You drop the calibration tool.
It clangs against the lab floor and rolls under a counter.
Reed doesn’t turn around. He never does.
But in your head:
Imagine her on my desk, shaking. Panting. Just a little ruined.
Would her thighs tremble when I pull out, or when I sink in?
Fuck. I’d edge her until she sobs.
You squeeze your eyes shut. Grip the counter. Count backward.
Ten. Nine. Eight.
It’s not enough.
I wouldn’t even fuck her the first time. I’d make her ride my face. Learn how she moves. What makes her lose rhythm.
You suck in a breath and drop to your knees, fumbling under the bench for the runaway tool. Your fingers shake as you grab it.
You’re burning from the inside out.
He’s just standing there — chalk in one hand, the other curled around the lip of the console, muttering numbers under his breath.
As if he doesn’t know what he’s doing to you, like he isn’t narrating how he’d make you come.
You crawl out from under the counter, wiping your palms on your lab coat. Try to focus. Try to breathe.
But the thoughts keep going.
She probably moans softly. Gasps, maybe. One hand on my wrist, the other gripping the sheets.
Would she let me come on her face? Or just in her mouth?
Your hand slips on the console. The system glitches — an alert flashes red on the screen.
“Everything okay?” Reed says, without turning.
His tone is bland. Neutral. The same one he uses when he’s asking about error margins or component failures.
You force your voice to steady. “Fine. Sorry. Just bumped the interface.”
“Run the sequence again,” he says.
You do.
But your fingers tremble the whole time. And every time you glance up, you see the line of his spine, the tension in his forearms, the methodical tap of chalk against board — like he’s not thinking about bending you over the lab bench and pressing his mouth between your thighs.
But he is.
And now you know.
-
It’s not supposed to be a social thing.
You’re huddled in the lab with Reed, Johnny, and a visiting biophysicist from MIT who talks with his hands and keeps spilling his coffee. It’s late afternoon. The conversation’s circling around particle harmonics and neural feedback delay — nothing you haven’t heard before.
Reed, as usual, is silent. Focused. His back to the room, one hand scrolling equations, the other holding a piece of chalk he hasn’t used in fifteen minutes.
You think maybe you’ll survive the day without hearing anything from him. You’ve built the walls again. Brick by brick. You’re not letting him in.
And then Johnny goes, “I still don’t get why you didn’t just read her.”
You blink. “What?”
Johnny laughs. “Come on, don’t play dumb. You could’ve. You always say that trick comes in handy when people lie.”
Your blood goes cold. You look up slowly. “Johnny…”
“Oh shit. Was that not public knowledge?” He raises both palms in mock defense. “Sorry. I mean, I thought everyone knew.”
They don’t. Not everyone. But Sue, Ben, Johnny — they do. Reed, you’d assumed… maybe. But not definitely.
Until now.
Because Reed goes still.
Not visibly. Not to the average eye. But you see it.
His hand halts mid-scroll. The chalk pauses just before touching the board.
He doesn’t turn around. Of course not. He never does.
But the entire current in the room changes.
The MIT guy, oblivious, whistles low. “Telepathy? That’s incredible.”
“Yeah,” Johnny says, grinning. “She’s like a human lie detector. Except it’s not like she goes digging, you know? She just picks stuff up.”
The scientist nods. “Is it active or passive?”
“Both,” you say, voice light, controlled. “Depends on the day. And the person.”
“Must be fun.”
You shrug. “Sometimes.”
Johnny leans on the console. “Sometimes not, huh?”
Your eyes flick briefly to Reed’s back. His hand is still frozen in midair, like he’s been caught in amber.
You look away.
“Yeah,” you murmur. “Sometimes… not so much.”
The conversation moves on.
Someone cracks a joke about lab gossip being unsafe around you. The MIT guy asks a question about psi-shielding. Johnny starts talking about that one time you ruined a poker night by knowing someone’s cards.
But Reed doesn’t speak, doesn’t move.
For the first time in days, his thoughts are silent.
You feel the absence like a blow.
No whispers. No fantasies. No wondering what your cunt tastes like or how you sound when you come. Just—
Nothing.
A void. You should be relieved. Instead, you feel like you’ve been locked out of something you didn’t know you needed.
Behind Reed’s still frame, you can sense it — the slow, dangerous coiling of tension.
Not shame, not guilt. Only awareness.
He knows, and now he’s thinking about what you’ve heard.
-
You don’t sleep that night.
You lie in bed with your mind reeling, blankets too heavy, your chest too tight. The silence in Reed’s head echoes louder than any of the filth that came before. You didn’t realize how much you’d come to expect his thoughts. Not want them — not exactly — but… count on them. Like a metronome. Like proof he was human under all that restraint.
Now?
Nothing.
No late-night fantasies. No secret hypotheses about your body. Just a wall — colder and more deliberate than anything you’ve ever put up yourself.
He knows.
And now you’re waiting for the fallout.
You think about packing.
You think about going to Sue and getting ahead of it — telling her you’re sorry, you didn’t mean to listen, you never asked for the thoughts to come in like that, you tried so fucking hard to block them out.
You think about how Sue would tilt her head, lips pressed together in that gentle, unreadable way of hers, and say, “I’ll talk to Reed.”
That thought alone makes you want to crawl out of your skin.
You don’t go to the lab the next morning.
You call in sick — stomach flu, maybe food poisoning.
You spend the day in your apartment, curled on your couch with a half-drunk mug of tea and the soft buzz of muted news. You try to distract yourself with papers, textbooks, even an old simulation of Mars terrain scans.
None of it sticks.
Because the only thought that plays on repeat is this:
You’ve ruined it.
You had one shot. One internship. One thread of hope that could’ve led to something real — something bigger than the lab, bigger than Earth.
You’ve wanted space since you were old enough to name constellations. You were supposed to be part of the next crew rotation. If you did well, if you impressed the right people, if Reed thought you were worth keeping—
But now all he sees is a liability. An intruder. A mind he can’t trust.
Maybe he’s already filed a report. Maybe by Monday you’ll be reassigned to inventory. Or security compliance. Some corner of the building where they can keep you out of people’s heads and off the launch manifest.
You curl tighter. You don’t cry but your throat aches like you might.
You’d rather he shouted. Rather he confronted you. Rather he called you invasive or perverse or unprofessional.
Instead, he just disappeared.
That silence — the absence of his voice in your head — feels like the worst kind of punishment.
-
You come in early the next day.
Earlier than usual. Earlier than anyone else should be there.
Except he’s already in the lab.
You hear the soft click of the console keys before you see him. The low whir of cooling fans. The faint scratch of chalk across board.
When you step inside, Reed doesn’t turn.
He’s where he always is — back straight, eyes forward, sleeves rolled, a shadow of stubble softening the sharp lines of his jaw. His body is still, but his mind—
His mind is deafening.
F=ma. ΔS = Qrev/T. Entropy is always increasing. Entropy is always increasing. Entropy is always increasing—
You press your hand to the doorframe.
It’s not that he’s shut you out.
It’s that he’s replaced the thoughts. Stuffed the filth back into its cage and barricaded the door with math. With precision. With the cold comfort of numbers.
But it’s loud. So loud.
Equations loop over and over, like static, like punishment, like he’s trying to drown himself in calculus and thermodynamics until there’s no room left for want.
You don’t say anything.
You just take your seat. Log into the console. Pretend the silence is normal. That the walls haven’t shifted. That this isn’t your fault.
But then, after twenty-eight minutes of stillness—
He turns.
Slowly.
His eyes meet yours for the first time in days.
And then, like the flip of a switch, the equations stop.
The noise cuts.
And what follows is even worse.
“I owe you an apology.”
The words land like glass.
You look up — stunned, unsure you heard him right.
Reed continues, voice stiff, almost formal. Like he’s reciting something practiced.
“I was unaware that my thoughts were… accessible. To you.”
He swallows. His gaze doesn’t waver. “If I caused any discomfort, or crossed any boundary—”
“You didn’t,” you say, too fast.
But he doesn’t stop.
“I understand if you wish to leave the internship. I will personally ensure a neutral letter of recommendation and full academic credit, if you—”
“No.” You shake your head, your throat tight. “I don’t want to leave.”
Silence.
Your breath trembles in your chest.
“I’m not upset,” you say, softer. “I never was.”
Reed stares at you.
You’ve never seen him look so unsure.
“I should not have allowed those thoughts to form,” he says, quieter now. “I certainly shouldn’t have repeated them.”
You offer a breath of laughter — too hollow to be real. “You didn’t say them.”
He blinks. “I thought them.”
You nod. “You did.”
A pause.
Then you add, “But I heard more than what you thought.”
His brows draw together. “Meaning?”
“I heard how hard you tried not to.”
“I’m truly so, so sorry,” he says.
The words sound foreign in his mouth — like he doesn’t quite know how to say them aloud. His voice drops as he says it, too, like he wants to bury the sentence somewhere low between you.
“It was unprofessional.”
You blink. It hits different when it’s said that plainly — not just the apology, but the weight of the word.
Unprofessional.
He means it. You can hear it in his thoughts now, the edge softening — shame curling in the quiet corners. He’s not just sorry you heard him. He’s sorry he thought it at all. Sorry he let himself want. Sorry his discipline failed.
“Reed,” you say, gently. “It’s alright.”
He doesn’t move, he doesn’t breathe, for a second.
It’s not the kind of apology that’s waiting for forgiveness. It’s the kind that assumes none is possible.
“I should have—” he begins, but the sentence crumbles.
You step closer before you can think better of it. Not too close. Just enough to catch the tiniest flicker in his eyes — a shift, like he’s bracing for something more than your words.
“I’ve heard worse,” you say, lips twitching in the ghost of a smile. “You just think very… graphically.”
His mouth parts — just slightly. For the first time, you see something almost human flicker behind his usual impassivity.
Embarrassment.
He opens his mouth to speak again, but nothing comes.
You reach for the console behind you, just to give your hands something to do.
“If you’re wondering whether I was offended,” you say, “I wasn’t.”
His gaze lifts to yours slowly. “You weren’t.”
You shake your head. “I didn’t say it wasn’t… surprising.”
Something changes in the set of his shoulders. The faintest drop. Like a gear slipping in a machine.
You can hear it again, too — faint, fainter than before, but real: She’s not angry. She’s not leaving.
You lean back against the edge of the table, arms crossed loosely. “I’ve had these powers my whole life, you know. You hear people think things they’d never say. Half of them wouldn’t even admit it to themselves.”
Reed doesn’t respond. But you feel the shift. The stillness that isn't emptiness anymore — it’s presence. It’s him, fully here, not hiding behind data or circuits or chalk.
“It can be fun sometimes,” you admit. “Other times…” You trail off. “Not so much.”
His fingers flex slightly where they rest at his sides.
You almost expect him to end it there. To nod, turn away, retreat to the board, drown himself in equations again.
But instead, he says, quietly:
“I didn’t mean for you to feel like an object.”
Your chest tightens.
You meet his gaze.
“I didn’t.”
You watch him for a moment, unsure what to say next.
The lab is quiet. Still. The hum of the equipment blends into the background like white noise. Reed hasn’t moved since his last apology — hands loose at his sides, eyes lowered just enough that you can’t quite tell if he’s looking at you or through you.
You shift slightly on the edge of the table.
“Are you okay?” you ask, softly.
It’s the gentlest question in the world. You don’t expect much. A nod, maybe. Or the barest deflection.
Instead, he huffs a laugh.
Short. Quiet. Almost self-deprecating.
And so out of place coming from him that it draws your eyes back to his face immediately.
He still doesn’t smile. Of course he doesn’t. But there’s a flicker at the corner of his mouth, like he might have once, in another life, remembered how.
Your chest eases — just barely — and you smile at him. Tentative. Careful. The kind of smile you give a wounded animal when you’re holding out a hand.
Reed blinks, and this time his gaze meets yours without hesitation.
He doesn’t say yes, or no, or I will be.
But he doesn’t look away.
He doesn’t turn back to the board.
You take that as enough.
The air between you settles, not warm exactly, but less charged. Less sharp.
You glance down at your tablet, then back up. “Do you want to… work on the gamma dispersion scan?”
A pause. Then he nods.
It’s quiet again as you both fall into rhythm — screens blinking softly, files opening, measurements calibrating. For ten minutes, it almost feels normal. Like none of this happened. Like your body hasn’t been the subject of his private curiosity. Like you haven’t heard, in his own voice, the words tits and cunt wrapped in awe like he’s discovering a new element.
But every so often, you catch the stillness in him.
The way he doesn’t quite type as fluidly as before. The way his thoughts — no longer loud, no longer obscene — hover just out of reach. Reined in. Scrubbed clean.
Control, you hear him think, a little later. Keep control.
You bite the inside of your cheek.
Because now that you’ve forgiven him — now that you’ve stayed — he’s afraid he’ll slip again.
He’s afraid of wanting.
Of letting you hear it.
And maybe, more than anything, he’s afraid you won’t look at him the same if you do.
You wait until the next lull. After the data finishes compiling. After you both fall into quiet, careful work, pretending the air isn’t thick with everything unsaid.
Then, without looking up, you ask:
“What are you really thinking?”
The words slip out like a whisper. Not a demand. A coaxing.
You hear him stop breathing.
His fingers freeze on the console.
You look up.
He’s staring down at his hands like they belong to someone else. His brows twitch — the smallest knot of conflict pulling across his forehead.
You don’t press. You wait.
He swallows hard.
“I—” His voice is rougher than you’ve ever heard it. “I don’t think I should say.”
You nod slowly. “I know.”
There’s a pause. The kind that feels like a coin balanced on its edge — waiting to tip.
Then, finally, Reed lifts his gaze to meet yours.
It’s not a sharp glance. Not a command or a calculation. It’s vulnerable. Raw.
“Are you sure?”
You nod before your brain can stop you. “I’m sure.”
Your heart hammers against your ribs.
The silence that follows isn’t heavy. It’s charged.
And then—soft, almost reverent, like he’s saying it for himself more than for you—his thought brushes your mind.
She’s the most astonishing thing I’ve ever seen.
You don’t move.
She’s smart. Composed. And when she smiles at me like that, I want to get on my knees and put my mouth on her cunt until she forgets every name but mine.
Your breath catches.
Reed’s eyes are still on yours. Steady. Honest.
I want to see her fall apart. Hear her. Feel her thighs around my face. I want her to let go with me. Just once. Just to know what it’s like to make someone like her come.
You’re frozen.
Flushed.
His thoughts echo again, softer now, barely there:
I would be gentle. At first. I’d learn her rhythms. I’d listen.
You part your lips, but no sound comes out.
Reed doesn’t look away.
You see the tension in his jaw. The restraint. The ache he’s too careful to name aloud.
But this time, he’s not hiding.
He’s giving you the truth.
And your whole body sings with it.
The silence stretches, but it doesn’t break.
Reed watches you like he’s waiting for you to flinch. For you to run. For you to laugh it off or look away or say no.
You don’t.
Your breath is shallow. Your pulse pounds behind your ribs like a warning, like a promise. But you don’t move.
You stay.
Reed’s fingers flex slightly at his sides. A twitch. A tremor. And then—carefully, like he’s unsure the ground will hold—he takes one slow step forward.
Your heart leaps.
He pauses.
Then another step.
Still watching you.
You straighten, knees brushing the edge of the console. Your hands—useless at your sides—curl instinctively into the hem of your coat. You feel like a held breath. Like one word might shatter you.
And then he’s close enough that you can see it in his face—the nerves he’s trying to hide. The deep ache folded into his silence. The apology still lingering beneath his restraint.
But also the want.
So much want.
You reach out.
Just a little.
And that’s all it takes.
His hand lifts—slow, hesitant—and finds yours midair. The contact is gentle. Barely there. Your fingers brush his palm and his thumb curves awkwardly over your knuckles, like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed.
But you link your fingers with his.
You squeeze.
His breath shudders.
You’re close now. Not quite touching chest to chest. Not yet. But his body radiates heat like a solar flare, and your joined hands hang between you like a thread you’re both afraid to tug.
He doesn’t say anything.
He doesn’t have to.
His thoughts are quiet, but open. Not graphic. Not filthy this time.
She’s here. She’s still here.
You lift your other hand—slowly, carefully—and touch the crook of his elbow. His arm tenses for half a second, then relaxes under your touch.
His hand in yours tightens. Just a little.
You smile at him. Tentative. Like before.
And this time, Reed exhales like it breaks something loose inside him.
You lean in slowly.
No rush. No sharp breath or whispered question. Just instinct. Trust. The press of his fingers wrapped in yours.
Your lips find his.
A soft, fleeting brush.
So light you could pretend it didn’t happen.
But it does.
He stills.
For a heartbeat, maybe two.
Then something inside him snaps.
Reed surges forward—still silent, but no longer hesitant. His free hand lifts to cup your jaw, fingers spanning your cheek with a trembling kind of reverence. His mouth crashes into yours again, firmer this time, open, hungry.
You gasp, and he takes it.
Takes you.
His lips drag over yours like he’s starved. His body leans into yours, chasing heat, chasing breath, chasing something he’s kept buried under equations and silence for too damn long.
You kiss him back, matching his pace, your fingers gripping the front of his shirt just to stay grounded.
It’s not perfect. It’s messy.
Teeth clash once. Your nose bumps his. He exhales sharply against your mouth, and you laugh, surprised and dizzy.
Reed groans low in his throat like it drives him wild.
His grip shifts—hand sliding to the back of your neck, the other pressing firm at your waist, tugging you closer. There’s no more distance now. You’re chest to chest, breath to breath, his mouth working yours like it’s a formula he’s been dying to solve.
You reach blindly for something—anything—to anchor yourself.
Your fingers find the edge of his belt.
Not teasing. Not intentional.
Just need.
A way to keep your feet on the ground while the rest of you unravels.
You clutch the leather and kiss him deeper.
And Reed—God, Reed—moans softly into your mouth like he’s the one overwhelmed.
His thoughts flood through you again, all barriers down now.
So soft. So warm. She kissed me first.
I want to lift her onto the desk. Get my hands under that coat.
I want to taste her. Right now. Right fucking now.
Your knees buckle slightly, and he catches you with both arms, tugging you flush against him, the hard press of his belt against your stomach making your skin spark.
You don’t speak.
Neither does he.
But you kiss like you’re telling secrets. Like you’re breaking rules. Like every second is borrowed time.
Reed drops to his knees.
It happens fast. One second his mouth is pressed to yours, the next he’s sinking down like gravity’s claimed him — like he’s meant to be there. At your feet. Between your legs. Worshipful and wild.
His hands slide up your thighs, warm and unhurried. He lifts your skirt like he’s unfolding a secret he’s only ever dreamed of touching. You brace one hand against the console behind you, the other tangled in his hair, fingers trembling.
He doesn’t speak.
He stares.
Like your thighs are a formula. Like the space between them holds the answer to every question he’s never let himself ask.
Then his hands slide higher, thumbs brushing the crease of your hips, and he leans in.
He kisses the inside of your knee. Then higher.
Your breath catches as his mouth moves up your thigh—soft, open-mouthed kisses dragging heat across your skin. He hums low in his throat, like he’s cataloging every inch, and you feel it all the way to your core.
“Fuck,” you whisper, your head tipping back.
Reed doesn’t stop.
He kisses just beside the place you want him most. Once. Twice. Then his hands shift—firm on your hips—and he nuzzles against your panties, dragging his nose along the damp fabric like he needs to breathe you.
And then—his thoughts, finally, finally back:
She’s soaked. God, she’s so wet. All for me.
Your legs shake.
He pulls your panties aside and exhales softly at the sight.
Perfect.
And then his mouth is on you.
You cry out—sharp and helpless—the sound echoing off the walls of the lab. He licks a slow stripe through your folds, groaning like he’s tasted something he’ll never recover from.
You grip his hair harder.
Reed doesn’t stop. Doesn’t hesitate. He licks you like he needs it, tongue dragging up to circle your clit, then back down to press flat against your entrance. His thoughts are a blur—lust, wonder, obsession—louder now, less composed.
You whimper.
She’s so sweet. Want to keep her like this. Want her coming on my tongue.
He moans against you, the vibration shooting through your whole body. His mouth moves faster, more deliberate, like he’s testing responses, building a pattern. Every flick of his tongue is data. Every gasp from you is a new variable to study.
Your knees threaten to give, and he only grips your thighs tighter, pulling you closer, mouth never leaving you.
“Reed—fuck, I—”
You shatter.
Come for me, he thinks, right as his lips wrap around your clit and suck.
Your cry rips through the air, your body spasming against his mouth. He doesn’t let up. He holds you through it—tongue coaxing, soothing, tasting every twitch and shake as you come undone.
And when it’s over, when your chest is heaving and your thighs are trembling, he looks up at you.
Mouth wet. Eyes dark.
Ravenous.
He stands, slow and steady, hands dragging up your thighs as he rises. When he’s eye level again, you see it—his mouth slick with you, his chest rising hard like he’s been holding his breath the whole time.
He doesn’t say anything at first.
Just pulls you in and wraps both arms around your waist, pressing his face into your neck. He inhales deeply.
And fucking hell, he smells like you.
“Are you alright?” he murmurs, voice low and gritty in your ear.
You let out a breathless laugh, your chest still fluttering. “You’re seriously asking me that?”
He lets out a sound — not quite a laugh, not quite a groan — and you feel it more than hear it, vibrating against your throat. His hips are right against you now, belt biting into your lower stomach. He’s hard. So fucking hard.
You push against him, mouth near his jaw. “Reed.”
He pulls back just enough to look at you. And when he does, your hands come up to frame his face.
Not tender. Hungry.
You drag your thumb across his bottom lip. His eyes flick down to your mouth like he’s about to lose it.
“What are you thinking?” you ask.
A pause.
Then his gaze darkens, and the answer bleeds out of him—wordless but clear.
I want to fuck her right here. I want to bend her over this table and hear what she sounds like when she’s cock-drunk.
Your knees go weak.
And he sees it.
You don’t say a word.
You just drop your hand from his face, trail it down between your bodies, and reach for his belt.
Reed doesn’t stop you.
Doesn’t even blink.
He watches, jaw tight, as you tug the leather loose, then work open the button and drag the zipper down. The metal teeth part with a low rasp, and he exhales sharply when your hand slips inside.
You wrap your fingers around him.
Hot. Heavy. Hard as hell.
“Jesus,” you murmur under your breath, stroking him once, slow and deliberate.
Reed’s head tips back.
His hips jerk forward slightly, chasing the friction, but he still doesn’t touch you. Just lets you have him, your hand moving over his cock like you’ve been thinking about it for weeks.
(You have.)
His thoughts are a mess—fractals of want, raw and unfiltered.
You squeeze a little tighter.
She’s touching me. She’s—fuck—she’s got her hand on my cock. I’m not going to last.
His breath catches.
“You’ve been thinking about this?” you ask, voice low, thumb swiping the head.
“Every goddamn day,” he grits out.
You jerk him faster.
He growls.
And then—too fast to brace for—he grabs your hips and spins you around.
Your palms slam against the console. You gasp, but you don’t stop him—not when you feel him crowding up behind you, not when his hands drag your skirt back up to your waist, not when he rips your panties down your thighs in one fluid motion.
One hand slides up your spine, pushing between your shoulder blades until your chest is flush to the table.
The other guides his cock to your entrance.
“Say you want this,” he breathes out, the head of him nudging against your slick folds.
You push back into him.
“Reed,” you pant, “just fuck me already.”
He groans like it’s ripped out of his throat and then he slams into you hard.
Your gasp turns into a choked moan as your body jolts forward from the force of it. One of his hands clamps tight around your hip, the other braced beside your head on the console. His cock drives into you again, again, again—deep, punishing thrusts that make your breath stutter with each slap of skin on skin.
The sounds echo off the lab walls—your gasps, his ragged breath, the obscene wet suck of your cunt taking him over and over.
“Fuck,” Reed growls, hips snapping, “you feel even better than I thought.”
Your eyes flutter shut.
His mouth is right at your ear now, breath hot and filthy.
“I’ve been thinking about this since the day you walked in,” he pants. “That face. Those sweet thighs. Wanted to bend you over this table and fuck you stupid.”
You cry out—high, breathless—when he grinds into you just right, cock dragging over every swollen nerve inside you.
“I knew you’d be wet for me,” he growls. “But this?”
