It’s 1987. You’re in Ireland. You’re also alone with your boss in a hotel room.
⋆˚࿔ tags: smut (quickie!!!), forbidden romance, age gap (reader is in her 20s),
⋆˚࿔ w/c: 2.4k. short n sweet!
“I brought your notes.”
“Ah,” Declan said, taking a puff of his cigarette before gesturing to a tiny dresser next to the bed. “Leave them there. That’s the last thing I need from you, I promise.”
You scoffed playfully, shutting the door behind you with two fingers before following his instructions, just as you’d been paid to do. Declan was sat in an armchair by the side of the bed, one leg folded over the other as he flicked through folders of various photos and messy sheets of paper that you assumed were about the wider administration of Venturer. He looked…homely, domestic, nothing like the image of a dashing bachelor on horseback he’d portrayed earlier today.
Ultimately it didn’t matter, because Declan was gorgeous either way.
“There’s never a last thing,” you said matter of factly, sitting on the edge of the bed, your legs a safe distance from eachothers. Squinting, he made a pained face.
“Am I that bad?”
You chuckled. Being his assistant meant you’d seen it all.
The Friedlander interview. The Valentine’s Day special. The broken Thatcher promise, so forth and so on until inevitably, the implosion. Like a good little girl you’d watched and crisis managed where you could; calming buzzing phone lines and staying up until dawn with faxes in your best attempt to not get swept away in the chaos around you. Public and private.
‘Somehow, you always manage to keep your head above water,’ Declan had said, words muffled against a cigarette. He’d placed a hand on your shoulder and given it a slight squeeze. ‘I’m going to need you with me at Venturer.’
There was a distinction; I’m, not we. Rupert and Freddie didn’t know you like he did. They saw you at shindigs and industry nights, dressed nicely but modest, and made silly jokes about how you could tame such a spitfire, but they didn’t see the funny in-between…because no one did.
Being, they never saw the pre-show dressing room chats – the ones where you’d sit crossed legged opposite him in a high chair, running through notes whilst he combed his fingers through his hair, messing up the stylist’s hard work – all for you to chuckle and for him to know immediately what you were laughing about.
‘Jesus. I’ve fucked the sides up again, haven’t I?’
‘A bit. You’re lucky it’s a bit of a blind spot for camera two.’
Nor did they see when you’d bring him his coffee, where he’d take a long, thirsty sip, mug tight in his hands as he acknowledged you, voice honeyed, content; as if he were savouring the very taste of you on his tongue.
‘Thanks love. You always make it perfect.’
Your favourites were the late night drives.
The ones punctuated by fleeting glimpses over at you, Declan’s intensity enough to make your cheeks warm and heart shudder, all the while you’d try not to look down at his spread thighs, one hand on the wheel as the car seemed to glide down the road effortlessly. It was always quiet because you’d both grown to be content with each others’ company, unless you’d asked him to drop you somewhere unfamiliar — to which he’d chide and pry with the tone of a concerned adult.
“It’s 2 o’clock in the bloody morning and you want me to drop you off at the pub?”
“It’s just a small gathering with some friends. This guy’s dad owns it.”
“You know you’ve got to be at Corinium for 11, don’t you?”
“That’s plenty of time.”
Declan sighed.
“How are you getting home?”
“I’m just going to stay over…I’ll catch a ride from someone in the morning.”
You were both adults. You knew what ‘staying over’ meant, yet the idea felt foreign to you both. Like Declan wasn’t supposed to know such things – even if you were an adult– and like you should’ve reconsidered spending the night at all.
Pulling on the brakes, the car stopped with a halt, gentle rumbling of the engine still audible. Soothing, almost.
“Be careful, alright?” Declan spoke. “Drunk fuckers are the worst.”
“It’s nice that you worry about me,” you snorted. “Most assistants are treated like crap.”
“Well, you’re well worth the investment,” he replied nonchalantly. There was a glaring lack of hesitation in his words, like he’d spoken the first thing on his mind. “See you tomorrow.”
You’d returned the greeting and got out of the car.
“Thanks for the ride,” you beamed, bending down as you popped your head through the window, “say hi to the family for me.”
He nodded but didn’t speak, exhaling softly from his nose.
“You know you’ve really got to get that car of yours fixed,” he called out. “I can’t keep driving you places.”
“Perhaps if you stopped insisting, I’d have an incentive to get it out the garage,” you giggled coyly, “maybe you should learn to control your impulses.”
It was just a tease, but in that moment you were unaware of just how much Declan was holding back.
