Despite having gotten him to fold once, Clark still prefers missionary or lotus position, anything where he sees his pretty girl’s face. He feels like an animal when he does it. Why would he treat his darling like that? Didn’t you like kissing him? Looking into his eyes when you came? Every time you suggest it, Clark gets all pouty and sad.
No, Clark wasn’t an animal. But he was a Kryptonian, and that came with its own quirks, such as sporadic periods of time where his body wanted one thing; to fuck. He’d been feeling off the whole week, off-kilter in a way that Superman couldn’t. Waking up on a Friday came with immediate pain in his stomach, and a half-terrified you fussing over him. You’d gotten Kara on the line. Maybe she could bring him to the Fortress, have the robots and stuff look him over?
“Oh, he’ll be alright.” Kara snorts. “He’s going through a rut.”
“A what now?”
“When Kryptonians find their partner, sometimes we go into ruts. Clark just needs to fuck and he’ll be fiiine.” Kara drawls.
Clark, the sweet boy that he is, is horrified at how base and animalistic that sounds. Fucking, just for the sake of it? And for him? He couldn’t.
But one well placed kiss on his jawline has Kal-El taking over. First he has you in missionary, but your legs keep getting in the way. With a growl, Kal-El shoves your legs up and over his shoulders.
"Clark- wai- oh gosh!" You squeal as he leans forward, nearly folding you in half. He doesn't slow down, thrusting hard and heavy with his balls smacking against your ass. Your pussy flutters around his shaft weakly, barely able to keep up. But even this mean mating press isn’t deep enough for Clark.
He yanks out and presses you face first into the mattress, slamming back in.
“Ah!” A cry tears out of your throat as Clark’s hips piston back and forth. You can feel each and every ridge, his veins throbving heavily. Your orgasm nearly hurts when it finally slams into you, choking his cock. Clark just groans as he grinds the tip of his cock right into your cervix, pouring his seed right into your womb.
You barely have enough time to catch your breath before Clark presses you back down. He’s not done yet.
how it feels being a team black supporter but also highly empathizing with alicent hightower and understanding that she was a victim of her surroundings and upbringing
W/c: 400+ (sorry it's so short, I'm having writer's block😿)
A/n: in honor of pride month and that my goat's movie will come out this month❗ also lowkey inspired by “The Guy She Was Interested In Wasn't a Guy At All”
My girl, my girl, my girl
You will be my world
My world, my world, my world
The laughter filled the place just as much as the soft music on the radio. Your playlist plays on repeat while the sunset rays reflect through the windows, perfect memories captured as beautiful photos to be remembered.
The shop has closed early, you flipped the sign so no one bothers the two of you. You're sure your uncle — also your boss — won't mind. He's not here anyways.
You two are lying on the floor, upside down facing each other, with several records scattered across the floor, along with some cheap beers.
You're wearing her beige overcoat.
“What was the music like on Krypton?” You asked, looking at a Pink Floyd album and swinging your legs slightly from side to side, moving your skirt along.
“Oh, there was just as much variety as here, I guarantee. The most common was the kinda- boring-classic ones, like harp and piano... It's pretty and all but it's not my type, I guess.” Kara answered while tossing a ball for Krypto, who came back in 3 seconds. Her tone was tinged with nostalgia.
You let out a small chuckle, “You know I imagine Krypton like the elf place from Lord of the Rings, right?”
That made Kara scoff, remembering the movies you made her binge watch with you. “C'mon, we weren't that boring and goody-goody!”
You laughed, putting the album aside, “Tell that to your cousin!”
“Well, now I don't have an argument, do I?”
You both laugh this time.
The close bond you two share now reminds you of how you met.
‘A bookstore is nearly crushed by a Kaiju, but is saved by Supergirl!’ Was one of the headlines of Daily Planet that day; In exchange, you and your uncle offered free books and dvd of her choice for Kara. It's obvious she exploited the opportunity, unexpectedly bringing you two together by how similar your taste in entertainment is.
“You know...” The blonde starts, “I liked listening to music in the sunset, just like that.” Her tone lowered, nostalgia turning into yearning. The ball stops on her hand. Suddenly the floor felt too cold.
At that moment, you sit up, only to lie down again, now facing her.
Your gentle hand reaches her face, brushing a strand of her messy hair, your eyes meeting each other's like diamonds shining together.
“I'm glad I can share this moment with my favorite girl...” Kara's words made your skin feel warmer. Without noticing, her free hand intertwine with yours.
Without noticing, you became her new home. You're the only person that makes her feel that cozy and lovely feeling she misses everyday.
“I love that you're sharing this moment with me.” You admit, laying your head on her shoulder, she kisses the top of your head...
Only for Krypto to jump on you both, the little brat knows that you're fragile, so he goes extra careful when playing with you.
You both laugh, warmer than the sun rays that hit your skins so ethereally.
❛ sit on mommy’s thigh and
make yourself pretty for me. ❜
summary ::⠀⠀high above manhattan, hidden away in one of vought’s luxury hotel suites, maeve lets you see the side of her no cameras ever get. red silk, bare skin, possessive hands, and the kind of slow-burning tension that snaps the second she realizes just how badly you want her. [ 11k ]
THE HOTEL SUITE'S TOO expensive in that soulless Vought way, all polished marble, low golden lighting, and windows tall enough to make the city look small beneath you. It’s high above Manhattan, sealed away from flashing cameras and staged smiles, with the whole skyline glittering beyond the glass like it’s trying to impress her.
The curtains are pulled halfway open, letting in strips of neon that slide across the floor and catch on the discarded pieces of Maeve’s armour near the foot of the bed. A half-empty bottle of whiskey waits on the side table beside two untouched glasses, sweating slowly into a ring on the polished wood.
You’ve learned this room because you’ve been here with her before, always in between press events, afterparties, and nights where Maeve pretends she isn’t lonely until you’re the only person she lets inside.
What started as flirting too sharp to be harmless became something private, messy, and impossible to name, the kind of relationship that lives in locked doors, late calls, and hands lingering too long in public.
Maeve’s claimed the armchair near the window like a throne, one ankle crossed over the other, one hand resting lazily against the armrest, looking like trouble dressed up as luxury.
She’s wearing nothing but a red silk robe, deep and glossy like spilled wine, and it’s tied so loosely that it might as well not be tied at all. The robe hangs open down the center of her body, showing the full, heavy curve of her boobs and the relaxed confidence of someone who knows exactly how hard she is to look away from.
Her nipples are visible in the warm light, her skin marked here and there with faint bruises from a fight she’s already forgotten about, because Maeve collects damage like it’s nothing. Her stomach’s strong and smooth, shadowed where the silk falls aside, every line of her body softened by the gold glow from the lamps.
Lower, the robe parts around her hips, exposing the dark, neatly trimmed bush between her thighs in a way that feels careless and deliberate at the same time. Her bare legs stretch out in front of her, long and powerful, one knee bent just enough to make the robe slip higher.
But it’s her thighs you can’t stop staring at, thick and strong and spread with lazy arrogance, like she already knows you’re thinking about climbing onto one.
You’re standing near the end of the bed in the lingerie she picked out weeks ago, the set she once said made you look too pretty to behave. It’s black lace with tiny gold details, delicate enough to look expensive and sheer enough to feel like a dare.
The bra barely hides anything, cupping your boobs in a way that makes Maeve’s eyes drag over you slowly, like she’s taking inventory of what belongs to her tonight. The garter straps sit high on your thighs, clipped to stockings that make your legs feel longer, softer, more exposed under her attention.
The panties are the worst part, or the best part, depending on how honest you’re willing to be. They’re crotchless, lace framing you instead of covering you, leaving you open beneath the pretty little illusion of being dressed.
Maeve notices, of course she notices, and the corner of her mouth twitches like she’s proud of you for wearing them without needing to be told twice.
For a while, neither of you says anything, because the silence between you has always been part of the game. Maeve’s older, more experienced, and far too practiced at acting like nothing touches her, while you’re still soft in places she pretends not to adore.
That difference used to make you nervous, not because she ever made you feel small, but because she carried herself like someone who’d already survived every mistake you were still learning how to make. She never rushed you, though, not once, even when her eyes went dark or her hand settled too low on your back in crowded elevators.
“You’re staring again,” she says now, voice low and amused, her thumb brushing along the armrest. You lift your chin, trying to look braver than you feel, and say, “You’re sitting there like you want me to.” Maeve’s smile is slow, wicked, and unbearably fond as she answers, “Maybe I do.”
You try to keep your eyes on her face after that, but it’s almost impossible when she’s sitting like that. Her robe slips another inch when she shifts, one thigh flexing beneath the silk, muscle moving under skin in a way that makes your mouth go dry.
She watches your gaze drop, watches it stay there, and doesn’t call you out right away. The pause is crueller than teasing, thick with heat and the soft hum of the city beyond the glass. You can feel yourself getting wet, embarrassingly aware of the way the open panties leave nothing to hide behind.
Maeve’s eyes flick down like she knows, like she can see every tiny reaction your body gives her before you’ve even admitted it to yourself. “Still shy after all this?” she asks, and your breath catches when she adds, “Cute.”
Your face burns, but you don’t look away this time. There’s no point pretending when your eyes are glued to the inside of her thighs, to the heavy ease of her body, to the dark hair between her legs and the robe slipping open around it.
Maeve laughs under her breath, low and rough, the kind of sound that lands straight between your legs. She lifts one hand and trails her fingers over her own thigh, not touching herself, just drawing your attention exactly where she wants it.
The movement’s slow, almost lazy, but your whole body reacts like she’s put her hands on you instead. “You always get quiet when you want something,” she says, eyes narrowed with amusement. You swallow hard, because the answer sits hot on your tongue, and all you manage is, “I want you.”
Something in Maeve’s expression softens before it sharpens again, like your honesty hits her somewhere deeper than she planned. She uncrosses her ankles and lets both feet settle flat against the floor, her robe falling open even more with the shift.
It should feel obscene, the way she lets you see so much of her, but on Maeve it feels like trust dressed up as arrogance.
Her boobs rise and fall with one slow breath, her nipples hardening slightly in the cool air of the suite, and her gaze stays fixed on you the entire time. You know she sees the way your thighs press together, the way your fingers twitch at your sides, the way your breathing keeps catching no matter how still you try to be.
“Come here, then,” she says, quieter now, almost gentle under the command. When you hesitate, she tilts her head and adds, “I’m not going to make you ask twice, sweetheart, but I do want to hear you ask once.”
You take one step closer, then another, each movement slow because the want feels bigger when you don’t rush it. “Maeve,” you whisper, and she hums like she loves the sound of her name in your mouth more than she’ll ever admit.
Her legs bracket the space in front of the chair, strong and inviting, and your attention keeps dropping back to them no matter how many times you try to be subtle. “Use your words,” she says, her hand lifting to your hip when you finally get close enough to touch.
You breathe in, shaky and hot, the crotchless lace making you feel obscene under her gaze as you say, “I want to ride your thigh.” Maeve’s fingers tighten just enough to pull you forward, guiding you over her bare leg until the heat of you brushes against her skin.
Then she flexes her thigh under you and smiles like a queen, murmuring, “Good girl, since you couldn’t stop staring at your throne, you might as well sit on it.”
You move before your bravery can run out, each step toward Maeve feeling slower than it should because she’s watching you like there’s nowhere in the world she’d rather look. The carpet’s soft beneath your bare feet, plush enough to make the suite feel quieter, warmer, sealed away from the city glittering behind her.
Your thighs brush together as you walk, and the smallest bit of friction makes your breath catch before you can hide it. The crotchless panties don’t protect you from anything, not from the air, not from Maeve’s stare, not from the way your own arousal has started to gather hot and obvious between your legs.
You know you’re wet, not just a little, not in a way you can pretend away with nervous laughter or a shift of your hips. Maeve knows it too, and from her chair, she’s thinking you look almost painfully pretty like this, all lace and nerves and open want. She keeps her face calm, but there’s heat gathering low in her stomach, sharp enough to make her thighs tense beneath the red silk robe.
Maeve doesn’t even try to hide the way her eyes drop. They move slowly, deliberately, from your face to your chest, over the black lace cupping your boobs, down the soft line of your stomach, then lower. Her gaze catches exactly where you knew it would, and the heat in your cheeks gets so bad you almost stop walking.
She sees the slick shine between your thighs, the way your pussy’s already wet enough to make the crotchless lace feel obscene, the way your body’s betrayed you before she’s even touched you properly. “Look at you,” she says, voice lower now, rough around the edges in a way that makes your knees feel weak.
Maeve’s thinking about how easy it would be to pull you down, how good you’d feel against her thigh, how much she wants to make you ruin that pretty little set she likes so much. “All that staring,” she adds, dragging her thumb over her own thigh, “and you’re already soaked.”
You swallow, but your mouth feels useless, too dry for how wet the rest of you feels. “Maeve,” you whisper, and it comes out softer than you meant it to, more of a plea than a warning. Her eyes lift immediately, dark and amused, and something in her expression sharpens like you’ve made a mistake she’s been waiting to correct.
“No,” she says, calm enough to make your stomach flip. “Try again.” You blink at her, breath catching, and Maeve tilts her head with that lazy, dangerous patience she only uses when she knows she has you cornered.
She’s aroused by the confusion on your face, by how sweetly your lips part, by the way you’re already wet and still somehow shy enough to need reminding. “Not Maeve right now,” she says, thumb still stroking her thigh, “mommy.”
The word hits you so hard your thighs press together without permission. Maeve sees it, of course she does, and the corner of her mouth curves like your body just answered for you. “Mommy,” you whisper, quieter this time, and it sounds so much needier than her name did.
Maeve’s breath changes for half a second, barely noticeable, but you catch it because you’re looking at her like she’s the only thing keeping you upright. From where she’s sitting, she thinks you might be the prettiest thing she’s ever ruined, all soft obedience and trembling heat wrapped in black lace.
It makes her wet too, slowly and insistently, her own arousal building beneath the open robe while she forces herself to stay relaxed in the chair. “Better,” she murmurs, voice rougher now, “come here.”
By the time you’re close enough for her to touch, you can feel the warmth of her body coming off her in slow waves. She doesn’t grab you right away, and somehow that’s worse, because Maeve could pull you in with one hand if she wanted to.
Instead, she lets you come to her, lets you stand between her open legs while her eyes climb back up to your face. Her thighs are right there, strong and bare beneath the parted robe, one of them angled like an invitation you’ve been aching toward since the moment you walked in.