His fingers slip down, find your clit, and rub fast, hard, cruel.
“You’re soaked. So fucking messy.”
You brace yourself on trembling arms, the pressure building fast—too fast. He’s everywhere, filling you, touching you, whispering things he should never say out loud.
“You gonna come for me, pretty girl?” he grits out, voice tight and close.
You whimper, legs shaking. “I—fuck, I think I—”
“You’re close,” he hisses. “I can feel it.”
His pace goes brutal. He fucks into you like he wants to break you, the slap of his hips against your ass echoing over every surface, every panel and beaker forgotten. Your cunt clamps down, fluttering, and your voice breaks into a cry as your climax rips through you.
You don’t just come. You gush.
A warm burst sprays out of you, splashing down your thighs, hitting the tile with a wet splatter. You cry out, humiliated and wrecked and still twitching, your walls milking his cock in desperate aftershocks.
Reed groans like he’s dying.
“God damn,” he breathes.
You can’t speak. Your cheek is pressed to the console, mouth open, panting, whole body slick and trembling.
He doesn’t stop. He fucks you through it, harder now, more ragged. You feel the way your slick coats his cock, dripping down onto the lab floor with every brutal thrust.
You feel ruined. Your legs give out.
There’s no warning. No graceful slide. Just the quivering collapse of overstimulated muscles, your knees hitting the tile with a soft thud, skirt bunched around your waist, panties still tangled around your thighs.
You don’t care, you don't think you could.
Not with your cunt still twitching from the last orgasm, your thighs sticky, the lab floor glistening with the evidence of just how hard he made you come.
Reed groans above you and you glance up.
He’s flushed and wrecked, shirt untucked, cock still slick with your arousal as he strokes himself, fast and frantic, hand gliding over the mess you left behind.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “You look—Jesus.”
You open your mouth, just slightly.
Not coy nor innocent, but ready.
You brace yourself on one arm and tilt your chin up, eyes locked on him. The unspoken invitation hits him like a punch.
His grip falters. He bites down a moan. You see his whole body jerk with restraint.
“Please,” you whisper, voice hoarse and aching. “I want it.”
That does it.
He grunts, cock twitching in his hand. “Fuck—fuck—”
He steps forward, the tip of him flushed and slick and angry-looking, and you hold steady even as your thighs tremble. His breath goes wild, chest heaving as he pumps himself harder, faster, your name breaking on his tongue like a prayer.
“Gonna come,” he pants. “Fuck, I’m gonna—”
Thick, hot ropes paint your cheek, your lips, your chin. One lands across your chest, the rest splashing across your flushed skin. You close your eyes as the first drops hit, lips parted as you gasp at the heat of it.
He moans—deep, guttural, undone.
You feel it drip down your neck, cooling already.
When you blink up at him again, his hand is still wrapped around his cock, his chest still rising like he’s run a mile. His eyes meet yours—dark, dazed, hungry—and the raw possessiveness isn’t there.
There's only you.
His gaze drops to the mess he’s made of your face, and then to your mouth.
You swipe your thumb across your bottom lip, tasting him.
dating: from zero to proficiency - modern!baelor targaryen x younger!reader
summary: baelor hasn't had the pleasure of going on a first date in over twenty years. turns out, he's got a lot to learn.
part two of cooking: from zero to proficiency, but can be read as a standalone if you don’t want to tackle the 22k word first part.
tags: just silly-goofy-cute first date fun. age gap.
word count: 6.2k
read on ao3 | read the first part | masterlist
He had chosen the restaurant.
You had known he would choose the restaurant - it was the kind of thing that was simply in his nature, the same instinct that had kept the station organized, and the recipe card read in advance, and the water glasses filled before you arrived. He was a man who made decisions and made them well, and when he had texted you three days after the last class - a text so formally worded you had read it twice just to make sure it was a text and not a legal brief - to suggest dinner on Saturday, you had said yes and thought that wherever he picked would be fine.
Wherever he picked was not fine, in the sense that it was so far outside your frame of reference that fine was not a category that applied.
You stood on the pavement outside the restaurant and looked at the entrance - the kind of entrance that had a person standing at it, a person in a jacket whose entire job was to hold the door, a door that was heavy, and dark, and framed in something that might have been brass, or might have been something more expensive than brass - and then you looked down at yourself.
You had done your best. Genuinely, sincerely done your best, and you wanted that noted somewhere, even if only internally. The nicest dress you owned was the dress that you had bought for your college graduation and worn twice since, and it was a perfectly good dress, and it fit you well, and the problem was not the dress. The problem was that the dress existed in a world where restaurant entrances did not have their own personnel, and the restaurant in front of you existed in a different world, and those two worlds were, as of tonight, briefly overlapping in a way that made the seams very visible.
Good shoes - heels, low ones, the only pair you owned that qualified - were already making the balls of your feet aware of their feelings. Your coat was presentable from the outside. You had done your hair for forty-five minutes, and Julia had sent back a string of voice notes telling you to stop it and go, and here you were, and here the restaurant was.
He was out of touch.
The thought arrived plainly. Not unkindly - not as a judgment, just a fact, the clear simple fact of someone who had not had to think about whether a restaurant was within reach for a very long time, possibly ever. He had suggested it the way you might suggest a coffee shop, a known quantity chosen on the basis of quality, and the thought of whether it was the kind of place that might make you feel small had simply not entered the picture. Not from indifference. Just from the particular blindness of never having needed to consider it.
You took a breath, squared your shoulders, and went in.
He was already there, of course - he was always early, you had noted this across twelve Monday evenings, as consistent as his rolled sleeves, and his reading posture, and the way he held a wooden spoon.
He was standing near the host's desk rather than sitting, because he had arrived and declined to be seated without you, which was correct and very him, and you registered it with a small, complicated warmth alongside the nervousness rather than instead of it.
He was wearing a suit. A very good suit, dark charcoal, with a tie that was deep burgandy, and a pocket square folded with apparent care, and he looked - you processed this with the slight remove of someone trying to see something clearly - extraordinary.
The suit fit the way expensive things fit when they have been made for a specific person and worn enough times to settle into the shape of them. The dark hair, the mismatched eyes, the correctness of his posture, all of it read differently here than it had in an amber-lit kitchen with flour on the counter and Rowan's voice cutting through the noise of several working stoves at once.
Here, he looked like what he was - a very successful fifty-year-old man who had arrived early and was waiting. And here, in the nicest dress you owned, you looked like what you were, and the distance between those two things was something you were going to spend the next hour and a half being quietly aware of.
He saw you, and something shifted in his expression - moved through pleased and settled into careful, deliberate, the expression of a man managing himself, which you recognized because you were also managing yourself, and because it was genuinely strange to see him standing here when every memory you had of him involved chopping boards, and saucepans, and twelve Monday nights in the same warm kitchen.
"Hi," you said.
"Hello," he said, and offered you the flowers.
You had not expected the flowers. He was holding them with a slight self-consciousness that suggested he had made a decision some days ago, and was now committed to following through on it regardless of how it felt to stand in the entrance of a restaurant holding a wrapped bouquet while waiting - which was, you thought, simultaneously very formal, and very earnest, and entirely, specifically him.
They were white and pale pink, ranunculus or something close, simply wrapped, nothing excessive.
"They're beautiful," you said, and meant it, and took them, and the host appeared and said ‘right this way’, and you followed with the flowers in your arms into the restaurant, already working out that you would be holding them for the rest of the evening because there was simply nowhere to put them.
—-
The restaurant was the kind of place where the menus had no prices on your side.
You discovered this when you opened yours and scanned the left column with the practiced efficiency of someone who always checked prices first, and found that the left column said things like pan-seared halibut with a citrus beurre blanc and slow-braised short rib with truffle pomme purée without any numbers attached. You looked at it for a moment. You looked at Baelor, who was reading his menu with the same focused attention he gave everything and appeared entirely untroubled.
You looked back at your menu.
There was a small, uncertain beat in which you were not entirely sure whether to be offended.
There was something about the menu-without-prices that felt like a particular kind of assumption - like the restaurant, and by extension Baelor, had decided on your behalf that numbers weren't your concern. You turned this over for a moment, fairly.
It was the kind of restaurant that still did things this way because it had always done them this way, and Baelor had probably not chosen it because of that detail, had probably not thought about that detail at all. He had chosen it because he knew it, because the food was good, because when you had been on approximately no dates for however long it had been and you were trying to do this correctly, you defaulted to the version of correct you already had a template for. Which was, you suspected, the client dinner version.
The client dinner version.
You sat with that for a moment - the suit, the menu, the careful correctness of the evening, the way he had been holding himself since you walked in with the slight tension of someone executing a procedure they had memorized and were determined to get right.
He wasn't being dismissive. He wasn't being condescending. He was being the only version of a first date he had available to him, which was formal, and correct, and out of practice, and that was a different thing entirely.
"The halibut is very good here," he told you, over the top of his menu.
"Is it?" You asked.
"I've been here before. For a client dinner, some years ago." He set his menu down and looked at you with the same attentiveness - the full, direct kind. "I should have asked what you preferred. I defaulted to somewhere I knew, which wasn't -" he stopped. "I apologize, I should have asked your preference."
You looked at him for a moment, at the slight compression around his expression that was his version of discomfort, and you said, "It's a beautiful restaurant. I'm glad to be here." And you meant it - not as performance, just as the honest fact of where things stood. He had made a miscalculation with the restaurant. He had also noticed the miscalculation and said so, without being prompted. That counted.
He nodded once and picked up his menu again, and the waiter came, and you ordered the halibut because he had recommended it and because it seemed safe, and Baelor ordered the short rib, and the waiter disappeared, and you were left with each other, and the white tablecloth, and the quiet, ambient sound of a full restaurant on a Saturday evening.
"How was your week?" You asked him, because it was the conversational equivalent of a fire escape - functional, unglamorous, available in emergencies.
In the kitchen it would never have been necessary; conversation had always found its own shape, driven by the task at hand, by the natural rhythm of working alongside someone toward something specific.
Here, there was no task. Just the two of you, and a white tablecloth, and twelve weeks of Monday evenings that had apparently not prepared either of you for Saturday night.
"Busy," he said. "The new client -" a pause. "You don't want to hear about the new client."
"I do," you said, honestly.
He looked at you with a slight skepticism that was almost funny. "It's not interesting."
"You find it interesting."
"I find most things interesting," he said. "I'm not a reliable measure."
"Tell me about the new client," you said.
He told you about the new client. It was - well, it was not inherently interesting in itself, a complex estate dispute with multiple parties and a poorly drafted will being read three different ways by three different sets of lawyers - but the way he talked about it was interesting, the same way it had always been interesting, the way he organized a problem out loud with clean precision.
You listened, and you asked questions, and he answered them, and for about eight minutes it was almost like the kitchen. The register was right, the ease was almost right, and you could see the shape of the person you knew underneath the suit and the careful posture.
And then the food arrived, and the conversation broke, and when it resumed it had lost the thread again.
The food was extraordinary, and you noted this with genuine appreciation alongside the helplessness of knowing that meals like this existed entirely outside your normal life - the kind you'd had maybe twice, at other people's expense, at occasions that required dressing up. The halibut dissolved. The beurre blanc was exactly what a beurre blanc should be, which you knew now, specifically, because of class, and that small knowledge sat pleasantly in the middle of the rather formal evening.
"The sauce," you noted.
Something shifted in his expression - a small, recognizing warmth, the kind that appeared when something from the kitchen surfaced here. "Yes," he agreed.
"We could make this."
"Something close to it," he said. "The technique would be the same. The fish would be less exceptional."
"Rowan would be proud."
"Rowan would take the credit," he said, with a dryness so entirely him that you laughed - a real one, not the polite kind - and he looked quietly pleased, the way he always looked pleased when he made you laugh, without making anything of it.
But then the laugh settled, and the restaurant reasserted itself around you, and the slight stiffness was still there in the set of his shoulders, still in the careful way he was handling the conversation. You thought about what he had said on the phone when you'd finally spoken, working out the date - it's been some time since I've done this - and what some time meant when translated from his particular register into ordinary language.
"Can I ask you something?"
He looked at you. "Yes."
"When was the last time you went on a date? Before tonight."
The pause was brief but real. He looked at his plate for a moment, then back at you, with the expression he had when he was choosing the true answer over the more correct one. "Before Jena died," he said. "We were together from law school, so the last time I dated anyone was before I was married." A pause. "Which was a while ago."
"How long?" you asked.
He considered it. "She passed nearly eleven years ago, and we were married for… well, for thirteen years before that, and we had dated a while before getting married.”
You sat with that for a moment. His last first date would have been more than twenty-four years ago. He had put on his best suit, and brought you flowers, and chosen a restaurant he associated with the kind of occasion, and had been sitting across from you all evening trying very hard to do this correctly by the standards of a version of dating that was more than two decades out of practice, and the whole picture of it - the too-formal posture, the careful orchestration of the evening, the menu without prices - rearranged itself in your understanding into something that was not out of touch at all.
It was just nervousness.
It was just a man who did not know what he was doing and was covering it with the best tools he had, which were precision, and preparation, and the knowledge of where to find a good halibut.
"Okay," you said, because what else could you say?
He looked at you.
"I was just wondering," you said, mildly, "because you've seemed a little -" you looked for the right word. "Tightly wound."
Something moved across his face that he very quickly composed. "I'm not tightly wound."
"You've been holding your fork like it might combust if you set it down," you said.
He paused. He looked down at his fork. He set it down with a deliberateness that was somehow funnier than the original offense, and you pressed your lips together and looked at the tablecloth.
"I'm a little tightly wound," he admitted.
"It's okay," you told him. "I'm nervous too."
He looked at you with a faint surprise, as though this had genuinely not occurred to him - as though he had been so occupied with the propriety of his own side of the evening that your nervousness had simply not entered the picture. It was both very funny and unexpectedly endearing.
"You don't seem nervous," he said.
"I'm very good at seeming like I'm not nervous," you smiled. "I learned it somewhere along the line."
The look he gave you was different from the other, careful expressions of the last hour - quicker, unguarded, the kitchen look, and it lasted only a second before the restaurant settled back around you, but it was enough.
You finished dinner. The food was excellent throughout, and the conversation found a better rhythm in the second half - helped by the frank exchange about nerves, by the loosening that always came from naming a thing. It was not the effortless current of the kitchen, not quite, but it was better. More honest. He made a dry remark about the dessert menu. You told him something that had happened at work that made him press his lips together in the way he did when he was trying not to smile.
It was good, genuinely good, and underneath it you were aware of the thing that was still slightly off - the production-of-a-date quality of the evening, the white tablecloth between you - and you were thinking about how to address it.
The waiter returned, and Baelor asked for the bill with the quiet skill of someone who had been planning to do so for the past several minutes, and when it arrived he positioned it on his side of the table with a naturalness that made very clear the conversation was not going to happen.
"Let me -" you started.
"No," he said.
Just that. Pleasantly, with the finality of a person who had already settled this question internally some time ago and saw no reason to revisit it. You looked at him. He looked back at you with a mild steadiness, as though he were waiting for the objection to resolve itself.
"It's a very expensive restaurant," you protested.
"I chose it," he said. "So it’s only fair that I pay."
You could have pressed it. You looked at his expression and decided not to, and he signed the receipt without letting you see the total, which you appreciated, and put his card away, and that was that.
You were quiet for a moment, watching him, thinking. The evening had been good in parts and stiff in others, and you were not going to let it end on the stiff parts. Not when you knew - with the certainty of twelve Mondays behind knowing - that the Baelor from the kitchen was in there somewhere underneath the suit and the careful posture, and that what he needed was not a better restaurant or better conversation topics but simply something to do with his hands. A task. A shared, unstudied thing that neither of you was performing. That was what had always worked.
"We should get ice cream," you suggested.
He looked at you.
"There's a place two blocks from here," you said. "I passed it on the way."
He looked around, briefly, at the restaurant - the other tables, the candlelight, the dessert menu sitting unopened between you - and then back at you. "It's December.”
"I know."
"It's quite cold."
"I'm aware of the temperature."
"We're in a restaurant," he said, as though it were mildly absurd.
"A restaurant without ice cream," you replied. "I checked the dessert menu. They have something called a deconstructed opera cake and something called a warm valrhona chocolate fondant."
"Both of which are -"
"Fine," you said. "But I want ice cream."
He looked at you for a long moment, and the corner of his mouth did the thing it did. "Alright.”
—
The cold outside was sharp and immediate, the December kind that made itself known in the first breath and stayed known. You had your coat and your flowers, and he had his coat, and the street was quieter than the restaurant side of things - mostly offices, one late-closing stationery shop, the pavement lit at intervals by the street lamps.
It was immediately better than the restaurant. Not because the restaurant had been bad - it had been, objectively, excellent in every way a restaurant could be excellent - just because this was unrehearsed. There was no tablecloth. There was no ambient propriety. There was just the cold, and the street, and him walking beside you.
You had noticed this about him over twelve Mondays. He was always more himself when he was moving, occupied with something with an end-goal. The best conversations had happened when there was a task - when the hollandaise needed watching, or the dough needed kneading, or the sauce needed reducing - the talking always easier when neither of you was thinking about the talking.
Out here with the restaurant was already behind you, and with it the suit's particular weight, the stiffness of the evening began to ease from his shoulders in the way things eased when a person stopped performing a version of themselves.
He walked beside you with a distance that was careful and slightly formal, and you smiled into the cold air ahead of you.
"You're going to tell me it was a perfectly good restaurant with perfectly good dessert," you said.
"It was a perfectly good restaurant with perfectly good dessert," he said.
"And that ice cream in December is -"
"Inadvisable," he said.
"And yet."
"And yet," he agreed, dry and easy, and you felt something in your chest settle - the tight anxious note of the evening beginning to release.
The ice cream shop was small, and warm, and lit with the slightly excessive cheerfulness of a place that had committed fully to an aesthetic of aggressively cozy - string lights, a chalkboard menu, mismatched chairs, the smell of sugar and waffle cone so thick in the air you felt it physically when you pushed through the door. Two other couples, a group of teenagers in the far corner. No white tablecloths.
Baelor looked around the room, eyes flitting around it as he made a rapid assessment. "Welcoming," he decided.
"Very," you said. "What do you want?"
He looked at the chalkboard. Read it with the brief comprehensive attention he gave menus. "Vanilla," he said. "One scoop."
"Just vanilla?"
"Is there a reason it shouldn't be just vanilla?"
"There are forty-three options on that board."
"I know," he was looking up at the board. "Vanilla."
You got two scoops of something involving salted caramel and brownie pieces, which he looked at with the polite neutrality of someone choosing not to comment, and you took the mismatched chairs by the window because that was clearly the right place to sit, and he tasted the vanilla with the focused attention he had brought to everything else both tonight and during classes, and was quiet for a moment.
"That's good," he said, with what sounded like genuine surprise.
"Of course it's good."
"I didn't say I doubted it."
"Your face said you doubted it."
"My face," he said, "is perfectly neutral."
"Your face," you said, "said ‘I am a fifty-year-old man eating vanilla ice cream in December and I have reservations about this’, both literally and figuratively."
A pause. And then he laughed - not the small, quiet exhale that was his usual concession to amusement, a real laugh, brief and genuine, the laugh of someone who had been caught and was not unhappy about it. The sound of it in the warm, bright little ice cream shop after the careful orchestrated evening was so unexpectedly good that you felt it from your chest to your fingertips.
"To be fair," he said, composing himself, "the reservations were about the temperature, not the ice cream."
"And now?"
"The temperature remains inadvisable," he said. "The ice cream is very good."
"High praise."
"I'm selective with my compliments," he said. "Not stingy."
You ate. The teenagers in the corner were loud and cheerful about something on someone's phone. The couple nearest the door were sharing a sundae with the practiced ease of years. The string lights threw a warm, uneven light over everything, and the cold outside the window was visible as a darkness and a faint mist where the warm air from the shop met December.
"Tell me something," you said. "Something you haven't told me."
He considered it with the seriousness he gave most things, and you watched the slight movement of thought cross his face - the brief assessment, the selection. "I've been thinking about getting a dog.”
You looked at him.
"Matarys has been advocating for it for years," he explained. "When the boys were young, I always said no - impractical, hours too long, nobody home. And then they left, and the logic became that it was even more impractical." He turned the small cup in his hands. "But I made soup last Sunday, ate it alone in the kitchen, and thought about it."
"What changed?" You asked.
"The kitchen is different now," he said. "Since October." Simply, without emphasis, in the way he said things that were just true. "I'm in it more. It feels like a different room."
You sat with that for a moment and chose not to read into it too much. "What kind of dog?"
"Something medium-sized. Something that can keep pace when I run."
"Do you know anything about dogs?"
"Less than I knew about cooking in October," he said. "Which was very little."
"So your plan is to read several books and proceed methodically."
"That is generally my plan," he agreed.
"Has it worked out for you?"
He looked at you. The look had the quality of the one from the kitchen - unguarded, the kind that didn't bother composing itself first. "It has," he said. "On balance, fairly well recently."
"Does the dog have a name?" You prodded. "In your head."
He looked briefly surprised, as though this was a step he had not yet arrived at, and then the slight tell of someone disclosing something earlier than intended. "Arthur.”
"Arthur," you repeated.
"It's a good name."
"It is," you agreed. "For a very dignified medium-sized dog who runs."
"Exactly," he said, with a dry completeness. He had committed to this bit and was not backing down from it, and you laughed, and he looked at you the way he looked at you when he had made you laugh, which was quietly and without making any fuss of it, and the rest of the evening opened up from there.
You talked about nothing in particular and everything in general - the dog, Rowan, whether twelve weeks was enough to actually learn to cook or whether you were both just competent beginners with a certificate. Baelor maintained that Rowan would have strong opinions about the restaurant's halibut preparation. You maintained she would simply be pleased that someone was cooking. Neither of you was entirely wrong, and the argument was easy, and warm, and entirely without the stiffness of the restaurant, and at some point during it you became aware that this - the ice cream shop, the string lights, the cold outside the window, the easy back and forth of it - was the date you had actually wanted.
"You're different here," you said, eventually.
"Different from what?"
"From the restaurant." You turned your now empty cup in your hands. "At the restaurant you seemed like you were following a procedure."
He was quiet for a moment. "I wasn't sure what the right register was," he admitted, with a straightness. "I wanted to get it right. So I defaulted to what I knew, which was -"
"The client dinner version," you said.
He looked at you. "Yes," he agreed. "That's about right.”
"The right register," you began, "is just the one from the kitchen. That's the only one I wanted."
He was quiet for a moment, receiving this. "I wasn't sure it would be appropriate," he said. "For a first date."
"Why not?"
"Because in the kitchen we were - partners," he said. "Working toward something. I wasn't certain that translated, or whether you'd come tonight expecting something else entirely."
"It translates," you said.
He nodded, once, slowly. "Good," he said - which was, from him, as close to relief as the register allowed, and it was enough.
"Was that so hard?" You asked.
"Moderately," he said. "Yes."
You laughed, and he smiled - the real one, the one that changed his face briefly and completely - and you stayed in the ice cream shop until your cups were both empty and there was no particular reason to stay longer, and even then neither of you moved immediately. There was something about the evening, the way it had settled into itself in the second half, that neither of you seemed quite ready to close.
Eventually you got up, and the cold outside was a shock after the warmth of the shop, and you both pulled your coats closer and stood on the pavement for a moment while your eyes adjusted to the dark and your lungs adjusted to the temperature.
"The car's back this way," he told you.
"Ah," you said. "I came from the station."
You walked. The street was quiet in the way of Saturday nights that had passed their peak - a few other people here and there, a bar further down with music coming faintly through its walls, but mostly just the cold, and the lamps, and the pavement. Your shoes had made their feelings about the evening known since the restaurant, and you were walking with a slightly careful gait now, and at some point, without announcing it, he slowed his pace to match yours, which you noticed and said nothing about.
You still had the flowers. They had survived the restaurant and the ice cream shop and were still more or less intact, which felt like its own small achievement.
"Thank you for the flowers," you said, because you had said it when he gave them to you and meant it, and you still meant it now, differently - with the full weight of the evening behind it rather than just the surprise of the gesture.
He looked over at you. "You've been carrying them all night."
"I know. I don't mind."
"I didn't think about the logistics of -" he paused, with the slight compression of someone acknowledging a gap in their planning.
"It's fine," you nearly giggled. "They're ranunculus. They're hardy."