“Go,” he insisted. “Enjoy your evening. Don’t spend it here with me.”
“It’s my job,” you shrugged. “Besides, you’re practically having a party on your own…” you trailed off, nodding towards the glass of whiskey also on the dresser, and back to the cigarette in his hand.
“Trust me love, I don’t always drink to celebrate,” he spoke, voice gravelly as he flashed you a small smirk. “Soothes the body. ‘S a bit of a bad habit…want some?”
You cocked your head.
“A sip wouldn’t hurt.”
Declan playfully raised his brows before handing the drink to you, warm fingers brushing each-others against the cold glass. The contact didn’t seem to bother him, instead finding your eyes locked on each others as you diligently took a sip, downing the oaky liquid with ease.
You preferred lighter spirits, but you didn’t mind the burn of scotch. It had an intoxicating way of lighting your insides.
Declan briefly glanced to the floor as you handed the glass back to him, swiping a tongue over his lips. There was a moment of heavy, punctuated silence before he spoke, his words careful and less confident than before.
“…Patrick’s got his eye on you, you know.”
Sighing, you rolled your shoulders. Patrick O’Hara was nice enough; he had rich, dark curls that you could envision running your fingers through, and was educated aptly to the point that you could probably hold a decent conversation together over dinner – but he lacked the excitement a twenty-something girl like you wanted in her life.
It was hard to find happiness in security when it seemed everyone in Rutshire were pining for cheap thrills.
Taggie had her thing with Rupert.
Boys had dalliances with other boys.
Even Maud, Patrick’s own mother, had fell on her sword chasing the slightest bit of euphoria.
Patrick simply didn’t measure, at least not for now.
“He knows where to find me. My room is opposite his.”
“He’s just trying to be a gentleman,” Declan said sincerely, taking a sip of his drink. “Might look a bit improper if he barged in, begging to see you.”
“We’re both adults. We can express what we want if we want it,” you shrugged. “And he shouldn’t worry about looking skeevy or whatever. If the TV landscape is anything to go by, shame is not common.”
“Fair enough,” Declan mused, pursing his lips. Absentmindedly, he swivelled his glass. “…I think you’d make a nice pair, you two.”
He was just saving face. In fact, you were almost certain he was lying.
“Did I come here just for you to play matchmaker?”
“Maybe,” he acquiesced, slumping back in his seat. The cotton of his shirt slid against the velvet lining of the sofa, pulling so that it exposed more of his chest, a tease; just enough to get a glimpse of how a gold chain sat upon his clavicle, and the tips of his chest hair poked out like wild grass, a picture of the wide plains underneath. “Give him a chance. Let him take you out dancing, for dinner. Somewhere nice. You ever taken a ride on his bike?”
You chuckled.
“Grow up,” the man chided sportively. “I didn’t mean it that way.”
“Unfortunately for you I can’t help it,” you snickered, “why do you want us together so much anyway?”
“Mainly because it would stop the sad songs in the middle of the night.”
“Mainly? Is there another reason?”
You peered at him curiously, and he seemed to shrink under your gaze, tucking his chin to his chest as he fumbled with the glass, his fingers uncoordinated as they fiddled with the rim.
You’d finally crossed the threshold, however thin and unguarded it had become over the years. He was looking at you now; and ran a hand over his moustache in contemplation, calculating the weight of his words before he delivered them in the same manner he would conduct business, because, in a way, it was. He was your boss and you his assistant. You were the object of his son’s affections and he were his father. Any outcome were guaranteed to have a nuclear fallout.
But, this wasn’t Venturer. Neither of you needed to consider what was good for profit, or the team. You could be selfish. It were the only place you were allowed to.
“You’re a bright girl,” he insisted, voice gravelly. “You deserve a good guy.”
“He is a sweet boy,” you hummed. “But you’d never escape me. I’ll be at work and in your home. Do you want that?”
He shrugged.
“It doesn’t bother me.”
“As long as I don’t end up filing your electricity bills.”
“You have my word.”
“Alright,” you announced decidedly, standing to your feet with a smile, “I suppose there’s nothing wrong in making a boy happy…Get some rest when you can, alright?”
You placed a hand on his shoulder and gave it a gentle pat, to which he wrapped his larger, calloused hand ontop of yours and gave it a soft squeeze in response. You glanced down.
“Oh. Did you lose your ring?”
“I took it off,” he spoke sincerely, like he was still processing the act. His eyes were wide, yearning with something you couldn’t quite place. “I’m not kidding myself anymore.”
