laur’s writing hub

laura! 23. she/her. 18+ blog. MDNI. requests closed!

[sinsofsummers]

sinsofsummers masterlist

last updated: jul. 16, 2025

find my fics & turn on notifs for my sideblog to know when i post!

all fics will be/are 18+. smutty fics to come. beware and be aware. mdni. read the warnings!! i do my best to get them all, but let me know if i miss any!

🌻 = newest: up to a week old.

requests are: open, but selective!

who have i written for?

clark kent

lois lane

logan howlett / wolverine

joel miller

bucky barnes

din djarin

marc spector

clark kent

🌻 edging thots

summary: you're working late at the daily planet. unedited thots of sub!clark.

lois lane

🌻 lois thots

summary: just some lois x f!reader thoughts i’ve been having.

joel miller

sensational | part two | part three

summary: thanks to becoming an orphan at age 13, you've lived the rest of your life oblivious to all the world can offer. now that you're in jackson, joel miller ignites something in you that only he can give answers to.

cool about it

summary: it’s that day again. you don’t know why joel’s so withdrawn, but you help him manage it in the best way you know how. based on ‘cool about it’ by boygenius.

vicious (requested)

summary: joel fucks you with his gas mask on.

undone

summary: joel worships the day you went braless to his fourth of july party.

logan howlett

logan thots

summary: my first thots for logan. future fics are coming.

keep quiet

summary: logan can smell the desire coming off of you in waves. he doesn't waste any time in doing something about it.

cupcake

summary: logan eats you for lunch.

din djarin

push & pull

summary: you show din djarin how to have fun. this is the way. (complete mando au, does not follow canon at all.)

marc spector

insatiable

summary: giving marc head at any and all times of the day is your version of fun.

[sinsofsummers]

reading my old fics circa 2024 is so…i was really on one

[heartlesscorpsee]

Walking Away (2/2) 𐙚𓏲⋆

sandor clegane x fem!baratheon!reader

part 1 !!

summary: joffrey's birthday brings a huge surprise for Sandor when you return to the capital for the celebrations. the bond that was thought to be lost resurfaces.

tw: smut MDNI, legal age gap, p in v, unprotected sex, size kink, fingering, dirty talk, kind of public sex, yearning and cursing because is sandor.

note: finally i had time to write, here is part two, which I hadn't planned but definitely felt necessary. i have to say its the first time i write smut so i hope its not too bad. thank u so much for all the comments and support, enjoyy <3!

link to ao3

The sun beat down mercilessly on the tournament field in the eastern grounds of the Red Keep, the air hung thick with dust and blood. Joffrey Baratheon, perched on a raised platform beneath a golden canopy, clapped with childish delight at every ringing blow that echoed across the yard. It was his nameday, and the king had chosen to celebrate it in the traditional way, with blood and steel.

At the center of the field stood the Hound, towering and imposing. His black armor, dented and freshly spattered with red, made him look like a living shadow. The snarling hound-shaped helm silently bared its teeth, hiding the ruin of scars that devoured half his face. Before him knelt a knight from the Stormlands, gasping, sword broken beside him, the Hound’s blade already pressed lightly against his throat. And the crowd roared for death.

Sandor felt no pride or happiness at those cheers in his favor, nothing but the familiar, grinding weight of hatred, the same hatred that had kept him alive all these years.

From the platform Joffrey shouted. “Finish him, Dog!” So he gave the crowd what they wanted. A single swift motion, and a bright river of crimson spilled across the ground. Still breathing hard, he dropped to one knee before the king, but his heart lurched when he looked up, his heart nearly stopping the moment he noticed you.

Just arriving, making your way to your mother, with the elegance of someone who belongs with ease without failing to stand out. The wind that traveled from the Blackwater Bay played with your hair as though the sea itself had carried you back, he felt his knee trembling, and for a second he thought he was going to collapse right there in front of the crowd.

It was funny how weak he felt at the mere sight of you right after he had just killed a man with ease.

He managed to bow is head as the protocol demanded, but his dark eyes never left you, not for a second, desperately trying to know if this was some cruel trick of his own mind. But there you were, not a hallucination. Those strange feelings he had never managed to put in the past started rising up inside him again like a wave that will soon end up crashing again the rocks.

You were dressed in Dornish silks, in a wine color with gold embroidery that caught the light and made you shine like you had just walk out of a dream. Myrcella stood beside you, clinging shyly to your arm, while your mother smiled again at the sight of her two daughters whom she had missed deeply.

You were back.

Sandor removed his helmet, his face now in full view of everyone under the bright light of the sunny day, because he didn't care if the young ladies of the court were terrified and all the men were disgusted. He knew that nothing about him would be new to you and that you would continue to look at him in that stupidly kind way only you could give to a beast like him.

Your eyes, those rare eyes that Robert had passed only to you, locked onto his when the victory was announced loudly, without the slightest trace of fear at meeting the face most people recoiled from, you kept your eyes on him, and there was something in your gaze. Not pity or disgust, but recognition, that same thing you always offered in the past and that he hadn’t felt since the day you left.

Joffrey leaned forward, grinning with smug pride as though he himself had been the one swinging the sword. His voice came out high and excited, the voice of a child who’d just been handed a new toy. “Rise, Dog! You fought well today!”

Sandor rose slowly, helm still gripped in his left hand, sword in his right. Sweat ran down his burned face. He moved and took his usual place, at the king’s right, one step back. Close enough to protect, far enough that no one had to endure his presence too closely. But his posture was rigid, every muscle coiled tight beneath the steel.

From there he could see you even better. Just a few paces away, on the other side of the throne, flanked by a Lannister guard and right next to your mother. He had never liked the idea of having a place there, next to all those people he secretly hated, and yet now he was grateful for the privileged view that had been offered to him.

Your eyes found him again without a trace of embarrassment and a small, almost imperceptible smile curved your lips. The very same smile he had dreamed of every night since you were gone, the one he had never managed to forget.

Sandor’s chest tightened. It wasn’t fear, but something worse, a type of weakness maybe, a dangerous hope that had no place in a man like him. He growled low in his throat, a sound lost beneath the cheering of the crowd. He tried to control himself, looking away as if he wasn’t dying to glance at your way one more time.

Joffrey, oblivious to everything, waved a bejeweled hand toward the arena.

“Next fight!” And two other knights came out and the fight started again.

You took a seat next to your brothers and your mother, too engrossed in the conversation and festivities to turn your attention back to the enormous shadow behind Joffrey, who was taking advantage of everyone's distraction to satisfy the hunger he had felt for you in your absence.

The celebrations dragged on long after the sun had bled into the horizon, the Red Keep’s great hall transformed into a riot of laughter and too much wine. Musicians played until their fingers cramped, servants moving everywhere with trays that never seemed to empty, and Joffrey, had finally been coaxed, or rather, half-carried back to his royal chambers sometime after the moon reached its zenith.

Sandor Clegane had performed his duty as always, the silent shadow at the king’s back, one hand never far from the hilt of his sword. He had seen Joffrey safely carried behind heavy oak doors, exchanged the curt nod with the two gold cloaks posted outside, and then without a conscious decision he turned his boots toward the wing where he knew the rest of royal family slept.

The same path he used to walk before you left.

The corridor was quieter here, moonlight spilled silver through the tall arched windows, painting the stone floor in pale stripes. He meant only to take up his old walk outside your door, lean against the wall like a gargoyle, and let the night pass in the familiar burn of wanting something he could never have.

But you weren’t inside this time. You were out on the narrow balcony that overlooked the Blackwater, elbows braced on the stone balustrade, a half-empty goblet dangling loosely from your fingers. The night wind carried the faint salt tang of the bay and tugged at the thin silk of your nightgown, that left little to the imagination.

Your hair was undone now, the long strands danced with the soft night breeze. You didn’t startle when his heavy footsteps sounded behind you. Instead you turned your head slowly, eyes glassy and bright, lips curved in that same small, reckless smile you’d given him earlier in the yard.

“I thought you had broken the habit.” You said revealing that it had never been a secret to you that he used to spend the nights he could standing guard outside your chambers even though it wasn't part of his duties.

Sandor stopped a careful three paces away. Close enough to catch you if you swayed but far enough to feel confident that he wouldn't lose control. “Was busy making sure your sweet brother didn’t choke on his own tongue.” he grunted in a sarcastic tone. His gaze flicked to the goblet. “How much of that Dornish red have you drowned yourself in, girl?”

You laughed, low, breathy, nothing like the careful court laugh you’d used all day. “Enough to survive the festivities” You lifted the cup in a mock toast toward him.

He watched the way your fingers trembled ever so slightly around the stem. Watched the flush high on your cheeks and the way the moonlight slid along the curve of your throat when you tipped your head back to drink again. You were completely drunk.

“Almost nothing has changed, huh?” You said, turning your gaze towards the garden below, dimly bathed in the moonlight. Sandor followed your eyes and let out a low grunt not knowing what words could possibly entertain a woman like you.

But you were drunk enough to not be able to shut up. “I’m gonna get married you know?…” At those words Sandor felt something ignite in his stomach and burn everything inside him. He had to hold back the curses before you started mumbling again. “And I don’t feel anything for him, I don’t wish to go back…but gods Myrcella loves that place.”

Your words ceased to be coherent, and Sandor could only think of those stupid fantasies he had created even before you left the first time. He wanted to run away with you to a place so far away that no one could ever take you away from him again.

You set the goblet on the balustrade with exaggerated care and then you turned fully toward him, a long silence stretched between the both of you, your eyes lost in his, making him want to reach for your face and press a long kiss on your lips. He noticed that the scar on your cheek had disappeared completely and he tried to memorize in those few seconds your face again, to recollect the little details that had changed with time.

You moved swaying but you still managing to take two steps towards him. One hand shot out to steady yourself against the stone but the other one reached, slow and deliberate toward the side of his face. Sandor caught your wrist before your fingertips could brush his burned skin, with a strong grip that would have make any other girl tremble in fear.

Suddenly his heart raced. Sandor thought you must be too drunk to realize what you were doing. His grip on your wrist grew stronger without him even noticing but still you didn’t back down.

“Don’t.” he rasped. Your eyes, those damn beautiful eyes were still on him with that stubborn warmth that had always undone him. He couldn’t understand how anyone could want to touch something so awful. He felt scared. An almost foreign feeling for a man like him.

“Why not?” you murmured in a voice that felt like you were challenging him. And he cursed the seven gods for how weak he felt in front of you.

“You’re drunk, you don't know what you're doing.” Sandor answered in a dark and almost angry tone but right after that he let go of your wrist like it burned him and stepped back. “Go inside.” He said nodding towards the door of your chambers like he was scolding a kid.

He needed to stop this situation before the worst in him took over and he obeyed the drunken proposition you had just made with just a subtle gesture. Sandor didn't even understand where he had gotten the strength not to bend you over that balcony and fulfill all of the dirty fantasies that had started to play in his mind the moment he saw you standing there alone.

You didn’t obeyed to his command, and instead you closed the distance again until your feet brushed the edge of his boots. You had to tilt your head far back to meet his eyes.

“I think I need help getting back to bed...” You said in a barely audible whisper that send a shiver through his body. He could smell the wine in your warm breath and he knew this was dangerous the moment he felt his cock hardening.

For one dangerous heartbeat he imagined tasting the wine on your mouth, letting himself be the beast everyone already thought he was and take advantage of the vulnerable state you were in.

But the thought of waking to your regret, to the way your eyes might look at him when the wine wore off, was enough to make him reconsider everything. You didn’t deserve to be taken by a monster.

He caught your arm with one of his hands and turn you toward the open doors of your chamber, not in hard way but enough to make you move and kept you from falling.

“Inside.” he said again, quieter this time. Almost pleading, trying to keep his thoughts away from anything that involved him on top of you.

You let him guide you, steps weaving, the warmth of you pressed against his side was torture as his mind betrayed him with the curiosity of how your skin would feel under the fabric of your gown.

Once you reached the bed with his help you lay down, letting out a long sigh before looking at him again, silhouetted by the low fire burning in the hearth. Moonlight and firelight fought over his skin. “Will you stay?” you asked. Voice small and vulnerable in a way that strangely turned him on. “Just… outside. Like before.”

You were a complete spectacle, lying on the bed in the moonlight that managed to filter through the windows, the silhouette of your body outlined in the light fabric of your gown. Your eyelids were opening with increasing difficulty, and to Sandor, the whole image felt like something out of his darkest dreams.

He had imagined you like this so many times, and now he was trying with all his strength not to lose control.

He swallowed but in the end nodded, he couldn’t refuse you, not when you speak and looked at him like that, like you trusted him. Your smile this time was softer and tired. ”I missed you…” You said in a whisper, the words felt forbbiden coming from your lips.

No one had ever said such sweet words to him. He stayed still in silent, his eyes darted away trying to act like he hadn’t heard what you just said, he saw then his old handkerchief he had gifted to you the day you left. It was nicely placed on the top of the small table near the window and It was surprising to him that you still had that.

Before he could move you mumbled again. “I dreamt of you so many times…” You shifted slightly on the bed, letting out a long breath, a few second later your eyes finally closed completely as you murmured more words that Sandor couldn't decipher.

He watched you for a few seconds, the way your chest rose and fell calmly as your last words echoed in his mind. It was too dangerous to allow himself to believe your words, to allow himself to feel that you desired him. After all, it was impossible, wasn't it?. That a princess like you could one day reciprocate the storm of emotions he struggled to suppress.

Trying to compose himself and stop his racing heartbeat, he left your room, closing the door behind him and letting out a long sigh. He had no idea how he had managed to remain stoic until now.

Your words and your beautiful image, now etched in his mind, would undoubtedly stay with him for the rest of the night. He suddenly noticed the cup you had left on the balustrade and took the opportunity to finish the remaining wine while imagining the taste of your lips that had caressed that same cup.

It would undoubtedly be a difficult night to spend alone with his dangerous thoughts and only a few meters away from you.

The stables at that hour were nearly empty, most of the knights had gone to supper, leaving only the soft snorts of horses and the occasional scrape of a hoof on stone. Sandor preferred it this way. No eyes on him. His armor was discarded on the floor and now he could move freely on his casual clothes.

He had spent the entire day dodging you. He’d seen you three times, once in the outer yard at dawn, walking with Myrcella toward the sept, your laughter carrying on the cool air like something fragile and wrong in this place and he’d turned on his heel before you had time to get close to him.

Later, mid-morning, you’d passed the training yard with two Lannister ladies trailing behind like brightly colored birds, the moment he caught the flash of your Dornish silks in his peripheral vision, he walked in the opposite way, toward the armory without a backward glance, even though he wished so badly to look at you.