"You know what they are."
"I took a botany elective in my second year," you said. "Largely useless, but occasionally applicable."
He was quiet for a moment, an amused look on his face. The street lamp above you cast its yellow ring of light, and the cold was dry and still, and the walk back to his car was, you realized, one of the better parts of the evening - unhurried, unrehearsed, nobody performing anything.
"I had a good time," you said. "Tonight. The second half of it."
"The ice cream," he said.
"And before that. The restaurant improved."
"It had a low point," he said, plainly.
"You recovered," you said. "The deposition exhibit line was a low point."
"You asked me about that," he defended, and then thought for a moment. "I take your point."
"You set your fork down very deliberately afterward."
"I was recalibrating," he said.
"Is that what that was?"
"That is what that was," he said, and there was something in the way he said it - unbothered, not defending himself, just stating the case - that was so precisely the kitchen Baelor that you smiled at the pavement ahead of you and did not try to hide it.
His car was where he had left it, in a side street off the main road, and he unlocked it and looked at you before he opened the passenger side door to let you in. "I'll drive you," he said. Not as an offer exactly - more as a statement of what was going to happen, delivered in the same register as the temperature remains inadvisable and that is generally my plan, a settled thing that had already been decided.
"You don't have to," you said, though in truth the idea of the metro in December with an armful of ranunculus had limited appeal.
"I know," he said. "I'd like to."
You got in.
His car was warm, and quiet, and clean in the way his things seemed like they would be - the kind of car that had been maintained rather than just owned. He drove the way he did everything else, without rushing, with full attention, and you gave him the address and watched his face in the ambient light of the dashboard as the navigation resolved.
He said nothing. The streets became narrower, the shops smaller, the general quality of the neighborhood shifting in the way it shifted when you crossed the invisible line between the parts of the city that were expensive and the parts that were not. He drove. He said nothing, and you were grateful for it, and you looked out the window at the streets you knew and thought that you were not ashamed of where you lived, not exactly, just aware of the metaphorical distance between where you were and where he came from, which had always been there and was simply more visible tonight.
He found parking without difficulty, which was more than you ever accomplished, and you were already getting out by the time he came around, which he registered and said nothing about.
The building was what it was. A converted Victorian terrace, imperfectly divided, your studio at the top of a narrow staircase with a window that leaked cold air around the frame in winter and a kitchen the size of a generous wardrobe.
You had made it as nice as you could, the way you made everything as nice as you could with what you had, and you were not ashamed of it - not exactly. You were just aware of it, the way you were always aware of the other things that marked the distance between where you were and where he came from. The restaurant had made that distance very visible, and standing on this street, in this neighborhood, with him beside you, it was visible again in a different way.
He looked at nothing in particular. Said nothing. He simply walked beside you toward the door, and if the neighborhood registered in any notable way in his internal accounting, his face gave absolutely no indication of it.
He walked you to the front door of the building, and you stopped on the small step under the shallow overhang, and the cold was close, and the street lamp behind him put his face in a half-shadow, and you stood there with your flowers.
He stood with his hands in his coat pockets, and neither of you said anything for a moment. The evening sat between you - the restaurant, and the ice cream shop, and the car, and the walk, and twelve Mondays before all of it, the whole accumulation of how you had arrived at this doorstep on this particular night - and it was very quiet, just the cold, and the lamplight, and the dark beyond it.
You looked at him.
He was looking back at you with an expression that was not any of the restaurant expressions, not the careful, restrained versions from the white tablecloth, not the unguarded ice cream shop version either. Something newer. Something with fewer edges. The direct, fully present quality was there - it was always there, it was one of the most consistent things about him, the thing that had been doing something to your chest since approximately week three and had not stopped - but underneath it was something that was not managed at all, something that had not decided yet what it was going to do with itself.
He was very still.
You were aware of his breathing in the cold air - visible, very slightly, each exhale a faint cloud in the lamplight - and the way it had slowed to something careful. You were aware of your own, which had done something similar, a quieting, a particular attentiveness, the body's involuntary response to proximity and something it recognized even when you were still deciding what to call it.
The street was very still. The cold was very still.
He had not moved. He was looking at you with an expression that held everything it had been holding for twelve weeks and was not, you thought, going to do anything about it on his own.
That was simply not how he was built - he had told you as much, without saying so directly, in all the ways he had held himself back over the Mondays, in the careful control over every look that had lasted a beat too long, in the word alright said from somewhere that had finally stopped arguing rather than anything so active as a decision.
He would stand here in the cold until the heat death of the universe before he reached for something he was not sure he was allowed to reach for.
That was all right. You had always known it would come to you.
You looked at him for a long moment, one beat, two, the length of a decision being made from somewhere past the arguing stage, somewhere simple and clear on the other side of all the weighing of it.
Then you leaned up, and kissed him.
It was deliberate - not sudden, not accidental, the product of a long pause, and a clear choice, and the knowledge of exactly what you were doing. His mouth was warm against the cold, and he was very still for just a moment, the stillness of someone receiving something unexpected and carefully not fumbling it, and then his hand came up from his coat pocket and rested at your jaw - just rested there, light and certain, the way he did things - and he kissed you back.
It was not a long kiss. It was not a complicated one. It was the kind of kiss that was a beginning rather than an arrival - careful, and real, and honest in the way he was honest about things, without embellishment, without anything unnecessary.
You stepped back.
He looked at you, his hand coming down from your face slowly, and his expression was the one you had no name for yet, something you had not seen before tonight, quieter than anything from the twelve weeks and very still.
"Goodnight," you said.
"Goodnight," he said. His voice was very precisely even.
You went inside. The door closed behind you, and you stood in the entry for a moment in the warm and the quiet, with the ranunculus in your arms, and you were smiling, and the cold outside was very cold, and you did not mind it at all.
---
a/n: i posted this from my phone, so if there are mistakes... no there aren't
for future chapters - if you have any opinions about keeping it like the first part (alternating between second and third person every chapter) vs keeping it all in second person, please let me know! i don't want it to seem too all over the place 😅
Summary: Foolish and afraid, you flee from your new husband. He does not let you get far.
Warnings: 18+, Maekar was plotting on reader from the moment he saw her, chasing, possessive Maekar, virginity mentions, female masturbation, vaginal fingering, dirty talk, brief breeding kink mostly unedited
Word Count: 4.8k+
targaryen masterlist
There was no higher privilege than marrying into the royal family. To bear royal children, Targaryen children. It was an honor.
At least, that was what you had been repeatedly told for the last few months.
Hard as you tried, you could not make the sentiment stick. No matter how many times your family told you of the honor you would bring them, no matter how much they praised you and talked smugly about you to others, you could not see it that way.
Not when the maids gushed about Targaryen beauty, and fantasized about how many white-haired children you might bear. Not when your father spent lavishly on you, paying attention to you for what felt like the first time in your life. Not when your mother cupped your face and told you about the secrets of the bedchamber, and how it wasn’t that bad, in fact, it could even be enjoyable.
No. Especially not then.
In the end, a mere three weeks from the wedding, you realized it did not matter how you saw it. As depressing as the thought was, it also bought a sense of freedom. The wedding was happening. There was no changing that. But you could change your feelings.
You resigned yourself to the reality of impending married life.
Aerion Targaryen did not have a good reputation. You had attempted to bring it up with your father several times, only to be hushed and scolded.
Aerion had a proclivity for cruelty and was rumored to be quite the brute. You got yourself used to the idea of him that way. Used to the idea of grabbing hands and blank eyes. You ran over it all again and again until you felt nothing more than a dull disdain.
You could handle the cruelty of a stupid boy, you decided. Even if he was a Targaryen prince. You would do your duty, no more, no less, and survive.
Two weeks before the wedding, your family journeyed to Summerhall. The journey was long and tiring and you hardly registered a moment of it.
The castle was grand, the grounds larger than comprehension and well kept. You had never seen so many staff, nor larger rooms and nicer furniture. You noticed it all with dim interest, your mind focused on the task at hand – marry the Targaryen prince. Bear him children. Live.
Aerion Targaryen was beautiful. They all were, of course. He had a rather delicate look about him, despite all the rumors that whirled around him. For a moment you thought you had been wrong in your assumptions – and then you saw his eyes. They looked like the eyes of a dead man, cold and distant and greedy.
Then and there, you made the choice that whatever children you would bear, would never grow up to be anything like him.
You were not sure what to expect of his siblings. The youngest, Aegon, stayed mostly out of the way. You wished you could have done the same.
His father, Maekar, had a habit of worming his way into your eyeline, into your mind and conscious. Tall, white-haired and stoic. You had met him for the first time on the day you had arrived, before you had even met Aerion.
He had looked at you intensely. It had made you want to scream. He knew what his son was like, more so than anyone else. How dare he drag you here as a sacrifice to placate the dragon?
Maekar had held your hand with surprising tenderness and brought it to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. His beard had scratched at your skin, breaking the panic building in your chest. You had inhaled then, loud and clumsy, and he had held you for a beat longer than appropriate. The air had been heavy as you awoke from what felt like a dream, blinking as sensation seemed to flood back into your body. He had let you go then, but you had felt him watching you as you disappeared with the rest of your family.
With your mind practically turned into mush, you did not deign to notice much else. Aerion’s brothers were nice enough, even the one who was with a cup of wine more often than not. His youngest brother looked at Aerion with something that you did not care to name. If he was cruel to his family members, what hope did you have?
Marry the Targaryen prince. Bear him children. Survive.
But when the ceremony came, and you were stood opposite your betrothed, it was not Brightflame who lifted your veil and slid a ring onto your finger.
In your mind, Summerhall had been drenched in heat and stickiness. Always green grass, fresh fruit and long hours of daylight. No matter how you felt about your husband-to-be, you’d never been able to shake the fanciful image of a place suspended year-long in the peak of Summer.
Nestled in the window nook of your room, you laughed quietly to yourself. The weather outside was grey and dreary, and it had been drizzling for days. Not a proper rain, just a pathetic spattering that made you cold to the bone and lazy.
You twisted the ring on your finger, as you had been wont to do ever since the wedding. It fit you perfectly, despite supposedly being a family heirloom. It was an elegant thing, gold and studded with tiny, blood red jewels than glittered even in sparse lighting. You ran your fingernail over them, wondering who had owned the ring before you.
It had been your husband’s own pick. You liked it more than you cared to admit and had felt a little ashamed of the plain gold band you had shakily slid on your husband’s wedding finger. If he noticed the difference, or cared, he did not say. He had only watched you with the same intense eyes as the day you had first met him.
Aerion Brightflame would have cared. You could imagine it even now; the curl of his lip as he scoffed at the plain gold. He probably would have made some ugly comment right then and there, determined to get in one last public jab against you and your family.
Luckily your husband, his father, was not like that.
Maekar had pulled his hand away from yours as though he thought you might snatch the ring back. Maybe you should have. At the time, you had been startled by the man standing before you and had fallen into a shock you weren’t entirely sure you had recovered from, even now, a month later.
You had glanced over at your father, only to meet his encouraging, greedy eyes. No explanation, no apology. You had shut down then, following along with the rest of the ceremony as though your body was not yours. It wasn’t, really.
You had been prepared for a spoiled, callous prince. Not a man who had looked at you in the way Maekar Targaryen did. Like he was intent on peeling back every defence you had until he could touch the real you.
There had been one small relief in the back of your mind. It was unlikely that the expectation to bear him children would be quite so crushing. Maekar had been married before and had several healthy sons and daughters. Was there really need for more?
It seemed not, for the marriage still remained unconsummated, one whole month later.
You watched idly as rain spattered onto the stone and glass. You thought about that night often. With Aerion you had expected brute force and pain.
When Maekar had closed the door behind him, leaving the pair of you alone in his chambers, your heart had been on the verge of working its way up your throat.
The look in his eyes had been so heated that you could have sworn you felt fire burst along your skin. You had stood there, wide eyed and shivering, vulnerable in a way you did not know how to be.
He had approached you then, hand rising to hover next to your cheek as though he would cup your face and make you hold eye contact. It had remained there for a beat before dropping to the laces on your dress.
You had assumed that would be it. The marriage would be consummated. You had been wrong. Maekar had undressed you with a tenderness that had you near tears, and then redressed you in a nightgown and ushered you to his bed.
Never in a million years did you think you would have been able to sleep. Not when your new husband undressed and joined you, warm skin brushing against yours beneath the sheets. Sheer exhaustion must have kicked in at a certain point though, because you slept deeply, and when you awoke, he had been gone.
You had slept in his chambers for several nights after that. It was only after the third that you began to realise, he had no intention of touching you. Sometimes his hand would hover above your skin, fingers clenching and unclenching, but the only time he touched you was when he would help you dress in your nightgown.
It had made you angry. Angry then and angry now. His restraint was admirable and you held nothing against him for that. It was miles better than what you had built yourself up to expect.
You hated the way your stomach would clench in anticipation. The first time you had realised you wanted his hands on you, the room had seemed to spin. When you lay awake next to him, thighs clenching, nipples hard, you were furious. And afraid. This was not what you had prepared for.
At some point you had realised that was what he was waiting for. Reciprocation. So you hid your desire behind blank faces and shaky legs and tried to pretend that you did not want your husband. It was foolish and torture but you just could not make yourself take that step.
After a full week in Maekar’s chambers, you had finally built up the will to ask the maid to sleep in your own. You had had one full night to yourself before Maekar reappeared, now familiar hands helping you into your nightgown before falling into bed next to you. You had not had the heart to ask him to leave. Still, he did not touch you. Not in the way you wanted.
“My lady?”
You jumped at the sudden intrusion, near falling from your window seat as you whirled to face your maid.
“My apologies, my lady,” she continued, “dinner is ready. Your husband is asking after you.”
You got to your feet, brushing off imaginary dirt from your dress. Another of Maekar’s strange demands; every meal had to be taken together.
“Thank you, Mary, I will come now,” you said.
Your voice shook a little. Mary pretended not to notice.
The table was set beautifully, as always. More food and wine than your entire family could consume. Maekar did not sit at the head of the table; at least not when it was just the pair of you. Instead, he sat opposite you.
You curtsied and he waved you away. A little routine of yours. Mary pulled out your seat and you sat, eyed glued to the table. The servants left then. The first time that had happened, you had been entirely bewildered. Who would serve you, then? You had grown even more concerned when Maekar had been the one to fill your plate and top your cup.
He did so now, not stopping until there was more food piled on your plate than you could eat. You would have to finish most of it or he would look at you in that disapproving way of his. At first you had been mortified. At some point that had changed to mild amusement.
“Thank you,” you said quietly.
“Eat,” he said.
The two of you had fallen into a routine of sorts. Nerves still buzzed in your stomach every time you saw him but you were not afraid. No, very much not afraid.
Some part of you warmed at the gentle command in his voice. There was some concern there. After the ceremony, you had eaten very little for two or so days. Still numbed by the shock of the sudden change in groom and the absence of your family. Maekar had sat with you for every meal, watching you carefully until you ate to his satisfaction.
Aerion probably would’ve shoved the food down your throat, if he cared at all.
“Do not think of another man when you are with me, wife,” Maekar said lowly.
You blinked. “I was –“
“Even when that man is my son.”
You inhaled sharply. It was uncanny how he sometimes seemed to read your mind. Embarrassed, you shot back, “I was his betrothed first. It is normal that I should think of him on occasion.”
“You were never his,” Maekar spat.
Was I yours, then? The words sat heavy on your tongue, almost spilling over. Scowling, you shovelled a forkful of potatoes into your mouth. If you asked that question, you were not sure you would be ready for the answer he would give.
Maekar always appeared in your chambers exactly when you began to get tired. You still hadn’t figured out exactly how he knew. You suspected he had maids reporting on you but you had never been quick enough to catch them in the act.
He always waited until you were sleepy and pliant. You did not mind.
It was easier, then, to allow him to maneuver you to your feet. To allow him to deftly unlace whatever lace held up your dress, to slowly peel layers from you until you were stood bare before him.
You liked it like this. When you were tired enough to be able to pretend your own fatigue was why you let him position you like a doll, raising your arms and nudging apart your legs as he admired you.
Your nipples stiffened under his gaze. Heavy lidded and near panting, you let him see you. His eyes focused on the tips of your breasts, hands fisting at his sides.
They dropped lower, then, to the tuft of curls between your legs. You were thankful for the slight coverage; that way he could not see how his gaze caused your cunt to leak, smears of arousal threatening to coat your upper thighs.
You kept still, core clenching. Any sign that you wanted it, wanted him, and it would be over. You knew he would not hold himself back.
You raised your arms as he lifted your nightgown over your head, sliding it down over your body. You hissed when the material caressed over your nipples, stepping back before Maekar could examine the sound.
You turned away from him and crawled into the bed, arranging yourself beneath the sheets as Maekar blew out the candles. You could still see a vague outline of him in the darkness. You hoped he could not see you, for you could not tear your eyes away as he undressed. He turned to the side and you nearly gasped out loud. You could see the hard shape of his cock bobbing before him. The image seared itself into your mind before he pulled on his own sleep clothes.
He joined you in bed and got comfortable. There was no telling how much time passed before soft snores echoed around your chamber. You relaxed at the sound.
Sleep refused to come. Instead, there was only a persistent throbbing between your legs. You squeezed your thighs together, breathing heavily at the sensation it provided. But it was not enough.
You glanced over at Maekar’s side of the bed. In the dark, you could only make out the vague shape of him beneath the covers. He was still snoring.
Emboldened, you let your legs part. You had touched yourself before but that had been leisurely, with the knowledge that you would not be discovered. Now, you let your fingers slide down to your swollen clit, teasing gently at it, all while your husband slept next to you.
There was no time for teasing, you realised. You spread your legs as far as you dared and began to rub in earnest, nearly crying out at the relief that enveloped you. You needed to get rid of the desperation, to take the edge of, else you were at risk of climbing atop your husband and taking what you wanted like some common whore.
The slick sound of your own fingers on your cunt was almost too loud. You bit down on your lip so hard that you felt blood well. You could taste the coppery slide of it on your tongue as you squirmed beneath your own ministrations.
Your orgasm shot through you, hard and fast. You clapped a hand over your mouth to stifle your cry, yanking your other hand from between your legs as it became too sensitive to bear. Your toes clenched as the sensation wracked through you. You could feel the sweat on your upper lip and forehead, though the room was on the cool side.
It took a moment for you to regain your senses. Pleasure curled lazily around your bones, wanting to drag you down into your sleep. You almost nodded off, but then you noticed something. Or rather, the absence of something.
At some point, without your realising, your husband’s snoring had stopped.
Before you could panic, you felt a rough hand close around your right wrist. You yelped at the sudden contact and tried to pull away, but Maekar held fast, bringing your hand up to his face.
You realised your hand was still sticky. “No, wait –“
All protests died as Maekar slid those fingers between his lips. You felt your cunt clench around nothing as he used his tongue to thoroughly clean your digits, licking over and between them until he had chased down every bit of your arousal.
When he was done, he pulled your fingers from his mouth and pressed a wet kiss to your knuckles. Shock and arousal kept you silent.
“Sleep, wife,” he murmured.
There was no anger in his voice. It was something worse. A promise that he would not forget what had happened tonight, and your games would no longer be tolerated.
Maekar did not let go of your hand for the rest of the night.
Unlike other mornings, Maekar was not gone when you awoke. He pressed a meaningful kiss to your hand, the same one from before, the same one he had been holding all night, and did not leave.
He stayed when your maid came, who squeaked with surprise to see him sitting at a table in your chambers eating breakfast. He stayed when she ushered you behind the room divide and helped you wash and then dress. He did not leave until your heart was pounding with enough force to make you dizzy, and he told you that he would be seeing you later.
Later.
Dull panic lit a fire in your chest. With every intake of breath, your cunt pulsed. You spent the morning attempting to read a book, only to end up launching it at the wall with enough force that you bent the spine.
Your maid watched the incident with raised brows. She scurried from the room before you could say anything. You swore. No doubt she intended to report to Maekar.
It was a blessing for married couples to find one another desirable. Noble pairings, specifically, for they were so often formed out of duty and decades-old promises. It was a miracle to find love under such conditions.
But that was not what you had planned for. And your fragile state relied upon everything going to plan. Already things had changed when Maekar had been the one to put the ring on your fingers – and now for you to actually want him? It felt like your world was crumbling beneath your feet.
Then you would have to confront the fear that still lingered in your chest every time you so much as thought of the name Brightflame. You would have to think about the betrayal of your family selling you off to someone who was known to be a senseless brute. You would have to think about your siblings, who you missed dearly, and the fact that you might one day have children of your own and not hate the man who made up half of them.
Maekar Targaryen was kind, handsome, and gentler than you had ever expected. You had not prepared for that! He had wormed his way into your heart and you had been too preoccupied with the possibility of Aerion to see it coming. You were angry, betrayed, and now you were afraid.
The weather still hadn’t let up. If anything, it had begun to rain heavier. You tilted your head back, letting the fat drops fall on your face. They were ice cold.
You had used the opportunity of Mary’s absence to leave the castle. At no point had your brain kicked in and steered you back to the warmth of your room. Panic had full control over you.
You glanced over your shoulder to see if anyone was around. The grounds were clear. Chest tight, you began walking. You did not have a destination in mind – only away. Away from the man who made you dizzy and wet and desperate.
Summerhall was surrounded by dense forest that held all manner of beasts. The trees were packed so tightly that little light was able to get in, thus is remained in nearly year-round darkness. You did not think. You headed for the treeline and entered as though you knew where you were going.
Instinct still did not kick in. You picked up the pace, walking one hundred, two hundred, three hundred feet in. You stopped then and looked back. You could see the light of the treeline. You could just about make out the path you had taken.
Then, in the distance, you heard dogs. It wasn’t unusual. Maekar employed hunters who used dogs regularly when stocking the castle with meat.
They sounded different this time, though.
You could hear people in the distance, too. Back toward the castle. You began slowly walking forward again, put off by the noise. And then, you heard him.
“Where the fuck is she?”
You did not think. You only ran. Your shoes were not suitable for the terrain. Roots sent you sprawling before you regained your footing, only to nearly slip every few steps as you charged deeper into the forest.
A wild laugh bubbled through your lips. Rain pasted your hair to your forehead and trickled icily down your back. You felt crazy. You had felt that way for a month, now, and now you were acting in a way that matched your inner turmoil. You’d come too far to turn back now.
Suddenly, a hand was fisting in the fabric of your cloak. You gasped at the pressure against your neck as you were yanked back against a hard chest.
You were not sure how far you had gone. Not far enough.
Your chest was heaving, breasts near spilling from your dress. You did not need to turn to know that it was him. You could feel his heart pounding against your back, even through all the fabric of your clothes. Finally, you thought, he feels a little of how I feel.
“Where,” he said slowly, “do you think you were going?”
“Anywhere,” you answered, turning to face him. “It doesn’t matter.”
You placed your hands on his chest, intending to push him away, only to find yourself simply resting them there.
Maekar’s cheeks were flushed in a way that made him look almost youthful. He grabbed your hands, keeping them in their position on his chest. He exhaled, warm air caressing over your cold cheeks. You shivered at the temperature difference.
“You make me feel crazy,” you finally admitted.
The words were heavy. You felt relief when they finally rolled off your tongue. Maekar stilled, eyes flitting around your face. The silence lasted only a beat longer before being broken by a laugh, of all things. His. It echoed through the surrounding area, raspy and loud.
“I have felt like that from the moment I first saw you,” he said lowly, bringing your hands to his face and pressing kisses to your frozen fingers.
“Since I first arrived here?” you asked. You had to know.
Maekar closed his eyes for a moment. “No,” he murmured, “before. It was perhaps a year ago.”
“What?” you choked.
“I saw you then,” he continued, “at the tourney. I knew my father had suggested you might be a good match for my son but I – I coveted you. I thought I might be able to bear it. Until you arrived here, and I realised I could not stand to see you by any other man’s side.”
It should have scared you a little. The idea of being on his mind for so long. The knowledge that, from the moment you had arrived at Summerhall, he had never intended for you to marry his son.
Your breathing was still heavy, but it had nothing to do with the running. Maekar still hadn’t let go of your hands. He continued pressing kisses to them before stopping on your right, gently squeezing.
His eyes met yours. “You touched yourself last night, wife.”
Your knees went weak. “I did.”
“You’ll never have to do that again.”