You nodded slowly, swallowing the lump of anticipation in your throat. Your words came out soft, girlish; just with a hint of suggestion that made it seem like a purely innocent offer.
“Declan…Do you want me to stay here tonight?”
He didn’t respond with words, but discarded the papers from his thighs to the bed, grip now on your wrist and tugging you onto his lap. Instinctively, you straddled him, fingers tracing patterns on his broad chest whilst one of his hands found your legs.
“You’re gonna be the fucking death of me, you know that?”
“I know.” Was all you said, enough permission for Declan to take your lips into his own, hand firm on the side of your cheek as he kissed you. His moustache was thick and bristly, but in a way you rather enjoyed – prickly, like him. He grunted as you adjusted yourself on his lap, sliding a hand down the inside of his shirt and coiling your fingers around his hairs, inner thigh grazing the growing mound in his slacks.
Skilfully, you popped open the remaining buttons on his shirt. Once freed, you pressed your lips down his toned chest, from his pectorals to his abs, and eventually, his belly button — dangerously close to his pelvis. That was when he pulled you up, hands firm on either of your shoulders.
“You don’t have to do that, love,” he whispered, voice breathy. You twisted your lips.
“I want to…”
“Fuck,” he grunted, cock twitching. “I’ve thought about it. God knows I have. But – not now…I want to be inside you…”
With a grin, you watched him intently as he glided his hands down your shoulders; running his fingers along the side of your breasts and tracing them with the focus of a sculptor before undoing your cardigan, exposing your bra. Declan glanced up at you through half lidded eyes, cupping them in his hands as he danced between your torso and your hips whilst you rubbed against him.
He was content in worshipping you as you fumbled with his zipper. You licked your hand before wrapping it around his length; hot, twitching and ready for you.
“Dirty girl,” he crooned, steadying you as you pressed your knees into the cushion, hips raised so that he could free himself. You remained like this for a few moments, letting him fiddle with a condom before he lowered you onto him.
Shuddering, your mouth ran dry as your walls adjusted around him, gasps satiated by Declan’s kisses to your throat, as if breathing the very life out of you. You began to move only once you’d taken him halfway, hips rocking in a steady rhythm as he kept you balanced.
What he didn’t have in length he possessed in girth, stretching and filling you completely each time you sank down on him, all to a chorus of his heavy grunts and your whimpers. Declan’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat as he watched you come undone, absentmindedly beginning to thrust, desperate for you to take him further.
“You take me so fucking good sweetheart…so wet…all for me….”
Brushing his hair with your fingers, you gripped at his roots, an action that made him throw his head back in pleasure.
“Is that good?” you cooed, “This is what you wanted, hm? All those nights —“
“— I should’ve taken you sooner,” he spoke through gritted teeth. “On my desk. In my car…”
“I quite liked the wait…” you lulled, kissing the side of his face as your cunt twitched around him. You were close. “Made me want it more.”
“Shit,” Declan hissed, squeezing the supple flesh of your thighs. “ ‘M gonna fill you up—“
He finished with a loud groan, a wet heat bursting in your core as he emptied inside you, chest heaving and muscles twitching. Your release followed shortly, finding yourself collapsing onto his chest. He held you there; delicately, hand on the plane of your back as if he were afraid you might break. His touch was warm.
“You’re sweaty.” He lamented, chest rumbling as he spoke. The scent of whisky still lingered in the air.
It would be hilarious and tragic if somehow our little septa DOES get pregnant but, as she's showing signs of pregnancy, she's in for a check up requested to see if she's been immoral and might possibly need to be sent to the silent sisters.
Yet...her Maidenhead is intact. The maester confirms; she'd lose her maidenhead upon birth.
Damn we should call her Mary of westeros. That and the babe having valyrian features would 100% cause a religious panic and so the high septon might deem it necessary to send the child and maiden mother to the Targaryens to be out of sight.
Daeron accidentally wins
It literally would’ve been the Immaculate Conception of Westeros omg😭 The scandal would’ve been crazyy
Daeron wins either way (he’s selfish) and it’s definitely tragic because Reader is bonded to him through guilt, and now a baby, all because he stripped his ‘friend’ of her autonomy! Sex education was obviously not proper in that time and she’s probably just confused and upset that it could happen. She doesn’t hate Daeron either, just doesn’t feel as strongly for him as he does for her
Not to mention her father fully expected her to be a septa and never a mother, so it’s even more shameful
Daeron’s probably not that happy about the baby thing, but he’s basically going to have Readers attention for the rest of his life so what does he care?They’re now basically both pariahs