And then at midday, worst of all, you’d been in the gardens with your mother and Tommen. He’d been on his way to relieve one of the gold cloaks at the postern gate when he saw you kneeling beside a bed of late-blooming roses, showing the boy how to snap the stem cleanly. The sight of your fingers so soft and careful, had nearly undone him. He’d stopped dead in the archway for half a heartbeat before forcing his boots to move again, faster this time, until the gardens were behind him and his pulse no longer thundered in his ears.

He couldn’t be near you. Not after last night.

Not after the way you’d looked at him on that balcony, wine-loose and reckless, your hand reaching for the ruin of his face like it was something worth touching.

He’d spent the night outside your door again, same as the old days, listening to your soft breathing through the wood until the sky paled. Then he’d left before the servants stirred, before anyone could see the Kingsguard’s sworn shield reduced to a dog waiting for scraps.

He couldn’t do it again. Couldn’t stand there smelling your skin and wine while every filthy thought he’d ever buried clawed its way back up. So he’d avoided you. After all, your destiny was already written, you would marry a fancy lord and live far away from him.

In the dimming light of the stables, he ran the comb down Stranger’s black flank in long, steady strokes. The stallion stood calm for once, ears flicking at flies. Sandor concentrated on the task like it could drown out the image of you.

He didn’t hear your footsteps at first. But he felt the shift in the air and the way the horses lifted their heads. You stood just inside the wide doorway, outlined against the dying light, still in a elegant gown like the one you’d worn to the tourney, deep green this time, sleeves rolled to the elbows like you’d been helping somewhere. Your hair was braided loosely, a few strands already escaping. You looked smaller without the court around you, but no less dangerous to him.

Sandor kept combing after he caught a glimpse of you. “You’ve been avoiding me all day.” You said in a friendly voice, like you were addressing one of your friends. He grunted but kept his eyes on the horse. You took a step closer, the straw crunched softly under your feet. “Sandor.”

His name in your mouth still sounded wrong. He finally turned his head again, just enough to glance at you from the corner of his scarred eye. “What d’you want, girl?”

You stopped a respectful distance away, close enough to speak low, far enough that he couldn’t reach you without moving.

“Did I do something to upset you yesterday?” Your voice was more serious and steady, he noticed your fingers twisted together in front of you. “I don’t remember much, and you have been avoiding me...” You swallowed. “If I did, if I said anything cruel, or… improper. I’m sorry.”

He barked a short, ugly laugh that made Stranger’s ears flick back. “Improper.” he repeated, tasting the word like it was sour. “That’s what you’re worried about? Being improper to me?” It was funny to think that a woman like you would be interested in not offending a dog like him.

Your brows drew together. “I don’t want you thinking I…”

“Thinking what?” He turned fully now, facing you, the comb still gripped tight in one fist. But you didn’t dare to answer, maybe because of the tone of his voice or because you didn’t know how to put it in words.

“You shouldn't be here...go back.” He ordered, turning to his horse again, ending the conversation before you could utter another word.

But you didn’t leave and he cursed the gods for how stupid and stubborn you were. He was so angry, not to you but to himself, to that dark impulse that started growing inside him. After all there was just you and him, all alone, it would be so easy to…

“Anyway I apologize…”

“Stop.” His voice was colder this time, like he was trying to warn you, and he noticed the way your body trembled slightly. “I don’t need your apologies. I need you gone.”

He watched you take another step. “Why?” Your voice was quieter than before, but not weak, it sounded like you were challenging him. “Why do you want me gone so badly.”

He laughed, more snarl than sound. “You fucking know why, last night you were drunk, saying all that stupid bullshit about dreams…and I’m not a fucking saint.” He stopped himself, jaw locked so tight his teeth ached.

You didn’t flinch, he noticed in your eyes that you remembered something suddenly, and still you didn’t step back. Instead you closed the last of the distance until his chest was nearly touching yours. He could smell you now, and he could feel the heath of your skin beneath silk. It made his stomach twist.

“Finish…” you said softly. “What else did I said?”

He was towering over you now, you had to crane your neck to meet his gaze. The dying light caught the worst of his scars, turning the burned half of his face into something monstrous under the stable lanterns. But he couldn’t care anymore.

“You insolent brat.”He answered and your eyes locked on his. You didn’t seem to be scared but quite the opposite.

A long silence stretched between you both, loaded with that heavy strange feeling that something bad was about happen.

And eventually it did. You pressed your lips against his without hesitation, standing on your tip toes and clinging to the neck of his shirt, a strange feeling of surprise grew inside his stomach.

For one frozen heartbeat Sandor simply stood there, every muscle locked, the comb still clenched in his fist like a weapon he no longer remembered how to use. Your mouth moved against his, hesitant but determined, lips parting just enough to let him feel the wet heat of your breath. Your small hands fisted tighter into the front of his tunic, knuckles brushing the scarred skin at the base of his throat.

He should shove you away. He should snarl something cruel, turn his back, walk out and never look at you again but instead his free hand shot up and seized the back of your neck, thick fingers tangling in the loose braid, holding you exactly where you were. A low, broken sound tore out of his chest, half growl, half groan and he crushed his mouth down on yours with all the violence that would scared a soft woman.

There was nothing gentle in the way Sandor Clegane kissed. He didn’t know how, he just took and devoured. His scarred lips slanted hard over yours, forcing them wider while his tongue pushed inside to claim the sweet heat beyond.

You tasted like every forbidden thing he’d ever wanted and that would never be allowed to a man like him, his cock twitch painfully against the laces of his breeches.

You whimpered into his mouth, the sound vibrating straight down to his groin, and he felt your body arch instinctively toward him, soft breasts pressing against the hard wall of his chest. The comb finally clattered forgotten to the straw. “Fuck.” he rasped against your lips when he finally dragged in a breath. His voice was deeper than you ever heard. “You stupid girl…”

But you only rose higher on your toes, one hand sliding up to cup the burned side of his face, and kissed him again, slower this time, as if you could gentle the monster with nothing but the press of your mouth. Your thumb brushed the rough skin with such tenderness it made his stomach clench in something dangerously close to pain.

Sandor snarled and spun you both, slamming your back against the closest wooden wall. Stranger snorted and shifted startled by the cracking noise of the wood. The impact jarred a soft gasp from your throat, but you didn’t pull away. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, nails biting through the wool of his tunic, and the little sting only made the blood roar louder in his ears.

He dropped his head, mouth dragging hot and open along your jaw, down the slender column of your throat. He bit, not hard enough to break skin, but hard enough to mark, right where your pulse hammered. You moaned, hips jerking forward, and he felt the dangerous urge to slip his hands down your dress.

“Sandor.” His name again, breathless and wrecked. It sounded obscene coming from your pretty mouth.

“Fuck…” he growled again, his hands were already moving, rough and impatient, yanking the fabric of your gown up to your hips. “Tell me…” He said in an out of breath tone. “Tell me stop right now.”

“Don’t stop.”

Something inside him snapped. And he practically lifted you off the ground with both hands on your hips, your skirt rolled up around your waist, exposing your legs to the afternoon ai, trapping you between his body and the wall behind you.

His fingers found the slit in your smallclothes and pushed inside without warning, two thick digits sliding through slick, swollen folds. You were soaked, hot and slippery and clenching around him like you’d been aching for this for a long time. A filthy curse left his lips as he curled his fingers, stroking deep, thumb finding the tight little pearl at the top and rubbing firm, relentless circles that slowly drive you mad.

Your head fell back against the wood with a thud, a broken moan spilling from you. He watched your face the entire time, drinking in every flutter of your lashes, every parted gasp, every time your hips rolled greedily onto his hand. “Look at you,” he muttered, voice dark and full of desire. “Dripping for me. Fuckin’ shameful.”

He added a third finger, stretching you and preparing you for something much bigger. His other hand worked at the laces of his breeches, freeing his cock with a hiss of relief. It sprang heavy against his belly, thick and veined, the head already glistening. He gave himself one rough stroke, spreading the wetness, eyes never leaving your face.

“Legs around me,” he ordered, voice hoarse but you still obeyed instantly, ankles locking at the small of his back. He notched the blunt head of his cock against your entrance, sliding it through your slick, teasing you both until you were trembling.

Then he pushed in, slow at first, letting your tight heat swallow inch after inch, groaning deep in his chest at the impossible velvet grip of you. You were small, so fucking small compared to him, and the stretch made you gasp and dig your nails into his shoulders. He paused halfway, forehead pressed to yours, breathing ragged. “I’ll stop if you ask me to.”He rasped, the words gentle even in that heated moment.

He knew you deserved all the tenderness and pleasure a woman could receive. He was afraid of hurting you, he could do it so easily, and he knew it. But despite all the time he had spent longing to feel what he now was feeling, right there you were his priority once again.

You shook your head, eyes wet, and rolled your hips, taking him deeper. “More.”

Sandor cursed viciously and snapped his hips forward, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust. The sound you made, half sob, half moan, would live in his head until the day he died.

He fucked you like a man who’d been starving for years. Each thrust slammed you back against the stable wall, the wet slap of skin on skin loud in the quiet night, mixed with the harsh rasp of his breathing and your broken little cries. And neither of you cared if there was someone near to hear or see something.

“Look at me,” he growled when your eyes started to flutter shut. He had fantasized so many times about that moment when his hands roamed your body and became familiar with your figure, which he had admired from afar, and your gaze, intoxicated with pleasure, rested on his. Now, that same image, which a few days ago seemed to him like nothing more than a wet dream, was now coming true before his eyes.

Your gaze locked on his, and it nearly undid him. He felt your body tightening, thighs trembling around his waist, and he reached between you to rub your clit with the rough pad of his thumb, relentless. “Come on, girl,” he snarled against your ear, teeth grazing the lobe. “Come on my cock.”

He was filling you up so completely that you couldn't even utter any other word than his name between moans.

You shattered with a sharp cry, back arching, cunt pulsing and milking him in tight, rhythmic waves. Sandor fucked you through it, hips stuttering, until the pressure at the base of his spine became unbearable. With a guttural roar he buried himself as deep as he could go and came hard, spilling hot and thick inside you, hips jerking with every pulse until he was empty and shaking.

For a long moment the only sounds were harsh breathing and the shift of horses.

Sandor stayed buried inside you, forehead pressed to the wood beside your head, arms trembling with the effort of holding both your weights. Your fingers stroked gently through his hair, down the scarred side of his face again, and he let you, too wrecked to pull away just yet.

He should be ashamed and scared of what this would cost you both, but instead all he felt was the terrifying certainty that he would burn the entire fucking realm to the ground before he let anyone take you away from him now.

“You’re mine.” he whispered roughly against your damp temple, voice barely audible. Those words that he had always been forbidden to say, now flowed freely from his lips.

He didn’t pull out yet. He wasn’t ready to let the world back in. Not when you were still warm and soft and wrapped around him like that.

In the end, you had always belonged with him.

[marthawrites]

A Shared Bed

Harwin Strong x Betrothed fem reader x Rhaenyra Targaryen

Word count: 4.2k+

About: Harwin gets into an arranged marriage to stop the rumors about him and Rhaenyra. He really likes his betrothed but he loves Rhaenyra. He tells his betrothed, "I can't choose between you and her." She says, "I don't want you to choose. I want in, the bed is large enough."

Includes: SMUT. Featuring sexual tension, reader's first experience with a woman, milf Rhaenyra, Rhaenyra likes to play a little rough, m/f/f threesome, vaginal fingering, (f) oral sex, handjob, face sitting, multiple orgasms, unprotected vaginal sex

Note: Hello lovely reader! This is based on a request from @the-wonderland-madnesss ♥ Thank you for being my sous chef in cooking this up too! Rhaenyra is married to Laenor in this fic. She's already had Jacaerys. For plot sake (lol what plot? this is mostly porn) reader is from House Oakheart and is non-descript. Reader and Nyra are friends in this fic. I hope you enjoy it! ♥

Cross posted on ao3 too! First time ever posting there. Will I keep it up? No idea!

The day’s golden hour flooded your abode through open windows and silken curtains. The warm beams highlighted your late-summer skin and you relished its sensation. King’s Landing, with its climate and sea breeze, was pleasantly cooler than your home in the Reach. 

Sitting in front of a well-polished looking glass, you carefully dabbed another layer of color on your lips. Pretty. Feminine. The hue unquestionably brought out the best of your complexion. 

You’d already finished everything on your to-do list. Now the only thing left to do was wait for a visit from your betrothed. His visits were a favorite pastime of yours–even before the official betrothal. As it turned out… he was quite good at dice. Always in the back of your mind you wondered if he had loaded dice. A soldier of the City Watch could very well get their hands on some, right? Or learn a trick or two from gamblers… Off duty Harwin learning tricks of the trade from cut purses and pickpockets! That idea brought an amused smirk to your lips. 

You highlighted your features with a little more cosmetics.

A knock on the front door sounded. Before getting up you readjusted your bosom, making sure your gold and green dress accented your breasts to perfection. “Be right there!” you called. Once satisfied, you moved to answer the door. Opening it, you smiled in preparation for Harwin. “My, you’re early tonight, aren’t y–,” but the rest of your words were cut off by who was indeed at your door. 

The Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen stood an arms length away, grinning the tiniest feline smile. 

A commoner's cloak of homespun concealed her true identity from passersbys–sly. But, more surprising than the Princess at your door, was the fact she came alone. Not a single guard stood behind her or appeared to follow. Her expression twinkled as she watched you take everything in. “Lady Oakheart,” she said with quiet warmth. “Mind if I come in?”

Pleasantly surprised, you swung the door wide for her to enter. What in the name of the Seven would cause this visit? “Not at all,” you answered to your friend whom you hadn’t seen in some time. “I was not expecting this, princess. If I’d known I would have prepared better!”

“Needn’t worry,” she said with a dismissive wave. Removing her hood, she used the same looking glass to check the long braid of her silver hair. Once any stray strands were tucked away to her liking, she hung her cloak on the back of a chair. “I’m very glad you’re home at this hour. I wasn’t sure if you would be.” 

Confusion frowned your brows. Sitting upon one of your lounge settees, you turned your full attention to Rhaenyra. She looked lovely in a black and red dress. Its neat trim and accents highlighted the quality of its tailor. “I’m normally home by this hour.” You poured her a cup of water from the side table. “Excuse my brashness, princess, but what brings you here? Is something the matter?”

Rhaenyra drank as she sat beside you. Her knee brushed against yours and you tried to ignore the butterflies in your belly from her accidental touch. “There is something I wish to discuss with you, yes,” she said, a glint of something… mischievous? Behind those Targaryen eyes.