Maekar backed you against a tree. The damp from the bark immediately began seeping through your clothes, chilling your skin, but you hardly noticed. His words had turned your core into a molten ball of need, and the denial of the past month was quickly catching up to you.
“Pull up your skirts,” Maekar commanded. “I – I won’t have you here. Not like this. But I can’t leave my wife feeling needy. Not any longer.”
Each word made your temple pulse. Trembling, your fingers curled in your skirts and you began to pull until they were bunched around your waist. There was still the physical barrier of your undergarments. Maekar nudged your legs apart with a single foot, nestling his thigh against your core with a confidence that made you sway.
His fingers worked their way down the front of your undergarments until they found the thatch of curls above your core. He caressed you there.
“You’re so soft here,” he said, eyes narrowing. “It is a crime that you have kept this from me.”
It was still raining. You could not decide what sensation to focus on. You were torn between the water trickling between your breasts and the fingers stoking the fire at your core. You whined a little and tilted your hips, eager for his touch to delve deeper between your thighs.
“Please,” you paused for a beat, “husband.”
Maekar swore. His lips met yours at the same time his finger finally swept across your clit. You gasped against his mouth and he swallowed the sound, licking into your mouth with a practised move that had your knees weak.
He stayed there, tasting every sound you made as his middle finger began to circle your swollen flesh. Each swipe had you seeing stars behind your eyelids. It felt more intense than anything you had ever done to yourself.
He paused only to dip a finger into your hole, swiping up more arousal to lave over your clit. You let your head fall back against the tree, dimly blinking up at the canopy of trees above. Maekar pressed his lips to your neck, teeth grazing over your pulse point before settling onto the flesh between your neck and shoulder.
He bit down at the same time he pressed with his fingers, making you mewl as he rubbed your clit.
‘Fuck,” he rumbled, “I could hear you last night. Every godsdamned minute of it. You were wet then but I think you might be wetter now.”
You nearly sobbed as your orgasm began to build. You could feel your cunt convulsing, eager for your husband despite being out in the open. This was what he did to you, and there was no hiding from it. Not anymore.
Your orgasm hit so suddenly that your back arched off the tree, pressing your breasts into Maekar’s chest as caressed you through it. You were babbling through it, apologies and promises and pleading. Maekar kept his fingers on you until you were squirming, too sensitive and aching to withstand his touch.
Still, he did not remove his hand. He cupped your soaking flesh, gently rubbing his fingers over you until you were shuddering and speechless.
“I intended to see you round with my child,” he whispered into your cheek, “then you will understand that you are mine.”
“Yours,” you mumbled, delirious and soaked. You still could not feel the cold from the rain, only the heat the pulsed out from your cunt.
“Mine,” he agreed.
He pressed the hard line of his cock against your hip, reminding you of his earlier promise. Later.
a/n - so this is basically when you’re so horny for your husband it’s scary I hope you like it lol
reblogs/comments/likes mean the literal world to me, please don’t forget to leave them if you enjoyed♥️
Joke's on Maekar in The Baby Project, wife reader's hormones are all over the place and will want him twice as bad as before 🤣 he'd complain about it to baelor but he secretly enjoys it 🤭
Thank you for writing that fic i read it twice today 🖤🖤🖤
ᴀʟʟᴏᴡ ᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴀꜱꜱɪꜱᴛ | ᴍᴀᴇᴋᴀʀ ᴛᴀʀɢᴀʀʏᴇɴ
─ summary: Pregnancy hormones leave Maekar's wife more insatiable than ever.
─ pairing: Maekar Targaryen x Reader, Baelor Targaryen x Reader
─ content: 18+ MDNI | Fluff | Implied smut | Baelor is down bad |
─ a/n: Read as a quick continuation of this. I may have gotten carried away here 🖤 Thank you for reading my little fics, commenting, liking, rebloging. Genuinley means the world. Send your requests!
Maekar dropped into the chair across from his brother, a lock of silver gold hair falling across his furrowed brow, "Fuck me."
Baelor looked up from his correspondence. "Something troubling you, brother?"
"This woman," he breathed, shaking his head. "Every minute of every day."
Baelor set his quill down. "I beg your pardon."
Maekar looked at him. "You heard me."
Baelor folded his hands on the desk with the composure of a man conducting a formal inquiry, his signet ring gleaming. "Let me be certain I understand. Your beautiful wife, who is carrying your child, desires you. Constantly."
Maekar was silent.
"That is your problem," Baelor said, the corner of his mouth twitching.
More silence.
Baelor leaned back in his chair, a playful smirk settling on his lips, though something darker flickered beneath his mismatched eyes. "Why are you telling me this? Are you seeking assistance?"
Maekar, who had been slouching with the exhaustion of a man thoroughly put upon, shot upright in his chair. "Have you taken complete leave of your senses?"
"We have shared many things in the past," Baelor said, with great serenity.
Maekar was on his feet. "I can take care of my own wife."
"I jest, brother," Baelor called after him, the words catching slightly in his throat. "Give her my regards."
"Fuck your regards," Maekar said, already through the door, the heavy oak slamming behind him. His voice carried back down the corridor, low and deeply aggrieved. "Assist my fucking wife! Assist!" And then something further that was largely incoherent and entirely indignant, fading as his footsteps did.
Baelor chuckled softly to himself. The sound did not last long. He reached for his wine, took a long slow sip, and looked back at his correspondence without seeing the words.
He was jesting, naturally.
Mostly.
If Maekar ever found himself not quite up to the task, if the desires of that perfect woman ever proved too much, well. His brother's beautiful young wife deserved to be well looked after. And Baelor had always been exceptionally thorough in his duties.
pairing: rhett abbott x wife!reader (fem pronouns used)
notes: this was so much fun to write. i haven't written much cnc so bear with me here. if you can't handle this sort of thing, don't feel obligated to read! be considerate of your own limits and well-being first and foremost
Your hands were trembling.
The energy thrumming through you had you on edge, buzzing with excitement. You kept glancing at the clock, counting down the minutes until closing time.
When the clock struck 5, you would close your quaint little bookshop and eagerly await your husband’s arrival. Except, he was not your husband in this scenario. No, he was simply Rhett Abbott to you, a man whom you’d only encountered a few times.
Together, you had planned out the entire situation. He would walk into your shop right at closing time, under the pretense of finding a specific book. Innocent enough, but what would follow was far from innocent. In fact, it was utterly filthy, and just the thought of it made you clench your thighs together beneath the flowy sundress you wore.
It was his favorite dress of yours, which was specifically why you’d donned it that day. The hem brushed loosely against your mid-thigh, and the neckline plunged only just so, enough to reveal a teasing glimpse of your chest. Modest enough that no one else would really bat an eye, but Rhett would be drawn to it like a fly to honey.
It was ironic, really. In this scenario, you were behaving like the one he’d lured into his sticky, sweet trap, when in reality, it was you who had him wrapped around your finger, to the point where he would willingly try something like this.
You had discussed it in depth before this moment. It was not something you took lightly. You needed Rhett to be on the same page as you, and you took the time to set up very clear boundaries. You could stop at any time. All that needed to be uttered was a single safe word from either of you and the scene would be over instantaneously.
Rhett’s willingness to participate in this stemmed from his deep trust in you, and yours in him. You both knew you would never do anything to hurt the other, at least not without explicit consent. That was why it was so easy for him to agree to this. He’d never do such a thing with anyone else. Only you, because you made him feel comfortable enough to express his desires and kinks without fear of judgment.
He made you feel the same, which was why you’d brought it up to him in the first place. And that brought you to the present moment, where you excitedly awaited his arrival through the front door. Your eyes continuously flickered to the clock on the wall, ticking away. Had time started passing slower than normal? It sure felt like it.
You busied yourself with monotonous tasks. Wiping down the counter. Clearing out the cash register for the night. Tidying up the book display shelves. And finally, at 5:01 p.m., Rhett Abbott walked through the door of your bookshop.
You caught his gaze, and he offered you one of those crooked smiles of his that made you weak in the knees. Out of respect, he took his hat off of his head. “Evenin’, miss. Just need to pick up a book.”
“I-I’m afraid we’re closed, Mister Abbott,” you stammered, already slipping into the part of the timid church mouse you’d pledged to play.
“Oh I ain’t gon’ be more than a few minutes, I promise. I would’ve come earlier but I was busy.”
“Okay. Just please make it quick, I really should be getting home soon.”
He raised a brow, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Why? Your daddy have you on a curfew?”
“Something like that,” came your whisper.
He gave a single nod, and turned to peruse down the aisles. But you didn’t miss the way he turned and locked the door as he did. It made your heart flip in your chest, and your breath catch in your throat.
While he searched for whatever book he was looking for, you made your way back to the counter, clasping your hands together when you realized how much they shook. You felt silly, being as giddy as a schoolgirl, but you couldn’t help it. That was the effect Rhett had on you. Always had been.
A few moments later, he appeared at the counter, and his presence made you jump, because you hadn’t even heard him come up.
“Oh!” You exclaimed. “Did you find what you were looking for?”
“No ma’am, I didn’t.”
“Do you know the title or author? I could always look it up for you.”
“Yeah, as a matter of fact, I’m lookin’ for the Encyclopedia of Knots and Ropework.”
Of course he was. Even outside of this roleplay, it was a fitting book for him to be interested in. He was always trying to improve his rope techniques, not only because it was useful for day-to-day, but also because it was useful in the confines of your bedroom.
He held your gaze, his eyes intense and sharp. Had they gotten even bluer, somehow? You didn’t miss how those same eyes shamelessly flickered down to glance at your chest. They widened slightly when he realized what necklace you were wearing. Delicate gold, words small enough that one might not realize what they said unless they looked closely. Daddy’s Girl.
Rhett had gotten it for you as a joke, because you called him daddy within your dynamic. But it had quickly become a turn-on for both of you whenever you wore it. Like now, for instance. He swallowed as his eyes shifted back up to yours. You didn’t miss the bob of his Adam’s apple as he did so.
“Actually, I think I have that book in the back,” you managed to speak up. You were warm with need for him already and you’d barely even begun. “If you’ll just wait right here.”
You turned on your heel, stepping into the back storage room to search for his requested book. Although you’d instructed him to wait outside the room, he followed you anyway, leaning against the doorframe as he watched you.
You knew he was there, so you purposely moved so your dress rode up, exposing your bare ass beneath it. Rhett gritted his teath at the sight, unable to tear his eyes away. When you bent down again, he caught a glimpse of your pussy, and he couldn’t bite back the groan that rumbled in his chest.
You gasped, whirling around. “M-Mister Abbott, you shouldn’t be back here,” you squeaked.
He smirked, the blue of his eyes darker now. “Sorry, I got impatient. But I couldn’t help but admire how pretty you look. All sweet an’ innocent, like a little lamb.”
“Oh…th-thank you?”
Rhett stepped forward, boots heavy on the floor. “Mm,” he hummed. Another step closer. Instinctively, you stepped back, but he kept coming, until your back hit one of the bookshelves.
You gasped, eyes widening as you reached back and touched the cool wood. “Mister Abbott, sir, what are you doing?” But you knew full well what he was doing.
“Admirin’ you up close.” He reached a hand up, running his fingers over the cool metal of your necklace. “This little necklace says you’re daddy’s girl. That what you are? You his innocent little girl?”
You shuddered as he nudged a thigh between your legs. “Yes sir.”
“Huh,” he remarked, hand moving to play with the strap of your dress. “It’d be a shame if someone were to come along and ruin his pretty little girl. There’s a lot of bad men out there, y’know.” And I’m one of them.
“I-I don’t think—”
“Shh,” he shushed, pushing his jean-clad thigh further against you. You could feel the rough denim against your cunt. Surely your pooling desire would soak through the fabric.
The hand that had been playing with your necklace wandered down, skilled fingers toying with the little bow at the neckline of your dress. You watched, chest heaving slightly as he pulled the tie, and the top part of your dress came down, revealing your breasts.
You whimpered, but quickly remembered you were meant to remain in character, so you lifted your arm to cover your chest. “I don’t know if this is such a good idea,” you whispered.
A positively Cheshire grin spread across his face, and you felt very much like a poor, innocent mouse in the clutches of a cat who liked to play with his food before devouring it. “Why not? Nobody’s going to walk in. I locked the front door. So we can do anythin’ you want, sugar.”
Warm fingers brushed over hardening nipples, and you took in a breath, head falling back against the shelf behind you. “N-no one’s ever touched me there before,” came your whimpered confession.
Rhett made a sound deep in his throat, and he began to lightly pinch and tug at those buds. In the meantime, your hips involuntarily moved against his thigh. He could feel your arousal soaking through, and he growled.
He was going to corrupt you, this sweet, unassuming lamb that trembled under his touch.
“I can touch you other places, too,” he lulled, his face so close to yours your noses brushed. A large hand fell from your chest, soon resting over your stomach. Then, he trailed further down, until his fingers curled around the hem of your dress and he lifted it up to reveal your nakedness underneath.
You let out a gasp of surprise and pulled the fabric from his hands. “Mister Abbott!” You scolded.
“Just one little peek, darlin’. It won’t hurt anything.”
But when he lifted your dress again, you were emboldened, and again, you snatched it out of his grasp. He raised a brow at that, and you jutted your chin out in defiance.
“Stupid girl.” Then, he took both of your arms in his hold and forced you to turn, your back pressed to his chest as he wrestled you down across the desk beside you. You put up a bit of a fight, but certainly not enough to hurt him or slow him down in any way. He handled you in a great feat of strength, and it sent a jolt of desire through you.
Once he had you pressed into the oak, he yanked your dress up to expose your bare ass. You tried to wriggle out of his hold, but he pressed his weight into you with a grunt. “Hold fuckin’ still.”
“But sir, I-”
Then, he reached around, clamping his hand over your mouth. “Shut your mouth ‘fore I shut it for you.”
Once he was satisfied with your silence, he stepped back, hands gripping your ass so he could fully admire your glistening pussy. His fingers parted your folds, and he hummed, enjoying the view. “S’ pretty. Nobody’s ever touched you like this before, have they?”
“N-no sir. You shouldn’t be touching me there, either.”
Suddenly, he slotted his middle finger into you, and you gasped. Moments later, he added his ring finger to the mix, long digits easily locating that spot inside you that made stars glimmer behind your eyelids.
You lost yourself for a moment, moaning lowly at the feeling. He knew exactly how to move those fingers to draw the most salacious sounds from you.
But you remembered you were supposed to be in character. So you reacted like the damsel in distress you were playing. “Mister Abbott, please. This isn’t right. If my daddy finds out about this, he’ll—”
“He’ll what, sweetheart? He’ll beat me to death?” He leaned in close, mouth brushing against the shell of your ear. “You ain’t escaping me, lamb. ‘M gonna have my way with you whether you like it or not.”
His words sent you clenching around his fingers, and he hummed in satisfaction, wicked smile tugging at his mouth. “You like the thought of that, don’t ya? The big, bad cowboy takin’ what he wants?”
“No sir!” You cried. But you did. You loved the idea. Loved that Rhett had agreed to do this with you.
“The way your pussy’s squeezin’ my fingers tells me otherwise.” He fucked those same fingers into you harder, faster. The sound of your growing wetness was obscene, and it went straight to his cock.
When you squirmed again, he pressed his weight into you, inhibiting you from moving, from escaping. The fact that you couldn’t see what he was doing behind you made it all the more erotic. You didn’t know what to expect and it sent a thrill through you.
But he paused for a moment, and suddenly, a warm, gentle hand was pressed against your spine. “Color?” He asked, in a tone that could only be described as your Rhett.
“Green,” you sighed. His fingers were still inside you and you were in heaven.
A soft kiss to your shoulder blade, and then it was back to business. Those fingers inside you curled upwards, and you whined, shivering. It was pathetic, really, the way you were literally dripping around those thick digits.
All too soon, he slipped them out of you, and all at once, those same fingers were tapping at your lips. “Clean up your mess,” he gritted.
“No,” you refused, turning your head away.
He grunted, hauling you up and turning you around. With his clean hand, he gripped your jaw. “I said, clean up your fuckin’ mess, girl.” You let him wrench your jaw open, and he shoved his glistening fingers past your lips, allowing you to taste yourself.
Once he was satisfied, he removed his fingers from your mouth, proceeding to smear the mix of your cum and spit all over your lips. The gesture almost made you come right then and there.
Then he kissed you, hand holding the back of your neck, blunt fingernails digging into your skin. When you parted, he spoke again. “Lay down on the desk.”
You almost obeyed immediately, but a positively delicious thought came to mind. Without warning, you dropped your weight quickly, and it surprised him enough to loosen his grasp on you as you went down. As soon as he did, you scrambled to your feet and rushed out of the room.
Rhett grunted in surprise, and his heavy footfalls could be heard behind you. But you were faster than he was, and you ran up and down a few aisles of bookshelves until you stopped in the middle of one, dead silent as you listened for him. But suddenly, the surrounding area was dead silent, save for your rushed breathing.
It gave you pause. Had he stopped following you?
Just as you thought you were safe, the creaking of a floorboard got your attention, and you whirled around, just in time to see your cowboy stalking toward you.
You tried to slip away, but he already had you, hand shooting out to catch you. He was much, much stronger, thanks to upper body strength that was unmatched. Blame it on riding all those bulls and hauling heavy bales of hay.
“No!” You cried as he wrestled you down to the hardwood. You struggled in his hold and he let out a growl.
The clink of his belt buckle drew your attention, and he quickly pulled it from its loops, binding your wrists together behind your back. “Woulda brought my fuckin’ rope if I knew you were gon’ try to get away.” He cinched the belt and made sure it would hold. But a moment later, his tone softened. “That ain’t too tight, is it?”
You shook your head. “No, it’s just right.”
So, back into character he slipped.
You heard the telltale sign of him unzipping his jeans, shoving the rough denim down his thighs. Work roughened fingers were at your slick opening again, and when they brushed over your clit, you jumped.
“Feels good, huh?”
“No.” Yes.
“Keep lyin’ to me, girl. I’ll have you creaming all over my cock soon enough.”
You couldn’t help but moan at his words, pushing your ass up toward him. Behind you, he shoved his jeans down far enough to free his hardness, stroking it firmly in his hand before he shoved your legs apart and pulled your hips back.
“I don’t know if it’ll e’en fit inside you. Wonder if you’ll be able to take the whole thing.”
The plush, pink head was dragged through your dripping wetness, and you whined at the feeling of it catching on your entrance but never quite slipping inside.
Feebly, you continued your facade, though you were moments away from throwing in the towel and begging your husband to fuck you. “W-we can’t,” you whimpered. “Please, Mister Abbott.”
He lowered himself so his mouth was against your ear again. He seemed so big, hulking above you, and it made you feel helpless in the most thrilling way imaginable. “What? Did’ya really think you were gonna save yourself for someone special? Soon as I fuck you, this pussy belongs to me. You’ll be ruined for any other man.”
“Don’t.” But please, do.
Again, the head of his cock slid over you. You were so wet it was almost embarrassing, and Rhett admired the way you glistened. He could clearly see that this was turning you on to no end. He was in the same boat. He hadn’t realized just how much he would get off on this, but he was enjoying every minute of it. It felt so forbidden, so naughty. And it was thrilling.
He knew he couldn’t handle teasing you any longer. So, without warning, he pushed his hips forward and filled you in one thrust. The sudden intrusion surprised you, and you cried out, jolting against the floor.
He was so fucking big, and from this angle, he somehow felt even bigger. His cock was thick, so the stretch was almost uncomfortable, but it felt so good all at once. However, you knew how much he loved making you feel small, so you decided to get him going.
“I-it barely fits. S’too big,” you squeaked.
He groaned deep within his chest, jaw going slack. “And you’re gon’ lay there and take every inch of me, lamb.”
He shunted his hips forward again, and you whined, eyes drifting shut. Feebly, you put up a bit of a struggle, trying half-heartedly to pull yourself out of his grasp. But he shoved you back in place. “Fuckin’ take it.”
“No! Get off me!”
A rough hand came up to cover your mouth, and again, he thrust into you, rough and deep. He built a steady rhythm, and it wasn’t long before you were gasping and moaning pathetically against his hand at the feeling. You weren’t sure that you even had it in you to fight against him anymore. It felt too good to pretend you didn’t like it.
Above you, he grunted deeply, and the way he fucked you was almost animalistic. He was heavy against you, overcoming your every sense.
You could feel him. The bump of his cock against your spongey walls. The roughness of his jeans against the backs of your thighs. The softness of the flannel he wore against your back. You could smell him. That simple cologne he always wore. That heady, natural scent that could only be described as Rhett. And you could hear him. Short groans and sighs. Barely contained growls when you clenched around him. Like he was a wild animal and you were his prey.
He’d finally lowered his hand from your mouth, pressing his palm against the floor to brace himself. It allowed your wild, unbridled moans to spill forth, filling the entirety of your little bookstore. If you got any louder, surely a passerby outside would be able to hear. But neither of you cared.
Suddenly, his hips slowed, and you felt his hands on your own. “Wanna watch your face while I have my way with you,” he rasped before he undid the belt around your hands, tossing the leather aside. He soothed your wrists with his fingers before he pulled back, leaving you empty.
You whined, but he shushed you as he turned you over onto your back. You were thrumming with the warmth of desire, so much so that it took everything in you to keep up your act as you spoke again. “Mister Abbott, p-please just let me go.” But don’t. Don’t you ever let me go.
When your hands weakly pushed at his chest, he grabbed them, pressing them above your head. His face was hard set in a scowl. He looked so angry, so dominating, and it made you shiver. But as if a switch was flipped, he softened, free hand coming up to brush over your quivering bottom lip.
“What’s your color, chickadee?”
You hummed. “It’s green. Neon fucking green.”
He couldn’t help but grin at that. “Glad to hear.”
Then the switch was flipped again, and his entire demeanor changed. His jaw was hard-set, brow furrowed. “Don’t e’en bother trying to fight it. You know you want it,” he taunted, and you felt the heat of his cock against you again.
He slipped into you for a second time with ease, pulling your legs around his hips so he could go even deeper. He watched the place where your bodies met, enamored with the way you took all of him. It set something off within him, and he picked up the pace, jarring your entire being as he fucked you.
Then he brought his hand between your thighs, fingers rubbing against your buzzing gathering of nerve endings. Then, he released the hands he held above your head, and wrapped that hand around your throat.
He knew the exact amount of pressure to apply. His fingertips pressed firmly against either side of your neck, slowing the blood flow and making your head spin. That’s when you lost yourself. Rhett hadn’t been expecting it to happen so soon, but he could clearly see it in the way your eyes rolled back and your body arched off the floor.
Moments like these made you feel like you were having an out-of-body experience. It was as if you were hovering over yourself, watching the scene unfold.
It was also a surefire way to make you come. Which, in the heat of the moment, Rhett had forgotten about. You let out a strangled cry, and suddenly you were gasping out, “c-coming! Coming! Daddy, I’m coming!”
That was it for you. Your reluctant facade was gone. The character of the innocent little lamb, as Rhett would say, was forgotten. Now you didn’t even care. You just wanted him to keep going. Wanted him to fuck you until you were incoherent.
And as you came, your husband watched in awe. Your mouth parted in a silent scream, your eyes locked with his, and you convulsed beneath him. Your cunt tightened around him like a vice, and he let out a determined growl. He wasn’t about to fall apart this early on.
Instead, he focused on you. As you came down from your unexpected high, he eased his hand off your throat, mindful that you would be a bit dizzy from the rush of blood.
He’d stopped moving, instead lowering his weight to rest gently on top of you. His lips brushed against your own. “You okay, sweet thing?”
Your eyes, still glossy and unfocused, flickered up to his. “Y-yeah. That was…I didn’t mean to come that fast.” You might’ve been embarrassed, but Rhett gave you no reason to be.
He smiled. “S’okay. I ain’t finished with you yet, anyway.”
Then his lips were on yours in a dizzying kiss, and he slowly built his rhythm back as he rolled his hips into yours. You whined into his mouth, hands fumbling for purchase at his shoulders. All muscle and sinew, strong from hard labor.
He wrapped your legs around him, bringing him impossibly closer. With each press into you, you could feel the coarseness of the neatly kept hair that gathered at the base of his cock, brushing against your oversensitive clit.