You try not to look again, but you do, of course you do, because her legs are impossible and she knows it. Maeve feels a pulse of satisfaction at that, something possessive and hot, because she likes knowing you want the part of her she’s been showing off all night. “Still thinking about it, sweetheart?” she asks.
You nod before you can make yourself answer properly. The movement makes your hair shift over your shoulder, and Maeve’s gaze follows that too, slow and possessive, like she’s memorizing every nervous little detail. “Say it,” she tells you, one hand finally reaching out to settle on your hip.
Her palm’s warm through the lace at your side, firm enough to remind you how easy it would be for her to guide you exactly where she wants you. You breathe in, but it trembles halfway down, because her thumb has started stroking over the strap at your hip in lazy little passes.
The pressure tugs the panties slightly, making the open fabric frame your wet pussy even more, and Maeve’s thoughts snag on the glossy, needy look of you. “I want your thigh, mommy,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper.
Maeve’s eyes darken at that, and for a moment the whole room narrows down to her hand on your hip and the space between your legs.
“Yeah?” she asks, soft enough that it almost sounds gentle. Her other hand slides up your thigh, stopping just short of where you’re aching, her fingertips brushing the edge of the lace without giving you what you want.
You jerk a little, not enough to move away, just enough for her to feel it. Maeve feels her own body answer, heat pooling low as she imagines your slick spreading over her skin, imagines you losing that careful little composure one grind at a time.
“You’re making a mess already,” she says, and the words make your stomach drop in the best, worst way. You know she’s right, because you can feel yourself slick and exposed, wet enough that sitting on her thigh will leave proof on all that strong bare muscle.
Maeve guides you closer with a slow pull, her fingers pressing into your hip as if she’s deciding exactly how patient she wants to be. You step between her thighs fully, one knee almost brushing the chair, the heat of her bare leg so close it makes your whole body ache.
She looks up at you from under her lashes, red silk slipping wider around her body, her robe open enough that you can see the dark, trimmed hair between her legs and the shameless spread of her thighs.
There’s something devastating about her like this, powerful and half-undone, letting you see the softness beneath all the armor while still making you feel like you’re the one being hunted.
Maeve’s thinking that she wants your mouth, your sounds, the slick little grind of you against her, but most of all she wants to watch you choose it.
Your hands hover for a second before they settle on her shoulders, careful at first, then firmer when she gives you that approving little hum. “There you go,” she murmurs, flexing her thigh beneath you, “sit on mommy’s thigh and make yourself pretty for me.”
Maeve watches you lower yourself onto her thigh, and for one rare second, the room goes quiet inside her head. She’s used to noise, cameras, questions, people wanting pieces of her until there’s nothing left but the part they paid to see.
But this is different, because you’re not looking at the legend or the brand or the woman in gold. You’re looking at her like she’s flesh, heat, want, something real enough to touch. The first slick press of your pussy against her bare thigh makes Maeve’s fingers tighten at your hips before she can stop herself.
You’re so wet that she feels it immediately, warm and glossy, spreading over her skin with the tiniest shake of your body. Maeve’s breath goes shallow, and she thinks, almost viciously, that she wants to see just how messy you can make yourself on her.
She keeps her face composed because she likes watching you unravel first. It’s cruel, maybe, but Maeve’s always had a thing for control, especially when control is the only part of her life that still feels like it belongs to her.
Your hands grip her shoulders, delicate at first, then harder when your hips twitch without permission. She notices that too, notices everything, the tremble in your thighs, the little catch in your breath, the way your mouth opens around a sound you’re trying not to make.
“There,” Maeve murmurs, voice low, her thumb stroking your hip through the lace. “That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?” She feels your wetness smear against her thigh again, and there’s a hot pulse between her own legs that makes her jaw tense.
You nod too quickly, too sweetly, and Maeve’s chest tightens with something dangerously close to affection. She’s always thought you look prettiest when you forget how to pretend, when all that softness spills out of you and leaves you honest.
Tonight, dressed in her favourite lingerie, open and trembling on her thigh, you look like every bad decision she’s ever wanted to make twice. Her robe has slipped farther open, red silk pooling around her waist and sliding off one shoulder, but she barely cares about covering herself.
She wants you to see her too, wants your eyes on her boobs, her stomach, her spread thighs, the trimmed dark hair between them. Maeve wants to be wanted without the cameras, without the script, without someone telling her what that want should look like. When you whisper, “Maeve,” she clicks her tongue softly and tilts your chin up.
“Careful,” she says, and her voice is gentle enough to make the correction worse. She sees your eyes go wide, sees the way your hips stutter against her thigh as if the reminder alone touches something needy inside you.
“What did I tell you to call me?” Maeve asks, letting one hand slide from your chin to your throat, not squeezing, just resting there like a warning. The word comes out of you shaky and small, “Mommy.” Maeve feels it hit her low, filthy and sharp, and she has to fight not to pull you down harder.
“Good girl,” she says, because she knows what that praise does to you, and because she’s starting to need the sound of you reacting to it. Her own arousal is becoming impossible to ignore, slick heat gathering between her thighs beneath the robe, making her feel almost as exposed as you are.
She guides your hips before you can overthink it, hands firm but slow, teaching your body the rhythm she wants. Forward, back, just enough pressure to make your breath break, just enough friction to make your thighs tense around her leg.
Maeve watches the exact moment it starts feeling too good for you to hide, when your lashes flutter and your fingers dig into her shoulders. There’s a shine on her thigh now, proof of you, proof that the lace is useless and your body’s been begging long before your mouth caught up.
She loves it more than she should. It makes something possessive in her purr, ugly and satisfied, because the world gets the performance, but she gets this. She gets you wet and needy on her thigh, whispering mommy like it’s the only name she’s ever had.
Maeve leans back in the chair, not because she’s unaffected, but because she wants a better view. Your body moves over her in tiny, desperate rolls, the crotchless panties framing your pussy while you grind against her bare skin.
She can see the slick glide of you each time your hips move, can feel the heat of it soaking into her thigh, and it makes her swallow a groan. She thinks about putting her mouth on you, about spreading you open with her fingers and tasting exactly how worked up you’ve gotten.
But not yet. Not when you’re making such pretty little noises from something as simple as her thigh. “Look at you,” she says, rougher now, “you’re making such a mess for mommy.”
Your reaction nearly ruins her. You whimper, small and embarrassed, and Maeve feels your hips press down harder like your body’s chasing the praise even while your face burns. She likes that contradiction in you, the shy mouth and the shameless body, the way you try to hide while dripping all over her.
Her hand slips to your lower back and pushes you closer, making the angle meaner, making the friction hit exactly where you need it.
Maeve feels you jolt, and the sound you make drags a low laugh out of her. “There it is,” she murmurs, eyes fixed on your face. “Don’t run from it now, sweetheart.”
Inside, Maeve’s less composed than she looks. She’s wet, aching, and painfully aware of how open her own robe is, how close your knee is to where she wants pressure.
Every little grind of your body against her thigh makes her think about dragging you down between her legs after, letting you see what you’ve done to her too.
She wants your mouth on her, wants your hands shaking against her hips, wants to stop pretending she’s above begging when you know better than anyone that she isn’t. But for now, she keeps you where you are, because watching you use her feels like worship in reverse.
It makes her feel powerful and wanted and soft in a way she’ll deny later if anyone asks. Maeve tightens her grip on your hips, flexes her thigh beneath your soaked pussy, and says, “That’s it, baby, ride it like you mean it.”
The next grind steals the breath right out of your mouth. Maeve’s thigh is firm beneath you, warm and slick now, every slow roll of your hips dragging your bare pussy over hard muscle in a way that makes your whole body tremble.
There’s no fabric to soften it, no barrier to pretend this is anything less than filthy, just your wet cunt sliding over her skin while the ruined lace frames the mess you’re making. The pressure catches your clit each time you move forward, sharp and sweet, enough to make your knees tighten around her leg.
You can feel how wet you’ve made her, how your slick spreads with every desperate little rock, and the knowledge only makes you grind down harder. Maeve watches your face like she’s waiting for the exact moment you stop being embarrassed and start needing it. “There you go,” she says, voice thick with amusement, “look at you using mommy’s thigh like you’ve been thinking about it all night.”
You try to answer her, but the only thing that leaves you is a breathy little sound that makes her fingers dig into your hips. Maeve smiles like she’s won something and pulls you down harder, forcing the pressure right where you need it.
The friction makes your head tip back, your mouth falling open as heat sparks low in your stomach and curls through your thighs. It’s messy and humiliating, the slick slide of your pussy against her bare skin loud enough in the quiet room that you want to hide your face. Maeve doesn’t let you.
She catches your chin with two fingers, dragging your gaze back down to hers while you keep rocking helplessly against her. “Don’t look away,” she tells you, low and mean-soft, “I want to see exactly what my thigh does to that pretty pussy.”
Your hands tighten on her shoulders, fingers curling into warm skin and red silk, but Maeve’s attention shifts lower. Her eyes drop to your chest, to the black lace bra still holding your boobs up so prettily for her, and her mouth curves with intent.
“These have been distracting me,” she murmurs, more to herself than to you, before her hands slide up your sides. She tugs the cups down without any real patience, pulling the lace beneath your boobs until your nipples spill free into the cool air. The sudden exposure makes you gasp, especially when your body jerks and grinds harder against her thigh at the same time.
Maeve notices that too, because of course she does, and her laugh is low enough to make your clit throb. “Sensitive little thing,” she says, brushing her thumbs over both nipples, “you’re leaking all over me and still getting worked up over this?”
Her thumbs circle your nipples slowly at first, almost tender, and somehow that makes it worse. Each pass sends a tight little pulse through you, dragging pleasure from your chest straight down to where you’re grinding, until your body can’t decide which feeling to chase.
You whimper her name, then catch yourself too late, because Maeve’s eyes snap up with that dangerous look. She pinches one nipple just enough to make you jolt. “What was that?” she asks, voice calm, but her hands don’t stop.
Your hips stutter against her thigh, slick and needy, the pressure catching your clit so perfectly that your answer comes out broken. “Mommy,” you breathe, and Maeve’s smile turns satisfied as she says, “Better, baby.”
Then she leans forward and spits directly onto one of your nipples. The sight of it, the feel of it, warm and sudden and obscene, makes your whole body clench so hard you nearly slip against her thigh. Maeve rubs it in with her thumb, spreading it over the tight bud before lowering her mouth to you.
The first pull of her lips around your nipple makes you cry out, your hips bucking down against her leg without permission. She sucks slowly, wet and deliberate, tongue flicking over you while her other hand keeps you steady at the waist.
The sensation is too much layered together, her mouth on your chest, her thigh between your legs, her hands holding you exactly where she wants you. “That’s it,” she murmurs against your skin, “grind on me while I suck on these pretty tits.”
You do exactly what she says because you don’t know how not to. Your hips roll faster, messier, dragging your swollen clit over her slick thigh while her mouth moves from one nipple to the other.
She spits again before sucking the other one into her mouth, and the dirty sound you make feels like it’s dragged out of somewhere deep and helpless.
Maeve groans around you, and the vibration makes your spine arch, pushing your chest closer to her mouth. Your pussy slides against her with a wet, needy rhythm, and you can feel the orgasm starting to build, hotter now, less gentle, tightening every muscle low in your belly.
“Mommy,” you gasp, fingers slipping into her hair before you can stop yourself. Maeve bites lightly at your nipple, just enough to make you shudder, then says, “You’re close, aren’t you?”
You nod too quickly, too desperate to lie, your thighs trembling around hers while your hips keep moving. “Please,” you breathe, and then louder when she doesn’t answer fast enough, “please, mommy, I’m so close.”
Maeve pulls back from your chest, lips wet, eyes dark, your nipples shiny from her mouth and spit. She looks down between your bodies, watching your pussy grind over her thigh, watching the slick smear you’ve left all over her skin.
“Fuck, you’re pretty like this,” she says, voice rough enough to sound almost ruined. Her hands move back to your hips and guide you harder, making each stroke longer, meaner, perfect. “Ask properly,” she says, “tell mommy what you need.”
You’re beyond pride by then, shaking so badly you can barely keep yourself upright. “Please let me cum,” you beg, grinding down hard enough that your clit catches and makes your voice crack. “Please, mommy, please, I’ll be good, I just need to cum on your thigh.”
Maeve’s expression flickers, hunger and affection tangled together, and then she pulls you close enough that her mouth brushes your throat. “Yes,” she says, low against your skin, “cum for me.”
The permission snaps something loose in you instantly, your body locking up as pleasure hits hard and bright, spilling through you in hot waves. Maeve holds you through it, thigh flexed beneath your soaked pussy, whispering, “That’s it, baby, make a mess on mommy, give it all to me.”
Your orgasm leaves you trembling against her, thighs shaking around Maeve’s leg while your pussy keeps pulsing helplessly on her skin. For a few seconds, you can’t do anything except breathe through it, forehead falling against her shoulder as the aftershocks roll through you.
Maeve’s hands stay on your hips, not letting you collapse, not letting you pull away from the wet mess you’ve made on her thigh. You can feel it beneath you, slick and warm, your cunt still pressed against the muscle she kept flexing until you broke for her.
She kisses the side of your neck, slow and almost sweet, except her voice is still rough when she says, “That’s it, baby, breathe for me.” You try, but every little inhale comes out shaky because your clit is still too sensitive,
still rubbing faintly against her every time your body twitches. Maeve laughs softly into your skin and murmurs, “Look at you, came so hard you forgot how to sit up.”
You whine at that, embarrassed, but she only holds you tighter. Her thumb strokes through the slick on your hip where the lace has shifted, and the casual filth of it makes your stomach flutter all over again.
Your bra is still tugged down under your boobs, nipples wet and swollen from her mouth, cool air making them ache after the heat of her tongue.
Maeve pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes dragging over your ruined chest, your parted lips, the messy way you’re still perched on her thigh. “Pretty fucking thing,” she says, almost under her breath, like she’s talking to herself and not you.
Then her gaze drops between your bodies, and you follow it before you can stop yourself. Her thigh is shiny with you, a visible smear of arousal spread across her skin, and the sight makes you hide your face against her shoulder with a broken little sound.
“No,” Maeve says, catching your chin before you can disappear fully. Her fingers are firm, not painful, just enough to make you look back down at what you did. “Don’t get shy after soaking my thigh like that.”
Your face burns so badly it feels unfair, but your eyes stay where she wants them, fixed on the glossy mess between your legs. She slides two fingers through it slowly, gathering your slick off her own skin, and your breath catches when she lifts them between you.