The last time you and Rhaenyra had a visit like this was at her wedding to Laenor Velaryon. You and your brother (despite his still slightly wounded feelings about his courting attempt being turned down) were invited, and you wouldn’t miss it. She truly was The Realm’s Delight! That was over a year ago, now. Since then, she and Laenor have welcomed their first child into the world–a healthy boy with a head full of black hair, Jacaerys Velaryon.

You searched her eyes for a moment before offering a slight tilt of your head. “And what might I help you with?”

“Ser Harwin has told me of the betrothal,” she answered.

You didn’t have a reason to blush. Yet, warmth bloomed beneath your cheeks. “Has he? I know you two have a… close relationship. The proposal was actually suggested by his father, Lynoel, in an attempt to–”

The Princess arched a perfectly manicured brow. “–stop the rumors of him and I?”

You nodded a little sheepishly. There were rumors before Jacaerys’ birth, yes, but afterward? Hearsay of his true father spread throughout the court like wildfire.

That tiny feline grin reappeared upon her mouth. In her eyes. She grabbed your hand. Her smooth touch caressed over yours. “He also told me something else. It nearly had my jaw on the floor.” She leaned into you slowly, deliberately, angling her head so she spoke low by your ear. “That you wish for all three of us to share a bed.”

If your face wasn’t hot before–and it was–it blazed now. You wondered if she could see your pulse thrumming at the side of your neck.  “It seems there’s little my betrothed doesn’t speak to you about,” you said as if proclaiming a secret.

Rhaenyra made a small noise of acknowledgement. Her gaze landed on your fluffed breasts and the necklace that sat upon them. Gently, she trailed the very tips of her fingers down the golden accessory. Its pendant was a polished ruby in a classic setting. She circled it; your goosebumps not escaping her attention. Her gaze found yours again, regarding you with a heavy curiousness.

“A gift,” you whispered, raspy–under her spell. “From Harwin.”

That same noise from before vibrated between her lovely lips. “I know,” she purred. “I helped him pick it out. We have similar taste in jewelry, you and I. And men, it would seem.”

Your skin hummed. Tightened. Despite your’s and Harwin’s conversation about Rhaenyra, you never thought it would happen like this. “Princess…”

“Shh,” she cooed, leaning in to you with a slight tilt of head. “Your bed is indeed big. Large enough for the three of us, easily.” 

Your lips were so close–close enough to share breath. Recognizing her silent question of consent, you gave it to her. Now it was you who leaned forward to close the remaining space between your mouths. A kiss. Light, at first. Curious. Despite your attraction to women–as well as men–you’d never explored your desires with another woman. Kissing the princess felt divine. Liquid fire spread through your body. And, when you slanted your mouth against hers, deepening the affection, she delicately cradled your jaw.

Bells chimed in your head. Forbidded. Dangerous. Exciting.

Tentatively, you moved your hands to rest upon her thighs. You gripped the fine material of her dress and squeezed; pulling her to you, and you to her. 

Rhaenyra smiled. Her tongue licked slowly into your mouth. 

Fire roared through your bloodstream–you yielded without a second thought.

And that is how Harwin found both of you. So enthralled by one another, neither of you heard his gentle knock nor the rustle of movement as he came inside. He uttered your name in delighted shock. Then, “princess?”

Meeting your betrothed’s attention, you blushed from the tips of your ears down to your collar. “Harwin,” you whispered. Panting softly you added, “I meant what I said before. You don’t have to choose. The bed is large enough.”

Ser Harwin Strong looked like he’d already cleaned up. He wore a simple neat garb–clean–and his dark curls were tossed as if freshly washed. Sometimes after serving his guard shift duties he stunk to the high Seven. And you, being his lovely, tidy lady, didn’t appreciate it much. He knew it, of course, and was happy to clean before sharing evenings with you. He gave you a knowing nod; dark eyes glittering with an array of emotions. “I never doubted your word, sweetheart.”

Rhaenyra gently turned your attention back to her. “Do you regularly entertain any other visitors after hours?”

No wonder Harwin was enchanted by her. Those eyes shone with a deep fire from within, the hue simply otherworldly, and for a moment you wondered if the princess practiced witchcraft with how mesmerized you were. Sorcery, wizardry, love spells… no, nothing like that. She was a Targaryen–blooded from both sides–and it was at that exact moment you felt the old saying: Targaryen’s are closer to Gods than men. You shook your head. Your body buzzed. “No. No one else will be coming over tonight.”

“Good,” she cooed. “You are mine and Harwin’s tonight, Lady Oakheart. Let us test these new boundaries and passions properly before the official wedding, hm?”

With a thundering heart you matched her smirk. “Gladly.” You swore you could hear Harwin’s blood rush through his body, too, lightning bolting through him at a dangerous speed. Like a magnet, he was drawn to you. To the princess.

Rhaenyra’s mouth was on yours again. And, then, from behind, Harwin’s hands settled on your shoulders, the tickle of his beard on your neck making you quiver.  Anticipation vibrated through your bones. 

Oh, you were dead. They were going to murder you. It’d be a miracle if you made it through the night!

Harwin’s brown eyes glittered like dragonglass when he looked down the front of your body–your welcoming bust, the ruby necklace, the fine cut of your bodice. Then he peered at Rhaenyra from over your shoulder with nothing but the utmost admiration and love. “You’re both wearing far too many clothes,” he said against the delicate curve of your neck.

“As are you, Ser Harwin,” the princess said without missing a beat.

Your brain was currently unable to form any coherent thoughts.

Vaguely you heard a rustle of cloth behind you, followed by the cotton ‘thmp’ of your betrothed’s shirt tossed to the floor. Skilled fingers then unlaced the back of your dress. 

Harwin. Ever the gentleman. 

Once finished, he stepped with deliberativeness to Rhaenyra. He towered over her as he stood behind her and carefully opened the back of her dress. The difference in their height… their size… lust clouded your brain with each passing moment. 

The princess stood, then, that sly little grin dimpled one corner of her mouth. Despite this being your house she tilted her head in your bed’s direction. “Come,” she said. 

You took her outstretched hand and stood. Looking between her and Harwin, he gave you a similar expression followed by a proud nod. Fuck. Your insides were about to explode from nerves. 

“If at any time it becomes too much, sweetheart, all you have to do is say something and we will stop,” Harwin reassured you. 

When he spoke in that tone his voice was velvet over gravel. He could get you to do almost anything with that voice. All of your clothes were too much. Too heavy. Too restrictive on your humming skin. You wanted nothing more than to feel Harwin’s warm, hard body against yours. The scratch of his chest hair against your back, your beasts… the rasp of his powerful legs against the smooth lines of your own–between them. Even more sinful than those thoughts, however, was the yearning to feel Rhaenyra’s smooth body against yours.

The delightful darkening of both their expressions told you they knew what you were thinking. How easily they read you. How dazzled they were by your transfixion. 

“Understand?” Harwin pressed.

“Mm-hmm. I understand.”

Rhaenyra walked backwards with you until you were both at the foot of your bed. It was slightly awkward, in a humorous way, and it had both of you giggling as you tried to not step on her feet. She stepped out of her shoes before shrugging out of her dress. It pooled on the floor like a shadow. Her shift was a clean white cotton which left little to the imagination.

Harwin stood at your side and used two fingers to tilt your head to him. He kissed you. Deeply, thoroughly, slowly. He was such a good kisser. Your knees weakened where you stood, using him for support throughout the affection. You moaned softly into his mouth before he pulled away.

He moved to Rhaenyra, then, and kissed her. Soft. Tender. She had a similar reaction to you. His lips along her jaw, down her neck, and over the exposed top of her shoulder. Whereas he kissed you thoroughly, he kissed her reverently.

Part of you felt as if you should look away. But, you couldn’t. Seeing your betrothed with another woman like this had your thighs clenching. You knew you should be jealous. Should want to claw the eyes out of another woman who kissed your promised like that. Yet, it was Rhaenyra. You only wanted to be in between them. Reveling with them.

They were the most gorgeous pair you’d ever seen.

The princess, with the knight’s assistance, pulled her shift up and over her head. Finely made smallclothes were the only thing that shielded her womanhood from your eyes; as near perfect a human could be. She was all pale skin, soft lines, and pink pebbled flesh. In the waning golden hour her milk veins stood out beneath her alabaster skin; those breasts surely heavier now than they were before her son’s birth. With those eyes, and that body, she could have anything she fucking wanted. And, likely, she did.

“Your turn,” she purred to you. “Help her like you did me, yes? She’s looking a little… spellbound.” A quiet giggle escaped her as she turned and crawled up your bed, sitting at the head of it as she watched and waited.

Spellbound. The perfect word.

Harwin helped you indeed, kissing and caressing over your body as he did. Sharing sly smiles and twinkling looks, consent passed between you two again and again. ‘Yes, I’m okay with this,’ your eyes said. ‘Yes, I want this too,’ they also said. The callouses of his big warm hands scratched over your skin and shift alike; sensation arching your back into his body. Everywhere he touched, you burned. In the wake of his attention, the delicate space between your thighs matched your pulse. 

He still wore his trousers and made no move to yet take them off; arousal hot and strained beneath.  When your hand teased over his bulge he swatted it away. “Not yet,” he crooned. “Go sit between Rhaenyra’s legs.”

Now it was you who obeyed. Crawling up your mattress in much the same fashion as she, you kissed her again. 

Standing at the foot of the bed Harwin admired every fucking second of what was unfolding. His princess, his swoon to be wife… the curve of your ass and dip of your spine and shape of your legs had him impossibly hard. Your position had the wet spot of your smallclothes on perfect display and he groaned. 

“Be a good girl and rest against me,” Rhaenyra whispered.

You did. It was easy–wonderfully easy–to sit between her soft, spread thighs, with your back against her breasts. You bit your lip at the sensation of her covered cunt against the small of your back. How different it was than cuddling with Harwin. 

“Look at you listening so well,” she cooed again. “Good girls get rewards. Isn’t that right, Ser Harwin?” The tension of their eye contact had you squirming and you barely had a chance to regain yourself from the teasing praise before you gasped. Rhaenyra’s hands bushed the underswell of your breasts. Lightning shot down your spine. She played with them, teased them, circling and sliding her fingertips over your nipples. “So pretty,” she said as she squeezed one of your sensitive tits, pinching the peaked nipple of the other.

You couldn't help it. You moaned and arched your chest deeper into her touch. She kissed over your neck, your shoulder, continuing her blissful exploration of your breasts.

Harwin lowered onto the bed and laid between your legs, grinning up at you and Rhaenyra. As she continued to tease you, he kissed the insides of your thighs. One, then the other. Lips, and tongue, and teeth, he teased you as much as she was. The tickle of his beard was beautifully maddening and it didn’t take much for your thighs to be quivering beneath his mouth. “Always so responsive,” he said.

Never had you been with two people like this before. If they kept it up any longer you’d be a whining panting mess! “No more teasing, please,” you begged. 

The lovers shared a look you weren’t quite aware of. With an arched brow, Harwin asked, “let’s stop torturing the poor girl, yeah?”

Rhaenyra nodded impishly. 

Before your hazy brain realized, your betrothed was pulling your smallclothes down your legs. He spread your thighs, giving himself more room between them, and a low satisfied sound rumbled in his chest. “Look how wet she is for us, princess.” 

You throbbed. His words echoed in your head. You were fucking soaked. 

Using one hand, Harwin spread your cunt for his greedy gaze. “My, my, sweetheart. Aren’t you a needy little thing tonight?” 

“Just how I like my playthings,” Rhaenyra quipped. “Since I can’t see, will you let me feel?” She asked against the shell of your ear.

You nodded. “Yes. Please. Both of you.”

Again, the secret lovers shared a heated stare.

The princess’ hand slid down the front of your body until the tips of her fingers brushed against your slick cunny. “Oh,” she purred. “I don’t know who’s wetter, Lady Oakheart. You or I.” 

Her center was still hot against your back. You desperately wanted to explore her as she explored you. But, the position didn’t quite allow for it. You whimpered behind a bit lip.

Harwin watched as Rhaenyra began to circle your swollen clit. Women knew what women liked, and she knew just how to touch you. Circles, and slides, and flicks, she lavished your little bud with the sweetest attention until the sweetest sounds began to pour from your mouth. For a moment she thought you might come from that alone. So, she slowed her ministrations and nodded to Harwin.

As the princess continued to play with you–slowly–he eased one finger into your aching cunt. Immediately your toes curled with a gasp. “Go-ods!” You squeaked, legs flexing and hips rolling with the double stimulation. Each downward movement of your hips sent his finger deeper into you. Each upward motion sent Rhaenyra’s fingers sliding over your clit. It was the loveliest feeling you’d ever experienced. You ground against both of them. Used both of their hands for your own bliss. “Please don’t stop!” You half stammered, drunk on the pleasure they gave you. 

They each held one of your thighs open, not letting you close them. You were at their mercy. You loved it.

A second finger joined Harwin’s first, and now he pumped them in and out of you. With a flex of his wrist he crooked his fingers inside you, hitting that small, deliciously spongy spot that always had you gasping his name. Your incoherent babbles along with Rhaenyra’s soft praises had his cock aching. His mouth watered as he watched your body take his fingers again and again, as your pearl glistened beneath the princess’ touch. He couldn’t hold back any longer. He leaned forward to lick your pretty clit.

Seeing what Harwin was doing, Rhaenyra clicked her tongue and pushed his face away. “Greedy knight,” she scolded. 

Harwin glared up at her.

She smiled sweetly. 

You were too lost in your pleasure to notice what exactly happened.

“Let’s make her come and then you can put that mouth to use,” she goaded him–loving his brief moment of fury as she took away something he wanted; his own soon-to-be wife.

Working in tandem, the princess and the knight pushed you over the peak of pleasure; awed, shuddering, weightless. Your sounds a song to their ears.

They let you come down easily, kissing and caressing you throughout. If this is what it’d be like to share a bed with the princess you planned to never leave her in the dark. Ever.

After a few moments you rolled onto your back and stared up at your ceiling, smiling like a loon. “That was… wow,” you giggled.

Harwin was the first to move. Sliding off the end of the bed he stood and moved to the side of it nearest Rhaenyra. With you no longer sitting against her, he grabbed her by the legs and pulled her to the edge of it. Swift. Deliberate. Right where he wanted her. A small squeak sounded from her. “Get these out of my way,” he growled as he yanked her smallclothes down her legs with little regard to their preservation.

Rhaenyra looked down the front of her body just in time to see him kneel before her–big hands curling around her thighs, spreading them wide open. His mouth was pure magic on her eager cunt. Her head rolled to the side as she leaned back, bracing herself up with her elbows. Soon, moans and whimpers began to spill from her.