When you caught his gaze, he looked at you in amusement. “Where’d all that fight go, hm? Few minutes ago you were beggin’ me to stop. Now you’re taking it like a good girl should. Decide you like it all of a sudden?”
Yes. Yes, yes, yes.
But you couldn’t voice an answer. Your words died in your throat each time he fucked into you. He pulled up to shove your legs up further, knees toward your chest, which gave him a better angle, hitting it impossibly deeper.
You let out an unabashed wail at the feeling, and Rhett grunted at the feeling if your desire quite literally dripping from you, down the shaft of his cock, and further.
The sound as he pushed into you was obscene. A filthy, wet squelch that might’ve embarrassed you if you weren’t thrumming with need.
It only spurred your husband on. He fucked you harder, faster. His fingers applied such delicious pressure on your clit. His mouth nipped at your breasts, tugging on pert nipples. And it wasn’t long before you were catapulting into him, coming unraveled around his dick all over again.
He watched you, amazed at just how sensitive you were. “Shit, this really got you going, huh?” He breathlessly remarked after you’d come down.
You smiled, a little dumbly. “Mm,” you squeaked.
Rhett took a steadying breath, willing himself to last just a little longer. “What do ya need, chickadee? You wanna keep playing? Or do you just need me?”
“N-need you, Daddy. Just you,” came your slurred response.
He nuzzled into you, nose bumping against yours. “Yeah? Already goin’ small on me?”
But you couldn’t answer. He could tell, though. Your eyes were glassy, almost tearful, and you were pawing at him like a little kitten. So he soothed you, kissing you slowly, tongue delving into your mouth, which you sucked on gently.
He smiled against your mouth as he broke away. “Here, suck on this instead of my tongue,” he urged, sliding his thumb into your mouth, which you happily accepted, suckling greedily.
He picked up his pace again, sinking back into your impossibly slick cunt. He was considerably more gentle than he had been. Gone was the rough, mean cowboy who held you down and told you to take it.
Instead, he was replaced by your tender husband, so attentive to you when you were like this. He always knew how to get you to this state. A small and pliant state of mind, where you’d do anything he asked of you, because you wanted to please him so badly. Wanted to be good for him.
It hadn’t started out this way. Getting to this point in your dynamic has been a journey. Rhett had struggled with assuming a role of dominance. Not because it didn’t interest him, but because he was afraid. Afraid he couldn’t be what you needed. But you’d worked through those insecurities together as time passed. Now, you shared a healthy relationship and a balanced dominant and submissive dynamic.
It made you feel safe enough to be like this with him. Vulnerable. Emotional. Raw.
It all shifted then. There, in the middle of your little book store, sprawled out on the hardwood floor, the desperate, intense fuck melted away into lovemaking.
Rhett stayed close to you, keeping his movements predictable so you wouldn’t spiral. The feeling of him inside you, filling you in the way that only he could, sent tears springing to your eyes.
He kissed you again, and whispered words of encouragement. “Takin’ me so well.”
You held tightly to him, arms around his neck, keening with each push and pull of his heavy cock within you. You could feel him pulse and spasm, feel the fullness of his balls pressing into you. God, you wanted all he had to give. Wanted him to spill into you, to leave you full of his cum.
But you couldn’t find the words to beg for it. All that came out were pathetic whimpers and incoherent babbles. He gave you his fingers to suck on again, pacifying you.
“Gon’ give you what you want, chickadee. Promise.” He knew what you were whining for. And he was so close. Especially when you clenched around him the way you were, your sensitive walls fluttering in anticipation of another orgasm that would soon wash over you.
The heat of eroticism surrounded you both, and it felt like the room was engulfed in flames, stoked by the intensity of your oneness.
You let him take you, let him use your body to chase his own pleasure. And in the midst of it all, your hypersensitive body plummeted over that edge again, soaking him with your release as you wailed brokenly around his fingers, a muffled “Daddy!” bubbling from your hoarse throat.
And Rhett couldn’t handle it any longer. Buzzing electricity crackled at the base of his spine, as if he’d just been struck by a bolt of white hot lightning.
His jaw fell slack, and his head dropped to the crook of your shoulder. You moaned, sobbed, pleaded with him to give it all to you. And he did.
He came with a raw, gravelly moan, hips stilling slightly as he pumped his seed into the very center of your being. You took all he had to give, your hands tangled in his dark locks as he trembled against you.
A few more pulses of his cock within you and his rapture came to an end. His chest heaved against yours as he caught his breath, and a moment later, he lifted his head to fully look at you.
“You okay?” He asked, voice wrecked.
“Mhm,” was all you could muster. Tears were gathering on your lash line, and before you knew it, they were trailing down the sides of your face.
His face softened with concern. “Oh, sweet thing.”
“‘m okay, Daddy,” you squeaked, “j-just felt really good.”
Carefully, Rhett slid out of you, leaving your aching walls empty. You made a sound of protest, but he shushed you, moving to sit with his back against the bookshelves, and helping you settle against him.
You ended up straddling him, your face tucked into the curve of his neck, your chest pressed to his. You needed this, the intimate closeness after such an intense scenario.
Rhett’s hand ghosted along your back, grounding you as his fingertips drew patterns. “Did so good for me,” he praised.
But after a moment, you let out a distressed whimper. “Making a mess,” you despaired as you glanced down, realizing his cum had seeped out of you and onto his thigh.
He shook his head, guiding your face to look at him. “It’s okay. I brought some stuff to clean up with. Let’s go get it.” He knew you couldn’t bear to be separated from him, and certainly not here, out of the comfort and familiarity of your own home.
So he helped you stand, pausing only to yank his jeans back up, leaving the top undone. He guided you to the back room, despite the fact that you were walking on the legs of a newborn fawn.
He helped you take a seat on a spare chair before he began rifling through a bag you hadn’t even realized he’d brought in. Soon enough, he retrieved a pack of gentle wipes.
Moments later, your legs were parted as he tenderly wiped you clean. He could see how swollen your delicate folds were, so he was as gentle as could be.
Once he was finished, he grabbed a folded blanket from the bag and wrapped it around your shoulders. “Gon’ get you home in a minute so I can take care of you proper,” he assured you with a squeeze to your thigh.
You hummed sleepily, watching as he went about gathering everything. He knelt to put your shoes back on your feet, which had been lost in the scuffle, mysteriously.
Then, he helped you stand and smoothed your dress, adjusting it so you were covered again. The entire time, you were hardly present, fading in and out of a blissful state, allowing your husband to care for you.
He finished closing up shop for you so you wouldn’t have to worry about it, and then, he led you out to his truck, which he’d parked around back to avoid prying eyes. Sometime during your tryst, the sky had gone dark, and night had fallen.
Once he had you situated in the passenger side, he came over to his own side, climbing in beside you. Immediately, you scooted across the bench, needing to be closer to him.
He wrapped an arm around you and kept it there as he drove. You let your eyes drift shut, comfortable and safe, trusting that he’d get you to your distination.
And he did. He pulled into your driveway, and eased you out of the truck’s cab, guiding you across the front of your property and into the house.
He looked after you for the rest of the evening. Getting you ready for bed, making you a quick dinner, giving you water so you wouldn’t become dehydrated. And you let him, because it gave you such comfort to be cared for by him.
By the time you were in bed that night, you were feeling a little more grounded, and able to speak.
“Thank you,” you said as he climbed into bed beside you. “For taking care of me. For acting out that fantasy with me.”
Rhett’s mouth quirked into a smile, and he lifted one brawny hand to cup your cheek. “‘course. Had a lot of fun with it. More than I was expecting.”
It was your turn to smile. “Me too. I really liked feeling all helpless under you like that. Kind of embarrassing how much it turned me on.”
But he shook his head. “Nothin’ to be embarrassed about. We both enjoyed ourselves, that’s what matters.” He leaned in to kiss you, and you melted into his warmth.
“So this means we’re definitely trying this again?” You asked as you broke apart, resting your head on his bare chest.
“Mhm,” he eagerly hummed. “And again. And again.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
He shifted to kiss the top of your head. “I ain’t done corrupting my sweet little lamb yet.”
“Well, she’s all yours for the taking, whenever you want.”
He grinned. “I like the sound of that.”
-
tagging those who interacted with the original post:
Neither of you would have thought you‘d ever end up like this — dating for hardly a year and you pregnant with Aegon‘s child. Yet he still has another surprise up his sleeve.
WARNINGS: SEXUAL CONTENT—MINORS DNI; p in v, pregnant sex, pregnancy, lactation kink, semi public sex, daddy kink, breeding kink, praise kink
WORDS: 3.5 K
NOTES: Thanks to @lovelykhaleesiii for this amazing request! This can be read as part of the Mine and Mine only universe. 🤭
…
White Harbor has never looked more peaceful than it does at this moment.
Just two days ago, the sky above the harbor was lit up by fireworks with thousands of people watching, and now the only lights you can see are the ones on the docked boats, and the street lights and buildings surrounding the harbor.
Instead of a formal dinner with his friends, just like he has celebrated every year, Aegon has chosen to invite his younger siblings and their respective families to White Harbor to celebrate the New Year, renting a penthouse overlooking the impressive harbor. It was meant to be a trip no longer than three days, however, all parties involved have quickly decided that it would be better to extend the trip by a few more.
You and Aegon have been dating for hardly a year, meeting by chance in the very same spot you sit in right now, and, after you have found out that you both live in King’s Landing, decided to enter a situationship because you enjoyed each other’s company but weren’t looking for something serious.
Until he got you pregnant by accident.
After you both agreed to keep the child, you could swear you had spotted a few tears brimming in his eyes as you handed him the positive pregnancy test, you could observe from day to day how he became more and more absorbed in the father’s role.
You’re seven months pregnant by now, and, except for the ridiculous amount of milk your body already provides for the child, you have little to no symptoms. The child has been moving quite a bit ever since you’ve hit the six month mark, but you have gotten used to it by now.
Aegon’s arm is draped over the back of your chair with his fingers drawing mindless patterns along your upper arm, and you two bask in each other’s company and the silence surrounding you. You’re nursing your second glass of non-alcoholic wine, one hand resting on the swell of your bump and feeling the kicks of your child.
While your eyes are fixed on the tv in the adjoining living room, the Disney movie still running that was meant to keep Helaena’s children occupied during dinner, Aegon has his eyes solely locked on you, watching you gently caress your protruding bump.
He places his hand over yours, the sudden warmth prompting you to meet his loving gaze.
You lean into his embrace, and he presses a chaste kiss to your temple, before you nuzzle your nose into the crook of his neck, inhaling his all too familiar, comforting scent.
“You know they won’t come back, right?” you ask, voice slightly muffled because of the position of your face.
Aemond and his wife left two hours ago to feed their little boy and bring him to bed, and have not returned ever since to do God-knows-what. Helaena and Cregan were a bit more persistent with both their children occupied by the television, before they eventually departed to bring them to bed, too.
That left Aegon and you all by yourself without the hurry to get to bed.
He chuckles at your words. “I figured as much,” he says, pinching your chin to bring your lips up to his. “We have this evening all to ourselves now.”
Knowing exactly what he is hinting at, your eyes take over a half-lidded gaze almost immediately, your hormones having you feel positively bubbly.
“And I suppose there are plenty of ways we can entertain ourselves in the meantime,” you purr against his lips, pecking them once. He has parted his lips when you pull back, clearly having anticipated you to deepen the kiss and not pull away after just one chaste peck.
A growl rumbles in his chest as he’s figured out your teasing, and his voice is husky when he speaks again, “are there now?”
His eyes spark with the joy of mischief at his own words, sending a shiver straight down your spine.
Aegon’s hand drops lower onto your hip, drawing you closer to him to the point you have to get up to straddle his lap. Just at the sight of the pregnant you climbing him, he could feel his crotch growing tighter, much more at the realization that it was his seed doing this to you.
The skirt of your dress rides up your thighs as you make yourself comfortable to accommodate the space your bump creates. The fabric rucks up just below your belly, and your bare skin is too inviting for your boyfriend not to rub his hands up and down the outsides of your thighs.
You rest your hands on his shoulders, and lean in to connect your lips with his. Aegon meets the kiss with passion, his arms snaking around your frame to pull you closer. Your lips press together with urgency, your tongues exploring each other’s mouths.
You run your fingers through his short, silver curls and hold him tight to you as the kiss deepens. You’re both eager to get as close as possible to each other, and you feel the evidence of your proximity and his desire pressing against your clothed and swollen pussy.
Aegon draws back slightly, and you chase his lips for another kiss. It was passionate but short-lived with him lowering his head to kiss your jaw.
He caresses the swell of your belly as he trails his lips to your neck, shoulder and then your collarbone. You whimper and whine at the heat on your skin that follows his lips, tilting your head to the side to grant him even more access.
Teasingly slow, he hooks his index finger beneath the strap of your dress and drags it down your shoulder, completely unphased as he starts to nibble your skin. He proceeds to do the same with the other strap, letting them dangle in the cooks of your elbows with your arms bent.
He brushes his hand over the side of your bump up to your heavy breast, cupping it through the fabric. “You haven’t worn a bra all day long,” he rasps against your collar bone, looking up at you with dark blown eyes. “Such a little minx. Bet you didn’t even think about how badly I would have to hold myself back, huh?”
The touch to your breast sends a tremble through your body, and you arch your back into it. Biting your lip as you look down at him, you whisper teasingly, though there is a hint of glee audible in your words, “not one second.”
His piercing blue eyes widen for a moment, the true meaning behind your words slowly settling. When he squeezes your breast, you tug on his hair in return, causing him to groan, and with his head already tilted up, he presses his lips to your jaw.
“You’re a very, very naughty girl… mommy.” His voice is hoarse when he speaks, and his words make your body hum with desire.
You lick your lips, and bow your head to meet his, kissing him deeply. You start to grind over his clothed cock, eliciting sharp and heavy breaths from him and quiet whines from yourself whenever your lips parted for air.
Resting your forehead against his, you rub your hands over his shoulders, squeezing them. “Mommy can be very naughty,” you say, pecking his lips once. “If she gets what she wants…”
“And what does she want?” The grin he has on his lips is perfectly audible, you don’t even have to see it. He knows all too well what you’re going to say, he just wants to hear it.
“You, daddy.”
You can tell he’s taken by surprise at the nickname, since you’ve never used it with him before, his eyes widen as he pulls back to regard you. But nevertheless, a low groan leaves his lips.
Having always been insatiable and hungry for each other, it’s no surprise which direction it all takes when Aegon cups your ass and lifts you up to carefully sit you down on the table, standing between your parted legs. You bury your fingers in the hairs on the back of his neck again, and watch him carefully.
“Say that again.”
With a cheeky grin on your lips, your eyes visibly trail from his to his lips and then down to his crotch, the bulge perfectly visible. “Daddy,” you reply to the command, innocently batting your eyelashes at him.
Aegon groans again, and when his hands tug on the front of your dress, you shimmy out of the straps to allow him to free your full breasts. It’s impossible for him to tear his eyes off of them, watching mesmerized how your nipples harden as the chill air hits them.
You don’t even have to say anything for him to lean in and wrap his lips around one bud, skipping the teasing to suck on it immediately, swallowing your milk like a man starved. The stimulation and relief it brings has your back arching once again, all but shoving your breasts against his lips and into his hand.
He’s pinching your other nipple between his fingers, coaxing drops of your milk to dribble down the curve of your breast while his lips greedily lap at your other.
“Fuck,” you mewl, scratching your fingers over his scalp in a comforting manner.
Aegon’s spurred on by the way your body writhes beneath his touch and your legs clamp around his hips, locking him in and prompting him to rut his hard cock against your clothed pussy.
But as much as you yearn for the relief his lips bring you, the aching between your legs is too much and needs to be soothed by him.
“I need you, Aeg,” you whine, grinding yourself against his hard-on.
A deep groan rumbles in his chest at your words, stoking the already blazing need you have for each other. To your surprise, he pulls back from your breast with a pop, a string of saliva connecting your hard bud and his swollen lips.
They are curled into a smug smirk, the expression that so often blesses his chiseled features. “What was that?”
You sigh, biting your bottom lip to suppress the urge to roll your eyes. You know what he wants to hear. “I need you… daddy.”
Like a man possessed, Aegon pushes the skirt of your dress up and reveals your cotton panties. You haven’t worn thongs in ages, and he’s used to them by now, though it took him some while.
Noticing the damp spot in the center of them, Aegon scoffs. “God, fuck, how I‘ve missed you,“ he husks, his eyes solely focused on the outlines of your swollen folds against the cotton. He‘s not talking to you, obviously. “So eager to be filled by me, baby, mh?”
He fists the fabric between his fingers and just rips it apart as if it‘s nothing, briefly meeting your pouting gaze. “I’ll buy you prettier ones,” he replies.
His hands curl around your thighs to pull you closer towards the edge of the table, and you lean back and prop yourself on your hands, watching almost eagerly as he undoes the zipper of his pants and pulls out his cock. The tip is covered in an angry red, beads of pre cum glistening at the slit, looking all too painful and begging for relief.
Fisting the base of his cock, he drags it through your swollen folds, soaking it in your arousal before he presses the tip against your entrance, meeting resistance. You brace yourself for the delicious stretch, and release a shuddered breath when he finally breeches your hole.
Aegon doesn’t know where to look and touch you. Every inch of your body looks far too inviting, and he’s sure he could cum just knowing that he’s the one responsible for the swelling of your body. The half lidded gaze you flash at him doesn’t help either, driving him mad.
A husky groan slips past his lips as your walls squeeze him ever so tightly, throbbing and twitching as you choke him like a vice. “Fuck, keep squeezing me like that and I’m not gonna last long,” he rasps.
One hand comes up to grope at your breast, while the other rests on the swell of your bump, splaying over it.
As he pulls his hips back, you wrap your legs around them in a fruitless effort to force him back into you, but he is stronger and merely keeps the tip of his cock inside of you.
“So eager to have me inside of you?” he teases, and your reply dies on your tongue as he thrusts sharply back into you.
There’s a suppressed urgency in the way Aegon snaps his hips into yours so quickly and harshly, repeatedly bullying the sweet spot inside of you that makes you putty in his hands. The vigorous pace of his pounding leaves you scrambling for support, and you opt to prop yourself up on your elbows instead of your hands to steady yourself.
Your head tilts back, and your mouth falls open, but you quickly clamp it shut to stop any wanton moans to fall from your lips. You can’t risk being too loud, as you don’t want anyone in the bedrooms far down the hallway to hear what you’re up to.
The pleasure envelops you, and when you look at him, you spot him biting his bottom lip harshly, clearly struggling with staying quiet just as much as you do. What seems to distract him at least a bit is the way your breasts jiggle each time his hips meet yours, sending tremors through your body.
Toe curling pleasure overtakes your body, and you can’t help but fondle the breast that isn’t groped by him, teasing your nipple to the point beads of your milk dribbled out of it again. The sight has him groan out, a tad too loud for the both of you.
“So fucking pretty carrying my child,” Aegon grunts, the praise making your pussy throb with pleasure and your head fuzzy. He gathers some of your milk on the pad of his thumb, bringing it up to his lips to suck his digit clean. “Pussy or tit – you just taste divine.”
The obscenity of his words coax a renewed wave of your arousal to ooze out of your cunt, soaking his throbbing cock and the table below. You don’t want it to end just yet, but with the knot in your belly tightening, there’s no way to escape.
Your heels dig into Aegon’s ass cheeks to slightly decelerate the pace of his thrusts and force him to go even deeper, intensifying the sensations you feel.
“Fuck… please,” you whimper with your face contored in pleasure.
Aegon wrinkles his nose, looking at you from under the strands of hair that have fallen into his face. “Need something, mommy?”
Your hips roll against his as best as they can, the swollen belly not making it easy, and your mouth falls open again with breathy whimpers leaving it. “I-I’m close,” you mewl, looking up at him with hooded eyes. “Wanna cum, daddy… please.”
You spot the hint of a smile dancing over his features, before he peels your hand off of your breast to bring it to his lips, pressing a kiss to the back of it.
His other hand has found its way down to your pussy, skilled fingers dragging over your bundle in the rhythm they have long internalized. He knows you like clockwork, knows what gets you going and what makes you take just a little longer.
“Cum for me,” he pants against the back of your hand, not once breaking eye contact with you.
You collapse on the tabletop, the coldness of the wood hitting your flushed skin sending a shiver up your spine that goes so devilishly well with the fire that suddenly courses through your veins.
Just in time with your orgasm washing over you, Aegon places his hand over your mouth to stifle the loud moans and whines, knowing damn well that even though he can hold himself back, the same doesn’t apply to you.
You squeeze his cock so tightly as you fall apart beneath him, your back inevitably arching off of the table.
“That’s it, mommy,” he coos while he fucks you through the orgasm, the toe-curling pleasure overtaking your every being. He watches in awe as your face contorts in pleasure, taking pride in it since it’s him that’s responsible for it.
Only as he feels your body relax and your breathing turn more shallow than heavy does he bring his hand back down to your breast, the aftershocks of your high clearly subsiding.
Aegon keeps on going despite the overstimulation taking its toll on your body now, clearly racing for his own completion. His other hand shows mercy on your sensitive clit and instead pays attention to your hip, fingers digging into your flesh.
“Taking me so well, fuck, just a little longer,” he rambles, his head bowing forward to watch where he‘s repeatedly disappearing inside of your tightness.
Your head lulls back again, and your walls flutter and clench from the overstimulation, in dire need to take his seed and bring it to an end. Both your hands fly to the edge of the table for leverage, while his hands grope every inch of your body they could grasp.
Being overstimulated by him isn’t new to you, yet the moment the discomfort melts into plain pleasure always mesmerizes you.
Your body feels as if it’s on fire with the knot in your belly tightening for a second time, the high approaching faster and harder than before.
“Would’ve fucked a child in you if you weren’t pregnant already,” Aegon mumbles, and you can hear the strain in his voice, seemingly having troubles staying quiet.
You whine in return, and it must have been the way your walls choke him for a second time, but Aegon brings his hand between your bodies again, pressing his thumb to your sensitive clit.
“Cum with me,” you all but whine, eager to have his seed paint your walls. “Fill me up, daddy, pleasepleaseplease.”
The interplay of his cock bullying your sweet spot and his thumb dragging over your clit has you toppling over the edge once again, your teeth sinking into your bottom lip to silence yourself.
But even if you wanted to moan, you couldn’t, not with the white, hot pleasure coursing through your veins.
Your lips part with no sounds leaving them, your eyes rolling into the back of your head.
It’s not long after that Aegon comes undone, announcing his own orgasm with a stutter of his hips and a hoarse “Fuck, I–” escaping his throat.
Your clenching walls are milking him for all he got, making sure every drop of his cum is accommodated and doesn’t go to waste.
Two more thrusts are given to your fluttering pussy before Aegon stills his hips, collapsing forwards with his hands braced right next to the swell of your bump.
He’s towering over you, a lazy smirk on his lips as he meets your gaze, and beads of sweat cling to his flushed skin.
You rub your bump in circles as you look up at him, calming yourself as you regain your breathing.
And you want to speak, but Aegon beats you to it.
“Marry me.”
A gasp escapes you as you process the words, and your belly immediately churns with arousal and desire.
As his words ring in your ears, you lick your lips and gaze up at him lovingly, though something mischievous glints in your eyes.
“I thought you’d never ask.”
His face softens, but his lips curl into a smirk. “I was waiting for the right time, but I didn’t know whether it would come at all.”
You giggle at his words, and also roll your eyes, as it was typical Aegon. But even if the moment isn’t perfect, your heart still beats rapidly, having a hard time to handle the overwhelming emotions his proposal causes you.
“But there’s still going to be a real proposal, right? With a ring and all that?” you tease playfully.
Aegon chuckles and helps you sit upright again, cupping your belly with both hands. “Of course, you’ll get a beautiful ring and everything else that comes with it. You really think I’d half-ass something like this? You deserve the most extravagant proposal.”
You sigh, savoring the feeling of his hands on your body, his softening cock still inside of you and the weight of his words.
aloud i pray, for calmer seas (joel miller x reader) 6
joel miller x reader
✍️✍️✍️fic masterlist
Summary: It’s not expected, but it’s no godamn surprise.
Disclaimer: Characters are NOT my own. This has been a disclaimer.