“See that?” she asks, voice low and filthy, turning her fingers so the light catches the wet shine. You nod, throat tight, too ruined to pretend you don’t love the way she’s making you look. Maeve’s mouth curves, and she presses those fingers to your lips with a soft, cruel, “Open.”
You do, because there’s no part of you left that wants to disobey her. Her fingers slide onto your tongue, tasting like you and the faint salt of her skin, and the sound she makes when your lips close around them goes straight between your thighs.
You suck them clean slowly, eyes watering from how intensely she’s watching you, how open her robe still is, how her own thighs have shifted wider beneath you. That’s when you notice it properly, the way Maeve’s breathing has changed, the way her stomach tightens, the way she’s wet too.
The red silk has fallen open enough that you can see the dark hair between her legs, and beneath it, the shine of her own arousal glistening where she’s been pretending to be patient. Your mouth goes slack around her fingers. Maeve sees you notice and smiles like she’s been waiting for it.
“Yeah,” she says, withdrawing her fingers from your mouth with a slow drag over your lower lip. “You did that.” The words make your body throb, even through the oversensitivity, even with your orgasm still melting your bones.
She leans back in the chair again, letting the robe fall open wider, giving you a better look because Maeve is never shy when she wants to be wanted. Her cunt is wet, framed by the trimmed dark hair you’d been staring at earlier, and the sight of her aroused because of you makes your head feel light.
You shift on her thigh without meaning to, and the sudden rub against your overstimulated clit makes you gasp. Maeve catches the sound instantly, eyes narrowing with satisfaction. “Still sensitive?” she asks, and when you nod, she hums, “Good.”
Her hands move from your hips to your waist, lifting you just enough to slide you off her thigh and down between her legs. Your knees hit the plush carpet, and the position makes your whole body go hot with want all over again.
Maeve looks unreal above you, robe open, boobs bare, one hand resting on the arm of the chair while the other strokes your cheek. There’s something softer in her face now, but it doesn’t make her any less devastating.
“You wanted to stare so badly,” she says, voice thick, “now do something useful with that pretty mouth.” You lean in before she has to tell you twice, pressing a kiss to the inside of her thigh first, right where your slick is still drying on her skin. Maeve’s breath catches, and the tiny break in her control makes you feel brave enough to kiss higher.
The closer you get, the more you can smell her arousal, warm and intimate and enough to make your mouth water. You drag your lips along her inner thigh, slow because you want to feel the way her muscles tense under you.
Maeve’s fingers slide into your hair, not forcing you, just holding on like she needs something to ground herself. “Don’t tease too much,” she warns, but there’s a rasp in her voice that tells you she likes it.
You glance up at her from between her legs, and the sight makes her jaw tighten. “Careful,” she says, though her hips shift toward your mouth like she’s betraying herself. You smile against her skin and whisper, “Yes, mommy.”
Maeve groans at that, low and wrecked, and her grip in your hair tightens. The sound gives you permission, or maybe it just ruins your last bit of restraint, because you finally put your mouth on her. The first taste of her makes your eyes flutter, and Maeve’s head tips back against the chair with a sharp exhale.
She’s wet against your tongue, warm and slick, and the moment you lick through her properly, her thighs tense on either side of your head. “Fuck,” she mutters, no polish left in it, no queenly distance, just need. You do it again, slower, greedy now that you know what she sounds like when you get it right.
Maeve feels the orgasm take shape before it fully hits, low and heavy, pulling tight through her stomach while your fingers keep curling inside her. She tries to hold onto the last thread of control, but you’ve got your mouth sealed around her clit and your fingers buried deep enough to make that impossible.
“Fuck, baby,” she breathes, voice cracking in a way that makes your whole body shiver against the carpet. Your eyes flick up to her, wet and eager, and the sight of you looking so ruined while you’re still eating her out sends another brutal wave of heat through her.
You don’t stop, not even when her thighs clamp tighter around your head, not even when her grip in your hair turns rougher. You just moan against her pussy like you want her to use you through it. “That’s it,” she pants, hips lifting into your mouth, “keep going, don’t stop, don’t you fucking stop.”
You whimper your answer into her cunt, the sound muffled and desperate, your fingers moving faster when you feel her start to shake. Maeve’s back arches off the chair, red silk slipping lower around her waist, her boobs rising with each broken breath as the first hard pulse of pleasure tears through her.
Her orgasm hits deep, sudden and messy, forcing a low, wrecked groan out of her chest. She comes against your tongue, soaking your mouth while your fingers keep stroking her through every sharp, trembling wave.
You drink her down eagerly, lips and chin slick, swallowing everything she gives you like you’ve been waiting for it all night. Maeve looks down just in time to see the way your eyes flutter closed when you taste her, and something in her goes almost feral at the devotion of it. “Greedy little thing,” she gasps, voice ruined, “you like mommy’s cum that much?”
You nod without lifting your mouth away from her. It’s clumsy and needy, your lips still pressed to her pussy, tongue dragging through her wet folds to catch every bit of her. “Mhm,” you hum, and the vibration makes Maeve jolt so hard her fingers twist in your hair.
You’re aching again, your own pussy throbbing with every sound she makes, every twitch of her thighs around your head. Without thinking, you start rocking your hips against the carpet, small at first, then more desperate when the pressure sparks through you.
The lingerie digs into your hips, your ruined cunt still oversensitive from riding her thigh earlier, but you can’t stop yourself. Maeve notices almost immediately, because of course she does, and her blown-out eyes sharpen through the haze of her orgasm.
“Oh,” she says, breathless and darkly amused, “look at you.” You freeze for half a second, embarrassed, but your mouth stays on her and your hips betray you by grinding down again.
Maeve’s laugh breaks into a groan when your tongue licks over her clit, too sensitive now, but she doesn’t push you away. Her hand slides from your hair to your cheek, smearing your face with the wetness coating your lips.
“You’re humping the floor while you swallow mommy down?” she asks, voice thick with disbelief and hunger. Your cheeks burn, but the humiliation only makes your pussy clench harder, your hips pressing into the carpet again in a helpless little roll. You pull back just enough to whisper, “Can’t help it, you taste so good.”
Maeve’s eyes shut for a second, like the words hit her harder than your mouth did. “Jesus,” she mutters, dragging in a shaky breath as your fingers slip out of her slowly, coated and glistening.
You immediately bring them to your mouth, cleaning her off your own fingers without being told, and Maeve watches like she’s considering ruining you all over again.
“You’re filthy,” she says, but it sounds like praise. “You’re so fucking filthy for me.” You nod, lips shiny, voice soft and wrecked as you say, “Only for you, mommy.”
Maeve’s stomach tightens again despite how sensitive she is, because you sound too sweet to be saying something that obscene. It makes her want to keep you there until you’re shaking apart beneath her gaze.
You lean back in, unable to resist, and lick her pussy again, slower this time, cleaning the slick from her folds with soft, worshipful strokes. Maeve hisses through her teeth, thighs twitching around you, one hand gripping the armrest hard enough to make it creak.
“Sensitive,” she warns, but her hips still tilt toward your mouth. You glance up at her with your lips pressed to her, and the look in your eyes makes the warning useless. She’s still flushed from coming, still wet and open, trimmed dark hair damp from your mouth, her cunt glistening under the low hotel light.
You lick her again, gentle but greedy, and grind down against the carpet with a broken little moan. “Mommy,” you breathe against her, “you’re making me wet again.”
Maeve’s expression turns sharp, satisfied, almost cruel in its affection. “Again?” she echoes, pushing damp hair back from your forehead so she can see your face properly. “Baby, you never stopped.”
Your breath catches, because she’s right, and because the way she says it makes your hips rut harder against the floor. Maeve watches the movement, watches your body chase friction while your mouth stays devoted between her legs, and her voice drops lower.
“Does licking my pussy turn you on that much?” she asks. You nod quickly, too needy to pretend, and press a kiss to her inner thigh before whispering, “Yes, mommy.” Her thumb strokes your cheek, tender and filthy all at once, as she murmurs, “Then keep going.”
So you do. You lick her clean like you’re starving, swallowing every trace of her while your hips move against the carpet in helpless, needy little rolls. The friction isn’t enough, not really, but it’s something, and something is all your body needs when Maeve’s watching you with that ruined, possessive look.
Every time your clit catches against the pressure, your mouth falters for half a second, and Maeve notices every single time. “Don’t get distracted,” she says, still breathless, still recovering, but somehow fully in control again.
“You wanted to taste me, so taste me.” You whine, nodding, licking back into her with renewed hunger while your thighs tremble behind you. Maeve’s fingers tighten in your hair again, and she smiles down at you like a queen on her throne, whispering, “That’s my good girl.”
“Your good girl,” you agree, voice muffled against Maeve’s pussy, the words soft and ruined as you lick the last of her juices from her folds. Your mouth moves slowly now, tender where you’d been greedy before, dragging your tongue through every slick little place she’s still wet for you.
Maeve’s thighs twitch around your head, her body still too sensitive, but she doesn’t push you away. She watches you from above with flushed cheeks and parted lips, red silk tangled around her hips, sweat shining faintly along her collarbones from how hard she came.
There’s a damp warmth between both of your bodies now, the hotel air thick with sex, perfume, and the heat of skin pressed too close for too long. You’re sweating too, your chest rising hard in the pulled-down bra, nipples still wet from her mouth earlier, thighs sticky from your own arousal and the carpet beneath you.
Maeve thinks you look obscene and angelic at once, mouth shiny with her, eyes hazy, still trying to be good even while you’re humping the floor for friction.
When you finally lift your head, Maeve doesn’t give you time to feel shy about it. She hooks her fingers under your chin and pulls you up toward her, strong enough that your knees leave the carpet before you fully realize you’re moving.
You stumble into her lap, breathless and messy, and then her mouth is on yours. The kiss is filthy from the start, all tongue and heat, Maeve tasting herself on your lips with a rough sound that vibrates straight through you.
She kisses you like she wants proof, like she wants to know exactly how eager you were to swallow her down. From Maeve’s side, the taste of herself in your mouth nearly wrecks her all over again,
because it’s intimate in a way nothing staged or polished could ever be. She thinks, mine, with a sharpness that surprises even her, and her hands drag you closer until your sweaty bodies press together.
You melt into her immediately, because there’s nowhere else you want to be. Your bare pussy brushes against her stomach as you settle over her, the crotchless panties useless and twisted at your hips, leaving slick smears on her skin every time you move.
Maeve groans into your mouth when she feels it, one hand sliding down your back to pull your hips in tighter. You’re still wet, embarrassingly so, and the pressure of her body against yours makes your clit throb with that raw, post-orgasm sensitivity.
She can feel you trembling, feel the way your thighs tense around her lap, feel the needy little rock you try to hide while kissing her. “Still aching?” she murmurs against your mouth, lips brushing yours with every word. You nod, breath catching, and whisper, “I need you, mommy.”
That’s what snaps the last of Maeve’s patience. Her mouth leaves yours only to drag down your jaw, then your neck, kissing hot and open-mouthed over sweat-damp skin. You tip your head back for her before she asks, giving her access like your body already knows what she wants.
Maeve’s lips move over your throat slowly at first, almost sweet, then her teeth catch just beneath your pulse and make you gasp. She feels the sound against her mouth and smiles into your skin, biting a little harder, not enough to hurt badly, just enough to leave a mark you’ll feel later.
Your hands clutch at her shoulders, nails pressing into muscle, and Maeve’s thoughts go hazy with the satisfaction of having you shaking in her lap. “Pretty baby,” she mutters into your neck, “all wet again just from tasting me.”
You try to answer, but Maeve’s hand slides up and wraps around your throat before the words come together. Her grip isn’t there to steal your air, not fully, just firm enough to hold your attention and make your whole body go still.
Your eyes flutter, and Maeve feels the way you react instantly, pussy clenching against nothing, breath catching beneath her palm. She watches your face carefully because she always does, reading the heat in your eyes, the way your lips part, the way you lean into it instead of away.
“Look at me,” she says, voice low and steady, and you do, dazed and desperate. The moment your gaze locks with hers, her other hand slips between your thighs. Before you can brace for it, she shoves two fingers inside you.
The sound you make is broken, sharp, and helpless. Your whole body jerks in her lap, cunt stretching around her fingers while her hand stays wrapped around your throat, keeping you close enough that you can’t hide from her face.
Maeve feels how wet you are immediately, hot and slick, swallowing her fingers like you’ve been waiting for it since the second she pulled you up. It makes her own stomach tighten, makes heat flare between her thighs again even though she’s still sensitive from your mouth.
“Fuck,” she breathes, almost to herself, because you’re so soft and soaked around her that it ruins the little control she’d gathered back. You clutch at her wrist, not to pull her away, just because you need something to hold while she fills you without warning. “Mommy,” you gasp, throat moving under her palm, “oh my god.”
Maeve smiles like that’s exactly what she wanted to hear. She keeps her fingers buried inside you for a second, letting your body flutter around them, letting you feel the sudden fullness while her thumb strokes once along the side of your throat.
“There she is,” she murmurs, eyes dark as she watches you try to breathe through the shock of it. Then she starts moving, slow at first, dragging her fingers out just enough to push them back in deep. Your hips chase her hand immediately, needy and shameless, slick spreading over her knuckles with every thrust.
From your side, it feels like too much after everything, like your body’s already been wrung out and she’s still finding places to make you ache. From Maeve’s, it feels like owning every sound you make, every clench, every soft little collapse of your face when she curls her fingers just right.
“Is this what you needed?” she asks, mouth back at your neck, kissing over the mark she left before biting another one lower. You nod frantically, sweat cooling across your chest while her robe rubs against your skin,
the silk damp where your bodies press together. Her fingers fuck into you harder, not rushed, just confident, every stroke slick and deep enough to make your thighs shake around her.
“Use your words,” Maeve says, tightening her hand at your throat just enough to make your focus snap back to her. “Yes, mommy,” you choke out, voice thin and wrecked, “needed your fingers, needed you so bad.”
Maeve groans against your neck like the confession gets under her skin. “I know, baby,” she says, curling her fingers until your whole body arches, “I can feel how badly you need me.”
Maeve doesn’t let you drift away from it, not even for a second. Her hand stays at your throat, firm enough to hold you still but careful enough that you can breathe around the pressure. The other keeps two fingers deep inside you, slick to the knuckle, moving with a slow confidence that makes your thighs tremble around her lap.