Coming out of your reprieve, you watched the secret lovers; desire stirring in your core once again. Rhaenyra, ethereal. Harwin, worshiping. They complimented each other in ways that had you weak. One of his hands rose to the little swell of fat on her belly and squeezed it adoringly. Gasping, she ground against him, seeking her high.

It was your turn to roll off the bed. Walking to the other side, you too knelt in front of Rhaenyra. Harwin smirked at you. “I wondered when you might join me,” he said. 

Despite your nervousness you were feeling bold, too. “Show me how you do it.”

He groaned somewhere low in his throat. Then, his mouth was on yours. He kissed you deeply. Rhaenyra’s taste lingered on your tongue and it wasn’t unpleasant. Quite the opposite, if you were being honest with yourself.

Above, an entirely different type of pleased sound came from Rhaenyra. Seeing you two kiss between her spread legs had her going half crazy. “Have you noticed how much he likes his hair pulled yet?” She asked you innocently. Before allowing you the chance to answer, her fingers curled into his hair and she pulled him back to her center. Right where she wanted him. Harwin moaned into her cunny, licking and slurping against her obscenely. “He likes to be pulled around a little bit,” she said. Lewd. Panting.

Fuck.

Unable to resist any longer, you fumbled with the front of your betrothed’s trousers until his belt and laces were open. You tugged his pants down the firm curve of his ass, the thick trunks of his thighs, until they bunched down around his knees where he knelt. As he feasted on the princess’ cunt,  you stroked his cock. He was so hot, and thick, and hard, you wondered if it physically pained him. 

He moaned harshly. “I don’t wanna come yet,” he rasped, the muscles of his pelvis already twitching with restraint.

“No, no, not yet,” Rhaenyra agreed, breathless. “His seed needs a womb. Both of you up here, now. I have an even better idea.”

You both obeyed. Rhaenyra gestured for Harwin to lay flat on his back in the middle of the bed. Smirking like a cat she perched herself over his face. She wasted no time in sitting back against his mouth, grinding against him purely for her own pleasure. Nose, lips, bearded chin… she dragged her slick cunt back and forth. Again and again. Her fingers squeezed his firm pectorals as she used him for her gain. “Take his cock,” she told you wickedly. 

Was this truly real? You were still half dumbstruck that this was happening in the first place! Harwin’s arms looped above her thighs, holding her where he wanted her, and the sounds that were coming from both of them were obscene. Heavy breathing, slurps, smacks; you were about to peak again from simply watching them. 

You straddled over your betrothed’s waist and sunk down onto him. Fuck fuck fuck. He was so big. The stretch of your body accommodating him had you inhaling sharply. You allowed your walls to fully adjust, and while you did Rhaenyra leaned forward and crashed her mouth to yours. Tongue, lips, a tease of teeth, she kissed you like she wanted to fucking consume you. Pure lust fired through your veins and you began bouncing on Hawin’s cock.

The princess’ hands were all over your breasts again. And, now, yours on hers, too. 

That’s how you all stayed for a time. Fucking, sucking, riding, reveling in each other as bliss blindly guided you to new heights of lasciviousness.

It was impossible to know who peaked first. It might have been Rhaenyra for how she shuddered upon Harwin’s face. It might have been him for how he flexed and roared beneath both of you, cock twitching mightily as he spent himself deep inside you. It might have been you for how you simpered his name again and again like a debauched prayer.

Whatever the case might have been, slowly you all came back to your senses. Sticky flesh, sweaty skin, and bedclothes that needed to be washed, the three of you cuddled amidst the lovely aftershocks of climax.

Each of you smiled broader than the other. Eyes, somehow, out twinkling each other.

“How do you think she did, sweetheart?” Harwin asked you, his gentle touch trailing over your arm.

“If tonight was a test, the test has been surpassed,” you answered with a giggle, idly playing footsie with the princess.

She beamed. “Good,” she said. She made delicate circles below your navel as she added, “the seed is strong, Lady Oakheart. Perhaps Harwin will give you one, too.”

-

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Masterlist

See comment section for my main taglist and Aemond taglist! To be added or removed from either, please hit me up!

[procrastinatingsoicanreadfanfics]

I am his, and he is mine

Summary: You’re married off to Ser Harwin Strong by your lord father’s designs, and the prospect of a marriage consummation terrifies you.

Notes: idk man I just need more Harwin Breakmybones smut. Harwin obviously isn’t with our queen Rhae Rhae in this. Also, pretending not to know what we do abt Larys here.

Warnings: virgin!reader, reader is intimidated by Harwin, first time, reader is extremely innocent, vaginal sex, oral sex (f!receiving), Harwin loves eating punani

Masterlist | requests are OPEN! | hmu to be added to a taglist!!

Marrying his bride the day he met her was never what he wanted. Harwin didn’t consider himself a romantic, but he thought it cruel to be bound to someone you didn’t know for the rest of his life. It was more unfair to you, being a woman and forbidden from seeking out others for love.

His father had meant well with this marriage. Apparently, your father was a childhood friend, and you the oldest daughter of a great house. Though Lord Lyonel wasn’t ambitious, he was loyal to his friends, and the king, who encouraged the match. So in a whirlwind of affairs, the betrothal had been arranged by ravens, and the marriage planned.

You had married in the sept of King’s Landing earlier this day, and though Harwin had written you a letter to calm your nerves, the first time he got any impression of you was when your father led you to the altar.

He felt sorry for you. Whatever dreams you had held for the future had been crushed the moment the septon bound you in marriage. And on top of that, he wasn’t sure if you were scared of him or not. His reputation was true to his character, and next to his wide frame, almost every woman looked frail.

And now, while the wedding feast was in full swing, he saw your hands shake as you attempted to cut your food. He tried to distract himself, looking around the room and attempting to take his mind off of the fact that his lady wife seemed to find him unpleasant.

King Viserys was sitting next to his father, leaving Queen Alicent to put on an icy mask. She was better at hiding it than his wife. Perhaps because she had been in King’s Landing for longer. Princess Rhaenyra, on the other hand, was deep in conversation with Lady Laena. The two of them had grown closer since the rift between Rhaenyra and Alicent, and if Ser Harwin was not mistaken, the Queen looked almost jealous.

Prince Daemon was currently returned from his latest exile, trying to rile up Otto Hightower. Judging from the strain in the man’s jaw, the Prince was quite successful in his venture.

Still, it was his wife that seemed the tensest in the room. The new lady Strong, and yet, you seemed to be anything but. From what he had heard from his father, you liked to read and was very well educated, but beyond that only quiet. You did not ride, or hunt, or keep an army of ladies around her.

For the latter, he was grateful, but for the others… It seemed you didn’t have anything in common. Harwin was as educated as a future lord needed to be, but he preferred to train and hunt. The first time he even heard you speak outside of her vows was to his brother.

“A gift, for the bride.” He said, offering you a book. At that, your face lit up.

“Thank you, Lord Larys.”

“I hear you tried to become a Maester once?” he asked, and you blushed.

“I was five and had not yet realized the Citadel accepted neither women nor children.”

Harwin smiled to himself. It seemed that, at the very least, you had some spirit. When his brother had left, he tried to find something to talk to you about.

“So, what topics interest you?” he tried.

“History and medicine.” you replied curtly.

“Yes, I imagine Aegon’s conquest is an interesting read.” He said. You tried to suppress a smile at that, and Harwin raised a brow.

“Is it not?” he asked.

“Forgive me, my lord, but every child is told the story of his conquest over and over. The histories of Old Valyria before the Doom and Nymeria’s conquest are much more interesting, especially since so much source material has been lost.” you said.

He could tell that you weren’t asked about these things very often, the words spilling out of your mouth so quickly.

“What about you?” you asked.

“Hunting and fighting.” He replied.

“Does that not get boring after a while?”

“It is to me what reading is to you.” Harwin said. He knew you were from the Westerlands, where people spoke more eloquently, and though he was from the Riverlands and had no use for flowery words, he tried for you.

Your silence returned when dessert was served. You dreaded the bedding, and Harwin didn’t think he had seen many brides that were as terrified of it as you.

When it was announced that the bedding would begin, you turned even paler. Before the lords attending could swoop in to grab you, Harwin quickly scooped you up into his arms. Wordlessly, he left, as the crowd let out disappointed shouts of protest.

He carried you all the way to their new, shared chambers, setting you down on the bed. Turning around, Harwin grabbed the pitcher of wine to fill up their glasses. You would need it for your nerves.

As he turned back around, he could see you lying on the bed, the skirt of your wedding dress hiked up to your thighs and staring at the ceiling stiff as a board. He would have laughed at the comical sight, if he hadn’t felt sorry for you.

Instead, he sat at the edge of the bed, gently taking your hand.

“What were you told about the bedding?” he asked.

“My cousin told me it was painful, but my duty.” you replied.

“Sit up.” Harwin said, and you scrambled to follow his words, pulling the skirt back down.

“Your cousin must have a horrible husband.” He concluded.

“They- they do not value each other much.” you said carefully.

“Beddings don’t have to be painful.” Harwin began. He’d never been a woman’s first before, but he wasn’t inexperienced by any means.

“Oh.” Was all you said to that. It sounded more like a sigh of relief than a question.

“Did you not say you studied medicine?”

“The bedding was… seen as unseemly for me. It was forbidden.” you replied.

“I’ll be gentle, I won’t hurt you.” Harwin promised. Still, when he tried to come closer to you, you leaned away from him, trying to keep the distance. As if a kiss would kill you.

With a sigh, Harwin grabbed the dagger from his belt and your eyes widened even more.

“What…?” you asked.

“I won’t force you.” He replied simply, rolling his sleeve back.

“No.” you said, grabbing his wrist. It was the first time you touched him. “I- We have to someday. And I’d like to learn. I need to make my father proud.”

“Your father? This is about you.” Harwin tried. You gave him a half-hearted smile, and Harwin felt that he wouldn’t become friends with his father-in-law.

“If you want me to bed you, you should start by kissing me first.” He said, and you nodded.

“Will I be your first?” he asked. You blushed, lowering her gaze, and Harwin carefully tipped her face up.

“Good. Less pressure.” He joked.

“I suppose so.” you replied. “I promise, it wasn’t while we were betrothed.”

“And if it was, I wouldn’t blame you. Whoever he, or she, was they got lucky.”

You smiled at that, blushing due to his compliment rather than shame. With a determined look in your eyes, you put a hand on his face, pressing your lips to his. It wasn’t the chaste kiss they had shared in the sept, and it wasn’t heated with passion, but it was more than the trembling leaf of a woman that had sit next to him at her own banquet.

Harwin deepened the kiss carefully, his hands finding your intricate braids, impossible to tangle into. So he held you by the small of her back instead, kissing you until you broke apart for air.

“That was… dizzying.” you said. Your cheeks were flushed pink, and your pupils had grown dark, and Harwin could feel desire begin to grow for you. Carefully, he seated himself against the cushions, sitting you down in front of him, and beginning to take out the pins in your updo.

While he worked on the tight braidwork, he began to kiss up and down your neck, careful not to go too low too fast. You let out a satisfied sigh, clapping your hand against your mouth afterwards.

“They’re all gone by now. We were too boring, I suppose.” Harwin joked, and you nodded.

“You don’t have to keep quiet.” He encouraged. “It tells me whether I’m doing the right thing.”

“Oh?” you asked.

“Trust me.”

When he was done, your hair fell down your back in soft waves. Harwin briefly wondered if it was because of the braids, or if your hair was always like this.

Then, he moved onto your wedding dress. It was laced in the back, gold and cream embroidery hiding the strings, and you began to tense when he opened them.

“It’ll be more comfortable if you can breathe properly.” Harwin said, slowly pulling the stiff part of the dress over your head. The long skirt followed, until you were left in a thin shift. It looked like it was meant to entice him, barely transparent enough to see your shape, but nothing beyond that.

Harwin took his time laying the dress over a chair in the room, returning with the pitcher of wine. When he offered to refill your glass, you shook your head.

“I’ll be drunk then. I want to remember for the next time.”

“Already planning ahead?” Harwin teased.

“I don’t know. In case this time doesn’t get me pregnant.”

“You do know there’s more to this than getting pregnant, right?” he asked. You raised a brow, as if you did not believe him. “It’s… it’s supposed to be fun as well.”

“Can we start with kissing again?” you asked shyly. Harwin leaned over, kissing you softly. Your hands were unsure, cupping his face, roaming around his hair and awkwardly landing on his arms. Harwin readjusted them, putting one on his jaw and the other on his shoulder the way he liked it.

He really tried to hold back, but when you let another whine slip, he grabbed your waist and pulled you onto his lap. You squealed, surprised, but once you were there, you continued with more enthusiasm than before.

Breaking the kiss, Harwin saw that your lips had become a little swollen. Mindlessly, he tucked a strand of hair back to where it had fallen out of place.

“I’m ready.” you said, lying back against the pillows with a look of determination on your face. Harwin snorted.

“You are not. If I do it now, it’ll hurt. Have you ever even touched yourself?”

Your mouth fell open at that, as if he was accusing you of fucking a horse, and your blush took ahold of your ears as well.

“I’m only asking to make you comfortable.”

“Never… inside.” you managed.

Harwin nodded, making his way down your body until he reached the hem of your shift. Gently, he began to pull it up and automatically, your legs crossed over.

When he tried to pry them open, you pulled away.

“I have had my maidenhead inspected.” you said, voice high-pitched.

“I wasn’t inspecting anything. Just… trust me on this.” Harwin asked.

It took you a moment, but eventually, you opened your legs back up, allowing him access. Harwin knew better than to stare (for now), and began kissing the inside of your thighs, making his way towards your cunt. When he finally tasted it, he felt like he was ready to die – until his lady wife scrambled backwards, trying to gather her bearings.

“This is wrong. It’s sinful.” you whispered.

“Not really. Asked my septon when I was a boy, and also, it feels good.” Harwin replied nonchalantly.

“I’ll take you by your word.” you said seriously.

You lied back down, and Harwin held your thighs, trying to make a squeeze somehow feel reassuring before he started again, slowly lapping up the wetness your cunt had produced. He could feel you writhe beneath him, but better yet, he could hear you moan.

Muffled pants and cries reached him, spurring him on. Very cautiously, he pushed in one finger, continuing to lick your clit to ease the way. It went in easier than he thought, and so, Harwin crooked it to make you feel even better.

He wanted to be your first in this as well, and he didn’t care if that was greedy.

He had to push you down by the stomach when your back arched. Harwin chuckled to himself as he worked the finger inside you, knowing exactly what he was doing.

After a while, he could feel your body begin to shake, and your legs wrapped around his head, pushing him down. He almost felt proud of you, even as he began to run out of air, but Harwin kept going, until you came, licking you like a starving man.

When you went limp under his touch, Harwin dared to come up from under your shift.

“And?” he asked.