AN: fic title from ‘under the water’ by the pretty reckless
AN2: JOEL DROPS A DADDY LINE
No beta, we die like pedro pascal characters
ratings/warnings: 18+ MDNI.
includes: neighbor!joel x reader (22 yrs old). daddy issues, physical violence/abuse implied, drug use implied, protective!joel, dubious consent, loose sub/dom roles & switching, older man x younger woman
The first picture came through first thing, as soon as he grabbed his phone, threw his legs out from beneath the covers, and propped himself upward. One image, sent at one in the morning and primed for display now at four thirty-six.
It’s not expected, but it’s no godamn surprise.
You’re not in a hospital room, no toiletries surrounding you. You’re not outside, you’re somewhere in the hospital, some fucking corridor is his best guess, and the photograph roams from your chest down to your thighs. It’s indecent, downright foul, filthy as sin, and Joel’s mouth curls ever so hopelessly.
You’ve got your hand shoved down your pants, baggy white shirt held up just beneath your tits, too captivating an image to scold.
Joel’s fingers hover over the photograph, tapping it gently and saving the photo onto his gallery. He brings up your contact and doesn’t hesitate, selects the call button.
“Figured you get up too damn early,” comes your voice, tonality reeking of your exhaustion and tugging at his sympathy.
“S’it just for show.” He notes the way his voice rumbles, too breathy and borderline genial. His morning demeanor’s always been a softer representation that no one’s been around to witness in a long, long time. “Or you really finger-fucked yourself for any old bystander that comes along?”
You hum and answer, “You’ve framed that question disapprovingly, but I think we both know you want it to be the latter.”
“They made you feel good?” He murmurs; amusement and derision are layered beneath his query. Can’t help it much, he actually resents not being there for the show. “Fill you up alright?”
“Passable,” you mutter, words slow, voice coming through heavier, probably because you’re tired. His dick doesn’t register that, though; he feels himself hardening, imagines you pliable for once in your fatigue. Visualizes a concept wherein you’re tucked beside him in the mornings, body warm and hardly dressed. He wouldn’t hesitate to nudge you awake, molding himself above you, which inspires awareness in your drowsy eyes. He’d push his hand into your underwear and soak in the way your eyes would widen once his thick, calloused fingers brush against your clit, mouth falling open, the pitiless, despairing noises he’d dig out of you when he curls two fingers inside.
Joel grunts, soft, acknowledging, but the quiet entreaty he extends to you falls clear and loud just the same.
“Hospital food’s ass, won’t be good for you to go without a proper lunch,” he utters quietly, “think you’ll be hungry?”
You don’t make it two blocks for Joel to take a sharp curve, turning into an abandoned parking lot and parking his truck at the back of the building, granting you both a sliver of privacy.
Joel pulls the seat slider all the way back, and you do the same before scooting over and onto his lap promptly, attaching your lips to his just as his hands fall around your hips, gripping you tight and pulling you closer.
You press your hips forward, clothed core brushing the evidence of his desire, hard and hardening. Joel’s right hand grips the back of your neck, tongue shoved halfway down your throat, and you mewl against him, solid against you and meeting your voracious need with nothing but heartfelt approval.
“Fuck,” Joel pants into your mouth, hasty hands unbuckling his belt, “nasty fucking girl, you know that?”
“Oh, I know,” you grin contentedly. “You love it.”
Joel maneuvers you onto the seat, and you lie back while he hooks a finger into your sweatpants, pulling your panties down with them.
Then he’s on you, mouth moving against your lips with a relentless indulgence that makes your heart hammer in your chest, your body tractable when he grips your legs and pulls them around his hips, releasing his cock and plunging into your sopping core before you can even hope to take another breath.
And fuck, your body coils taut, the head of his cock nudging ruthlessly against your cervix, your nails carving crevices into his clothed biceps, his lips smothering your unanticipated squeal.
“Fuck, m’sorry baby,” Joel starts to pull away, shifting his hips back. The slide of his cock, thick and snug inside, every hardened vein of his length a pressure against your velvety walls.
Halfway inside of you and a soft moan breaks free from your lips, gripping his shirt tight with one hand. It’s unbearable and sudden, this ruinous idea of him slipping out, away. You need him closer, need him to take all this fucking bullshit inside of you so that you have space to receive more.
“Don’t,” wallows out of you, and you nudge your hips up, chasing his retreat. Start writhing beneath him, wanton and shameless.
Joel groans, guttural, thrusting into you again, heavy limbs crushing as the pure force of him presses you into the leather seats of his truck.
Joel fucks into you slow and deep, hallowing out the harsh hospital light and endless nurses, the wires and the beeping of monitors and constant hypervigilance. Drowns out the cramped space your fuck-up of a father keeps you in, chaining you into this contemptible new version of yourself, trapped within the confines of your sad little situation.
You’ve never been a doormat, always been the type to give it all-hell. The way your dad treated your mom inadvertently made sure of that.
It’s a damn shame, and you know that. That you can only find a shred of your true self here, with Joel. It’s kind of despicable. Using him like this. You cling to the hope that maybe he’s using you, too. Maybe it’s an even playing field and consequences can just be horrible instead of damn horrible.
“Look at me, baby.” Joel’s brown eyes are glued to your face, fastidiously studying your every expression. “Be here, alright? Just feel me.”
You moan uselessly beneath him, attempting to buck your hips against his, but his weight prevents your assistance, the voracity of his thrusts speeding up, his wet mouth roaming the length of your neck, his impatient hand pushing your baggy shirt up to reveal your tits.
Joel spits and the glob of cool-warmth lands just shy of your nipple, prompting your cunt to clamp around his cock and draw a vicious cry from your lips. His skillful mouth comes down to meet your pebbled flesh, tongue laving at the sensitive bud on your breast with languid attention. The gentleness of his mouth against the brutal grip his hands have on your hips, the fierce onslaught of his thrusts; you grip the hair at the back of his head and feel tears pooling at the edge of your vision when his mouth moves to your other breast, dick twitching inside of you.
“Joel, Joel,” you blather with warning, the familiar tell of a seismic, ferocious tsunami starting to gather force low in your belly, wearing down everything but the fluttering of your stimulated clit as Joel drags his thick cock in and out of you.
“That’s right, baby girl,” Joel growls, breath coming harsh against your skin, and you start to feel the stutter in his hips, the clincher pushing you both over this edge. “Come on my cock, sweetheart; you’re daddy’s here.”
Your body locks up around him, the pulse of pleasure devouring your entire body, your senses, your whole conscious state of being.
You come to, legs still squeezing around Joel’s hips, sweat clinging damp across your skin, and the feeling of Joel’s cum, warm inside of you.
aloud i pray, for calmer seas (joel miller x reader) 5
joel miller x reader
✍️✍️✍️fic masterlist
Summary: Joel hums, distracted, brow furrowing when he sees the light bill’s been torn open halfway. Shoddy job of it, too. It isn’t until he rips it all the way open and a slip of paper falls onto the table along with the bill that his lips curve with understanding, throat bobbing when he swallows.
Disclaimer: Characters are NOT my own. This has been a disclaimer.
AN: fic title from ‘under the water’ by the pretty reckless
No beta, we die like pedro pascal characters
ratings/warnings: 18+ MDNI.
includes: neighbor!joel x reader (22 yrs old). daddy issues, physical violence/abuse implied, drug use implied, protective!joel, dubious consent, loose sub/dom roles & switching, older man x younger woman
That following day, when Joel’s opening their share of mail, Sarah asked over breakfast, “Dad, did you notice the neighbors were gone?”
Joel hums, distracted, brow furrowing when he sees the light bill’s been torn open halfway. Shoddy job of it, too. It isn’t until he rips it all the way open and a slip of paper falls onto the table along with the bill that his lips curve with understanding, throat bobbing when he swallows.
“Dad?” Sarah calls back his attention.
Joel clears his throat and stands from the table, shoving the slip of paper in his back pocket as he brings his morning cup of coffee over to the sink where his daughter stands, peering out over to the house next door.
“You think we should take something over?” Sarah asks him. “People do that, right?”
Joel feels his heart go warm and light, glancing down at his daughter, softening in the face of her giving, tender heart. He squeezes her shoulder in appreciation and says, “People do that. But we should wait for folks to get settled first. We don’t know what’s going on.”
“But maybe after school?” Sarah's grin widens with excitement. “We can brainstorm? Oh! You can help me make some muffins! You promised you would someday, and we can try at a batch after dinner! Oh, come on, Dad, please, please, please; you did promise!”
Joel groans with a little heat, shaking his head at being roped into baking of all things – one of his only godamn shortcomings.
“Alright, alright, don’t gotta bleat like a horse’s ass. That’s your uncle’s job,” he grouses, tossing his empty cup into the sink and moving fast before he gets roped into something else. He’s still procrastinating planning Sarah’s party, at this point it ain’t gonna happen if he don’t get his shit together.
“Let’s get it going, c’mon,” he says. “Gonna be late.”
“Something on your mind?” Tommy asks, beckoning him from staring down at his phone, sweat beading high on his brow. His shirt clings to his chest, a piece of plywood sturdy in his hand, his phone clutched in his other hand.
Joel scowls at the fact that he’s actually lost himself to halfhearted indecision, wasting precious time here, standing under the blistering Texas heat.
A scribbled number had been attached to the piece of paper that fell out of his light bill, and it’s all but blared up at him on the screen of his phone since he input the new contact.
He’s not proud to say that his fingers have hovered over the send button for most of the ongoing workday, anguishing about sending a text like a godamn teenager.
Joel shakes his head and shoves his phone in his back pocket, grunting out, “Nothin’.”
Tommy chuckles, low and moving, plucking the plywood from Joel’s hand. He props the wood up against the side of the house they’re working on – it’s a decent, straightforward patio. Makes for a busy but simple day, probably why Joel’s thoughts can wander as much as they so obviously are.
“How the fuck’r you supposed to plan a teenager’s birthday party?” Joel says, finally, glaring up at that damn sun. It’s an answer he’s damn well after in truth, and Tommy’s easy grin only widens.
“Not a damn clue,” Tommy replies honestly, clasps him on the shoulder, and promises, “but I know exactly who will. The missus’ been dying for the chance to meddle.”
Joel grumbles unintelligibly, ducking his head to seek out another plywood and getting back to it.
You sit up on the hospital chair the second an unknown number pops up on your notifications, pressing your print to unlock your phone and opening your messages. The text pops up within seconds.
[ You know it’s against the law to open mail that ain’t yours ]
You’re genuinely grinning from ear to ear, because it’s such a fucking dad Joel response.
You spare a glance over to your own father, making sure he’s out cold in his hospital bed, and decide last minute that a chair is still way too close to exposure. You shuffle over barefoot to the en suite, the tile chilling you twice as much as the room.
When the door clicks softly behind you, you type:
{ so call the cops }
Your fingertips hover, waiting there with bated breath, expecting more, needing it. The monotony of spending your days in a white room with medical machines beeping non-stop, and your stubborn father being the only company offered to you; it is driving you crazy.
A minute passes. Two.
Your fingers start typing before you can censor yourself:
{ better yet find some cuffs urself u kno right where ill be💋 }
[ Yeah yeah so you say now but just wait til’ I do smart girl you won’t be so funny then ]
{ u have no idea how funny i find u joel }
And you’re not lying, Joel Miller is, god’s honest, hilarious. He’s the most clear-cut fun you’ve had in ages.
{ whered u learn how 2 text anyway }
Joel ignores your jibe, instead:
[ What’s going on over there? You holding up ok? ]
{ u mean other than how useless i am on the regular day to day function cos im thinking of your pretty thick cock? im choking on my sorrows believe me }
[ That mouth on you’s nothing but trouble ain’t it ]
{ youd fuckn kno }
“Godamn it, woman, you know I’m trying to sleep in here!”
You shove your phone into the back pocket of your jeans with your heartbeat bleeding through your ears as you pull open the bathroom door to find a dark-haired nurse taking your father’s blood and pressure.
“I know, I know,” the nurse comments, stern but infinitely patient. “It’s like this for everyone’s stay, I assure you.”
Your father harrumphs, but thankfully, he doesn’t offer her further commentary. You, on the other hand, will get the full depth monologue; you just know it.
“Thank you very much for your time, sir,” the nurse gifts you a private smile as she finishes up, and you shuffle over to take the visitor's chair again. “I’ll leave you both to get some shut-eye.”
You’re King Viserys oldest daughter, hardly a year older than Rhaenyra, but it was Queen Alicent that has taken you under her wing after your mother died birthing your late brother, strengthening your very being with her own faith. You’re pious, though all your prayers resolve around one thing: being married one day to provide your husband with a healthy heir. A betrothal has already been made, but what if you want the opposite of your pious nature? Something that would make you feel alive just as much as riding your dragon does? You’ve been so faithful to the Seven, so it is only right they finally offer you something in return.
WARNINGS: See each chapter for individual warnings. Both chapters will include sexual content and canon typical incest between uncle and niece.
WORDS: 11.8 K
NOTES: Yes, I know Aemond won the corruption poll (shocker, I know 💀), but the Daemon option hasn’t left my mind for a few days. The Aemond thing is in the works, too, and will probably be a mini-series as well!
Hello there amazing writer 🙋🏻♀️! I hope you are feeling well and are finding the fandom pleasant 🤗.
I thought I'd share an idea that's been festering in my head if you'd like to give it a try (but first allow me to commend your sharply pellucid guidelines for requesting, you have seriously inspired me to refine my own 🥂)
I was thinking of something where Daemon has been chasing a noblewoman, interest kindled by her prideful rejection to become his latest muse; then one night she goes to his chamber, dejected and teary, indignantly asking for company. Then something like the beach scene from Drfitmark where he's far gentler than he thought he would be.
Thank you for hearing me out, have a lovely day 💐
but only for tonight.
pairing. daemon targaryen x fem!reader.
synopsis. to most, the rogue prince is an untamable beast, with the fury of a thousand men and mind more stubborn than a mule. to you, he's a nuisance in expensive clothing, prone to run away with his tail tucked between his legs each time you reassure him you're still not interested in entertaining his company. till disaster strikes and the only corner of the keep your legs seem to carry you is his chamber doors.
warnings. young!daemon (early 20s), enemies to lovers to strangers, kinda softer than usual daemon (he's young and not completely cynical yet), smut (porn with plot, p in v, cunnilingus, fingering, daemon lowkey has a praise kink, dubcon bc daemon is high on life aka the milk of the poppy).
word count. 13.1k (this was only meant to be 5k max 🧍♂️)
hyde's input. thank you so much to @nyctophilic0vitnir for your kind words, your request, and, most importantly, your patience <3 this took me far too long to write and i hope the wait was worth it for you. it pains me to age daemon down (as, personally, i'm a toxic bitch that loves to see daemon be notably older than the reader, since i feel it adds that extra layer of questionable morality to his character and his actions) but it was the only way i felt i could stay true to my personal characterisation of him whilst sticking to the original request. since i view daemon as someone hardened by things in life that only come with age (which, in turn, affects his approach to love/courting), it only felt believable to me that he'd chase after someone in his younger days. obviously not everyone has to agree since, again, this is my personal characterisation of him! i'm rambling so i'll shut up now, enjoy!
read on ao3 !
between the blinding shine of the sun and the hateful looks from the ladies seated all around you, you’re shocked to the core that you’ve yet to melt away into nothingness.
the scene is as follows: an arena surrounded by crowds filled with cheering lords and fawning ladies, dressed in their finest of robes and garbs, and with their mouths opened to yell out each time sticks collide or a rider is thrown from his horse; within the arena stand two horses- one so white it offends the eyes and the other blacker than a night’s sky- and, upon their saddles, two men. the first is a man of honour, regal of house and true of heart. he sits like royalty and smiles like a dashing knight, urging his mount towards the stands, no doubt awaiting the gift of the flowered wreath you’d kept yourself awake into the small hours to make. the other man? a fool made of over-the-top armor, a glistening of dark metals and a feathered helmet that, combined with the smug look he sports, has the same effect as simply writing cunt across his forehead.
it is, to your own displeasure, that the second man is who holds his lance out to you first.
“well,” that cocky tone of voice grates you, like the screech of a crying babe, and you fight back the urge to cover your ears, if only by reminding yourself of how his crown-bearing brother is watching from his own seat amongst the crowd. “get on with it.”
“oh, my!” the women in your vicinity swoon, as if the man has just recited a poem of utmost beauty and grace in your direction.
seemingly foolish? most definitely.
but, truly foolish? not one bit, each of them strategic in their behaviour towards the unwed prince, hopeful that someday, should they work hard enough, they’ll be on the receiving end both of his affection and wealth.
you can not mock them- wholeheartedly, at least- for you would be behaving the very same were he any other prince.
“lady cantebury, if you’ll excuse me, i suddenly feel my lunch coming back up.” though you address the woman to the left of you- who, quite frankly, you’ve been ignoring for the better half of the tournament- your words and feigned smile are directed to the man of your ire.
“yes, excuse her, lady cantebitchy,” despite the prince- purposefully, you assume- misspeaking her name, she seems a little too excited that he’s taken notice of her to care. “it takes those northerners a while to adjust to eating something other than half-frozen crops. three moons south and my lady has yet to get used to it.”
“your lady?” you scoff, and quickly scowl, cursing yourself for giving him what he wants: your attention. too late now, you challenge him and lean forward against the railings. “is she with us now, this lady of yours? i should like to pay my respects to her no-doubt deceased sanity.”
“it pains me deeply when you speak so dully of yourself, my lady.” the gaul of this man! to speak such words, to mimic affectionate sentiments and pains in his heart through the clutching of his chest!
and, to make matters worse, to put on this act before the very man you’ve been courting!
the tyrell boy is smiling when your eyes finds his own, but the grip he has on the reigns of the white horse speaks true to the anger that hides beneath the petal-covered surface. you return his smile, and ignore whatever the prince mutters under his breath (something adjacent to greeting that priss of a man, with words more foul and tone heavy on the disgust).
aiming to beckon over the man who should truly receive the gift of your favour, a faint tug on the skirts of your summer’s gown derail your line of thoughts. first, you look to your left, accusing eyes looking upon lady canteburry as if to say she was the one to call for your attention. another tug has your head darting to the right, and there you see her.
the princess is small, in age and height and all else, but she makes up for what she lacks with her overgrown personality and swollen confidence. she’s merely a girl of six, yet she stands as tall as her stature allows, head tilted up to look you in the eye.
“my uncle,” little rhaenyra’s words echo for all to hear, silencing even the most brutishly rude lords as all stand to listen to her sweet voice. “he wants your favour. i think he’s just nervous and forgot to ask for it.”
the last of her words are whispered, loud enough for several women and the prince himself to hear. you shoot him a look as you both scoff over a laugh, him with indiganance and you with disbelief.
blessed be the hearts of children, too pure to know the wrongs of man.
“is that so, princess?” the girl’s nose wrinkles, a sign of her distaste towards hearing you address her by title (“i can not call you ‘nyra in public, sweet child.” you’d told her many a times, hands brushing over her pale hair or accompanying her through strolls in the gardens or helping her escape the boring hours of needle work. “you are a princess, and as one of your ladies it is my duty to address you as such.”)
the girl nods and you spy the way her hair is slowly slipping out of its braid. the actions serves as a reminder, to not just yourself but the gathered crowd of women, of the unfair yet captivating traits of the dragon-riders. fair hair, lilac eyes, unblemished skin.
he wears them differently to the rest of his house.
“listen to the child,” he speaks as if on queue, in tune with your thoughts. “she’s wiser than most her age.”
“unlike you.” you believe yourself to mutter beneath your breath.
the stifled laughter of the queen herself, aemma targaryen, tells you otherwise.
“ao jorrāelagon naejot sagon tolī sȳz, kepus!” you need to be more kind, uncle! another part of the targaryen culture you’ve grown to envy as much as you distaste: their ancestral tongue. which the princess has been improving upon with each passing day since your arrival at the capital, adding yet another person to your list of targaryens who insist on speaking it around you, with no regard to the fact you have no clue of what words they speak. if anything, the prince seems to enjoy it when you storm off, antagonised to the point of despair by his incomprehensible ramblings in his mother tongue. “iā hembar jēda kesan daor tepagon se dohaeragon ao jaelagon naejot gain se riña’s prūmia lēda.” or next time i will not give the help you wish to gain the lady’s heart with.
whatever she says, it’s enough to irritate the prince, if the roll of his eyes are anything go by.
“lykemagon, riña, iā kesan daor nārhēdegon naejot ȳdragon hen aōha bantis zaldrīzes kipagon naejot aōha kepa.” silence, child, or i will not forget to speak of your nightly dragon rides to your father. you may not speak the language, but you’re fluent in context, and so there’s no doubt in your mind that the two are exchanging threats, each wearing that signature look of stubborn challenging you’re more than certain the king grew to despise the moment he realised he’d no longer just face it from his own brother, but his precious daughter too.
when the moment passes, the princess is facing you again, sticky hands plucking upwards to grab onto whatever part of you she can reach and guide you- shove you, if she were stronger than her age allows- closer to the knight in offensive armour.
“uncle, tell the lady what you desire.” the gods were cruel when they chose to favour men over women, tearing away the chance of this poised young girl of ever ruling upon the iron throne, for not even the strongest of men- nor the most foolish, either- would dare to speak to the rogue prince in such a demanding tone.
“to be drowning in whores and wine.” you’re too slow to cover rhaenyra’s ears from the man’s offensive wording.
you suppose she’s heard far worse.
“uncle!”
“fine, fine,” a clearing of a throat, a straightening of a spine and a lunge of a jousting stick in your direction. the horse he sits upon canters a few steps closer and releases the heavy sigh you wish you could. “my lady,” there’s a point to be made with how your eyes drift anywhere but his own as he speaks such blasphemy, a silent scream that you are most definitely, not under any circumstances nor at any point in time, his lady. you’re barely a tolerant of the man! “would you do me the honour of gifting me with your favour, so that i may wear it on the handle of my lance as i shove the other end up this pretty boy’s arse?”
there’s a cacophony of laughter, prompted only after the king himself fails to contain a burst of belly-born rumbles, and then the sweet interjection of ‘nyra once more, voice whiny in a way that reminds you you’ve been cursed with your moonsblood for longer than she’s been alive- even despite your supposed late blossoming!
“kepus! konir sagon daor skorkydoso īlon kȳvanon syt ao epagon zirȳla!” uncle! that is not how we planned for you to ask her!
the prince ignores his niece, eyes spying only upon you and your unimpressed, unmoving, unchanging facial expressions. the frowning lips, the pinched brows, the disdain in your eyes are all marks of something that would- should- send any other man running for the hills, in pursuit of some other lady.
in daemon, it is the pilar of his desire.
“are you going to make me wait all evening?” the teasing smirk and the raise of an eyebrow have become the prince’s signature look around you, from the moment you’d stumbled upon him, hands tangled up the skirts of a serving girl and lips stained in the bloodied red of southern wine. “because i must admit, while i’m not against performing in front of a crowd, i’d rather hoped our first evening together would be a little more intimate than this.”
you bite the insides of your cheek with a force you hope is strong enough to rid you of that grating feeling roused by none other than your greatest enemy: the prince.
by all means, you want to deny him, send him off to pester some other lady for her favour- of which you’re sure he’ll stumble upon an abudance of them who receive him more willingly than you. the crown of pointed thorns and decaying petals and twisted vines is one you’d intended to gift to the rose boy, not the dragon prince.
yet rhaenyra’s little hands and excited smile convinces you to go against your better judgement.
the crowd bursts back to life with cheers and applause as you drop your wreath down the expanse of his lance.
“cherish it, prince daemon,” you call over the crowd, voice drowning out in the masses yet reaching its intended, daemon’s eyes delighting with the attention you give him. “for i just forfeited my chance to be named queen of love and beauty.”
hours later, when the moon sits atop the sky and the king’s guests have had their fair share of feast and drink, you brush off yet another congratulations.
“to our queen of love and beauty!” they cheer, cups to the sky and smiles made of mockery. “our prince sure did pick a fine lady.”
to roll your eyes is your only hope to halt yourselves from chastising the garish men and their claims, a whole rant to throw at them off the cuff of how the only thing their prince has done is place a scarlet letter upon you and slice a dagger through the already fragile relationship you’ve spent your recent days crafting with the stone-faced lady tyrell, who’s spent the past hours staring you down from across the hall and whispering every so often to her husband.
the hand in your own- smaller and distinctly sticky in a way only a child’s hand ever seems to be- tugs and squeezes you along, venturing deeper into the pit of dancing bods, the tuffs of blonde and the poofs of red the only part of the princess you manage to make out as she guides you.
she stops, eventually, when she finds a spot she deems spacious enough and- unbeknownst to you- in the perfect line of view for all that sit the royal table, be they a king, or a queen, or a prince, to witness you both joining in dance, a unique pair among the many couples.