“There you go,” she murmurs, eyes locked on yours as she curls them just right. Your breath breaks into a whine, and she feels your pussy clench hard around her fingers.
Maeve’s stomach tightens at the feeling, arousal sparking low again even though she’s still sensitive from your mouth. “That’s the spot, isn’t it?” she says, voice rough and pleased. You nod quickly, too ruined for pride, and she smiles like she’s proud of how easily your body tells on you.
You can barely hold yourself up, one hand clinging to her shoulder while the other wraps around her wrist. It isn’t to stop her, and Maeve knows that because your hips keep rolling down onto her fingers every time she pulls back.
The wet sound of her fucking you fills the quiet suite, obscene and soft under the hum of the city beyond the glass. Your chest is still bare from where she pulled your bra down, nipples swollen and damp from her mouth, rising and falling with every shaky breath.
Sweat beads along your collarbones and between your boobs, making your skin glow under the hotel lights. Maeve watches it all with a greedy kind of focus, memorizing the way pleasure makes you sloppy. “You look so fucking pretty like this,” she tells you. “All messy and desperate on mommy’s fingers.”
The praise hits so hard your eyes flutter. Maeve feels the reaction instantly, feels your cunt grip tighter around her fingers like your body’s trying to pull her deeper. “Oh, you liked that,” she says, and there’s a smile in her voice even before you open your eyes again. You try to answer, but her fingers curl and your words dissolve into a gasp.
She leans in, mouth brushing the corner of yours without giving you a proper kiss. “Don’t worry, baby,” she whispers. “You don’t have to think.” Her thumb strokes the side of your throat once, gentle beneath the command. “Just take it and let mommy make you cum.”
Your body obeys before your mind catches up. Your hips rock harder, grinding down with every thrust of her fingers, chasing the pressure until your thighs start shaking for real.
Maeve’s robe is damp where your body presses against hers, red silk sticking to both of you in the heat of the room. She can feel your slick running over her hand, coating her palm, making every stroke smoother and deeper.
The feel of it turns her on more than she expects, because there’s nothing polished about you now. You’re all heat, wetness, need, and broken little sounds against her mouth. “Listen to yourself,” she murmurs, kissing your cheek. “That’s what needing me sounds like.”
You whimper at that, embarrassed and turned on so sharply that it almost hurts. Maeve tightens her grip on your throat by a fraction, just enough to bring your attention back to her face. “Eyes on me,” she says.
You force your eyes open, and she looks devastating beneath you, flushed from her own orgasm, lips swollen, hair mussed, robe open around her body. She’s sweating too, a fine shine on her chest and stomach, proof that she’s not as untouchable as she pretends.
That thought makes your pussy clench again, and Maeve’s eyes darken because she feels it. “There’s my girl,” she says, dragging her fingers out slow before pushing them back in deep. “You’re so close, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” you gasp, the word cracking on the way out. Your forehead drops toward hers, but she keeps you upright with the hand at your throat, making sure she can see every second of you falling apart.
“Please, mommy,” you beg, breathless and shaking. “Please, I’m close.” Maeve’s own breath catches at how sweet you sound begging for it, so needy and ruined and still trying to be good for her.
She curls her fingers harder, pressing into that spot inside you until your whole body jolts. “I know, baby,” she says, voice low and filthy. “I can feel you squeezing me.” Her mouth brushes yours as she adds, “Go on, make a mess on my fingers.”
The permission snaps through you like a lit fuse. Your orgasm rises so fast you barely have time to breathe before it takes over, hot and violent and blinding. Your thighs lock around her lap, hips jerking against her hand as your pussy pulses around her fingers.
Maeve holds you through it, hand steady at your throat, the other buried inside you while you cum hard enough to shake. “That’s it,” she talks you through it, voice softer now but still commanding. “Good girl, just like that.”
You cry out against her mouth, body trembling as pleasure rolls through you in wave after wave. Maeve watches your face the entire time, awed despite herself, thinking there’s no camera in the world that could make her feel as powerful as this.
She keeps her fingers inside you until the worst of the shaking passes. Not moving now, just holding you full while your body flutters helplessly around her.
You make a tiny, broken sound when she finally eases them out, and Maeve kisses it off your lips before it can turn embarrassed. “I’ve got you,” she says immediately, the shift in her voice subtle but unmistakable. Her hand leaves your throat and moves to the back of your neck, warm and grounding.
She cups you there while her other hand rests on your hip, keeping you close against her. You’re boneless in her lap, sweaty and sticky and still pulsing with aftershocks. Maeve’s expression softens as she looks at you, all the sharp edges folding inward for once.
“You with me?” she asks, brushing damp hair back from your face. You nod, but it’s weak, so she waits until you manage words. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I’m here.” Maeve hums, satisfied, then presses a slow kiss to your forehead.
Her lips linger there longer than they need to, and it makes your chest feel tender in a way the orgasm didn’t. “Good,” she says quietly. “Stay with me, sweetheart.” She shifts carefully, strong arms gathering you closer so your trembling body isn’t doing any work.
For a while, she just holds you. The suite feels different now, less like a stage and more like a room two people have ruined together. The sheets are still too white, the skyline still glittering, the whiskey still untouched, but none of it matters with Maeve’s arms around you.
Your sweat cools slowly against her skin, and she rubs your back in steady circles until your breathing evens out. You tuck your face into her neck, catching the scent of her perfume,
her skin, and the faint trace of sex still clinging to both of you. Maeve’s fingers are gentle now, combing through your hair instead of gripping it. “You did so well,” she murmurs. “So good for me.”
You make a soft, embarrassed sound, and Maeve smiles against your temple. “Don’t hide,” she says, but there’s no bite to it this time. “Not from me.” She reaches for the robe with one hand and pulls it around both of you as best she can, covering your bare chest and cooling skin.
The silk is warm from her body, and you sink into it without thinking. Maeve notices the tiny shiver that runs through you and immediately tightens her arms. “Cold?” she asks. You nod against her shoulder, and she kisses your hair. “I’ll get you cleaned up first, then we’re getting under the covers.”
She lifts you like you weigh nothing, but she does it carefully, one arm under your thighs and the other around your back. The movement makes you whine from sensitivity, and Maeve pauses right away.
“Too much?” she asks, searching your face. “Just sensitive,” you whisper. Her mouth softens, and she kisses your cheek before carrying you to the bed. “I know, baby,” she says. “No more teasing.”
She lays you down on the sheets with ridiculous gentleness for someone who’d had her fingers inside you minutes ago. Then she disappears only long enough to wet a warm cloth in the bathroom.
When she comes back, her armour is still on the floor and the red robe is loose around her body, but her whole focus is on you. She cleans between your thighs slowly, avoiding anything too sensitive unless you guide her closer. Every time you twitch, she pauses and checks your face before continuing. “You’re okay,” she murmurs, more promise than question.
“I’ve got you.” You watch her through heavy eyes, still dazed from pleasure and affection, and whisper, “You’re being soft.” Maeve glances up, a small, tired smile tugging at her mouth. “Don’t tell anyone,” she says, and you laugh quietly enough that it turns into a sigh.
After she’s done, she tosses the cloth aside and climbs into bed beside you. She pulls the ruined lingerie straps back into place just enough that nothing digs into your skin, then tugs the sheets over both of you. You curl into her immediately, cheek pressed to her chest, listening to the steady beat of her heart beneath all that strength.
Maeve wraps one arm around your waist and keeps the other hand at the back of your head, holding you like something precious. “Water in a minute,” she says when she feels you getting sleepy. “Then sleep.”
You hum in protest, and she kisses your forehead again. “Don’t argue with mommy after she just made you cum that hard,” she murmurs. You smile against her skin, soft and spent, and let her keep you there.
summary: when he hears baby jane doe still needs a place for the night, your brother is quick to volunteer you and your wife.
word count: 1.9k
tags: abbot!reader (though no descriptions are given; adopted sister); anesthesiologist reader; wife walsh; baby jane doe
“What are you still doing here?” Abbot frowned when he saw Dana still sitting at the nurses’ station, typing away on the computer and looking nowhere close to clocking out.
“I told Lena to take the night off after Roxie died. I’m waiting to see if someone can cover,” Dana explained without looking up. She typed a few more words and clicked her mouse a couple times before finally tearing her eyes away from the screen.
“You know anyone who can take Baby Jane Doe for the night?” Dana asked with a sigh.
Jack opened his mouth to refuse before he remembered a conversation he’d had with you just a couple weeks ago. “Actually—” he shrugged, crossing his arms— “I might.”
Dana raised her brows, clearly not expecting that answer, but before she could question who he knew, the phone rang.
“Tell them to call the main desk,” she said as she stood up and answered the incoming call.
Abbot nodded, entering one of the unoccupied trauma rooms to pick up the wall phone. Dialing upstairs, he asked for you, only to find out you were currently in surgery.
“Tell her to come down when she’s done? Thanks.”
Jack hung up and quickly made his way over to the locker room. Pulling out his cellphone, he clicked on your wife’s contact.
“Hey,” he greeted when the call finally picked up. “You want a baby test-run?”
Fifteen minutes later, Emery Walsh walked through the sliding doors of the emergency department, half her curls clipped back out of her face. Dana almost didn’t recognize the surgeon, whose dark blue scrubs had been traded in for a loose pair of jean shorts and a worn UPenn t-shirt.
“Dr. Walsh?” Dana narrowed her brows at the other woman, who was now leaning against the counter of the nurses’ station. “What are you doing here on your day off?”
“Jack called me about an abandoned baby.”
Dana’s frowned deepened. She may not have been on the night shift, but she’d been at this hospital long enough to know about—and have overheard—the spats between the trauma surgeon and ED attending.
“I don’t think Baby Jane Doe needs surgery,” Dana snorted, trying to mask her confusion, and Emery had to resist the urge to roll her eyes.
“I heard she’s looking for a place to stay tonight.”
The charge nurse’s expression morphed from confusion and into surprise. She didn’t take Walsh to be the maternal type, but Dana was desperate for someone to take the abandoned baby home, even just for the night.
“Great. You’re doing us a huge favor.” Dana rounded the station and started walking towards the baby’s room, wordlessly motioning Emery to follow.
Upon entering, both women sanitized their hands, and Emery dropped her bag by the door before approaching the crib.
“She’s around six weeks old, abandoned in the women’s restroom with a cold. Other than that, girl’s as healthy as a peach,” Dana explained as Emery picked up the baby, who started to cry upon being disturbed. “We’re still waiting to hear from CYF about a foster placement.”
The surgeon nodded along, carefully cradling the infant in her arms. “Why are you crying, little one, hm?”
Her voice softened just slightly, talking as if the six-week old could understand her. Emery bounced her knees in a successful attempt to soothe the cries, and Dana caught herself smiling at the sight.
“It’s gonna be OK,” Emery hushed, gently brushing the baby’s cheek with the knuckle of her pointer finger. As the cries quieted into coos, the corners of Emery’s mouth twitched up. “My wife is absolutely going to adore you.”
This caught Dana’s attention, as she finally noticed the simple gold band adorning the surgeon’s ring finger. But before she could ask, the sound of the bay door opening caught their attention.
When you’d heard your brother had paged you during surgery and then again when you were done, saying you were needed downstairs, your mind couldn’t help but think of the worst. The last time you’d been called to the pitt, there had been a mass shooting. Your qualms were eased, however, when you saw it was a non-emergency. Jack probably wanted to catch you before your shift was done.
Stepping out of the elevator, you were on your way to the central station, where you assumed your brother would be, when you caught a glimpse of familiar curls. As the woman turned slightly, and you saw the old UPenn t-shirt that you’ve stolen a hundred time, you knew it was your wife.
Before your brain could even think to question why she was here on her day off, your heart burst at the sight of what she was holding.
You and Emery had been married for nearly three years now, and the conversation of starting a family was starting to come up. Both of you were open to having a child—you, a little more eager than her—but neither of you knew where to start. IVF, adoption, surrogacy – there were so many options. Plus, with both of you working at a hospital, your schedules weren’t exactly the most parent-friendly. And yet, you couldn’t shake the seed that had been planted in your mind.
Now, seeing your wife with a baby in her arms, wearing the tender look that she usually reserved only for you, you had no doubt in your mind that this was what you wanted.
You realized this must have been what your brother paged you about, remembering you had mentioned to him that you and Emery had been discussing starting a family.
Quietly pushing the door open, you did your best not to interrupt the moment.
“Hey, sweetheart.” Dana saw you first and flashed you a small smile, but you could see the glint of worry in her eye, one that never really went away after years of nursing and motherhood. “What are you doing down here?”
“Jack paged me,” you answered before turning to your wife with a raised brow, “and I’m guessing we’re taking this little one home tonight?”
Emery opened her mouth to explain, but an offended sound escaped from Dana’s lips and interrupted her.
“Hold on.” The charge nurse put up her hands as if to physically pause this moment. “You two–” she motioned between you and your wife– “are married?”
You winced, now realizing how offended the older woman would be. “Sorry, D,” you said, the guilt in your voice giving her all the answers she needed.
“You and Abbot are in-laws?” Dana looked at your wife with an incredulous expression, and Emery simply nodded.
“Oh, honey.” Dana turned back to you with playful, sympathetic frown. “I pray for you.”
“A lifetime of their bickering,” you chuckled, “I’m going to need it.”
“If I knew he was your brother, I wouldn’t have asked you out,” Emery snarked, causing you to scoff.
“You did know, and I asked you out,” you corrected, and your wife just rolled your eyes.
“You’re a saint,” Dana laughed, squeezing your shoulder as she moved past you. “I’ll give you guys a sec, but stop by the main desk on your way out to fill out the kinship foster forms, yeah?”
“Thanks, Dana.” “Will do.” You and Emery answered at the same time as the older woman exited the trauma room, the door hissing closed behind her.
You took a couple steps closer to your wife, your shoulder barely brushing hers, and for a moment, neither of you said anything. As you observed the baby’s face, her wide eyes curiously staring up at you, you grinned.
“Hi, baby,” you cooed.
“Hi,” Emery replied, her tender gaze softening even more as she watched you interact with the child.
Rolling your eyes fondly, you turned your head so your face was just inches from your wife’s.
“Hi, baby,” you repeated before pecking her lips.
Emery hummed, kissing you again when you tried to pull away. “I missed you,” she murmured against your lips.
“I missed you too.” You kissed the corner of her mouth once more before leaning your head against her shoulder, returning your attention to the baby in her arms.
“She’s absolutely precious,” you sighed, and you felt your chest tighten. “How could somebody abandon her?”