“Whatever that was… I think I caught a glimpse of the Seven Heavens.” you sighed.

“You… came.” He replied, half-asking.

“Yeah. It was wonderful.”

“Did you never?”

“No. I didn’t dare.” you said.

“That’s a pity, to go so many years of your life without pleasure.”

“I see that now.” you quipped, and Harwin laughed with you.

You sat in silence for a while, you leaning against his shoulder with your eyes closed. Harwin felt that he was hard for you, but he didn’t want to disturb you. He could bed you some other time.

Sated with the knowledge that he had already done this for you, Harwin took off his wedding suit and changed into the long linen trousers that were laid out for him. He could feel your eyes burn into his back. Just to tease you (and not at all to inflate his ego), he flexed his back- and arm muscles.

He settled back into bed, staring at you until you realized you had been caught.

“Does my lady wife approve?”

“Mhm.” you mumbled, shamelessly staring at his chest. “I want another.”

“Another?” Harwin asked.

“Bed me. Make me feel like that again.” you mumbled through gritted teeth. Hesitantly, you let her hand wander under the blankets and into his trousers. His cock was still hard from before, and your eyes widened as you felt the girth of it.

“How will it fit?” you asked.

“You managed two fingers. I’ll help you work it out, but there’ll still be a small stretch.” Harwin tried.

Your hand was still frozen on his dick, so he carefully guided it to stroke him. All word about you rang true, you were a good learner.

Harwin closed his eyes, leaning back against the wall to concentrate on the sensation for a moment, before he stopped you.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Please.” you replied. There was still a residue of nervousness in your eyes, but Harwin wasn’t going to say no to such an invitation.

Slowly, he pulled your shift over her head, tossing it aside carelessly. For a moment, he could only stare, causing you to cross your arms over your chest.

“You’re beautiful.” Harwin said breathlessly. He wasn’t used to being gentle, but Gods be damned, he’d try for you.

Taking his pants off again, he began to kiss your tits, lavishly sucking more bruises into your perfect skin. Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him down towards you, and Harwin tried to suppress a groan.

“Good?” you asked.

“Yeah. Really good.” Harwin replied. Your response was to lightly tug his curls, a smirk on your lips. He kissed you again, this time forgetting everything about gentleness and going slowly, swallowing your sounds up with a kiss, desperately holding your face with his hands, dwarfing it in comparison.

His thumb stroked your cheek, trying to convey the awe he already held for you, and you raked your hands through his hair in response. His resolve was melting by the second.

Carefully, he angled his dick up with your cunt, teasing your clit with the tip for a moment, before he slowly sank into you. One of your hands landed on his hips, and Harwin froze.

“Are you alright?” he asked. You stared up at him, wide-eyed, before you nodded.

“Just need a moment.” you managed. Excruciatingly slowly, Harwin sank in further, waiting for you to adjust, until he was fully inside you.

“Can I…?” Harwin began. You nodded, and he pulled back, before thrusting forward with as much self-control as he possessed. He expected you to cry out in pain, but instead, you met him with an unabashed moan.

“Fuck.” you panted, before catching yourself.

“I don’t believe you’ve sworn before.” Harwin managed. You opened your mouth to say something, but he thrust again and your answer was swallowed by another moan.

He tried to put all of his newfound devotion into his thrusts, to make you happy. To satisfy you, so that you would not grow to despise him, at the very least in this way.

All of his intentions of being slow and loving disappeared when you began to beg.

“Please, I need more.” you whispered. Even through the dim candlelight, Harwin saw you blush, but who was he to deny you?

So he picked up the pace, his thrusts turning almost brutish. He would have worried for you, if your eyes hadn’t been in the back of your skull, and your nails weren’t digging into his back.

“Fuck, you’re so.. didn’t expect this.” Harwin managed. You gave him a laugh, which immediately turned into a wanton moan under his ministrations.

“My pretty little wife, legs open only for me.” He praised. Harwin felt your legs wrap around his hips, desperate to create more friction, more intensity.

“Only for you.” You repeat, and Harwin can see the change in your expression, from tense to relaxed. Your posture is open to him (in more ways than one) and his heart almost sings at the thought that you might not despise him or be terrified of him after all.

Harwin manages to steady his mind into looking at you, and Gods, you look fucking angelic. Hair splayed out like a halo, mouth parted and face contorted in pleasure, trying so, so hard to keep your long-lost composure. Nothing feels more right than trying to break that composure, to make you melt into his arms even more.

To give up any thought of propriety and be his.

His thoughts run wild, his heart pounding in his chest with crazed abandon and he can feel himself coming close to the edge. He searches for the bundle of nerves between your legs, hoping to make you scream and when he finds it, it works so well he’s worried the entire Red Keep will hear you after all.

Desperately, he begins to rut into you, watching all coherent thoughts disappear from your eyes as he brings you over the edge a second time. Only then does he allow himself to cum, grabbing your hips harshly until he, too, is spent.

Suddenly exhausted, he rolls off of you, lying next to you and only grabbing your hand.

He turns to face you after a while, you doing the same. Your eyes meet and a smile appears on your flushed face.

“My body feels like it’s filled with lead.” You whisper.

“My lady wife. I never knew I could get this lucky.” He replies. Harwin got out of the bed, trying to find a washcloth. For once, you did not ask any questions, eyes closed in bliss. You let him wipe off the remainder of his seed, burrowing into his side as he lies down next to you.

“You are mine.” You whisper, hearing him chuckle at your words.

“Indeed. I swore it before the Seven just this morning.”

“I think I’m falling in love with you, Ser Harwin.” You sigh.

“So am I, my love.” He replies.

[captainamericasmotercycle]

HARWIN SMUT HARWIN SMUT HARWIN SMUT ‼️‼️‼️‼️🧎🏼‍♀️🧎🏼‍♀️🧎🏼‍♀️

Forgive me, I fear I am not the best at writing smut, but I tried my best for my husband Harwin <3

pairing: ser harwin strong x fem!targ!reader (mother is unspecified)

warnings: quick mention of criston cole, 18+, minors DNI, reader is a targ (mother is unspecified), a bit angsty in the first part?, p in v sex, oral receiving (m and f), missionary, cowgirl, accidental creampie, reader has hair long enough to braid, use of the word whore, sworn protector harwin, forbidden relationship, loss of virginity?

wc: 2.5k

a/n: i need harwin strong biblically. smut under the cut <3

Ser Harwin Strong, son of the Hand to the Kind, was set to be your sworn protector, which you absolutely hated.

As the second daughter of King Viserys, he was quite protective over you, especially after losing Aemma and then your mother in childbirth. He was much more hesitant to wed you off, much more insistent to keep you safe from a fate such as theirs.

Though, by your Targaryen blood, you detested being safe; always searching for some kind of adventure, whether it be taking to the skies, or mingling in bars in Flea Bottom.

But now that your father’s strongest knight has been pulled from the City Watch to be your babysitter, there was no possible way for you to escape the Red Keep.

For weeks now, Ser Harwin has been closely following your every move: standing outside of your chambers at night, following you to your lessons, even going all the way to the dragon pit with you.

You started to get annoyed with him, clearly displaying it.

“I do not understand why you have to stand there,” you were in the gardens with your older sister, reading about the histories, complaining out loud.

She hit your arm gently, “He is only standing at his post.”

Ser Criston Cole was standing just a bit further away from the pair of you; Cole being your sister’s sworn shield.

“But does he have to stand there? His big body is blocking the sun,” you complained.

“I can move, if you wish, Princess,” he shifted backwards, but you stood and dusted yourself off.

“No need, I want to leave.”

He followed closely behing you. You walked faster, trying to lose him within the maze of walls in the castle. He never once put up a fight chasing you around the Red Keep out of the many times you’ve challenged his watch.

You began to run straight to your chambers, only slowing when you turned the corner to find your father walking with Lord Strong. His guards swiftly grabbed you by the arm, Ser Harwin not far behind.

Shocked at the sudden contact and the presence of your father, you straightened up.

“Father.”

“Please, do not tell me you have been running from Ser Harwin, again,” he spoke, vexxed at your behavior.

As if he was summoned, Harwin came around the corner. Your father shot his attention directly at your guard, his own father giving him a stern look.

“Ser Harwin, you would not lie to your king, correct?”

“I would never, your grace.”

“Has my daughter been keeping you agile, running about the Red Keep?”

He hesitated, glancing from your father to you and your hardened gaze; a slight shake of your head, warning him not to tell on you.

Looking back at your father he gently nodded, “Yes, your grace.”

“Mmm. Let her go,” he ordered his guard. Walking to you and placing his sickly hand on your cheek, he sighed, “The more you fight your protection, the stricter it will become. I am warning you, daughter. I am only doing this because I care for you.”

He dropped his hand and you sighed, “But father, Nyra doesn’t have this many rules, and she’s your heir!”

“What Rhaenyra is doing is none of your concern.”

“But why?”

“Because I said so! I am your father and your king! I will make the rules as I please.”

Everyone watched the argument awkwardly, standing as still as possible. You pouted at your father, nearly stomping away from the scene.

As you got to your room, you shut the doors quickly, preventing Ser Harwin from entering. Wanting to scream, you threw yourself onto your bed, an action truly unbecoming of a woman and more like a child.

A sudden knock at your door kept you from throwing a tantrum.

“Princess? Are you alright?” Harwin’s voice rang out.

Of course he would try and talk.

“Fine!” You shouted back.

“May I enter?”

Sighing, you walked to the door, the silence scaring him. You opened the large wooden door, meeting him face to face.

“Come in,” you stepped aside, allowing him in.

Continuing your tantrum, you started to rant to him.

“I honestly do not understand him! Nyra and Aegon both are reckless and barely watched, and yet it is I who is constantly under surveillance!”

He watched you pace around your room.

“And you! You following me everywhere is enough to drive me mad! For once I just want to be free of you!” You angrily spat out, only turning to see him with a slight frown.

“I did not know you felt so imprisoned by my presence,” your face dropped in an instance.

“I am sorry, Ser Harwin, I did not mean to offend you—”

“No need, Princess. If you truly feel this way, I can surely ask for a change of post.”

“No, just— just leave me. I’m sorry, I need to breathe.”

He bowed his head to you and swiftly left, leaving you feeling more guily than angry.

As much as you complained about being followed and watched, you truly were starting to enjoy being by Harwin’s side, when he wasn’t annoying the life out of you.

Although you were not being pushed hard to marry and would rather never wed, you wouldn’t mind seeing what the husky knight’s intimate moments were like.

Maybe it was your emotions controlling your sinful thoughts, or maybe it was the pent up frustration fueling your delusions, but now you regretted sending him away from you.

-

Late that night, you were still thinking about your earlier words; you had sent a maid to fetch Ser Harwin.

He quickly entered, his sword almost unsheathed, ready to fight whatever threatened you. When he found you alone, he relaxed.

“You summoned?”

“I did.”

“I thought you wanted to be free of my suffocation?” You could’ve had his tongue for that.

“I did.”

“Did? Not anymore?”

“Sit, please,” you pointed to the settee, he followed your directions, taking off his helmet and sitting.

“You know, I used to sneak out, before my father swore you to me, down into Flea Bottom.”

“Yes, I remember,” he was the one to report to your adventures to your father, telling Viserys that he could protect you from your late night leaves.

“I would go drink, for hours, only returning to the Keep just moments before the sun came up.”

Harwin listened silently to your story, watching you pace with wide eyes in awe.

“I used to walk past these houses… on the Street of Silk.”

“Princess, I am not sure where you are going with this story, but I am not sure if this is appropriate…”

“I always wondered what it would be like, as a common-born, free to roam the brothels.”

“You do not mean that.”

“I do,” you turned to face him, his face in a stoned expression, his helmet on his lap.

“But you are not a common-born, you are of Targaryen blood, born for greatness… not a brothel.”

You came to sit next to him, “Don’t you wish for one moment that you, yourself, could know what it is like?”

“To be someone’s whore?”

“Yes.”

“No. No I don’t. I am perfectly content as I am,” he lies to you. If he had been born into a common family, he would wish to be your whore.

Sighing, you placed a hand on his large thigh, “I just wanted to know…that is why I detested your protection! I did not want to lose my excersions out of the Keep.”

He looked at your touch, then looking away.

“What if I could show you?”

“Show me?”

He remained silent, still looking away from you.

“Harwin,” he breathed heavily at your voice, “Look at me.”

“I should go. I have overstepped. I cannot break my oath or my head will be on a spike before dawn,” his head was still down, looking away.

“Look at me. That is a command from your princess,” you said it more sternly, he turned his head to meet your eyes, “What do you mean you could show me?”

“I—”

“Speak free and plainly.”

“I had been into many brothels on the command of Prince Daemon, to find thieves and liars, to serve them justice as a Gold Cloak. I have seen the obscenities of the Street of Silk.”

You stared at him with wide eyes, he could not tell if you were horrified or intruiged. You moved your hand to hold the side of his face.

“I want you to show me.”

He leaned in closer to you, stopping just seconds before touching your lips to his, you could feel his breath on you, “I should stop. I am a man of honor—”

“I do not care. Dishonor me,” pushing yourself into him, you captured the sweet taste of your sworn shield.

He moved his body to face you more intimately, his helmet clanging on the floor. You clawed at his armour, he quickly untied every piece. As he fervently took off his outer layers, you pulled at the strings of your dress, until you were both in your undercloths.

You could see his manhood through the thin linen pants he wore. He stripped you down after pulling his own cloths off, still kissing you passionately.

He grabbed at your waist with his large hands, pulling you onto his bare lap to straddle him.

Your breasts pushed up against his hairy chest, your sensitive parts rubbing on his own. He moved to kiss your neck as he began shifting you slowly, his cock rubbing against your throbbing bud and slit.

Throwing your head back at the sensation, it gave Harwin an opening to suck at the base of your neck, nearing your collarbones.

He elevated you, allowing his mouth to move to your tit, kissing his way around your nipple bfore taking it fully into his mouth. You moaned loudly, Harwin’s hand coming up to muffle your yells.

He wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you in, he got close to your ear, nipping at your lobe, he let out a low growl, “Do you want us to get found, Princess?”

Stuttering out, you struggled to form any kind of response, “No— I, no.”

“Then we need to be silent,” he smiled at you seductively, warning you.

You pushed yourself off his lap, sinking down to the floor in front of the settee, between Harwin’s bare knees. Your hair was still braided from the events of the day, pulled back and out of your face.

You stared at the girth of Harwin’s cock, grabbing the base of it and stroking. You watched as he shivered at your touch.

Taking his length into your mouth, you started slowly, trying to find the right pace. As an instinct, his hand flew to the back of your head, guiding you up and down his cock.