“you know,” the girl ponders alloud, a cheeky grin on her face as her small frame easily twirls beneath your raised arm. “if you married my uncle, you and i would be family.”
“is that so, huh?” she must count her blessings that she remains a child, for were she any older to know better, she’d be tasting the wrath delivered upon any other who’d dare insinuate- much less so boldly propose the idea of- the unification of yourself and the rogue prince. “are you sure you’d be able to handle me as your evil aunt?”
the young girl nods enthusiastically, a silly grin decorating her features and forcing one on to your own down-trodden face, something so infectious in her smile.
when you’d first met the princess, you’d been certain that you’d never warm to her. it wasn’t that she was spoiled or particularly difficult but, rather, you’d never had a child around back home. moving to the capital- under the guise of becoming a lady in waiting to the little princess while truly being an excuse for your father to find you a husband- you’d been unsure what to expect once you arrived. your friendship with the dragon princess was a happy accident.
an accident that’s made adjusting to the capital far easier, sure, but an accident nonetheless.
“uncle!” her recent interest in your courting life and the need to intertwine it with your arch-nemesis’, however, has you rethinking this friendship.
the princess is the one to let go first, ducking out of your hold to crash straight into the prince’s leg, attaching herself onto it like a leech sticks to the skin of a dying man. daemon, seemingly engaged in conversation- with a girl you believe to be part of the lannister house- prior to the appearance of rhaenyra, dismisses the company in favour of his niece, hand clasping itself upon the top of her head and giving several scuffs, messing her hair till it stands in all directions.
and, be it the copious drinks or the immature she-devil who harbours within the depths of your soul, you condemn yourself to approaching the prince.
“stop that!” the words are a hiss as your hands shove away his own and work at smoothing back down the strands of pale blonde. “it took me near an hour to get her to sit still for me while i done her hair, and now you’ve gone and messed my work!”
“then do better next time, perhaps tie it more securely.” never has daemon targaryen had a face so worthy of a slap.
but, as slapping the king’s brother would likely land you straight in a cellar, you settle for something far more childish.
“oh, my bad,” the stretch to reach the top of his head is lessened by the heeled shoes you wear, allowing you to retaliate the treatment he’d given to the princess’ head. “perhaps you should try tying your hair more securely next time!”
it’s a marvellous kind of satisfaction that overcomes you as you gaze upon your masterpiece, the prince now wearing a hardened expression and standing with something akin to a bird’s nest in place of his once perfectly groomed locks.
“i think you’ve been spending too much time with rhaenyra,” he grumbles, attempting to sooth down the mop on his head while trying to maintain an air of collectedness about him as the surrounding guests hide their snickers behind their hands. meanwhile, the princess radiates joy, no fear holding her back from laughing at her uncle. “you’re behaving as if you were her age.”
it’s a struggle to not stick your tongue out, but you fear that would only serve to prove his- likely true- point.
“i’m tired,” rhaenyra, ever the conniving little actress, throws in a fake yawn and stretches her little limbs out as she untangles herself from the prince, staring up at him. the two have always shared a rather queer bond, as though they were cut from the very same cloth, little needing said for them both to understand one another. being aware of this, however, does not make it any easier to accept when they speak of you as though you’re not there. “would you promise to keep my friend company? there’s a lot of strangers at this feast and i don’t want one of them to harm her.”
“i’d say the strangers are the ones who need protecting, princess,” he’s doubled over, moving down to the height of his niece but his focus is all on you and the urge to squirm under his penatrive gaze is stronger than ever. “them northerners can be savages!”
with much protest from you and a shooing motion from the rogue prince, young rhaenyra scurries off towards her septa, eventually leaving the hall intwined with the daughter of her father’s hand, alicent hightower, the pair having been near inseparable since before you’d even arrived in the capital.
you last only four denied dances, three of them which are proposed by the heartbreak prince himself, the only other man bold enough to approach you with your frowning sworn-guard for the night being a lowly lord from the southern isles, kind enough in the eyes yet sporting a few too many wrinkles and grey hairs for you to consider a suitable suitor. and, at last, it becomes time you take your leave, making one last stop before the two royals, once more congratulating the pair on the early stages of the queen’s pregnancy- the first to make it through the initial trimester since the birth of rhaenyra and the sole reason you’ve all gathered, to celebrate the future heir king viserys targaryen claims grows within his wife’s womb- before making your way out into the much quieter, more solitary and notably cooler hallways of the red keep, the noise of the continued festivities drowning out into muffled cheers as the heavy doors slam shut, locking you out.
you breathe easily for what feels like the first time in hours.
ever the fool, daemon seems either incapable of taking a hint or wilfully going to any length to aggravate you, for he matches your steps and follows you out. he’s oblivious to the stare of despair and the roll of your eyes, wishing the man would drop his literal- and figurative- pursuit of you once and for all.
“you’ve been here, what, near four moons?” his voice rising above the stillness of the night captures your attention, widened eyes blossoming with surprise shooting up from facing the ground beneath your feet. “how are you finding your stay? i should hope my brother’s fitted you with comfortable quarters.”
“i, well,” you start, and you mean to finish, you really do. but there’s a loss of connection between your mind and your mouth, one running with a thousand thoughts that fight to reach the forefront and the other parting it’s lips in a broken exhale.
“what, surprised to see i am capable of niceties?” the prince flashes what you imagine most would describe as a charming smile.
“yes. no, actually,” you correct both your words and your posture, unknowingly relaxing that tense feeling that had danced upon the tip of your back and the expanse of your shoulder from the moment you’d found yourself alone with the man walking at your side. “more surprised to see you’re capable of not turning everything into a sexual pass, i suppose.”
“well, you never let me reach the part where i request to see just how comfortable your quarters are.”
that same she-devil who convinced you to mess with his hair perks up her voice once more, seductive whispers encouraging you to cross the space that separates you from the prince and place a hand upon his leather-bound chest, shoving him with less hostility either of you had expected.
“you’re insufferable!” at the very least, you retain the ability to criticise him verbally, though with far more interruptions of failed-to-conceal laughter and less sharpness in your tone.
“i believe it’s pronounced irrefutable.”
“i’m impressed,” you nod along to your own exclamation, vaguely aware of the fact you’ve twisted your feet around till you face the man completely. “that’s a big word for someone with the vocabulary of a foul-mouthed child!”
“if big things impress you, rest assured i’m well endowed.”
“like i said, insufferable!”
when your exacerbated sighs and his teasing chortles fade away into the air of the night, a calm quiet settles over you both, like fog over mountain tops. the rare abscense of the wandering eyes and judgemental snickers and the gossiping whispers exchanged through the courtiers has made way for an unexpected tolerance of the prince’s company, one that leads you astray from your usual disgust and further towards the walking disaster-child that is daemon targaryen.
“come,” it’s a demand, not a request, the talons of your hands digging into the arm of his coat admittedly harder than necessary, a sick depravation found in the firmness of his biceps. you find he gives no protest to the way your arm locks itself around his own. “walk me to my chambers, oh mighty knight!”
“is this your way of accepting my offer to see how comfortable your ch-”
“daemon, so help the seven, if you finish that sentence, it’ll be i who shoves a lance up your arse.”
silence returns like an old friend: with open arms and the promise of a story to be told.
the pair of you traverse through the winding halls of the castle together, arms linked and feet synced- the prince puts a great effort into shortening the length of his steps. to outsiders looking in, you’d almost appear to be nothing more than another couple in the early days of courtship, smiling off to the sides and capable of looking anywhere but each other. the reality that this very man has put your true intended betrothal at risk becomes buried deep beneath the surface of your thoughts, uneager to remind yourself of how you’d last seen the tyrell boy rising from the dirt of the arena, face frowning as the prince called out your name, thanking you for you favour.
“you never answered.” he speaks carefully, voice a gentle timbre as though he’s attempting to coax a wounded fawn out of its hiding place.
“hmm?”
“my question, about your stay. how are you finding it?”
you can not seem to answer him. it isn’t that you don’t want to answer- trust there is another world out there where you easily list off every reason he’s made your time in the capital feel something comparable to torturous and arduous work- but, rather, that you do not have an answer. because not a single person, from your own father all the way to little rhaenyra herself, has dared to ask you before.
no individual has cared to know, yet here the prince stands- walks by your side, more accurately said- and inquires on it.
it jars you so severely you feel the beginnings of an ache in your head.
“oh, well, it’s been... good, i suppose.” both of you share a common disbelief towards the words you speak, yours evident in the way your grip tightens around his arm and his making itself known in a dismissive grunt. “the keep is beautiful, and my chambers are beyond any level of comfort my own house could afford, and the weather is admiteddly nicer. it’s just...”
“lonely,” the man finishes what you started, the hand on his free arm at some point raising itself to rest upon your own. it’s only reflex for your fingers to relax, untense the vice grip you’ve dug into him. “this city is somehow the busiest yet loneliest place in the whole of westeros.”
“don’t get sentimental on me, prince daemon.” to dismiss the mellowness settling in between you with a jovial tone and a pointed look is all you can think to do, far too unprepared to be confronted with the possibility of the rogue prince possessing anything beyond the sheer audacity he displays on the daily. “we would not want someone to overhear and assume you’re soft-hearted.”
the man swallows back a comment of how, while his heart may falter, another of his organs would not fail to remain hardened, and simply gives a noise of agreement. you arrive at yet another flight of stairs, this one so narrow it requires you to walk ahead of the prince, the grasp you have on him never faltering as it slides down the expanse of his arm and reanchors itself on his wrist.
you make it not even a quarter of the way up before your dress proves itself to be a nusance, catching on your feet and sending you crashing forwards, saved from bruising your skin and breaking your bones on the solid stone below by daemon, who effortletsly catches you by the waist.
“i wasn’t aware the king placed you in the highest tower of the keep,” the prince, a known hypochondriac, quips on the amount of stairs the travels to your chambers entails.
“must be to keep scoundrels like his brother from trying to reach me.” a joke it may be, given you both laugh, but there’s certainly an element of truth behind it.
pray, you will, that you’re never enquired on how often a scoundrel has taken it upon himself to lift the ends of a woman’s dress for no reasons other than aiding her to climb up steps without the fear of her feet catching on the ends of it.
he follows you up closely, closer than he’d been before, and drops the material only after you’ve reached the top. the pair of you move in sync to reform your previous positions, arms intertwining with ease.
“what,” it’s criminal, you think, that it’s taken you all this time to experience how soft the prince’s voice can be once he’s rid it of all that ego and peacoking energy he barks around the courts with. meanwhile, he’s doing everything he can think of to slow your inevitable approach towards your chambers door. “do you have planned tomorrow morning?”
“tomorrow morning?” the question prompts you to look at him. seeing his face closer than it’s ever been before, you see the little details, like the flecks of deep purple that accentuate the lilac eyes, or the small scab on his chin where a shaving knife must have sliced it, or the subtle indent of frown-lines on his forehead that you think a man of his age is far too young to possess. “usually my mornings are spent with the other maidens who reside in the keep, before rhaenyra comes searching for me after she’s broken her fast.”
you don’t mention the way the young girl never fails to bring something tucked beneath her skirts- an apple, a buttered roll, a slice of meat- and forces it upon you, demanding you eat the breakfast you so often forget to take.
“how likely is it that your absence would be noted, say, if you were to go one daybreak not with those wenches?” you wrinkle your nose at the choice of words and he chuckles, mentally notting the distaste you harbour for wenches and reminding himself to use it against you at some point in the future. “my brother says the she-beast they call vhagar laid a clutch.”
“how ominous. haven’t you dragonriders taken enough dragons beneath your wings?” it’s meant to be naught more than a silly comment, a clever play on words to rouse a tired eyeroll from prince daemon. it isn’t, however, supposed to pull a pointed look and a sigh of defeat from the dragonless targaryen. “i’m sorry... i didn’t mean to offend.”
“no, no, it’s fine. just never speak such a stupid pun again.” he juts his arm out, playfully stabbing the point of his elbow into your side and rousing a smile back onto your face, unease slipping out with your next exhale. “it’s for the queen’s babe. my brother demanded i collect the eggs and bring them to-”
“there you are, my love! i’ve been looking for you all evening.”
like a pair of children caught with their hands down a cookie jar, daemon and you jump apart with haste, eyes no longer focused on one another and, instead, on the figure stood at the very end of the hall.
he still wears the armour which he’d been defeated by the prince in.
“laurel!” while your tone may read as elated, it’s filled only with disappointed surprise. “what are- why- what brings you here, at this hour?”
the prince seems to instinctively step closer to you as the tyrell boy begins to approach, leaving his post outside your door. he’s stern, brows furrowed and nothing remains of the man who’d been making you laugh a mere ten paces back.
“i was looking, for you,”
“clearly not hard enough.” you wonder if the tyrell boy catches daemon’s muttered words and, the part of you that agrees with them wishes he did.
you’d been at the feast all evening, with just about every other person of status in the city. if he’d wanted to find you, he’d have been best to make an appearance at the event rather than camping outside your apartments.
“i thought we could take a stroll through the gardens,” the rose speaks as though his idea is not preprostous, inviting a maiden out into the darkened greenery at such a late hour.
passing by the prince, laurel tyrell spares him no attention, as though the man is not even there, and simply makes his way towards the stairway, turning back only when the notion that you stand frozen in your spot kicks in.
“come along, my lady!” my lady. those two words feel tainted from hearing them fall from between the prince’s lips, the tyrell’s voice prickling your skin with it. “i promise i shant keep you late.”
your eyes find the prince.
he nods, once and then a second time.
“go,” he urges verbally, when his actions don’t speak loud enough. “fleabottom’s been calling my name all evening, and i intend to answer it.”
with a twist in your gut and a wretch in your heart, you shuffle your way over to laurel tyrell’s open palm, letting him drag you back down into the night.
this is a decision you come to regret, no later than four sleeps.
because the man's words follow you, no matter how quickly you run through halls and creep up stairwells. they turn every corner you take and pause with every rush of breath you stop to heave into your screaming lungs. you pass doorways and sleeping guards, and they pass them with you too.
this nonsense best prove it's worth once i bed her.
there's anger in the clutches of your hands, clenched into fists of pointed knuckles and skin-digging nails, and sadness caught between the lashes of your eye, drops of liquid heartbreak threatening to stain your skin if you so much as blink.
the halfwit doesn't notice when i focus on her tits instead of her eyes.
the poetic words, the strolls through the gardens, the nights of dancing, the stolen smiles and fleeting looks across crowded rooms, all for nothing.
least she be a maiden. i've heard the feel of breaking one of them in is unmatched.
all for laurel tyrell to be another man who sees only the shape of what you hide beneath your clothing.
you want to hate him, curse him, tell all you meet of his crude words, but, instead, the thought of their reactions leaves you despising yourself, for ever thinking a man could think with more than what sat between his legs.
it is not even an option to contact your father, you lament while climbing yet another winding stairwell, for he’d merely remind you of a woman’s duty, which serves only her house until she takes a husband and, then, serves only him.
if the tyrell boy wishes to bed a maiden, your father’s voice plays in your thoughts as though he were stood before you this very instant, best it be you.
his words, the thoughts and your footsteps all come to a halt at the same time. like reentering your body, or awakening from a nap, you find yourself disorientated, gazing upon a chamber door you register not as your own. no, this door is more akin to the level of gradiose you face each day that you visit the young princess’ room, dragged away by her small hands as she works to avoid yet another one of the classes that she views as a bore.
yet, this is not her door.
sure, it carries similar markings and engraves in the wood, and sports that very same rich colour and shine to it. but something, subtle as it may be, is askew. the princess’ door has silver handles, this one has gold. the princess sleeps in the east wing of this part of the keep and you’re certain you’d marched west, away from the voice of your betrothed. a guard stands by the princess’ door, no one sits outside this one.
bile rises in tune with your hand, staining the back of your throat with anxious thoughts as you hesitantly knock.
you pause and wait.
minutes pass before you’re knocking again, this time with a little more anger behind the way your knuckles hit against the cold oak. it’ll be a wonder if you do not awake to swirls of purple and twists of blue painted across your skin come sunrise.
the tenant of these apartments still does not open their doors.
you hit a little harder, replacing knocks with a forceful, full-handed slap against the door. and then another, and another, and another, and-
your hand meets flesh that prickles with stubble and points with it’s cheekbones.
“what in the seven hells merits such behaviour at this hour?!”
the prince, for the life of him, has barely managed to open his eyes fully, rejecting the bright lights that burn in the hall. behind him is a sea of black, whatever treasures or prisoners he hides within his quarters lost into the darkness. he’s frowning, hair a mess, clothes foregone hours ago, and a distinctly red hand print slowly searing itself into the left side of his face.
the sight brings you more relief than you’d ever thought him capable of.
you’ve always been rational. it’s a badge you wear with honour, basking in the glory anytime one of your siblings met the angrier side of your father that never failed to reprimand them for being less like you, for being incapable of thinking before acting like you, for never weighing consequences until after a deed was done.
till the day you die, you will never find the words to describe what leads you astray from this level-headedness in the small hours of this evening.
you crash into the prince less gracefully than you’d prefer, lips barely meeting the bottom of his and pressing themselves half on his chin as you dive in for a kiss.
a kiss that daemon does not reciprocate.
in fact, he doesn’t even attempt to move, body frozen in place. pulling back to find the sheer unfazed, almost bored look that occupies the features of his face, floods your soul with a horrible, thick, heavy feeling, that stains every part of you it touches.
you’re ashamed.
and mortified.
and disgusted.
and embarrassed.
and reaching for his lips again.
this time your mouths collide in perfect level, no unwanted chin in the way. wanting- needing something to anchor you down, your hands shoot out to grasp at where a tunic would usually be. instead, you’re met with nothing but the solid, heaving, sweating mass that makes up the prince’s naked chest.
daemon remains stoic.
“i,” you breathe a shaky exhale, a sting nagging away at your reopened eyes as the previous tears reappear. with a nod, and a sniffle, you step back from the man. the nervous tremble in your hands forces you to grab at the fabrics of your skirt, grasping at anything to distract your mind. “that- this was a mistake.”
this entails so much. kissing him, knocking on his door, walking to his chambers, moving to king’s landing, courting with the tyrell boy, letting the prince get in your head and, all over what? a single experience where the two of your were capable of coexisting without tearing one another’s hair out?
it is all one big mistake, the kind that one can’t hope to fix if all they do is turn and run from the danger it exudes.
knowing this won’t stop you from trying, however.
you twist so quick you worry you may snap your spine or strain a muscle, body kicking into action in an attempt to get as far away from the prince as you’d once desired to be from the tyrell boy. not even a full step, do you make it, until an unmovable force clamps down on your arm.
daemon imposes on you this time, leaning down and crashing his lips against yours. his mouth is warm, with lips of honey and hands of stone that grab and pull and tug at the parts of you they blindly reach for.
the prince is not the first man you’ve kissed- nor do you imagine a life where he’ll be the last- but there’s something behind the way his tongue burrows itself into your mouth, his presence so tangible and all consuming.
you pull back, if only to catch your breath, but he follows, taking ownership over your senses.
stumbling backwards and crossing the threshold into the prince’s chambers, darkness takes ahold of you both, bathing you in nothing but the light of a distant moon. you barely register how one of you reaches for the door behind you, only the slamming of it alerting you to the fact it’s been closed. a lightheaded feeling overcomes you, forcing you to pull apart when your lungs scream for air.
“i’m starting to understand,” daemon’s voice is full of rasp, dry and cracking and far too grating on the ears for you to genuinely be finding yourself attracted to it. “why my brother swears by the milk of the poppy.”
a horrible feeling floods your soul, bile burning its way up your throat.
“oh, oh my god,” your hands are at the level of your eyes, pulling at strands of your own hair. “i completely forgot... you- you’re on bedrest, i can, i’ll just leave-”
the prince’s injury had been the talk of the town since it had occurred: a near-deadly run in with a frightened stag amidst a hunting tourney. the horned animal had spooked his horse, throwing the man off its saddle as it reared and ran off, leaving him to face the male deer. the truth of what had entailed, few would ever know, all that was said was that the prince returned to camp dragging the slaughtered animal by it’s horns with a blood staining the clothing surrounding his left shoulder.
“no, you won’t, heathen!” in rare occasions, daemon would be the only one to pull a smile from you all day. how fortunate that this is one of those occasions, the scowl on his brows contradicting the subtle upward quirk of his thin lips. “you can not dangle a piece of meat before a dragon and then refuse to feed it.”
were you in any state to think rationally, you’d dig more into the fact he’d just referred to you as a piece of meat.
but, then, if you were thinking rationally, you’d never have wound up at his door.
the second kiss is less forceful. no rush enlaced with every touch, no desperation tickling at both your senses, no desire to stray too far from one another.
you find yourself trusting the prince more than you’d like to when he starts to guide you backwards, a gentle pressure on your hips building while his mouth travels over your jaw and reaches the top of your neck. you walk, and stumble, and shuffle wherever the man directs you and, then, you fall.
any frightful scream you would have let out is quickly replaced with a squeal and a giggle of delight, back meeting what you’re confident in naming the softest bed you’ve ever laid upon.
at last, the shine of the moon allows you to see the man hell-bent on attacking you with his mouth.
“what is the meaning of this, hmm?” the condescension in his tone usually grates you. now, it excites you, arouses you, leaves you wondering of what pleasures he could speak with it. “why’re you suddenly at my door, behaving like some wanton whore?”
oh, you think, who knew such crass could prickle your skin with desire?
the shadow of the prince casts down on you, bathing you in an exagirated enlarged image of him, as if the fates wish to remind you of how big a shadow he looms over your own existence. it scares you.
his eyes scare you more.
they’re usually wider, observing every move, full of that mischievous nature the prince is known for. but, if what people say is true and the eyes are the mirror to one’s soul, then daemon’s soul must be a dark pit made up of lustful glares and hooded eyelids, resting so low his eyes almost appear shut.
you want to answer, you really do. but between the hand that circles a grip around your throat and the heat shooting straight for your core, burning up in a puddle of arousal, you can’t. all you can do is watch the man before you, silver hair a beautiful mess just begging for some fingers to be ran through it and stare promising to ruin you in the best way possible.
the silence pleases him.
“do you know how hard it is to get you alone? always got someone wanting to talk to you, stealing your attention. do you even know how many stupid feasts i had to attend to finally get some time with you?” daemon pauses, like he’s waiting for you to relay an answer, guess a number. he loosens up the grip on your neck, teasing your skin with a few soothing strokes of his slender fingers, lulling you into a state bordering insanity. “no answer, sweet girl? or are you lost in that pretty little head of yours?”
“i’m,” your voice is but a whisper, raspy with a new found thirst. “trying to figure out what you want me to say.”
if it’s the wrong or right answer, you’re soon to find out, the sharp faced man releasing a dangerously low chuckle as he takes a hold of your chin. like a pretty doll, you move any time and any way his fingers command you to, finding yourself staring right up into his eyes, a swirl of melting jasmine that reminds you of how alluring yet sultry every inch of him is. lips near touching, he refuses to break eye contact as he speaks up once more, sealing both your fates when his breath hits your face.
“then let me show you what i want.”
his mouth comes down on yours like it’s the answer to all your prayers and, yet, all your nightmares.
it excites you how easily he works his lips over your own, captivating every inch of you when he tilts his head to the right and deepens the kiss. the rhythm of your lips is a mismatch of beats, where one moment you are moving in a sensual waltz, grazing tongues and dipping heads to get rid of that inch of a space remaining between your bodies, and the next moment your tongues are tangled in a tango, the kind where his teeth send blood rushing to your lips with every bite he drags over them and his hand drags shivers down your spine as it makes its way down, down, down your body.
yet it terrifies you how willingly you’ve succumb to daemon’s touch, intoxicated by whatever witchcraft he has in his possession and currently holds over you. there’s a deadliness to the way his lips part from your own only to repeat his previous seamless descent down your jaw and the expanse of your neck, a poisonous element to the way his hand suddenly finds itself clutching the meat of your thigh.
the moment his fingertips ruck up the fabric that safeguards the last of your modesty and meet the ends of your sleep-gown, you’re wishing you’d never slipped it on in the first place, every fibre of your being growing angsty under the weight of his suddenly halted hand. it stays still for an immeasurable amount of time, grazing over your near shear dress occasionally while he continues to mouth at your neck.
like visenya and vhagar at the unstormable vale, daemon parts your legs with little to no effort, creating a pathway for his fingers to travel further up your thigh. blunt fingernails drag up your skin, a trail of goosebumps being left behind, a visible marking of where he’s touching you.
his movements halt too soon for your liking, too much distance between his lithe fingers and your body’s pulsating core.