Knowing you like she did, Emery could hear the twinge of anger and hint of yearning in your words. She titled her head to the side so it was resting against yours and adjusted Baby Jane Doe in her arms.
“Do you wanna hold her?”
You lifted your head to look up at your wife and nodded. “Yeah,” you breathed. “Can I?”
“Of course, baby.” Emery gently transferred the now sleeping baby into your arms.
As you rocked her back and forth, careful not to wake her, you felt your eyes start to sting. It was overwhelming holding a child so young, so impressionable, who had her whole life ahead of her.
“CYF is still looking for a more permanent foster home, but for now, she has no place to go,” Emery explained softly, her hand finding your waist.
“Except with us.”
You knew doctors and nurses qualified for kinship fostering, but it had never even crossed your mind until recently, until now.
“Except with us,” Emery echoed, pausing for a moment to really look at you. “Are you sure you want to take her tonight? It could be just for the night.”
She added the last part cautiously. Emery knew how you’d been wanting to start a family, and she wanted it too, but she didn’t want you to get your hopes up or get too attached.
You could hear the protectiveness in your wife’s voice, and you smiled softly. That was one of the things you loved most about Emery, how she was always looking out for you, protecting you from getting hurt, even from yourself.
“She has nowhere else to go, and I mean—” you inhaled sharply, trying not to choke on your own breath— “I want to.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?” You turned to your wife with a crease between your brows. “Is this something you want?”
Though, you knew you were asking unnecessarily because Emery wouldn’t have answered Jack’s called, showed up here on her day off, and soothed this baby’s crying if this isn’t something she wanted. And Emery knew you knew this, but she answered nonetheless.
“Yes,” she said sincerely. A smirk grew on her face, and she added, “Besides, how hard can a baby be?”
You chuckled and shook your head.
“Come on, baby.” Emery pulled you by the waist closer to her side, guiding you towards the door. “Let’s fill out those forms and get this little one home.”
You were very well of the reality of the situation and knew that this could possibly be only a one night situation, that a more long-term foster situation could be found in the morning. But as you and your wife signed the kinship forms and carried Baby Jane Doe out to your car, you couldn’t help but feel like you were stepping into a new chapter, like this was just the beginning.
“Ready?” Emery looked at you from the driver’s seat.
Smiling at her, you quickly glanced in the rearview mirror, which reflected Baby Jane Doe strapped into a car seat Peds had let you borrow.
As you locked eyes with your wife again, you placed your hand on hers, which sat on the gear shift, and gave it a squeeze.
Summary: Cregan Stark returns home to a strange request from his lady wife.
Author's note: This was requested by a sweet anon, and I kind of put my own spin on it. I hope that you enjoy! Cregan better be in season 3. I only need a glimpse please Ryan Condal I beg of you. Content tags are smut, p in v, unprotected sex, praise, established relationship, mentions of infidelity, cockwarming, cannon divergence, no use of y/n, no physical description of reader, mentions of wlw sex, mentions of threesomes, pet names
Three fucking moons. That’s how long Cregan Stark had spent at Castle Black, for a routine visit that was only supposed to take four weeks, travel time included. An unexpected snow storm had come and prevented him and his men from leaving on time. He had practically worn holes in the floor of his Castle Black quarters, the wall, the training yard, as he paced, anxious to get back to you. After a break in the storm, he and his men ride hard home to Winterfell. No rests, only home is on his mind. It's almost midnight when he sees the tourets of Winterfell castle on the horizon, and Cregan could almost cry with relief.
Inside the castle's walls, he dismounts and grunts at the stable boy taking his horse. No one else is there to receive him and his men at the castle entrance. But why would they? He had not told the anyone when to expect him back. He had merely shown up as quickly as he could. “Where is my wife?” He barks, to no one in particular. Before the stable boy can reply and apologize that he has no idea of the whereabouts of Lady Stark, Cregan is already making his way inside the castle doors.
You sit by the fire reading, but your attention is pulled from your book by the abrupt bang of the bedroom door opening.
“Oh my gods!” You scramble out of the armchair, letting the book thud to the ground, and run over to your husband - hulking mass of fur standing in the doorway.
“You’re here” kiss “you’re here” kiss “I didn’t get a raven-“ kiss “telling your arrival!"
“I’ll tell you the whole story later, pup” his fingers frantically fumbling with the ties of your dressing gown “Want to tell you all of it, but I need ya first”
He mouths at your jaw, chest heaving and panting as he backs you towards the bed, never coming up for air. Your legs hit the mattress and you sit “Wait, let me take my nightgown off” you giggle at his forwardness. This is unlike your husband, usually so self discipled. But these are not normal circumstances.
“No time” he mumbles and is climbing on top of you, hauling you onto the middle of the mattress like you weigh nothing at all. He hikes up your dress above your hips and knees your thighs apart. Pressing his whole body weight into you, he kisses and mouths at your cheek. “Too long. Was gone too long”
“You were, my love” you agree. He shucks his pants down just enough to free his cock, aching and leaking precome down the side. He thrusts all the way in, not even bothering to test your entrance at all. You both gasp at the intrusion. “-’m so sorry pup.” He babbles into your neck, you don’t know if he apologizing for his prolonged absence or lack of foreplay “Missed you so bad. Gods, so sorry.” Your body remembers him all the same, his familiar body weight and scent pressing down on you like a warm blanket. His cock reaches deep into your belly, and each thrust reminds you how well you fit with your husband. His voice has lowered to a deep gravelly pitch as he curses. Arousal coats his cock, and the sounds of your combined wetness fill the small space you two share.
“Husband, I think-“ you sigh. You feel totally spaced out and at complete surrender- senses totally comforted by the return of your protector. He looses all his thoughts, understandable for a man not had release in three months, and pays no mind to the fact that he is crushing you with his body weight. He only presses you deeper and deeper into the mattress with every thrust.
“I know, I know. Me too, pup” he comes quickly, and desperately chasing the warm feel of your cunt. You feel his whole body shudder as he releases for ages, filling you with bursts of spend. He is out of breath as he reaches in between your bodies still connected, and works your clit with his fingers. He messily circles your most sensitive nerves, while snaking his large forearm under your head you bring you closer to him. His fingers and your thighs are getting messier by the second as spend leaks out. Neither of you speaks, as you both feel too blissed out to form words as he brings you over the edge of orgasm. He rocks his cock, still semi hard inside you, through your peak as your cunt clenches around him. Mouths slot together, swapping saliva and incoherent promises.
When his breath returns to him, he finally speaks “We had a break in the storm. Didn’t have time to send a raven. I jus' rode here as fast as I could.”
“Thank the gods you’re home safe.” You press your forehead into his. “Don’t get up. Stay.”
“I’m not going anywhere” he promises. But he eventually needs to get up from the bed and remove himself from you after a deep growl bellows from his stomach.
"Send for the servants to bring something from the kitchen?" He suggests as he removes his heavy cloak.
"Nonsense. It's late. I'll go down and get something for you myself." You press a lingering kiss to his lips, and then tighten your dressing grown around you. "I'll be right back." You assure him as you are putting on your fur lined slippers.
You return with a plate of meats, cheeses, honey cakes, and a mug of ale. You set it down in his lap as he sits on the bed, the look of relief visible in his face as he strokes the furs covering the bed - the relief of being home. "But this one's for me" you say as you pluck a honey cake off the plate and take a bite. He watches you flit around the room, lighting candles, fixing up the mess you had made of books and papers on the desk while he eats and drinks. He notices the way you carry yourself in Winterfell has changed. You go down to the kitchen without hesitation. You maneuver the room as if it were now your own space, which it was, but before you had been shyer and scared to make your mark on the place. This place is your home now. You operate more as the lady of Winterfell. And he can tell that you have more confidence around him, no fear of his brutish, towering northern stature. "Finished?" you ask, as you take the plate away and climb onto the bed and crawl between his outstretched legs. "Your hair!" you exclaim taking some strands into your fingers "It's grown since I last saw you!"
"Has it?" he asks, half listening as he stares at your face, it seems impossible but over those three months you got prettier "No mirrors at Castle Black, pup." His cock is definitely getting hard again. He pulls you closer, savoring the soft fabric of your nightgown as it brushes against him. "You can help me cut it on the morrow" He rubs his hand gently back and forth over the curve of your arse. How he missed doing that.
You take his other hand and press a small, light kiss onto the knuckles. "You said in your ravens that you missed me."
"Every day I did." He watches you in adoration as you wrap your lips around his thumb. Your tongue rolls around his thumb, wetting it with your saliva, teeth nibbling at the skin ever so gently.
"I'm so proud of you how you handled everything here. Maester Lupin wrote that you advised on matters of coin and he valued you opinion. And Maester Lupin doesn't have anything nice to say about any one."
You remove his digit from your mouth to speak. "Thank you. Let me be closer to you."
He wastes no time unting his pants once again to free his aching cock. He helps you up to your knees and guides you down on top of him. He groans as you sink down his length. "Better." He sighs, letting his head fall forward on your shoulder. The strerch is easier this time, you feel anchored and full, a subtle pulse settling at the base of your stomach. "Yes, better." You agree, and take hold of his hand again. You run your teeth down the meat of his palm, canines gently digging in occasionally.
"And you wrote that you made a friend when the Lord and Lady Dustin visited." He says, tucking some hair behind your ear.
"Yes" you pause, choosing your next words, "I wanted to talk to you about that. You know Dyanna Dustin, their daughter? Who visited last week?"
"Aye, I know of her."
"Well we hit it off. She's so much fun to talk to! And she helped me with my embriodery too." You suck in a breath. "And we kind of.. lay together.. too." Before Cregan can say anything you begin again. "It is only friendship, nothing more than that. And I will end it immediately if you wish it. You are my priority and I love you alone." You speak the words without taking a breath, and only let out an exhale when you finish.
His expression is unreadable, and this scares you. Neither one of you speaks for a while. He just stares at the fire, thinking and processing. After a long time, he asks "There is no other man?"
You wrinkle your nose at the thought. "Gods no!"
"And this is something you want?" He looks at you with slight concern.
"I like having a friend. Someone to write to. You are so busy and I want someone to converse with when you are unavailable. And I like doing... things with her." Your face heats with embarrassment at the admission- shy nature flaring up again at this conversation.
He pauses to think again. A stern look crosses his face when he is deep in thought. You take his hand once more, running his thumb over your lips to spread saliva over them, then press it into your mouth. He watches you intently, deciding what his next words should be. But inside pride flares within his chest. You are coming into your own, making this place your home, having mature, honest conversations, and giving affection freely to him.
"You are the Lady Stark of Winterfell. You may take what you want. I see no reason to deprive you of this." He tells you.
"My love" kiss "Thank you" kiss "Thank you" kiss "A million thank you's" you say, grinding down into his lap to be even closer if it's possible.
He huffs a groan at your movement, finally proiving some friction to his aching cock. You hand him his ale from the bed side table "Thirsty?" and watch him drink.
"Oh I almost forgot. Dyanna said you could join next time!"
Cregan chokes on his ale at this. So hard it almost comes out his nose. What was he going to do with you, becoming more of a handful every day?
contains - harrison meeting his younger sister, mainly just fluff along slight inappropriate thoughts from cass, (I think that's it?)
a/n - I love babydaddy cassie, she's literally the father of my children
tags - @mil1an
From the moment Harrison met the baby, it was all he would worry about. Everytime he walks into the shared apartment, the first things that comes out of his mouth is: 'where's my baby sister?' or 'oh there she is!'—something that he gained from both of you, even if he isn't over at the house that much.
Harrison's actually liking you along with the baby, and you already treating him as your own despite you being closer in age to him than she is, already warmed her heart. So imagine how she felt when you all came into the hospital the kids wearing matching shirts whilst Harrison carried her lunch in his hand.
"Hey mom!" He called out, the sound immediately making a grin appear on her face as she stopped charting for a moment to walk over. "Hey bud, thank you guys!" She exclaimed, taking it from the boy and lightly ruffling his hair, before glancing up at you.
"Hey, baby.." She murmured, "You look good today." She said, smirking before leaning in to give you a few pecks on your lips, free hand lightly brushing along your soft stomach, which had gotten slightly bigger after giving birth—something she absolutely loved, but despite how much she loved it, she tried to subtly etch her fingers towards your ass, though unfortunately for her, she wasn't very slick, and got caught with a hand firmly on her wrist to stop her.
"Doctor Cassie Mckay, do you think that is appropriate?" You playfully scolded, making the 1 month old in your arms giggle, causing both of your attention to go to her.
"Hey, you little giggle monster!" Cassie murmured, voice high-pitched as she lightly tickled at the chubby small sides of the baby, making her giggle harder. Though the moment was broken by her pager going off, drawing a heavy sigh out of her.
"Well, I gotta get back to work." She muttered, leaning down to give the two kids a kiss on their heads before giving you another one on your lips.
"Okay, well we gotta be heading back anyways," You shrugged, "Love you." You murmured, before grabbing Harrison's hand whilst still holding the baby tightly on your hip.
"Love you too.." She called out, watching you walk to the exit, or really, how your ass swayed when you walked—which got thicker after giving birth. If you kept looking that good, she might have to put another baby in-
Her thought was cut off by a smirking Dana as she held the bottom of the clipboard against her stomach. "Ya'know kid, for someone who seemed so down about her leavin', you sure love looking down whilst she does."
"Oh shut it." Though there was clearly no bite behind it.
a/n² - reading this, I realized she doesn't look like the type to do any of this, but fuck it we ball, plus we barely know her
One Wish Willow....Not this time || Nikki Freeman ||
A/n: Giving my girl a happy ending.
The first thing that caught your attention wasn’t Bear.
It was the box in his hand.
Bright red and white. Cheap cardboard. The kind of novelty junk sold in tourist shops and weird shops that sold other trinkets like that with ridiculous promises printed across the packaging.
ONE WISH WILLOW.
A stupid little toy that supposedly granted a single wish when broken.
Most people would have laughed and thrown it away.
Unfortunately, Bear wasn’t most people.You had seen the way he’d looked at Nikki. The way his attention lingered too long.
The way he always seemed to be around whenever she was.
At first, you’d brushed it off. Maybe he was awkward. Maybe he had a crush he couldn’t let go of, you chalked it up to them being childhood friends and you didn't want to get in the way of that and then things got stranger.
And stranger.
And stranger.
Now he was sitting alone in his car with that thing in his hands like it was the most important object in the world.