You toyed with his balls as you slid your tongue around his tip. Feeling himself about to come undone with your mouth, he swiftly pushed you off, it becoming almost painful at the loss of your touch.

“I mustn’t release before you,” he heavily stated.

Lifting you with ease, he laid you back, spreading your legs and slotting his face nearing your cunt. He kissed the inside of your thigh, moving closer to your sensitivities.

“Do not tease, Harwin,” you just barely moaned out. He kissed your bud, latching his mouth to it and sucking. He moved his way down your womanhood, his tongue reaching your entrance.

Darting his tongue into the squishy walls of your insides, you reached pleasures you could have never even dreamed of. Working wonders with his tongue, he licked up and down, in and out, pushing you to your peak.

Your legs shook, clamped around Harwin’s head. He moved to tower over you, kissing you to make you taste your own sweet release.

He lined himself up with your entrance, his large girth penetrating your maidenhood. It sent a pinch to your core at first, but you eased into it. You moaned out loudly at the feeling, an obscene moan, more sweet than anyone could hear in a brothel. Harwin nearly came as he heard you.

He thrusted hard, fucking you into the settee. You kept your eyes open to look at him as he fucked you. Leaning down, he kissed you all over your neck and breasts, forcing you close to another release. He watched your tits bounce with every thrust, pulling him close to his own release.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, and he shifted your position. He flipped the two of you, him on his back and you on top of him.

You steadied yourself with a hand on his broad chest, his hands shooting to your waist. As you straddled him, he groped at your waist, your hips rolling over his.

You leaned forward to be chest to chest with him; your hips were still moving rapidly. The motions of your hips forced your release, your walls clenching his cock; your head coming to rest in the crook of his neck.

The tighness of your walls made the waves of pleasure come crashing into him, releasing his seed into you before he was able to pull out.

“Princess…” he moaned out.

Smiling into his neck you laughed gently, “I think we are passed formalities, Harwin.”

The vibrations of your laugh tickled him into adoration, Harwin smiling as well. He wrapped his big arms around your naked waist, breathing into your neck.

You pushed yourself off, feeling cold at the absence of him inside of you. Picking up your small clothes off the ground, Harwin watched with a smile, “So eager to get rid of me?”

“I never said for you to leave,” you smiled back.

“I should go.”

“No. Stay with me, just for tonight?”

He sat himself up, spreading himself out, his elbows resting on his knees. His sweaty curls clung to his neck and forehead, making him look ethereal in the moonlight. He thought about your offer, nodding to himself.

“Just this once I will stay, but I must leave before morning light.”

Dropping your smallcloths back on the floor, you stalked over to him, mounting his strong lap, wrapping your arms around his neck, you kissed his jaw chastely.

He smiled at the touch, “So I would assume my presence isn’t suffocating you any longer?”

You rolled your eyes, dismounting and pulling him towards your bed, “Believe me, you are still unbearably suffocating… just in a different way.”

[thekinslayed]

This Heaven Gives Me Migraine

summary | The revelation of your betrothed's involvement with your half-sister sends you straight into Criston's arms. Harwin is shown what he has been missing out on.

pairing | criston cole x legitimized bastard!reader x harwin strong

tags | 18+, minors dni, unprotected sex, oral sex (f), oral sex (m), cuckolding, threesome, Harwin's monster cock, daddy issues if u squint, reader is loosely based on shiera seastar

wordcount | 4.6k

note | lmao this gif is the only one i've found of them in the same frame 😭 don't ask how old anyone is, idk either <3

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!

song rec | Natural's Not In It - Gang of Four

(dividers by @zaldritzosrose)

When Lyonel Strong offered his son Harwin to the Princess Rhaenyra, King Viserys merely laughed in his face, stating his son was not good enough for his heir. He was, however, good enough for you, the king’s legitimised bastard. The King sired you with a Lyseni woman, whom he was introduced to by his brother Daemon and his then-lover Mysaria. That night was merely a lapse in his judgement, he had let his cock hold authority over his head. The King was determined to erase any evidence of his wrongdoings by having you sent to the Sept, but then, your mother had died, and the young queen Aemma could not find it in her heart to send a babe like you away. You were taken in a year before Rhaenyra was conceived, having served as the Queen’s temporary comfort when she struggled to produce an heir. It was the will of the good queen to have you legitimised, though despite being formally named a Targaryen, you felt like an outsider in your own family. 

You had all your father’s Valyrian features, but only half the love he bore for your half-sister Rhaenyra. In some ways, you understood. You were the walking reminder of Viserys’ mistakes, and the King was adept at pretending you were invisible. The thought did little to quell the hurt in your chest as you longed for an ounce of attention Viserys bestowed on Rhaenyra.

However, you made this work in your favor. With the order of succession having skipped you, all the attention was on your younger sister. This allowed you more freedom, you took on numerous lovers, dabbled in creating potions and elixirs, and flew across the realm on your dragon as much as you wished. You grew more distant from Rhaenyra as you enjoyed the joys that came with your autonomy, while she held the pressure of being the King’s heir.

Despite the pleasures you had freely taken for yourself, you were still a princess with duties to uphold. And so, your hand was offered to Ser Harwin, as a gesture of good faith with the Strongs.

You liked Harwin. Good, honourable Harwin. He was courteous, a man of good breeding. He would clutch your hand at his elbow when you walked through the gardens, listening to every single detail you shared. His sweet words often rendered you blushing like a maiden, tugging on your heartstrings in a way no man ever had. You would often find him awaiting you in the Dragonpit when you returned from your flights, a kiss planted upon the back of your hand when you approached him. With some convincing, you would succeed in persuading Harwin back to your chambers some nights, where you sat upon his lap, grinding on his thigh while he claimed your lips. Nothing more, of course. 

“We cannot, princess. Not yet,” he would whisper, stopping you from taking things any further, much to your frustration. You were dying of curiosity to learn what he was like in bed. Surely, the name Breakbones didn’t only apply to his physical prowess on the battlefield. On the nights he would be away with the City Watch, a fresh vase of flowers would always be sent from him, awaiting you on your nightstand. 

And when Harwin was away, you would find yourself in Criston’s arms.

Your trysts with the Kingsguard started not long after Rhaenyra sent him away from her midst with a broken heart. He was but a dog with his tail stuck in between his legs when you had set your eyes on him. At first, you were apprehensive about taking what you thought were your half-sister’s scraps, but it did not take long for you to realize you had struck gold. Criston fucked, hard. He would take you with an air of desperation in his thrusts, as though you would disappear once he failed to satisfy you. The knight was eager to please, taking you any way you liked, however many times you wanted to. The maester was surely suspicious about how frequently you requested for moon tea on the mornings following your nights with Criston, but you made sure to remind him of your knowledge of the whores he would sneak into the Keep for his own debauchery, something your father would surely not appreciate. 

You should be thankful for Rhaenyra, really. If it weren’t for her, you wouldn’t be lost in the dizzying haze of your nights with Criston, free to claim him as you wish, while she carried her and Laenor’s first. Hells, even Alicent didn’t mind you whisking away her sworn shield the second he was relieved of his duties. While no plans about your marriage to Harwin were set yet, you enjoyed your last bits of freedom with your lover, while imagining the moment you would finally be claimed by the Strong knight in your marriage bed.

Your brows furrowed as you stared at the babe that lay in the cot. Beside you, your father cooed, tickling the boy’s nose with his fingertip. Pale skin, brown hair. How in the Seven Hells did this happen? Your eyes met that of Alicent’s, who held the same glint of confusion in her big, round eyes. 

You flashed Rhaenyra and Laenor a fake smile as the King showered them with praises for producing an heir. Words of good wishes fell from your lips, to which the couple responded with their gratitude. The babe stirred from the voices surrounding him, opening his eyes to reveal a vivid blue. 

No.

It couldn’t be.

You’ve heard of the whispers circulating in court about your sister and your betrothed, though you had paid them no mind. The lords and ladies often had little to do to entertain their boring lives which often resulted in forming insipid rumours about the royal family. Once, they had speculated you bathed in blood to preserve your beauty, which you only scoffed at in response. You had only turned five and twenty! 

But this… this was hard to deny.

You left your half-sister’s chambers with the Queen, speaking in hushed whispers as you both walked through the halls while Ser Criston trailed behind you. “I cannot believe this! Do you think…” Alicent trailed, careful with her words as she looked at your troubled expression. 

“My sister, s-she… She would never bring such shame upon my name. Wouldn’t she?” You asked, turning to both Alicent and Criston. Your shoulders sagged when they said nothing but only exchanged doubtful looks. A pit formed in your stomach at the realization.

“It is too soon to say, dear girl. Do not fret, the truth will reveal itself soon, yes?” Alicent reassured you, rubbing your shoulders comfortingly. 

The truth did, in fact, reveal itself during the feast celebrating the birth of Rhaenyra’s heir. Jacaerys Velaryon, future King of the Seven Kingdoms. You were sat beside young Aegon, who looked unamused by the whole affair. You felt him tug at your sleeve, making you lean down. “Why does he have brown hair?” He asked.

“I am not quite sure, my sweet, but don’t you think he has his father’s eyes?” You said, smiling at him sweetly. When he merely shrugged his shoulders, you caressed his silver head of hair, before directing your gaze to the crowd, unconvinced by your own words.

While the lords and ladies cheered for the introduction of the babe to the court, you watched your betrothed. His eyes lit up with joy, shimmering blues under the light of the Great Hall, though they were not looking at you. His gaze was directed at your sister who sat beside your father. 

Your chest panged with hurt, your jaw ticked in anger at this shameless display. You turned your head to meet Rhaenyra’s gaze, which met yours for a second, before looking away to avoid your sharp stare. A scoff left your lips, rising from your seat to leave the Great Hall. The sound of your shoes shuffling against stone echoed through the empty halls as you returned to your chambers, slamming the door behind you. 

A cup of wine was poured in haste, and your shaky hands brought it to your lips, chugging its contents down. You slammed the cup back down onto the table, before pouring yourself another. Some herbs were crushed and added to the cup of red, with the hopes of soothing your aggravated state. Behind you, you heard the sound of your door opening, followed by quiet footsteps and the clinking of metal.

“Princess,” You heard him say. 

“What are you doing here?” You asked, not facing the man who stood by your door. “I came to make sure you were alright,” he responded softly. Your head dropped as you sighed, your ringed fingers clutched the end of the serving table, weight leaning on the wood.

“How could they do this to me? My own sister, my future husband?” you trembled with anger. A gloved hand clutched your elbow, prompting you to turn around to meet the Dornishman’s gaze.

Criston looked at you with worry while you shook your head, an incredulous laugh leaving your lips. “Gods, what a fool I am.” 

“Don’t say that,” he interjected, frowning at your words.

“But I am,”you asserted, stepping away from him to walk towards the chaise with the cup of wine in your grip. “Fucking Harwin. I let him convince me what an honourable man he is, what a fine husband he would make,” you grumbled before you took a big swig from your cup. Criston silently listened, standing with his hands clutched together at his back. “I could care less if he took another to bed, the gods know I am not innocent of that either,” you pointed out, to which your lover gave you a look.

“But my own sister,” you fumed, tone heavy with incredulity. “What will the court say of this? Of me?”

A silence passed through the room, the only sound being the crackling of the hearth. After a moment, Criston took a step towards you, tugging off his gloves.

“Do you love him?” he asked, making you turn towards him. You pondered on his words. Though you bore good feelings for the Gold Cloak, it was too soon to call it love, and after this debacle, you could hardly consider him worthy of your affection. 

“No,” you answered with conviction, your gaze upon Criston unwavering. “Not with the utter humiliation the birth of this bastard shall bring me.”

The hard metal of his armor is cool against the skin of your back as your knight pressed his front against your clothed behind. He dipped his head to kiss the exposed skin of your shoulder, nuzzling his face into the base of your neck. The stubble on his face tickled, his familiar scent wafting into your senses as you leaned your head against his.

“He is not worthy of you, none of them are,” Criston rasped. His hands slithered to embrace your waist, a sigh leaving your lips when you finally relaxed into his arms. “Harwin is an imbecile, blind to his fortune of having the most beautiful woman in the realm promised to him.”

A breathless chuckle left your lips at his words. You turned in his arms to face the knight, cupping his stubbled jaw to stare into his eyes. 

“You are so good to me,” you tell him, nudging your nose against his. Criston’s heart thumped against his chest, and for a moment he worried you would hear it knock against the metal of his chestplate. He closed his eyes, pressing his forehead against yours.

Oh, the things he would do to make you all his.

Criston hated sharing, especially with that dolt Strong. If he could, he would take you away from all of this madness, and fulfill the promise of a life of freedom and love. But he cannot let himself hope, not again.

“I would do anything for you, my princess,” Criston whispered lowly, a kiss planted to the skin of your wrist to seal his vow. 

“Anything?”

“Yes, yes. Anything, ask and it shall be done,” he affirmed, looking at you with sincerity in his eyes. Your heart warmed at his words, his unwavering loyalty to you something you feel completely undeserving of. You would be lying if you said you hadn’t spent many nights imagining what life would be like with Criston as your husband. Rhaenyra had told you of his promise of taking her away to Essos, for a simple life forged with love. Your sister thought the prospect entirely ridiculous. But you, you could do it. There was little keeping you here, no father who gave you love, no duty to tie you down, no throne to bleed you dry. But you cannot, not yet at least. The moment shall present itself in the future, this you knew in your heart. And when it does, you shall ask Criston to go with you and you shall never look back. For now, you settled with planting a kiss on his lips. 

“I do not ask for much, just you,” you said against his lips. He cupped your chin to pull you back against his lips, deepening the kiss as his tongue pried your mouth open. “You have me,” he breathed out.

Kissing turned into gnawing as Criston all but devoured your mouth. You fumbled to undo the knots holding up his breastplate. One by one, you both worked to remove his armor, the metal plates falling on the fur carpet with a soft thud. Now clad in only his gambeson and breeches, your lover pulls you to his chest, relishing in the giggle that left you as you found your way to your bed. 

He sat on your bed, turning you around to quickly undo the laces of your gown. Once the dress fell and you were clad only in your shift, Criston pulled you into his lap, your thigh caging one of his, arms snaked around his neck. You ran a hand through his recently shortened locks, biting your lip as he regarded you with a lovestruck look.