“have you figured out what i want yet?” his voice is a stark difference to the usual smite-filed, almost spat-out-words tone you’ve grown used to hearing from the man. right now, there’s no trace of sardonic undertones in the thick rasp and there’s no time for an exchange of childish insults while he’s glaring down at you through hooded eyes.
something compels you to nod your head, even though you’re a little too lost in the thoughts concerning what you desire, rather than what the stranger incarnate looming over you wants.
“you have?” the words come out in a layer of amazement, and you have to wonder if it’s because of the lie you’ve just told or the way your legs have closed in around his hand, trapping it between them. “i want to know what you want, though.”
you want his thumb to stop stroking over the flesh of your inner thigh.
you want his eyes to stop gazing down at you like you’re the perfect prey.
you want him to stop teetering your impending pleasure on a string.
you want-
“you.” is all you manage to breath out.
it seems to do the trick, however, your point getting very much across to him. a softness flickers over his features, brows no longer furrowed and smirk curling up into a full smile for what feels like an eternity, but is actually no more than a couple of seconds before his devilish aura is back.
lips meet lips again, the desperation and force behind each stroke of his tongue against yours the same as before. the prince, much to your delight, seems to grow just as impatient as you’ve been since the moment he’d stopped you from fleeing at his door.
one hand still resting between your thighs, his other seizes the opportunity to drag your body closer, till a mere inhale is enough to have your chest pressing into him.
the prince’s descent to the floor is graceful, his figure made of solid muscle and unclothed skin lowering till his knees hit the ground and it becomes you who stare down at him, your hands clutching at the silk sheets his bed has been dressed with in an effort to replace the desire to touch him instead.
choosing to not dwell on the heavy feeling of his eyes on you, or the sheer visual strength depicted in the straining muscles of his thighs, you instead focus on the way his lips have trailed away from yours and are beginning to make their way towards the top of your chest.
his hand abandons post between your thighs and rises to the surface, where long fingers begin to pull at the straps of your flimsy night-dress, successfully manoeuvring the cotton material till it pools around your midriff and your breasts are exposed to the damp air of the night.
with no want left to play around, he dives right in to dragging his lips down the upper swell of your left breast. you imagine he can feel the beating of your racing heart beneath the goosebump littered skin. it doesn’t take long for his tongue to enter the scene, skilfully flicking over your hardened nipple a couple times before enveloping his mouth around the bud.
one, two, three sucks and he’s moving on to your right breast. there’s no lead up, this time, simply his mouth finding delight in toying with your body while he busies his hand with your left side, thumb and pointer finger rolling and tugging and spreading the remnants of his saliva over your heated skin.
the straw that breaks the camel’s back, and has you arching your own, is the faintest pressure of his teeth biting down on you. it dances on a thin line between pleasurable and painful, exhilarating enough to make you throw your head back as a moan slips past your lips. it echoes in the empty room, replaying your own sound for both of you to hear again and again before the chain is broken by a laugh.
his laughter.
“why are,” he picks the right time to trail his fingers down your body, dragging your dress with them till it sits uncomfortably tight around the top of your hipbones, fabric digging into the rapidly heating skin. “you laughing?”
“has anyone ever told you how beautiful your tits are?” it’s crude and heartwarming all at once, not unlike the man who says it and the little smile he shoots up in your direction as he rolls his tongue over your nipple once again.
“no, i can’t say they have.” one hand finds it’s way onto his shoulder- the shoulder that does not possess gauze wrapped around it, that is- and grasps it in a vice grip, the fear of melting off the bed and directly onto the concrete floor all too prevalent as you gain enough confidence to let the other hand slide around to the back of his neck and thread your fingertips in the silver locks, hair as soft as you’ve always imagined it to be. “you’re the first.”
“i’ll wear that title with honour,” he seems to delight in the way you’re carding through his hair, eyes closing while he tilts his head back further into your touch. a delighted sigh follows. “has anyone ever asked to drink from your cunt?”
you nearly choke on your own shock.
“i suppose that’s another honourable title for me to wear.” daemon is beginning to give you whiplash, with all this switching between being unusually receptive to your presence and the man that minutes before was making poetic profanities out of the beauty of your bared chest. he peaks his eyes open again, slowly, adjusting once more to make out your figure in the darkness. when he has the nerves to smile at you, all dreamy eyed and relaxed sitting before you, knees pressing into the ground in a mockery of a bow, some crevice deep within your soul sparks up a fire that burns on the belief that perhaps you’ve been wrong about the prince all along, judging only on what people say and not on how he behaves. then, he reopens his mouth and dampens the flame. “now, do i have to tear you out of your skirts or will you stand up and let me slide it off?”
this time, its your laugh that echoes in the air.
“you think i jest!” he seems to whine his way through his exclaim, bottom lip jutting out ever so slightly in a way you’re certain is both influenced by the milk of the poppy that flows through his bloodstream, and is going to drive you insane. “i can not go on another moment like this, you sitting there like something akin to the most mouthwatering summer’s peach, without spending my seed. and, while i’d much prefer to do so inches deep inside you, i’ll settle for a mouth full of cunt.”
“you’re so-” you give up on trying to find a single word to describe him, knowing there’s no word that can quite capture the prince’s essence. “okay, okay, i’ll umm... just stand up and-” the shriek of fabric tearing rips through the space between you. “hey!”
“i’d apologise but, well,” daemon’s dazed smile should not be this gentle, not when it is proceeded with his hands returning to your now bare thighs. “you were trying my patience.”
his hold on you is strong- both the grip he has on your legs and the control he harbours over your mind-, and he plays it to his advantage, laying one palm flat over your torso and forcing you backwards, till your back meets the mattress and your eyes find themselves staring up at the images carved into the roof of the wooden bedpost, details indistinguishable in the darkened room.
from the floor, the prince is grabbing and pulling and maneuvering you down the length of the mattress, finding the backs of your knees and bending them, spreading your legs to a width wide enough for his broad shoulders to sit between.
“need you closer, my tongue’s not that long.” the prince mutters, half to himself, as your arse meets the edge of the bed, all the way to where his wanton mouth awaits you. as if to give you a preview of what awaits you, the kisses from before reduced to nothing, his tongue pops out to run over the smooth of his bottom lip. your hands return to fisting at the sheets beneath you, digging and searching and reaching for a way to keep yourself grounded through the maddening thoughts of the prince and the current position you find yourself in, and ignoring the anxious ridden vipers inside your mind that spit their venom and hiss their tongues in commands that entail you gathering the remaining fabrics of your tattered clothing and running out these chambers, out the keep, out the damned capital, out the clutches of the man on his knees. though, with the way his fingers squeeze into your thigh, you doubt you’d make it as far as even a single step. “comfortable?”
“as i’ll ever be.”
“all the ladies in the seven kingdoms that would die to be in your position, and you choose to say that?” he tisks, tongue hitting off the roof of his mouth before a blow of air hits against your folds and, though it’s faint from the distance still between his mouth and where he wants it to be, it sends a jolt of excitement up your spine. “i’ll just have to make sure i over-perform, make you more eager for next time.”
neither of you choose to dwell on those words, next time.
him, too occupied with getting his first taste, tongue licking a strip up your core and coming to a stop as the tip of it bumps against your aching bud.
you, too busy having the air knocked out of your lungs, hand unconsciously finding safety in gripping his hair as you lurch upward momentarily, back arching off the bed and mouth falling open in a quiet gasp that echoes around and around.
“hmm, make sure you hold on tight.” you know he’s teasing you, with his words, and with his eyes, and with his mouth that seems to find enjoyment in trailing itself over your buzzing centre and up your pubic bone. “you smell sweet as sin, you know? enough to make any man go feral.”
the chance to reply never comes, not when the prince makes his way back down to your pearl and greets it with the stroke of his flattened tongue. every tiny nerve sparks to life under his touch and you feel yourself grow more sodden, a wave of warm arousal leaking out of your hole. his tongue dives down to welcome it, not allowing more than a single drop- which slips and slides its way down to the crack of your arse, dribbling over your puckered hole- to go to waste.
you don’t even notice the lack of his grip around your left leg until you feel it: the first few seconds of his fingertips probing around your soaked cunt, coating themselves in your liquid pleasure until it’s dripping down the back of his hand.
the first finger to enter your hole is gentle, tentative to the way your body receives him, his pointer and ring finger keeping your folds spread and allowing him the full view of the middle one slowly disappearing from sight, burying itself in the warmth of your womanhood. distracted, his mouth pulls back and his head forces itself into the grip you have in his hair while his eyes soak in the sight above him, flickering up to catch your reaction when another finger enters you, this time with a lot less care as it forces you open around it.
“so pretty,” he slurs over the words, more to himself than to you, delighting as he witnesses you struggling to bite back a pathetic moan when his digits curl within you. he repeats the action a couple times, flicking his wrist back and forth, fingers brushing over your tight walls each time and culminating in a curl that has him pressing against the spongy-like flesh inside. “so, so pretty.”
your hips begin to rut against his hand, meeting every one of his thrusts with perfect timing that has him reaching deeper, further, better places inside of you. all the while the prince is simply watching and admiring the furrow in your brow and the way the swells of your breast bounce in sync with you.
your cunt clenches tighter and his fingers fight to reach deeper before spreading themselves wider in an attempt to scissor you open. he’s giving it his all, a third finger slipping in despite the dull ache setting in his wrist while he coaxes you closer and closer to the tipping point.
the rogue prince takes just as easy as he gives, and it’s that fact alone that drives him to pull his hand back, fingers withdrawing from you and the pleasure you’re pursuing.
“why did you-” you heave through heavy breaths, brain fuzzy from the unvoiced peak you were so close to having, every nerve ready to tingle, every muscle ready to tremble, every toe ready to curl. “stop?”
“because,” the wet smack of his fingers hitting against your pearl is louder than the whimper that drops from your mouth. daemon hears both, however, and grins, quickly landing another smack against your engorged bud. “the goal is to make you cum on my tongue, not my fingers. consider them the appetiser, something to awaken your senses.”
his tongue licks in an upward motion, starting from the tip of your taint and ending at your pearl, and you get deja-vu to just minutes before, when you’d first felt his tongue on your melting skin, the saliva it leaves in a trail behind it serving to cool you down. a shiver runs up your spine as he blows air onto your cunt, the pressure of it doing wonders to stimulate your bundle of nerves.
“would you ever stop?” your whining tone is reminiscent of a spoiled babe, crying and fussing over the need to be fed milk from it’s mother’s teat.
“‘tis you who’s becoming insufferable now, my lady.” the prince, despite what he says, does as you ask and puts an end what feels like unending teasing- really, it’s hardly been a minute but the pulsing of your heat and the loss of a climax leave you no room to think about something as abstract as time.
his lips make a victorious return, wrapping themselves around your centre and sucking against the pulsing nub. every so often, he delivers a couple kitten licks- ups and downs, sides to sides, figure eights- before swiftly returning to kissing your most intimate parts.
in an attempt to make your toes curl, he dips lower and teases the tips of his tongue over your entrance, wet muscle moving over wet skin and tastebuds covering themselves in your essence, till the moans echoing off the walls are indistinguishable between daemon’s and your own.
“you can move.” he grunts into you after a few minutes of repeated alternating between kissing your pearl and tonguing at your hole. it’s muffled with the way he’s holding you down against his face and you feel his lips brush against your lower ones as he speaks. “need you to move. wanna see you use me, sweetling.”
and, really, who are you to deny a prince?
you’re hesitant at first, just like you were all those weeks ago as you watched the flowered wreath slip down his lance. you test the waters and give a single roll of your hips. it feels good, great, especially when paired with his own efforts at dragging his tongue over you.
it takes a few more attempts, and daemon’s patience wearing thin to the point he resorts to grabbing a firm hold of your arse cheeks and dropping your legs over his shoulders, mouth pressing right up against you with his tongue flat and eyes staring up at you in a demand to move, else all the old gods and the new be damned.
move you most certainly do, grinding down on his tongue like you’ve done many a time on the spare pillows that line your own bed, in the hours where the moon sits high within the sky and not a creature stirs nearby to witness your self-pleasing sins. it’s messy, sloppy in the way that his spit mingles with your wetness, a cocktail of fluids sliding down his throat, and painting his lips, and dribbling down his chin as he eats you like a man starved that’s getting a taste of the sweetest fruit.
the rhythm of your hips is thrown off when the man below you switches from having you grinding down onto his flattened tongue to slipping the muscle inside of your hole, thrusting it as far as up as the length of it allows him to. with every time your body comes crashing down on his mouth, the tip of his nose bumps against your clit, forcing you to angle yourself upwards to gain more of the friction.
hands find hair, lips part in unabashed moans, thighs shake with the oncoming of an orgasmic state of mind.
the moment builds too quickly, too unexpectedly, like the ghost of your stolen climax is back with a vengeance and set on ensuring there will be no denying it this time.
“s-shit,” your eyes squeeze shut, too scared to look down at his ecstasy filled eyes in fear of it being what finally tips you over the edge. “oh, there, right there, daemon! yes, i’m going to-.”
the prince pays no mind to your warning. if anything, he takes it as a challenge, an invisible timer beginning in his head and forcing him to see how quickly he can get you to unravel all over his mouth. he’s getting everything he’s imagined since he’d watched you first step foot into the keep, your naked body a mess before him as you fuck yourself on his tongue and your hands, with minds of their own, sliding up to grab and squeeze at your breast.
he watches how the white tips of your nails clash with the darkened colour of your abused nipples, fingers working to pinch, and twist, and pull at them as you lose yourself in the moment.
when you peak, it’s with rolled-back eyes and shaky thighs, his hands gripping at you tighter to steady you as you fidget and kick away from him, his tongue working at coaxing you through your high.
he licks up every drop of your essence he can manage, until you’re cringing in overstimulation and reaching down to push him away. he lets you move him, mouth switching to trail a couple kisses over your inner thigh, something similar to lipstick stains- yet so much dirtier in nature- being left behind on your soft flesh.
“you sound as though you enjoyed yourself.” he’s the first to speak, partly because he correctly thinks you’re incapable of forming anything coherent in the afterglow of your orgasm, mouth agape as you drag and drop the air through your lungs, but mostly because he wants- no, needs to hear you praise him.
“do you ever...” despite your efforts to sit yourself up, against his sheets you remain with limbs melted into puddles jelly and eyes staring wide at the heavens above, a tremble still present in your thighs as you subconsciously feel the patterns his hands dance over them. “shut up?”
“only when my mouth is otherwise occupied.”
silence prevails alongside the ticking of time. some part of you registers the return of your feet to the cold floor and the departure of the man from between your legs. he doesn’t stray far, hands clamping down on your hips, a gentle squeeze or two his own way of searching for your presence, urging your eyes to meet his.
they remain looking upwards.
undeterred, the prince is, bending himself at the waist and resting both hands on either side of your head, holding his own weight up as his face obstructs your view above. life enters you once more, eyes focusing at last on him and his upturned mouth and the remnants of your sexual indiscretions drying into his skin.
“for someone who hates it so much, you sure do know how to stroke my ego.” he must be on a mission, you think, to remind you of why you’ve spent your days avoiding interactions with him instead of tangling yourself within his arms. “i’ve got something much bigger for you to stroke though, once you regain your senses.”
this something bumps against your skin, solid as a rock and spluttering a spit of fluids onto you, warm and sticky. sneaking a quick glance is not enough to fully encapsulate the details that make up this fierce looking appendage, with it’s red-angered tip and its decorative bush of hair and the peak of his stones that sit just past its base, yet it’s all you allow yourself under the scrutiny of his eyes.
“perhaps it’s time you to choose your words more wisely, prince daemon,” your voice is breathy, chest heavy still. you try distract him away from noticing such a feat, hand dancing down the expanse of his bare back till it meets the globe of his arse, nail digging in so deep they’re bound to leave marks, if not draw blood too. “it would be far too easy to punch you in the cock from this position.”
he swallows back a demand for you to speak more about his cock.
clarity bestows itself upon your mind, as your memory serves you a cruel reminder of the words you’d overheard and the voice you’d been running from, dread burning its way up your throat in a sickening twist of guts. the prince must notice the shift in the air, perhaps the way your face has grown a little paler or your pupils dilate as you venture off into the hellscape of your mind, for he’s quick to return you to his hold, heavy body pressing down on you as the prince’s mouth meets yours.
there’s a tangy, sticky sweetness to his kiss, a taste of your self that he gifts you with bitten lips and languid tongue, delving deep into your mouth as if in search of some hidden treasure.
it’s clear now, to the both of you, that your reasons for being here- in his chambers, upon his bed, beneath his body- are nothing if not driven by something deeper, darker, more dangerous than simple ardent lust. months you’d been within reach. months he’d been vocal of his desires towards you. days you’d been betrothed to another man.
but the prince never asks, and so you never answer, letting yourselves indulge in the arts of pleasure and pain.
he pulls on your lip, you pull on his hair. he drags his nails down your body, you dig yours into his rear. he drives you deeper up the bed, you drive him deeper between your legs. he rolls his hips into you, you roll your eyes back into your skull.
“this is a dream. you’re a dream,” perhaps your rational thinking has devolved to naught but hedonistic intentions, for you’re almost certain the mighty rogue has something familiar to wonder intertwined with his breathless voice. the dilation of his pupils, eyes more black than targaryen-lilac, is a mystery you ponder over, wondering if it’s driven more by lust or sedative. “and tomorrow i’ll awake to an empty bed and the reality where you tolerate a rat more than me.”
it’s unclear if he speaks literal of the long-tailed rodent, or if it’s simply a new name for the ever-growing list of things he calls your betrothed.
“do you say that to all the whores you fuck?” your words carry a bite, one your own destructive nature hopes will drive him away from you.
“we don’t speak,” he does the opposite, sinking further into you. you become all too aware of the heat returning to your core when he ruts the length of his cock up your folds, coating himself in a thin layer of your lubricant. “sounding like you, they can never achieve it. they can look like you, from the back, at least.”
believing his words to be a lie feels easier than accepting them as truth. the rogue prince has been nothing if not a menace to the streets of silk since the dawn of his sexual maturity, and there is not an inch of you that can fathom him using these vices as a means to quench the desire for you, seeking out your form in faceless, nameless and, apparently, voiceless cunts.
there’s no great lead up to the breaching of your walls, simply another two rolls of his length along your soaked core and a ghost of a kiss against your forehead before the prince is lining himself up and impaling you with his cock.
you’d been warned all about the ache that would come with the breaking of your maidenhead, traumatised at the young ages of four, five, six and onwards of how, someday, your husband would tear you open and leave you a bloodied mess. and, yet, here you lay, a dull ache burning within you, the feel of a pop and the heavy slap of his stones meeting your skin.
“it hurts, i know,” he hushes you when, at last, a pained whimper breaks the surface of your silence, hips stilled and keeping him buried deep in your walls that fight and squeeze and tighten around the intruder. his face, from the little you see of it past the wall of tears building within your eyes, is scrunched up in discomfort, fighting back the instincts that tell him to pull back and fuck himself into you over and over. “but you’re good, and you’re strong, and you can take it. you know you can, just relax.”
you do as your told, far easier than either of you had expected, and find rhythm in his own heavy breathing, matching each inhale and exhale till the soothing of hands over your thighs relaxes the muscles and you manage to retract the nails that dig deep into his back.
the prince moves only once your legs tangle themselves around his waist, spreading you wider and holding him closer.
from there, a symphony ensues, except where normally one would find the melody of a guitar or the blowing of a flute or the beating of a drum, this one is made of skin slapping, mouth kissing, moan singing. the ache builds and builds till it collapses into a pit of delirious pleasure, the kind that opens your eyes as to why it’s so easy for men and women to succumb to the sins of flesh.
“look at you,” his words are rough while his touch is soft, hand gliding over your breasts once more, pinching and pulling at your aching nipples as he puts strength into gazing down at you, intoxicating himself with the way your bodies join at the hip, his cock disappearing into your walls and reemerging coated in your arousal, glimmering beneath the moonlight. “taking me so fucking well. letting me carve out a home for myself in your cunt, huh? gonna let me stay inside you forever?”
he’s manic, and crazed, and spewing out things that you know should make you cringe and roll over in disgust. but you’re just as far gone, mind no longer vacant in your body as you chase that special feeling only the repeated hammering of his tip against your womb can bring.
“let me cum inside, sweetling,” is it more plea or demand? it’s hard to tell, and hard to care, arms circling round the back of his neck and back arching to press chest to chest. the prince ceases his senseless rambling only to lay kisses down your sweat-covered face, neck, chest, each carrying the weight of his desperation to feel you real and breathing beneath him. “stake my claim over this tight little cunt, leave you dripping from how full i make you.”
waves of pleasure crash over you in tandem, unintelligible groans and gasps all that play through the air as hands clamp down and teeth bite skin. your walls spasm around his cock while it twitches within you, both of your peaks painting your bodies in liquid arousal. warmth fills your cunt and trickles out of you, catching on the dark mass of hair that sits above his appendage, the stark white of his cum sickeningly reminding you to the first time you’d seen snow as a child and arousing the same response from you: a desire to taste it.
he collapses down onto you before you get the chance, however, and the exchange of body heat and shallow breaths lulls you both through your states of ecstasy, slipping into a quiet comfort.
the prince moves slowly, as if not to disturb either of you, and shushes you with kisses when you whine at the loss of him from your cunt, softening cock slapping down against your leg. a few moments pass before he’s moving again, this time with you in tow, dragging at the sheets beneath and working them over you both just as you begin to register how cold the chill in the room is. never mind, the dragon keeps you warm against him, limbs tangling as you make a pillow out of his chest.
“my betrothed.” you take the lead this time in breaking the comfortable cloud of silence which had settled itself above your tired bods. the prince merely grunts, disliking the sound of those two words as much as you dislike the taste of them. “i overheard him conversing with an adviser of his.”
“whatever he said, i’ll cut his tongue out and feed him it.” his vulgar threat drags an airy laugh out of you as he mumbles it into the top of your head.
“my maidenhood, that’s what lead him to offering me his hand.” you laugh again, though there is no trace of humour as it devolves into something of a broken, heart-wrenching sob. “gods, i must be so stupid for thinking a man like him could fall in love with me.”
the silence is unnerving, weighs down on your chest with every breath that ebbs and flows between you both. you’re waiting on it, anxiously anticipating the moment laughter breaks out his ribs and shakes his whole body in amusement at your sheer ridiculous expectations, mocking you for giving away your maidenhood in an act so childish as simply not giving your betrothed the satisfaction of taking it.
marriage is politics, you can picture him saying, love is merely a made up tale to entertain children.
daemon never quite has been one for following expectations.
“i could fall in love with you.”
so it is you who winds up laughing, a repeat of that fractured chuckle that dissipates into something more painful and stings at the cracks in your heart.
“you’re not in love with me, daemon,” it feels obvious to say, yet you’re graced with a disagreeing look upon his face. “you’re obsessed with me, there’s a difference.”
“i beg to differ.”
“you see me as nothing but a lady who doesn’t fall at her feet for you, and it excites you. it’s okay, i understand, but i won’t let you delude yourself nor i into believing its love.”
he has no reply to give, not one that could change your mind.
and so there you lay, naked bod pressed to naked bod, sweat and spit and other bodily fluids becoming the glue that hold you together, with limbs entangled and eyes locked. you see peace in his smile and he watches as sleep slowly whisks you away into its warmth.
little does the prince know your eyes will not meet his own again for many years to come.
not days later, as he stands amongst the crowd of folk bearing witness to the exchanging of vows between the tyrell boy and you, nor several years after, as you return to the great hall of the red keep to see the announcement of prince aegon's birth, your own child stood at your side and grasping your hand, the silver-moon upon her head no match to the straw blonde of your husband.