Your stomach dropped as you tried to peer at what it was, though it clicked when you remembered what store he came out of and the realization hit you so hard you didn’t even remember crossing the parking lot.
One second you were staring.
The next....BANG!
Your palm slammed against the driver’s side window.
Bear nearly jumped out of his skin, his head whipped toward you.
You didn’t wait for him to roll the window down, no instead you yanked the door open yourself.
“What the hell are you doing?”
Bear blinked. “What?”
“What are you doing?” you repeated.
His grip tightened around the novelty toy. “It’s just a—”
“No.” You pointed directly at the box.“No, don’t give me that crap...nothing is ever just a toy from that fucking shop.
His expression shifted immediately.
Guilty.
Caught.
The exact look you’d been waiting to see.Your jaw clenched, your nails dug into your palm. “You’re obsessed with her.”
Bear opened his mouth and nothing came out.That was enough of a answer for you.
“Nikki has a girlfriend in case you forgot Bear...Me! She introduced to me to you and the others."
Silence.
Your laugh was humorless. "Jesus Christ....this is insane."
“It’s not like that—”
“Really?” you snapped. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks exactly like that.”
You leaned closer. "You watch her.....I'm not fucking blind Bear...is obvious."
His face reddened. “That’s not—”
“And now you’re sitting in your car holding some creepy-ass wishing toy like you’re about to make a wish about my girlfriend.”
Bear looked away.
The movement alone made your blood pressure spike.
“Oh my God.” You stared at him. “You actually were..that's insane! You don't mess with that shit.”
His shoulders tensed.
You laughed again, completely incredulous. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
The question hung in the air.
Bear swallowed hard. “I just wanted—”
“No.” You cut him off immediately.
His eyes narrowed slightly. “I love her.”
The words made your stomach twist, not because they were romantic.
Because they weren’t.
There was something deeply unsettling about the way he said them.
Possessive.
Obsessive.
Like Nikki was something he deserved.
Something he owned, some prize he can show off and flaunt.
You folded your arms. "No.”
Bear frowned. "No?”
“No, you don’t.”
His expression darkened for a moment, if you weren't paying attention you would have missed it entirely.
You pointed toward the toy. “People who love someone don’t stalk them...."
Another point.
“They don’t hover around them.”
Another.
“They don’t sit in parking lots holding magic wish sticks hoping reality bends in their favor.”
Bear gritted his teeth. “You don’t understand.”
“Oh, I understand perfectly.”Your voice turned dangerously calm. “You are being a fucking weirdo.”
That finally hit him.
His face fell.
Good.
You stepped forward and snatched the box directly out of his hands.
Bear immediately reached for it. “Hey—”
“Nope.” You held it out of reach. “It’s mine now.”
“You can’t just—”
“Watch me.”
He stared at you.You stared right back.Neither of you moved.
Finally, you shook your head. “Get over her....find someone else Bear..Nikki isn’t interested.”You started backing away from the car.“She isn’t leaving me." You stepped away from the car placing your hand on your hip. “And whatever fantasy you’ve built in your head?”
You lifted the box.
“It’s over.”
Bear’s eyes locked onto the toy.Almost desperately and that alone told you everything you needed to know as Bear rolled down his window.
“You’re seriously taking that?”
You didn’t even turn around. “Yep.”
“It cost twenty bucks!”
“Then consider this an expensive lesson.”
“What lesson?!”
You finally looked back, the expression on your face made him immediately regret asking. “The lesson where you stop obsessing over someone else’s girlfriend and go touch grass.”
You glanced down at the toy then scoffed, whether the stupid thing actually worked or not didn’t matter.
What mattered was Bear believed it might and people did dangerous things when they believed hard enough.
The parking lot stretched ahead as you slipped into your car to head toward Nikki’s apartment.
The toy box felt strangely heavy in your hand.You looked down again, at the smiling cartoon face printed on the packaging.
One Wish Willow.
You rolled your eyes. "Fucking trash." Then promptly tossed the entire thing into the nearest dumpster.The box disappeared beneath a pile of garbage.
Gone and Good riddance.
Later you stepped through Nikki’s front door.
She looked up from the couch, immediately smiling when she saw you.
The sight eased every ounce of tension in your body.
“Hey, babe.”
You crossed the room and dropped onto the couch beside her.
Nikki laughed as you immediately wrapped your arms around her. “Well hello to you too.”
You buried your face against her shoulder. “You’re never allowed to leave my sight.”
Nikki blinked. “What happened?”
You sighed. "Bear happened.”
Her smile vanished instantly, she tried to keep it though it faltered for a moment. “Oh.”
“Yeah....whatever it doesn't matter." You squeezed her tighter.
For a moment neither of you spoke. Then Nikki leaned her head against yours. "Thank you.”
You looked up. “For what?”
“For always protecting me.”
The anger you’d felt all afternoon melted away as you pressed a kiss to her temple. “Always.”
And somewhere across town, a discarded novelty toy sat forgotten in a dumpster.
Unable to grant a wish.
Unable to change fate.
Unable to take Nikki away from the person she actually loved.
hi! i was the one that sent in the request for rhaenyra x platonic daughter ✨ back again for more (not connected to the first request)
Set in Dragonstone: instead of Rhaenyra, Aegon sends Ser Arryk to kill reader, as revenge for what happened to Jaehaerys. Reader is in her chambers when he comes in. It’s obviously crazy, she did try to defend herself, even cutting her hands (like Catelyn Stark when she saved Bran in GOT) but is still no match for him. Rhaenyra is frantic, since its almost impossible to break into the room. Once they manage to go in and she sees her hurt, she kills Arryk before his twin Erryk can, while Jace helps his sister. At the end, Rhaenyra starts growing even more possessive, what else can she do to keep her daughter safe
The Price of Blood
Rhaenyra Targaryen x platonicdaugther!reader
warning(s): violence and attempted murder, blood and injuries, assassination attempt, panic, distress, and emotional trauma, possessive/controlling behaviour
wc: 4.9k
The evening had settled over Dragonstone like a shroud, the ancient fortress wrapped in the familiar sounds of crashing waves and distant dragon calls. You sat by the window of your chambers, a book of Valyrian history open in your lap, though your eyes had long since stopped following the words. The candlelight flickered across the pages, casting dancing shadows on the stone walls that had become as familiar to you as your own reflection.
This was your sanctuary, these rooms that overlooked the dark waters of Blackwater Bay. Here, you could almost forget the war that raged across the realm, the war that had already claimed so much. The death of little Jaehaerys haunted you still, though you had no hand in it. Blood and Cheese had acted on orders you would never have given, yet the guilt sat heavy in your chest nonetheless. He had been a child, innocent of the sins of his father.
You closed the book with a soft thud and moved to the hearth, seeking warmth against the chill that seemed to seep through the very stones of Dragonstone. Your mother had been in council all evening, discussing strategies and alliances with her advisors. Daemon had been there too, his presence always a storm barely contained. You had excused yourself early, claiming fatigue, though in truth you simply needed solitude.
The fire crackled and popped, and you held your hands toward it, watching the flames dance. Outside your door, you knew guards stood watch. Ser Erryk had personally overseen the security of the family quarters before taking his own post. You were safe here, or so everyone believed.
The sound, when it came, was so subtle you almost missed it. A scrape of metal against stone, barely audible over the fire's whisper. You turned, your heart suddenly beating faster, some primal instinct screaming danger before your mind could catch up.
The door to your chambers stood closed, but the shadows near the window seemed wrong somehow. Too deep. Too still.
"Who's there?" Your voice came out steadier than you felt, your hand moving instinctively to the small dagger you kept at your belt. It was ornamental more than practical, a gift from Jace on your last name day, but it was sharp enough.
The shadow moved, and then he was there, stepping into the candlelight with the fluid grace of a trained killer. Ser Arryk Cargyll, identical to his brother in every way save for the cold purpose in his eyes. He wore the white cloak of the Kingsguard, Aegon's Kingsguard, and in his hand was a sword that gleamed with deadly intent.
"Princess," he said, and his voice was almost apologetic. "I am sorry. Truly."
Terror flooded your veins like ice water, but you forced yourself to move, to think. The door was too far, and he stood between you and escape. Your fingers closed around the dagger's hilt as you backed toward the hearth.
"My mother will kill you for this," you said, and you meant it with every fiber of your being. "She will burn you alive."
"Perhaps," Arryk acknowledged, advancing slowly. "But the king has commanded it. A son for a daughter. Blood for blood."
He moved with terrible swiftness, his sword arcing toward you in a strike meant to end this quickly. You threw yourself aside, the blade missing you by inches, and grabbed the first thing your hand found: a heavy brass candlestick. You swung it with all your strength, connecting with his shoulder in a blow that would have felled a lesser man.
Arryk barely flinched. He was armored beneath his cloak, protected in ways you were not. But you had surprised him, and that gave you precious seconds.
You ran, not for the door but for the other side of the room where your writing desk stood. Your fingers found the letter opener, longer and sharper than your decorative dagger, and you spun to face him with a blade in each hand.
"I will not make this easy for you," you snarled, and some part of you recognized your mother in your own voice, that Targaryen fire that would not be extinguished without a fight.
Arryk's expression shifted, something like respect flickering across his features. "I did not expect you would, princess."
He came at you again, and this time you were ready. You ducked under his swing and drove the letter opener toward his side, finding the gap between his armor plates. The blade sank in, not deep but enough to draw blood, enough to prove you were not helpless prey.
Arryk grunted and backhanded you with his free hand, the blow sending you sprawling across the floor. Stars exploded across your vision, and you tasted blood in your mouth. But you still had your weapons, and you still had your will to live.
You scrambled backward as he advanced, your mind racing through every lesson Daemon had ever tried to teach you about fighting, about survival. Use your environment. Use your size. Never stop moving.
The chair. You grabbed it and threw it at him, forcing him to deflect it with his sword. Then you were on your feet again, circling, keeping furniture between you and death.
"The queen will know it was you," you said, trying to buy time, trying to think. "Erryk will know. Your own brother will hunt you down."
Something flickered in Arryk's eyes at the mention of his twin, but his resolve did not waver. "My brother made his choice. I have made mine."
He feinted left and struck right, and this time you were not fast enough. His blade caught your forearm, slicing through fabric and flesh with equal ease. You cried out, more from shock than pain, though the pain came quickly enough, hot and sharp and terrifying.
Blood welled from the wound, running down your arm in rivulets that dripped onto the stone floor. Your own blood, spilled in your own chambers, in the place you had thought safe.
The sight of it triggered something primal in you, some desperate animal need to survive. When Arryk pressed his advantage, you did not retreat. Instead, you lunged forward, inside his guard, and drove your dagger toward his throat.
He caught your wrist, his grip like iron, and you felt the bones grind together. But your other hand, slick with your own blood, still held the letter opener. You brought it up and across, aiming for his face, his eyes, anything vulnerable.
The blade caught him across the cheek, opening a red line from ear to jaw. Arryk roared and threw you backward, and you crashed into the table, sending books and papers flying. Your wounded arm screamed in agony as you landed on it, and for a moment, the world went gray at the edges.
Through the haze of pain, you saw Arryk touching his bleeding face, saw the cold fury that replaced his earlier calm. He had meant to make this quick, perhaps even merciful in his own twisted way. But you had hurt him, humiliated him, and now he would make you pay for it.
"Enough," he growled, and came at you with renewed violence.
You tried to rise, tried to defend yourself, but your injured arm would not cooperate. You managed to roll aside as his sword struck the floor where you had been, sparks flying from the impact. Your hand found a shard of broken pottery, and you slashed at his leg as he passed, opening another wound through his breeches.
But it was not enough. It would never be enough. He was trained, armored, stronger, and you were bleeding, exhausted, running out of room to retreat.
Your back hit the wall beside the hearth, and you knew this was where you would make your last stand. You raised your dagger, your hand shaking but your eyes defiant, and waited for him to come.
Arryk raised his sword, and you saw your death in his eyes.
Then you screamed. Not a cry of fear, but a wordless shriek of rage and defiance that echoed off the stone walls. You screamed for your mother, for your brothers, for everyone who loved you and would mourn you. You screamed because you would not die silent and afraid.
And somewhere in the depths of Dragonstone, Rhaenyra Targaryen heard her daughter scream.
-————————————————————————
The council chamber had grown stifling, the air thick with tension and the smoke from the hearth. Rhaenyra sat at the head of the table, listening to Lord Celtigar drone on about supply lines and grain stores, but her mind was elsewhere. Something felt wrong, had felt wrong all evening, a creeping unease that she could not name or dismiss.
Daemon sat to her right, his fingers drumming an impatient rhythm on the table. He caught her eye and raised an eyebrow, silently asking if she wanted him to end this meeting. She was about to nod when it hit her.
A feeling like ice water down her spine, like a hand closing around her heart. Terror, pure and primal, that was not her own but might as well have been.
She was on her feet before she realized she had moved, the chair scraping back with a harsh sound that cut through Lord Celtigar's words.
"Your Grace?" he asked, confused.
But Rhaenyra was not listening. She was already moving toward the door, her instincts screaming at her that something was terribly, horribly wrong. One of her children was in danger. She knew it the way she knew her own name, knew it in her bones and blood.
"The princess," she said, and her voice came out strange, tight with fear she rarely allowed herself to show. "Where is my daughter?"
"In her chambers, Your Grace," Ser Lorent said from his post by the door. "Ser Erryk is watching over the family quarters."
But that did nothing to ease the terror clawing at Rhaenyra's chest. She pushed past the knight and into the corridor, her pace quickening with each step. Behind her, she heard Daemon calling her name, heard the scrape of chairs as the council rose in confusion.
She did not care. She broke into a run, her skirts gathered in her fists, her heart pounding a desperate rhythm. The corridors of Dragonstone blurred around her, familiar passages that suddenly seemed endless. Guards turned to stare as their queen raced past, but she did not slow.
Please, she thought, though she did not know to whom she prayed. Please let her be safe. Please let me be wrong.
But she was not wrong. She knew she was not wrong.
Daemon caught up to her, his longer stride eating up the distance. "Rhaenyra, what is it?"
"Something is wrong," she gasped, still running. "Something is wrong with her."
He did not question her, did not ask how she knew. He simply drew his sword and ran with her, and behind them came the sound of more guards following.
They rounded the final corner to the family quarters, and Rhaenyra's blood turned to ice. Ser Erryk lay slumped against the wall, blood pooling beneath him from a wound to his head. He was breathing, barely, but unconscious.
And beyond him, the door to your chambers stood closed.