“I told you it would look better shorter,” you commented, earning a rare smile from the usually reserved knight. Your lips captured his once more, tongues twisting against each other. His large hand cupped your breast, earning him a moan. The neckline of your shift is pushed down to reveal your chest, your nipples pert against Criston’s breath as he nuzzled his face into the plump flesh. Another moan escaped you when he took one of your tits into his mouth. A gush of arousal dripped from your core as your lover played and toyed with your mounds of flesh, your hips ground against his thigh mindlessly. Throwing your head back in delight, you blindly reached down to find the lace of his breeches, haphazardly untying them to dip your hand to stroke his cock. He groaned against your breast as you started to touch him, dragging your hand up and down his hardened length. Your hips continued to ground against his muscular thigh, smearing your essence on the fabric of his trousers. Your jaw fell open as he lifted his thigh higher, directing you to the edge of his knee. A whimper left you when your pearl rubbed deliciously against his kneecap, grounding your hips harder into his leg as the coil in your core threatened to snap. A chorus of grunts and whines echoed through the room as you both chased release. Criston’s hips started to thrust into your hand as you stroked him in rhythm with your grinding. The growing heat in your belly indicated how close you were to the precipice, hips growing desperate as you hurled yourself to the end. Before you were thrown over the edge, however, the door to your chambers flew open, and Harwin’s hulking figure entered. 

“What is the meaning of this?” His voice boomed, blue eyes widened after having caught you and Criston in such a precarious position. You hid your surprise at his intrusion, turning to face Harwin but made no move to rise from Criston’s lap.

“What right do you have to barge into my chambers, Ser Harwin?” you reprimanded, looking at your betrothed angrily. Blue eyes raked from your exposed chest down to where your hand disappeared in Criston’s pants. The Gold Cloak gulped, before straightening up to meet your displeased gaze. 

“You disappeared from the feast, princess, I was sent here to fetch you. I heard noises from the hall, I thought you were…” he trailed off, eyes shifting to Cole who had a smug look on his face. Harwin’s fists clenched as the urge to smash the Dornishman’s face threatened to overwhelm him. You scoffed at your betrothed, pulling away from Criston to rise to your feet.

“You need not worry about me, Ser, so please, leave us,” you ordered, earning an incredulous look from the taller man.

“I am not leaving you with him! This is the most improper,” he contended, standing his ground. Your eyebrows raised at his words, a smirk on your lips rose upon hearing him. 

“You are one to lecture me on what is and what isn’t proper. Tell me, don’t you have other pressing matters to attend to? Your newborn son, perhaps?” you questioned. Harwin glared at Criston when he snickered at your words, before turning to you with an apologetic look.

“Princess, you have to understand, I did not intend to–”

“No? What, did your cock just accidentally found its way into my sister’s cunt? Spare me the excuses, Harwin, I have no need for them,” you seethed. Harwin reached out to you, but you stepped away from him before he could hold you. His eyes flickered to where Cole still sat on your bed, then back to you. “I am not leaving,” he repeated, standing his ground.

“Fine, watch then,” you ordered, turning around to walk back to your lover. You resumed your previous position in Criston’s lap, cupping his face in your hands. You stared at each other, communicating silently. The knight’s contempt of your betrothed was something you were aware of, and you did not wish for this to evolve into something messier than it already was. Criston was the one to smash his lips onto yours, taking you by surprise. A low moan left you at the familiar taste of him against your lips. 

Criston ordered you to rise, which you obeyed, pulling your shift off as you did so. The knight turned you around, facing your bare body to your betrothed who still stood by the door. Harwin’s eyes visibly darkened at the sight of you, blue orbs trailing down your naked flesh. Heat stirred deep within you, cheeks warming at the hungry look in his gaze.

“Best make yourself comfortable, Strong,” Criston spoke up, a mischievous glint in his eye. The hands on your waist urged you to sit back down on his lap, spreading your thighs wide to give Harwin a good view. Your betrothed settled on the chaise faced directly to your bed. You caught how he visibly gulped at the sight of your weeping slit. Criston’s fingers lowered to circle your pearl, a gasp emitting from your lips at his touch. 

“Princess,” Harwin started. He fidgeted in his seat, his crotch was starting to strain in his trousers uncomfortably.

“Sit still and be quiet, Harwin,” You commanded, followed by a whine that reverberated from your chest. Criston dipped a finger into your core, groaning when your rear squirmed against his bulge. You started to pant when his middle finger started to fuck you in earnest, eyes fluttering when the pad of his finger rubbed on a particular spot in a way that made your toes clench. Both your hands gripped his muscular bicep when a second finger entered your cunny, filling you in a way your fingers never could.

“This is where your mistake is, Strong. You’ve gone around other women’s beds when you have denied yourself to indulge in what could have been all yours. See how well she takes my fingers?” Criston chided, smirking at the glaring man. His fingers continued to thrust in and out of you, scissoring and rubbing your clit simultaneously with his thumb. Harwin’s fists gripped the armrests of the chaise tightly, almost to the point of breaking. He would have shot up from his seat to drag Cole to the floor if it weren’t for the desperate moan that echoed from you. You paid little attention to whatever was going on between the men, focusing on chasing your release. Your eyes locked on Harwin’s, gaze staying on him as you spilt around Criston’s fingers. Your mouth fell into an ‘o’ while your thighs shook from the weight of your climax. 

As you chased your breath, you pulled away from Criston’s lap to rise on wobbly legs to walk to where Harwin sat. His icy blues were glossy against the blaze of the hearth, jaw slightly agape when you stood in front of him. Your hand cupped his jaw, making him tilt his head upwards.

“Will you be good?” you asked, still breathless. Your betrothed wordlessly nodded, letting you grab his hand to lead him to your bed. Criston stared at you questioningly, opening his mouth to voice his defiance. You give him a look, giving no room for argument. The loyal dog that he is, the knight obediently stood up from your bed to stand off to the side. 

You ordered Harwin to clean you up with his mouth. He obliged all too eagerly, licking and slurping up your essence with a wet smack. Your eyes rolled back to the back of your skull, humming in delight. You gripped his curls, they felt soft in your palms, in contrast to the rough beard rubbed in between your thighs. Your head turned to the side, and your eyes met Criston’s, who still stood frowning like a kicked dog. You reached out an arm to beckon him over. When he was close enough, your fingers reached for the laces of his breeches to pull out his still-hardened cock. You begin to pump his length, rubbing at his flushed tip with your thumb. Criston threw his head back and groaned, hips canting forward to chase your touch. With Harwin still devouring your cunt diligently, it took little time for your second release to overwhelm you. Your thighs caged his head, and the pace of your hand on Criston’s length faltered. 

When Harwin stood up from his knees, your eyes fell to the bulge straining tightly against his breeches. You allowed him to unlace them, eyes widening at his massive cock. His tip was flushed red, almost purple. The cockhead wept a clear liquid, a sight that made your mouth water. 

Seven Fucking Hells.

Your eyes shifted between both men and an overwhelming wave of desire washed over you, tainting you red from your cheeks down to your chest. Looking back to Harwin, you watched as he slowly stroked his cock, eyes silently asking. 

“You better fuck me like you mean it, Strong,” you said, eyes hungry.

“You won’t wish for another man’s cock after tonight, princess. This I promise you,” he vowed, an air of arrogance now present as his eyes shifted to Cole who scoffed. 

“I wouldn’t be so confident, Ser, not when she aches for mine every night,” the other knight retorted. Your eyes rolled at their display, cunt achingly waiting for either man to stop whining about their cocks and fill you with one of them. 

“Well, so far one princess has already taught mine better than yo-”

“Enough,” you cut them off, huffing. You positioned yourself to your knees, awaiting who would start fucking you first. 

Criston shoved Harwin out of the way, slipping his cock in before the taller man could protest. A whine left your lips at the familiar stretch, a dull pain so delicious. Criston gave you little time to adjust, thrusting into you brutally. He had a point to prove, and you were responding to him beautifully. You fisted the fine sheets, moaning unabashedly from the way your lover abused your cunt. 

You barely registered Harwin standing on the side of your bed, his cock standing tall and proud against his taut abdomen. You lifted yourself to take him in your mouth, sucking in as much as you could. His cockhead hit your uvula with barely half of his length in your mouth, a slight gag squeezing his tip. Your hand stroked whatever length couldn’t fit, pleasuring him in tandem with your mouth. Moans vibrated on his cock, causing Harwin to groan loudly. Behind you, Criston’s pace never faltered. Your body jerked from how hard he was thrusting into you, your walls squeezing him as another wave of release threatened to wash over you. 

You took your mouth off of Harwin’s length when your third climax had you whining like a wanton whore. Your hand slapped on his abdomen to ground yourself, and your nails dug into his pale skin. Your release triggered Criston’s, the Kingsguard letting out a broken moan as he spilt into your walls. 

You barely get a moment’s reprieve to recover when your cunt is filled once more. Harwin grunted as he took his turn with you, your oversensitive walls still pulsing from your last orgasm. You bit your lips hard at the delicious stretch, his cock filling you differently than Criston’s. His thrusts were short and hard, and his tip kissed your cervix in a way that made your eyes squeeze shut. Curses fell from your lips, tears beading at the corner of your eyes. You moaned out his name in a sob, before pressing your forehead into the mattress to quiet your moans. The noise in your chambers could equal that of a brothel, no doubt able to arouse suspicion in whoever would have the misfortune of passing by. You were a babbling mess, the amalgamation of all the ways you had been ravished by both men robbing you of your usual wit and headstrong demeanor. You felt Harwin grab your wrist, pulling it back towards him to lift your body at an angle. His cock hit you even deeper than before, your ridged walls squeezing him so tight it made it difficult for him to move. Another peak was ripped from you, the hardest one yet. You fell forward onto your mattress, completely boneless. Your mind barely registered the warm spurts of Harwin’s seed that painted your back, lost in the dizzy haze of your pleasure.

When morning came, a cup of freshly brewed moon tea and a bright arrangement of flowers greeted you when you awakened. The memories of the night tainted your cheeks red, the delicious throb of your core the only evidence of what had occurred. Harwin felt a weight lifted off his shoulders when you allowed him to accompany you for your morning walk in the gardens, any previous contempt for him discarded, for now. What he did was still unforgivable, but if you were to marry, you wished for no ill will to taint your union. 

As for Criston, your nights with him were unaffected, though he did seem to fuck you even harder than before. He had even gone so far as to give Harwin a cordial nod when they trained.

​​Perhaps he should lay off on Strong for a while, a silent truce, if you will. He had you, and that was what mattered most to him. He held his tongue from spitting out his usual nasty remarks about the heir’s brown-haired firstborn and his stark resemblance to the Gold Cloak. Everything was peaceful, good, even, especially with the new arrangement that benefit all three of you.

That peace, however, did not last long, for a year after Jacaerys’ first nameday, the Princess Rhaenyra gave birth to yet another brown-haired babe, Lucerys.

[adharaphoenix]

kinktober 16 - size difference, lingerie

sansan requested by @/mazzamac95 on bsky

uncropped uncensored 🔞 version: bluesky / neocities

[navybrat817]

Do you think Abbot likes going down on you?

Like it, nonnie? He loves it.

Banner by the talented @cafekitsune

Jack Abbot eats pussy like it's his God-given right.

Hungry, starved, breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Don't come between a man and his meal.

You think he cares if you've shaved or not? Open your legs. Let. Him. Eat.

Sitting on his face isn't a suggestion. It's an order. Take a fucking seat.

Yes, he'll be able to breathe. Breathing in your scent before he gets a taste is like an aphrodisiac.

And, yes, he can and will fuck you with his tongue. He's an expert and you know he doesn't do anything half-assed.

His hands love to dig into your thighs and hips so he can move you just where he needs you. And he loves to add his fingers to stretch your sweet cunt and add more stimulation...

Speaking of stimulation, he doesn't understand men who can't find or simply neglect the clit. Correction. They aren't men. Jack is.

Don't you dare hold back your sounds. Say his name. Moan. Whimper. Anything. Be as loud as you want.

He grunts and groans, wanting you to know just how much he loves tasting and pleasing you. The vibrations and the tickle from his stubble drive you crazy.

If you don't make a mess all over him, he'll think he did something wrong and he will remedy that. That usually involves making you come again. And again.

What? He's a giver. Give it to him.

As much as he loves having you ride his face like your life depends on it, he loves to lay you down and dive in. Such a hungry man.

Pull his hair. Grip his head with your thighs. Play with your breasts. Go on.

It's a gorgeous view for him, looking up at you between your thighs. Such a sight to watch you writhe and tremble.

It's a gorgeous view for you, too, when you catch a glimpse of those intense eyes and the shine around his mouth. It's the kind of stare that makes your heart stop and race all at once.

Yes, he'll give you his cock. Just be good and give him one more.

He talks you through it, of course. You know he does. Because you're so beautiful when you let go for him. So good. So fucking good.

And just when you think it's too much, you break so beautifully. He guides you and makes sure you feel every ounce of pleasure.

He licks his fingers like he can't let a single drop go to waste, and you come back to yourself long enough to feel the head of his cock start to push in. It feels like heaven once he's inside.

And Jack? He fucking smirks.

Nothing to see here, lovelies. Go about your business.

Love and thanks! ❤️

[doctoralhashimi]

constellate (1/2)

fifteen things that jack learns about samira #mohabbotmonday | 545 words | what samira learns

"One way that we constellate meaning into the ambiguity of living is through connecting with others, bodily. To take someone's hand is to have made a constellation between the two of you. To have sex is to constellate, as is to exchange a glance across a table. Constellation is [...] the antidote to patternless-ness and potential chaos, including the potential chaos of loneliness." — Carl Phillips

i. She uses the same curl cream he does. She likes working it into his hair with her chest pressed to his back; likes being able to feel the pleased sigh leave his body.

ii. Despite the many ways she has reformed her perfectionist tendencies over the years, she is fiercely competitive; for the sake of their relationship, they decide against continuing to do the New York Times crossword together.

iii. She loves the cold. He loves that it makes her huddle close.

iv. Contrary to what her ED nickname implies, she is not always slow. Comes quite quickly when he whispers filth in her ear, in fact.

v. On days when she struggles to remember the point of it all, she scrolls through her folder of poetryisnotaluxury screenshots until she finds her favorite line from Andrea Gibson: Grief astronomer, adjust the lens, look close, tell us what you see.

vi. She gets sleepy with wine; animated with tequila; handsy with gin.

vii. With the help of vetted YouTube videos and whichever physical therapists on the ninth floor will spare her the time, she teaches herself how to do myofascial release for his residual limb pain.

viii. She doesn't own a TV, so their watch-through of each other's Letterboxd favorites—starting with Good Will Hunting for him and Om Shanti Om for her—is better suited for his place. (In the end, it doesn't really matter; they make it about half an hour into each movie before she's on his lap, panting into his mouth.)

ix. She is lethal at karaoke—a surprise to others but not to him, not after hearing her sing in his shower.

x. Whether before sleep or after a frustrating shift, she counts his freckles to clear her mind. Her fingertips leave little whorls of heat on his temples, his cheekbones, his shoulders.

xi. She snorts if he can get her laughing hard enough. He frequently gets her laughing hard enough.

xii. She smells like amber and peppercorn, courtesy of a rollerball of perfume she purchased from the vintage shop on Butler Street. He can't get enough of it and keeps her well stocked. (Sometimes, when she's away, he dabs some on his wrist to inhale as he gets himself off, loud and unabashed. She likes when he sends her videos as proof.)

xiii. She wants to adopt another cat. Her bookmarks bar is full of worthy candidates such as an orange tabby named Beans, a calico named Rosie, and a Russian blue named Saag Paneer.

xiv. She has a sweet tooth—or rather, a sour one. ("Sour candy can alleviate anxiety, you know," she says, grinning around one end of a gummy worm. He replies by taking the other end between his teeth and tugging, Lady and the Tramp-style.)

xv. She doesn't wear jewelry. He resolves to change that in one very particular way.