"No," Rhaenyra breathed, and then she was at the door, her hands on the handle, pulling. It did not budge. Locked or barred from within.
From inside came the sound of a crash, of something breaking, and then a scream that turned Rhaenyra's world to ash and fury.
Your scream. Her daughter's scream.
"Break it down!" she shrieked, pounding on the door with her fists. "Break it down now!"
Daemon and the guards threw themselves at the door, their shoulders slamming into the heavy wood. Once, twice, three times. The door shuddered but held.
Inside, Rhaenyra could hear the sounds of struggle, could hear your voice crying out, and every second that passed was an eternity of helpless terror. She was the queen, she was a dragonrider, she was your mother, and she could not reach you.
"Again!" Daemon roared, and they hit the door together, all their strength focused on that single barrier between Rhaenyra and her child.
The wood splintered. Cracked. But still it held.
Rhaenyra wanted to scream, wanted to tear the door apart with her bare hands, wanted to burn the entire castle down if that was what it took. Her daughter was dying on the other side of that door, and she was powerless.
No. Not powerless. Never powerless.
She grabbed a fallen torch from the wall and thrust it at the door, at the gap where the wood had splintered. "Burn it," she snarled. "Burn it down."
But before she could set the flame to wood, the door gave way with a final, splintering crash. Daemon and the guards stumbled through, and Rhaenyra was right behind them, her eyes wild, her heart in her throat.
The scene that greeted her would haunt her for the rest of her days.
You were backed against the wall beside the hearth, your arm bleeding freely, your face pale with shock and pain. Blood stained your dress, your hands, the floor around you. And standing over you, his sword raised for a killing blow, was a man in a white cloak.
For a single, terrible moment, Rhaenyra thought it was Erryk. Thought that the knight she trusted had betrayed her, had tried to murder her daughter. The grief and rage of that thought nearly drove her to her knees.
But then she saw the cut on his face, the cold purpose in his eyes, and she understood. Arryk. Aegon had sent Arryk.
The knight heard them enter and turned, his moment of distraction giving you a chance to slash at him again with your dagger. The blade caught his wrist, and he dropped his sword with a curse.
Rhaenyra did not think. Did not plan. She simply moved.
She crossed the room in three strides, faster than she had ever moved in her life, and her hand closed around the fallen sword. It was heavier than she expected, awkward in her grip, but she did not care. She swung it with all the strength of her fury, all the terror and rage of a mother who had nearly lost her child.
The blade caught Arryk in the side, sliding between his ribs with a resistance that she felt all the way up her arms. He gasped, his eyes going wide with shock, and staggered backward.
Rhaenyra followed him, pulling the sword free and striking again. And again. She was screaming, she realized distantly, screaming words that might have been curses or prayers or simply wordless rage.
Arryk fell to his knees, blood pouring from multiple wounds, and still Rhaenyra did not stop. She could not stop. This man had tried to kill her daughter, had hurt her baby, had spilled her blood, and for that, there could be no mercy.
"Your Grace!" Daemon's voice cut through her fury, and she felt his hands on her shoulders, pulling her back. "Rhaenyra, he's dead. He's dead."
She looked down and saw that it was true. Arryk Cargyll lay in a spreading pool of his own blood, his eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling. She had killed him, had butchered him with his own sword, and she felt no remorse. Only a savage satisfaction that he would never threaten her child again.
The sword fell from her nerveless fingers, clattering on the stone, and then she was moving again, stumbling toward you.
"Mother," you whispered, and the word broke something in her chest.
You were sliding down the wall, your legs no longer able to hold you, and Rhaenyra caught you before you could fall. She sank to the floor with you in her arms, heedless of the blood that soaked into her dress, and held you as tightly as she dared.
"I have you," she breathed into your hair, her voice shaking. "I have you, my darling. You're safe now. You're safe."
But you were not safe. You were bleeding, wounded, traumatized. And it was her fault. She had not protected you. She had not kept you safe.
"Jace!" Daemon was shouting into the corridor. "Fetch the maester! Now!"
Footsteps pounded in the hallway, and then Jace was there, his face going white as he took in the scene. The body on the floor. The blood. His sister cradled in their mother's arms.
"Gods," he breathed, and dropped to his knees beside you. "Sister, I'm here. I'm here."
You turned your head toward him, and Rhaenyra saw the tears tracking through the blood on your face. "He came to kill me," you said, your voice small and lost. "For Jaehaerys. He came to kill me for Jaehaerys."
"Hush," Rhaenyra said, though her own tears were falling now, hot and unchecked. "Hush, my love. Don't speak. Save your strength."
She looked at your arm, at the deep gash that still bled sluggishly, and her stomach turned. Your hands were cut too, defensive wounds from trying to grab the blade. Like Catelyn Stark, she thought distantly, remembering the stories of the Lady of Winterfell who had nearly lost her fingers saving her son from an assassin.
History repeating itself. Blood and betrayal and mothers trying desperately to save their children.
"Let me see," Jace said, his voice steadier than his hands. He pulled off his cloak and began wrapping it around your arm, applying pressure to slow the bleeding. "You're going to be fine. The maester will be here soon."
But Rhaenyra could see the fear in his eyes, could see how pale you had become. You had lost so much blood, had fought so hard, and the shock was setting in now that the danger had passed.
"Stay with me," Rhaenyra commanded, cupping your face in her hands. "Look at me, darling. Stay with me."
Your eyes focused on hers, and she saw the pain there, the fear, but also the fierce will to survive that was pure Targaryen. You had fought. You had not gone quietly into the dark. Pride swelled in her chest alongside the terror.
"I'm sorry," you whispered. "I'm sorry I couldn't stop him."
"No," Rhaenyra said fiercely. "No, you have nothing to apologize for. You fought. You survived. That is all that matters."
The maester arrived in a flurry of robes and clinking bottles, his apprentices behind him carrying supplies. He took one look at you and began barking orders, his hands already reaching for your wounded arm.
Rhaenyra did not want to let you go, did not want to release you even for a moment, but Jace gently pried her arms away. "Let him work, Mother. Let him help her."
She stood on shaking legs and watched as the maester cleaned and stitched your wounds, as he wrapped your arm in clean bandages and gave you milk of the poppy for the pain. You drifted in and out of consciousness, your eyes finding hers whenever they opened, seeking reassurance that she was still there.
"I'm here," Rhaenyra said each time. "I'm not leaving you."
Behind her, she heard Daemon speaking in low, urgent tones to the guards. Heard him mention Erryk, who was being tended to in the corridor. The knight had been struck from behind, ambushed by his own brother, and the betrayal of it made Rhaenyra's blood boil anew.
"How did he get in?" she demanded, turning to face Daemon. "How did Arryk get into Dragonstone?"
"We're investigating," Daemon said grimly. "But I suspect he posed as Erryk. They were identical. The guards would have had no reason to question him."
Rhaenyra looked at the body still lying in a pool of blood on her daughter's floor. Ser Arryk Cargyll, who had sworn an oath to protect the royal family and had instead become an assassin. Aegon had sent him. Her half-brother had sent a killer into her home to murder her child.
The rage that filled her then was cold and terrible, a fury that burned like dragonfire in her veins. This was not war. This was not battle. This was the murder of an innocent girl in her own chambers, and for that, there could be no forgiveness.
"Burn the body," she said, her voice flat and hard. "Feed it to Syrax. I want nothing of him left."
Daemon nodded, understanding in his eyes. "And Aegon?"
"Will pay," Rhaenyra said. "In blood and fire, he will pay for this."
But that was for later. For now, all that mattered was you.
The maester finished his work and stepped back, his expression grave. "The princess will recover, Your Grace, but she needs rest. The wounds are clean, but she has lost much blood. She must be watched carefully for signs of fever."
"She will be watched," Rhaenyra said. "Every moment of every day, she will be watched."
She moved back to your side and took your hand, careful of the bandages. Your eyes were closed now, the milk of the poppy pulling you under, but your fingers tightened around hers.
"Mother," you murmured, half-asleep. "Don't leave."
"Never," Rhaenyra promised, and meant it with every fiber of her being. "I will never leave you again."
-———————————————————————-
The days that followed were a blur of fear and fury and an ever-tightening grip on control.
You recovered slowly, your wounds healing but your spirit bruised in ways that no maester could treat. You flinched at sudden sounds, woke screaming from nightmares, and refused to be alone even for a moment. Rhaenyra understood. She felt the same terror, the same need for constant vigilance.
She had your chambers moved to the room adjoining hers, connected by a door that was never locked. She stationed guards outside both rooms, men she trusted absolutely, and had them changed every four hours so that none would grow complacent. She had food tasters assigned to every meal you ate, and she watched you take every bite, counting to make sure you consumed enough to regain your strength.
Jace stayed close as well, sleeping in a chair by your bedside those first few nights, holding your hand when the nightmares came. He blamed himself, Rhaenyra knew, for not being there to protect you. She understood that guilt intimately.
Ser Erryk recovered from his head wound, but the shame of his brother's betrayal weighed heavily on him. He begged Rhaenyra's forgiveness, offered to take the black, to do anything to atone for Arryk's sins. She refused. Erryk had been loyal, had been true, and she would not punish him for his brother's choices. But she saw the way he looked at you now, with a desperate need to prove himself, to make up for his failure.
Everyone had failed you, Rhaenyra thought. Everyone who should have kept you safe had failed.
She would not fail again.
"Mother," you said one evening, nearly a week after the attack. You were sitting up in bed, your arm still bandaged but healing well. "I want to go outside. I want to see the dragons."
Rhaenyra's first instinct was to refuse, to keep you here where she could see you, where she could protect you. But she saw the plea in your eyes, the desperate need for some semblance of normalcy, and she forced herself to nod.
"Very well," she said. "But I will come with you. And Jace. And a full guard."
You did not argue, though she saw the flicker of frustration cross your face. You were not a prisoner, Rhaenyra reminded herself. You were her daughter, and she was only trying to keep you safe.
But as the days turned to weeks, the measures grew more restrictive. She had bars installed on your windows, claiming it was to prevent anyone from climbing in. She required you to report your whereabouts at all times, to never go anywhere without an escort. She began sitting in on your lessons, your meals, your every waking moment.
"Your Grace," Daemon said one night, when you had finally fallen asleep and they were alone in their chambers. "You cannot keep her locked away forever."
"I am not locking her away," Rhaenyra said, but even she could hear the defensiveness in her voice. "I am protecting her."
"You are smothering her," Daemon said bluntly. "She is a dragon, Rhaenyra. She needs room to breathe, to fly."
"She nearly died," Rhaenyra snapped, rounding on him. "In her own chambers, in her own home, she nearly died because I was not there to protect her. Do you understand that? Do you understand what it felt like to hear her scream and not be able to reach her?"
Daemon's expression softened, and he reached for her, but she pulled away. She could not afford softness now. Could not afford to let her guard down even for a moment.
"I understand," he said quietly. "But this path you are walking, this need for control, it will not end well. For either of you."
"Then what would you have me do?" Rhaenyra demanded. "Let her wander freely so that Aegon can send another assassin? Let her ride her dragon alone so that she can be shot from the sky? Tell me, Daemon, what is the acceptable level of risk for my daughter's life?"
He had no answer for that, and she had not expected one.
She returned to your room and stood in the doorway, watching you sleep. Your face was peaceful now, the lines of pain and fear smoothed away by slumber. You looked so young, so vulnerable, and the thought of losing you made Rhaenyra's chest tighten until she could barely breathe.
She had lost so much already. Her father. Her throne. Her sons, in a way, sent off to war and danger. She could not lose you too. She would not.
If that meant keeping you close, keeping you safe, keeping you under her watchful eye every moment of every day, then so be it. You might chafe against the restrictions now, might resent her for them, but you would be alive to resent her. That was all that mattered.
Rhaenyra crossed to your bedside and sat in the chair Jace had occupied those first nights. She took your hand in hers, careful not to wake you, and held it gently.
"I will keep you safe," she whispered into the darkness. "No matter what it takes. No matter what I have to do. You are mine, and I will not let anyone take you from me."
Outside, the wind howled around Dragonstone's towers, and somewhere in the distance, a dragon roared. But here, in this room, all was quiet and still.
Rhaenyra did not sleep. She simply sat and watched over you, her daughter, her heart, her reason for everything. And she began to plan.
More guards. More restrictions. Perhaps she should forbid you from leaving the castle entirely, at least until the war was over. Perhaps she should send you away, to some secret location where Aegon could never find you. Or perhaps she should keep you here, in these rooms, where she could see you always.
The thoughts circled in her mind like dragons in flight, each one more extreme than the last. But she did not dismiss them. Could not dismiss them.
Because the alternative, the thought of losing you, of failing to protect you again, was simply unthinkable.
You stirred in your sleep, your hand tightening around hers, and Rhaenyra leaned forward to brush a kiss across your forehead.
"Sleep, my darling," she murmured. "I am here. I will always be here."
And she would be. Every moment, every day, for as long as it took.
Even if it meant becoming the very thing she had always feared: a mother whose love had curdled into something darker, something possessive and all-consuming.
Even if it meant losing you in a different way, seeing the light in your eyes dim as the walls closed in.
It did not matter. Nothing mattered except keeping you alive.
Rhaenyra Targaryen, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, sat in the darkness and held her daughter's hand, and told herself that this was love.
That this was protection.
That this was the only way.
And if some small voice in the back of her mind whispered that she was wrong, that she was going too far, that she was letting her fear consume her, she ignored it.
Because she had heard you scream. She had seen your blood on the floor. She had nearly lost you.
And she would do anything, sacrifice anything, become anything, to make sure that never happened again.
Even if it meant losing herself in the process.
The candles burned low, casting long shadows across the room, and outside, the dragons of Dragonstone called to each other in the night. But Rhaenyra did not move, did not sleep, did not let go of your hand.
She simply held on, and planned, and promised herself that this time, she would not fail.
heyyyy!!! I was wondering if you could do like an Alicent Hightower x fem reader smut!
Like reader Is the bio daughter of Laenor and Rhae and she feels like insecure because she thinks her mother favors her sons more so she visits Alicent’s chambers one night. Alicent comforts reader by saying she’s not a bastard etc etc (yk Alicent’s hate for bastards 😭) Have Alicent kinda like “step up as readers new mom”. Reader calls alicent mommy etc etc yk go on from there. Maybe breastfeeding kink?
Also if you’re not comfortable with writing this then it’s okay 😭
look i haven’t wrote anything for Alicent but aye im not against it 😭😭
In The Night
Alicent Hightower x Targ!Reader
warning(s): NSFW - Explicit sexual content Mommy kink, Lactation/nursing content, Canon-divergent House of the Dragon, Breast play, Emotional intensity
wc: 3k
The corridors of the Red Keep are silent save for the whisper of your bare feet against cold stone. You shouldn't be here, not at this hour, not seeking her chambers of all places, but desperation has a way of making the impossible seem inevitable.
Tonight at supper, you'd watched your mother's face light up as Jacaerys recounted his day's training, her hand reaching across the table to ruffle his dark curls with such unguarded affection that your chest had tightened painfully. Then Lucerys had made her laugh, that bright, genuine sound you so rarely heard directed your way, and something inside you had finally cracked.
You are her true daughter. Her only daughter. Born of her union with Laenor Velaryon, bearing the silver-gold hair and violet eyes that mark you unmistakably as Targaryen and Velaryon both. Yet somehow, you have become invisible in her eyes, a shadow cast aside by the brilliance she sees in your brothers.
The irony isn't lost on you. In a court that whispers endlessly about legitimacy and bloodlines, you, the living proof of your mother's lawful marriage, feel more bastard than anyone.
Your hand trembles as you reach Alicent's door. This is madness. The Queen is your mother's greatest rival, the woman whose children stand between Rhaenyra and the throne she believes is her birthright. Every lesson in loyalty and family duty screams at you to turn back.
But you're so tired of being alone.
You knock softly, three gentle taps that sound thunderous in the sleeping castle.
For a long moment, nothing. Then footsteps, and the door opens just enough for Alicent Hightower to peer through, her auburn hair loose around her shoulders, a silk robe wrapped around her nightgown. Her brown eyes widen when she sees you.
"Princess," she breathes, glancing down the corridor. "What are you-is something wrong?"
The concern in her voice, immediate and genuine, is what breaks you. Your carefully constructed composure shatters, and suddenly you're fighting back tears, your throat too tight to speak.
Alicent's expression shifts from surprise to something softer, more maternal than you've seen directed at you in months. She reaches out, her hand warm on your wrist, and gently pulls you inside, closing the door behind you with a quiet click.
"Come here, sweet girl," she murmurs, guiding you toward the cushioned seats near her hearth where a low fire still burns. "Tell me what's happened."
You sink onto the seat, and she settles beside you, close enough that you can smell the lavender oil in her hair, the rosewater on her skin. Her chambers are warm and intimate, lit by candlelight that casts everything in amber and gold. Tapestries depicting the Seven line the walls, and her bed, large and inviting, dominates the far side of the room.
"I shouldn't have come," you manage, your voice breaking. "I just... I didn't know where else to go."
"Hush now." Alicent's hand finds yours, her fingers threading through yours with surprising tenderness. "You're safe here. Whatever troubles you, you can speak freely."
And perhaps it's the gentleness in her touch, or the way she looks at you, really looks at you, seeing you in a way your own mother hasn't in so long, but the words come spilling out.
"She doesn't see me anymore," you whisper. "My mother. I'm right there, every day, and she looks right through me. But my brothers, she lights up for them. She laughs with them, trains with them, plans with them. And I'm just... I'm nothing."
Alicent's grip on your hand tightens. "You are not nothing."
"I'm her true daughter!" The words burst from you with more force than you intended, years of hurt and confusion pouring out. "I have her blood, my father's blood. I'm not—" You choke on the word, the ugly whispers that follow your brothers everywhere. "I'm legitimate. I'm proof of her marriage, of her duty. But somehow that makes me matter *less* to her, not more."
"Oh, darling." Alicent shifts closer, and suddenly her arm is around your shoulders, drawing you against her side. You should resist, this is the Queen, your mother's enemy, but you're so starved for comfort that you melt into her embrace, your head finding the curve of her shoulder.
"She loves them because they're hers," you continue, your voice muffled against Alicent's robe. "Because she chose their father, because they represent her freedom or her passion or whatever it is she values more than duty. And I'm just... I'm the reminder of what she was forced to do. The obligation she fulfilled and then moved past."
"No." Alicent's voice is firm now, and she pulls back just enough to cup your face in both hands, forcing you to meet her eyes. "Listen to me, sweet girl. You are not an obligation. You are not a reminder of duty or a symbol of anything. You are a person, a beautiful, worthy, legitimate person who deserves to be loved for exactly who you are."
Tears spill down your cheeks, and Alicent's thumbs brush them away with infinite gentleness.
"You are trueborn," she continues, her voice soft but intense. "You carry the blood of dragons and the blood of the sea. You are your mother's daughter and your father's daughter, and that makes you precious beyond measure. If Rhaenyra cannot see that, if she is too blind or too caught up in her own concerns to recognize the treasure she has in you, then that is her failing, not yours."
"But why?" you ask, your voice small and broken. "Why am I not enough for her?"
"You are enough." Alicent leans forward, pressing her forehead to yours, and the intimacy of the gesture steals your breath. "You are more than enough. You are everything a mother could want, beautiful, intelligent, kind. Any woman would be blessed to call you daughter."
Something shifts in the air between you. The comfort that brought you here is transforming into something else, something charged and electric. Alicent is so close, her breath warm on your lips, her hands still cradling your face like you're something precious and fragile.
"I wish..." you start, then stop, afraid to voice the longing that's been growing in your chest.
"What do you wish, darling?" Alicent's voice has dropped to barely more than a whisper.
"I wish you were my mother," you confess, and the words hang in the air between you, dangerous and true.
Alicent's eyes darken, her pupils dilating in the candlelight. "Would you like that?" she asks softly. "Would you like me to be your mother? To care for you the way you deserve?"
You nod, unable to speak, your heart pounding so hard you're certain she can hear it.
"Then let me," Alicent murmurs. Her thumb traces your lower lip, and you shiver. "Let me give you what she won't. Let me see you, treasure you, love you the way a mother should."
"Yes," you breathe. "Please."
"You can call me that, you know," she says, her voice taking on a quality you've never heard before, tender and commanding at once. "If you want to. You can call me mommy."
The word sends a jolt through your entire body, awakening something you didn't know existed inside you. "Mommy," you whisper, testing it out, and Alicent's eyes flutter closed for a moment, her lips parting.
"Yes, sweet girl. I'm your mommy now." She strokes your hair back from your face. "And mommy is going to take care of you. Is going to make you feel loved and wanted and cherished. Would you like that?"
"Yes, mommy." The words feel natural on your tongue, right in a way that makes your whole body warm.
Alicent smiles, and it's radiant, transforming her face into something almost otherworldly in its beauty. "Good girl," she praises, and the approval in her voice makes you want to do anything to hear it again.
She leans in slowly, giving you time to pull away, but you don't. You can't. You've been drowning for so long, and she's offering you air.
When her lips meet yours, it's soft at first, tentative. A question. You answer by pressing closer, your hands coming up to grip her robe, and Alicent makes a small sound of approval against your mouth. The kiss deepens, her tongue tracing the seam of your lips until you open for her, and then she's tasting you, claiming you, pouring all her promised care and devotion into the connection of your mouths.
You've been kissed before, fumbling encounters with young lords and ladies at feasts, curiosity more than passion, but nothing like this. Nothing that makes you feel like you're being consumed and cherished simultaneously, like you're the most important thing in the world.
Alicent's hands slide from your face to your shoulders, down your arms, learning the shape of you through your thin nightgown. You gasp into her mouth when her palms skim the sides of your breasts, and she pulls back just enough to look at you, her eyes searching.
"Is this alright?" she asks. "Do you want this, sweet girl? Tell mommy what you need."
"I need you," you admit, your voice shaking with want and vulnerability. "I need to feel wanted. I need—I need you to show me I matter."
"Oh, darling." Alicent kisses you again, harder this time, with more urgency. "You matter so much. Let me show you. Let mommy show you exactly how precious you are."
She stands, pulling you up with her, and walks you backward toward her bed. Your legs hit the edge and you sit, looking up at her as she stands before you, backlit by firelight, looking like some goddess of old.
"Lie back," she instructs gently, and you obey, your silver-gold hair spreading across her pillows like molten metal. She climbs onto the bed beside you, propping herself on one elbow so she can look down at you, her free hand coming to rest on your stomach.
"So beautiful," she murmurs, and you can hear the truth in her voice. "Your mother is a fool not to spend every moment marveling at you."
Her hand slides up, cupping your breast through your nightgown, and you arch into the touch with a soft moan. Alicent's smile is pleased, almost proud, as she watches your reaction.
"That's it, sweet girl. Let mommy make you feel good."
She leans down to kiss you again, her tongue delving deep as her hand kneads your breast, thumb circling your nipple until it's a hard peak beneath the fabric. You're making sounds you've never made before, desperate little whimpers and gasps that Alicent seems to drink in like wine.
Her mouth leaves yours to trail down your jaw, your throat, finding the sensitive spot where your neck meets your shoulder and sucking gently. You cry out, your hands flying to her hair, tangling in the auburn waves.
"Mommy," you gasp, and she hums against your skin.
"I'm here, darling. Mommy's here."
Her hand leaves your breast to gather the hem of your nightgown, slowly drawing it up your legs. You lift your hips to help her, and then the garment is gone, tossed aside, leaving you bare before her. You should feel vulnerable, exposed, but the way Alicent looks at you, with such hunger and adoration, makes you feel powerful instead.
"Perfect," she breathes, her hand skimming up your thigh. "Absolutely perfect."
She kisses down your body, her lips and tongue mapping every inch of skin, your collarbone, the valley between your breasts, your ribs, your stomach. Each touch is reverent, worshipful, making you feel like something sacred.
When she reaches your hips, she pauses, looking up at you with dark eyes. "May I?" she asks, and you nod frantically, beyond words.
Alicent settles between your thighs, her breath warm against your most intimate place, and then her mouth is on you and you're seeing stars. Her tongue is skilled and patient, learning what makes you gasp and writhe, what makes you call out her name, her title.
"Mommy, please," you beg, not even sure what you're asking for, just knowing you need more.
She gives it to you, her fingers joining her mouth, filling you, stretching you, while her tongue works magic on that bundle of nerves that makes your whole body sing. The pleasure builds and builds, a wave rising higher and higher, until you're cresting, breaking, crying out as your release crashes through you.
Alicent works you through it, gentling her touches as you come down, pressing soft kisses to your inner thighs. When she crawls back up your body, her lips are glistening, and she kisses you deeply, letting you taste yourself on her tongue.
"Good girl," she praises, stroking your hair. "Such a good girl for mommy."
You're floating, boneless and sated, but there's still something missing. Some need that hasn't been filled. You nuzzle into Alicent's neck, breathing in her scent, and your lips find the soft skin there, kissing and sucking gently.
Alicent's breath hitches. "What do you need, sweet girl?" she asks, her voice husky. "Tell mommy."
"Want to be close to you," you murmur against her skin. "Want to feel safe."
"You are safe, darling. You're safe with me." She shifts, adjusting so you're tucked against her side, your head on her shoulder. Her robe has come loose, and you can feel the warmth of her skin through her thin nightgown.
Your hand rests on her stomach, and slowly, hesitantly, you slide it up to cup her breast. Alicent inhales sharply but doesn't stop you. You can feel her nipple hardening under your palm, and something primal and needy rises in you.
"Mommy," you whisper. "Can I...?"
You don't finish the question, but Alicent seems to understand. Her hand comes up to cover yours, pressing it more firmly against her breast.
"Is this what you need?" she asks softly. "Do you need to nurse from mommy?"
The word should sound strange, inappropriate, but instead it sends warmth flooding through you. "Yes," you admit. "Please."
Alicent sits up slightly, adjusting the pillows behind her back, and then she's unlacing the front of her nightgown, parting the fabric to reveal her breasts. They're beautiful, full and soft, her nipples dark and peaked.
"Come here, darling," she says, guiding your head to her chest. "Take what you need."
You latch onto her nipple with a desperation that surprises you both, sucking hard, and Alicent gasps, her hand coming up to cradle the back of your head. There's no milk, you know there won't be, but that's not what this is about. It's about comfort, connection, the most primal form of maternal care.
"That's it," Alicent breathes, her voice thick with emotion. "That's my good girl. Mommy's got you."
You suckle contentedly, your eyes drifting closed, one hand coming up to hold her other breast. Alicent's fingers stroke through your hair, down your back, soothing and gentle. She begins to hum softly, some lullaby from her own childhood, and the sound vibrates through her chest into you.
Time loses meaning. There's only this, the warmth of her skin, the taste of her, the steady rhythm of her heartbeat beneath your ear. All the hurt and loneliness that brought you here is melting away, replaced by a profound sense of peace and belonging.
"You're mine now," Alicent murmurs, her voice drowsy and content. "My sweet girl. My precious daughter. I'll never let you feel unwanted again."
You make a small sound of agreement, too comfortable to form words, and switch to her other breast. Alicent sighs happily, adjusting to accommodate you, her arms wrapping around you more securely.
"Sleep, darling," she whispers. "Mommy will keep you safe."
Your suckling grows slower, more languid, as exhaustion pulls at you. The emotional turmoil of the evening, combined with the physical release and the overwhelming comfort of being held like this, is dragging you down into sleep.
But you fight it for a moment longer, needing to say something, needing her to know.
You release her nipple just long enough to whisper, "Thank you, mommy. For seeing me. For wanting me."
Alicent's arms tighten around you, and you feel her press a kiss to the top of your head. "Always, sweet girl. Always."
You latch back on, and this time you let sleep take you, drifting off with your lips still sealed around her nipple, your body curled into hers, feeling more loved and cherished than you have in years.
Alicent holds you through the night, one hand in your hair, the other rubbing slow circles on your back. She watches you sleep, this beautiful girl who came to her in desperation and found sanctuary, and something fierce and protective blooms in her chest.
Let Rhaenyra have her sons, her precious heirs and her grand plans. Alicent has this, this perfect, precious daughter who chose her, who needed her, who called her mommy and meant it with every fiber of her being.
The politics of the realm, the succession, the endless games of power, none of it matters in this moment. There is only a mother and daughter, bound not by blood but by choice, by need, by a love that grew in the space of a single night.
As dawn begins to lighten the sky beyond her windows, Alicent finally allows herself to sleep, secure in the knowledge that when you wake, you'll still be here, still hers, still safe in her arms.
And if anyone dares to question it, if Rhaenyra comes demanding her daughter back, Alicent will face her with the calm certainty of a mother protecting her child.
Because you are hers now. Her daughter. Her sweet girl.