[silverlullabies]

performance review.

Brendon Park x Reader. 18+ MDNI. Power imbalance. corruption kink. bully kink. degradation. manipulation. biting. enemies to no-other-choice-but-him

The engine isn't turning over.

You sit with your hands on the wheel and your foot on the brake and you listen to the sound of nothing happening. The key is in the ignition. You turned it and... nothing. Not even a click or a stutter; nothing your brain can latch onto and diagnose. Just the key, turned, and the absolute refusal of two thousand pounds of metal and combustion engineering to do the one thing it exists to do.

You try again.

Nothing.

Your hands are still on the wheel. You knuckles have gone pale across the ridges, tendons standing out beneath skin that's been washed so many times today the texture has gone papery and tight.

You're gripping the wheel the way you'd grip the edge of a stretcher, the way you grip things when the alternative is letting your hands shake where people can see them, and you can feel the vibrations traveling up through your forearms into your shoulders where it meets the tension that's been living in your trapezius since approximately six forty five this morning when Dr. Park looked at your patient pre-op notes and said "Did you write this with your eyes closed?"

You breathe.

The parking garage is nearly empty. The late night shadows and overhead fluorescents are doing their usual thing- that sickly amber wash that makes everything look darker and more jaundiced, turns concrete pillars and painted lines into something out of a liminal space photograph. Your shift ended nine minutes ago. You've been sitting in this car for three of those minutes and you're no closer to leaving than you were when you got in.

You try the ignition a third time because you are a person who went to medical school, which means you are clinically incapable of accepting a result without attempting to replicate it, and the result is the same.

Silence.

The dashboard stays dark. The engine stays dead. Your car, the one last reliable thing you have left in your life has chosen today- today- of all days, to stop working.

Something behind your sternum cracks, a seam letting go, a thread that's been holding two pieces of fabric together finally giving up under the accumulated weight of seventeen hours of Park's voice in your ear, Park's corrections on your chart, Park's particular way of standing just inside your peripheral vision so that you could never fully forget he's watching. The sound he makes when you do something wrong, a small exhalation through his nose that somehow communicates more disappointment than a full sentence. The way clicks his tongue when you fumbled the angle of the retractors, not loud enough for the scrub nurse to hear, pitched just for you, intimate in its cruelty.

You get out of the car.

The concrete is gritty under your sneakers. The garage has that particular underground acoustics thing where every sound arrives twice, once directly and once as an echo off the low ceiling, so the slam of your door comes back to you a half second later, duller, like the garage is mocking you. You walk to the front of the car. You pull the hood release. You prop the hood up with the little metal arm and you stare at the engine.

You have no idea what you’re looking at.

You know this. You are aware, in a detached and increasingly unhinged way, that you possess exactly zero mechanical knowledge, that the greasy labyrinth of hoses and reservoirs and metal components in front of you might as well be quantum mechanics for all the good looking at it is going to do. But you’re looking anyway, because the alternative is standing in an empty parking garage at eleven pm and crying, and you are not going to cry. You are not. You’ve made it through seventeen hours without crying and you are not going to let a dead battery or a seized alternator or whatever the fuck is wrong be the thing that-

Your eyes are wet.

You blink. Hard. Twice. You sniff, once, sharp, and press the back of your wrist against your nose and stare at the engine and try to convince yourself that you are absolutely, categorically not falling apart in a parking garage. The fluorescent light catches the moisture on your lashes and turns it amber. A tear escapes down the side of your nose and you swipe it away with your knuckle so hard the skin stings.

Headlights bloom across the concrete behind you.

The light stretches your shadow forward, elongates it across the front of your car, and for a second you’re just annoyed; someone pulling through on their way out, someone who got to have a normal end to their shift and get in their functioning car and leave. The engine behind you is idling, smooth and low, and it doesn’t pass. It slows. It stops.

A door opens.

You don’t turn around because some self preserving corner of your brain already knows. Before the footsteps, before the particular rhythm of that walk-  unhurried, deliberate, the gait of a man who has never once rushed to be anywhere because everywhere he goes adjusts to accommodate his arrival-  you know who it is.

You know the way you know a headache is about to become a migraine. The way you know a patient is about to code before the monitors catch up. A full body premonition, cellular and certain.

Park’s footsteps stop somewhere behind your left shoulder.

You keep staring at the engine. Your vision has gone blurry, half tears, half exhaustion, half the flat refusal of your eyes to focus on anything that isn’t a pillow. You can feel him behind, the shift in pressure and temperature that changes the quality of the air against the back of your neck.

He doesn’t say anything for five seconds. You count them.

Then he leans past you.

His arm enters your field of vision from the left and he reaches into the engine compartment with the casualness of a man who reaches into open body cavities for a living and finds a car engine charmingly simple by comparison. His shoulder is close enough to yours that you can feel the warmth radiating off him through his clothes. 

You catch it then, his cologne, or whatever it is, something clean and warm and slightly woody that cuts through the garage smell of concrete and motor oil and settles into the space between your throat and your chest with an specificity that makes you want to bite down on something.

He smells good. Offensively, inappropriately good. And you hate him for it with a purity that borders on religious, that causes you to jerk back, take several steps away with your arms crossed over your chest and your teeth clenched so tight your jaw is clicking. 

He doesn’t let you get very far before. “Come here.”

He says it without looking up from the engine compartment, one hand braced on the frame, the other buried somewhere in the tangle of hoses and cables, and he says come here like he’s calling a dog that pissed on the carpet. 

You don’t move.

“I said come here. I’m not going to say it again.”

You move and he grabs your wrist, fingers closing around delicate bones, and pulls you forward until you’re standing beside him with your hip against the bumper and your face approximately eighteen inches from an engine block you couldn’t identify at gunpoint.

“Look.” He positions your hand over a cable terminal crusted with greenish white buildup. Presses your fingers down onto the corroded metal and holds them there. “Feel that?”

You feel it. Gritty. Calcified. Wrong.

“That’s neglect.” He says it close to your ear. Not whispering. Just close. “Months of it.”

He lets that sit for a second. His thumb shifts against the inside of your wrist, a small, almost idle adjustment that drags across your pulse point and there’s absolutely no way he doesn’t feel how fast it’s going.

“When did you buy this car?”

“Two years ago.”

“Two years.” He drops your wrist like he lost interest in holding it, and straightens up. Pulls a cloth from somewhere- his back pocket, his jacket, the fucking ether- and wipes his hands with slow, methodical attention, finger by finger, knuckle by knuckle, while you stand there with engine grease on your palm and the residual ghost pressure of his grip still pulsing around your wrist bones. “And you’ve never once popped the hood. Not once. You’re telling me you’ll spend six hours memorizing the branches of the brachial plexus but you can’t spend five minutes making sure the thing that keeps you alive on the highway actually works.”

He’s not looking at you. He’s looking at his own hands as he cleans them, like they’re the only thing worth his tim,  has all the time in the world and you are not a factor in how he spends it.

“I mean, it’s almost impressive.” He glances at you. Just a flick of his eyes, there and gone. “The commitment to not giving a shit. You’re consistent, I’ll give you that.”

“That’s not- ”

“Your positive cable’s loose. Terminals are shot.” He’s still cleaning his hands. Still not looking at you. “The whole system’s been dying for weeks and you just- what? Turned the key every morning and assumed it would keep working because it always had?” He folds the cloth. Tucks it in his pocket. “That’s not optimism. That’s not even denial. That’s just being stupid about the things you depend on.”

The word stupid lands different coming from him. Not like an insult. A fact. Like a lab value being read off the chart, something they can’t be interpreted in any other way, just is, and always will be. 

“You’re smart in the OR. I’ve seen it.” He says flatly, without investment, a concession that costs him nothing. “You’ve got good hands when they’re not shaking. Good instincts when you’re not choking on them. But then you do this- ” He nods at the engine. “And I have to wonder if the OR version of you is the anomaly and this is the baseline.”

He lets that hang.

“Get in the car.”

“What?”

“My car.” He says, an instruction, not an offer, delivered with the expectation of immediate compliance.

“I can call a- “

“It’s eleven at night, you’re not calling a tow from a parking garage, and you’re not sleeping in your car. Get in.”

“But-”

He’s already walking away. He doesn’t wait, doesn’t look back. Just walks to his car- a dark Lexus that looks like it costs more than your annual salary- and gets into the driver’s side and sits there with the engine running and the passenger door unlocked and the absolute unshakeable certainty that you will follow. 

You follow. 

The inside of his car smells like him. That’s the first thing you register as you pull the door shut, the contained, ambient version of whatever you caught leaning over the engine, multiplied and warmed by the closed space. 

You put on your seatbelt. You stare straight ahead. You give him your address in a voice that comes out smaller than you intended and you feel him register that, feel the quality of his silence change as he files it away. 

He pulls out of the garage. 

He doesn’t speak.

You wait for it- braced- shoulders locked, breath held, every nerve ending oriented toward him. You’ve spent enough time in his proximity to know how he operates: silence first, then the observation, then the correction, delivered with the flat, unhurried precision of a man who learned a long time ago that volume is unnecessary when accuracy will do. You know it’s coming. You sit in the passenger seat with your hands in your lap and your spine so straight your lower back is already aching and you wait.

A minute passes.

Two.

The streetlights strobe across the windshield in rhythmic amber intervals. The road noise fills the car, a low, constant hiss of tires on asphalt, the faint vibration of the chassis transmitting through the seat into your femurs, your pelvis, the base of your spine. The heater is on. You can feel it against your shins, a warm current that smells like clean filters and leather conditioner.

Three minutes.

He’s not going to say anything.

The realization doesn’t bring relief. It brings something worse, a vacuum. The silence that Park deploys in the OR when a resident has made an error significant enough that commentary would be redundant. The silence that says I’m not going to dignify this with a response. The silence that forces you to sit inside your own failure without the scaffolding of his criticism to push against, without even the dignity of being yelled at, because yelling would mean he cared enough to raise his voice and Park does not care enough to raise his voice. Park has never cared enough to raise his voice. He saves his volume for the things that matter and you, apparently, do not meet the threshold.

Your throat is doing something. Tightening. The muscles along the anterior triangle contracting in a slow, involuntary squeeze that you recognize as the precursor to crying and you clench your jaw against it so hard you feel your masseter pop. You are not going to cry in this car. You are not going to give him the satisfaction of watching you cry in his car with his cologne in your lungs and his silence pressing against you from every direction like something with weight.

You stare at the dashboard. The blue numbers of the clock. The GPS display showing your route- a clean, illuminated line from the hospital to your house, nineteen minutes, no traffic, as though the journey is simple, as though the distance between where you are and where you’re going can be measured in miles.

“The tibial plateau.”

His voice enters the silence without disturbing it. No change in his posture, no preliminary breath. Just the words, arriving with the same flat, unremarkable cadence he uses to call out hardware sizes mid-procedure.

“You hesitated.”

That’s it. That’s all he says. He doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t explain which moment, which hesitation, which specific fraction of a second he’s referring to. He doesn’t need to. You know. He knows you know. The sentence is a key inserted into a lock you’ve been trying not to look at all day, and it turns with a click you can feel in your back teeth.

The silence returns.

It’s worse now. It has a shape. The two words gave it a frame and now the quiet is no longer empty, it’s full- full of every specific thing he could have said and chose not to, every elaboration he’s withholding, every detail of your performance that he catalogued and filed and is currently letting you imagine instead of stating outright. Your brain fills the silence the way fluid fills an enclosed space, expanding into every available cavity until the pressure builds against the walls.

You think about the tibial plateau. You think about the oscillating saw in your hand and the way your fingers tightened on the grip a half second before you made the cut and that half second is what he’s talking about. That imperceptible pause. That flicker of uncertainty between intention and execution. Anyone else would have missed it. The scrub nurse didn’t see it. The anesthesiologist didn’t see it. But Park was standing across the table with his hands resting on the sterile drape and his eyes on your hands and he saw it, he felt the hesitation, stored it, and now he’s taken it out of storage and placed it between you in the car like an exhibit.

Your eyes are burning.

“And the hardware count.”

Four more words. Still no elaboration. 

Flat, observational, a statement of fact that requires no emotional emphasis because the gravity is inherent. He keeps his eyes on the road.

You know what he’s referring to. The post-op notes. Six screws documented instead of eight. A discrepancy in the record that could follow the patient to every subsequent surgery, every future scan. He caught it. He corrected it. He didn’t report it.

He’s telling you now, in this car, in the dark, with nineteen minutes of road between you and your house, and the telling is worse than a formal write up because a formal write up would have structure. A formal write up would have a process: documentation, a meeting, a remediation plan, something to do with the failure. This has nothing. This is Park dropping two facts into the silence and letting you drown in the space around them.

Your left hand is trembling. You flatten it against your thigh and hold it there, pressing the tremor into the muscle, willing the vibration to disperse through the fascia and the quadricep and the femur beneath it. Your dominant hand. Your operating hand. The one that held the saw. The one that miscounted the screws. The one that’s been shaking on and off since hour six of a seventeen hour day and you’ve been hiding it by keeping it busy, keeping it occupied with tasks and tools and the physical business of the job so that nobody- so that he- wouldn’t see.

“You should have asked for a break during the reconstruction.”

You close your eyes.

“Your hand was fatiguing by hour four. You compensated by overtightening your grip on the retractor, which changed the angle.” A pause. “You knew the tremor was developing and you chose to hide it rather than ask for relief because you were more concerned with how it would look than with how it would affect the surgical field.”

That’s the most he’s said at once. Three sentences. They land in your chest like hardware being placed in sequence- tap, tap, tap-  each one seated precisely, each one load bearing, the cumulative construct designed to hold a specific weight.

Silence again.

The thing that’s happening in your chest is not something you can name with language. It’s too large and too formless and it keeps changing shape, contracting into something hot and dense behind your sternum and then expanding outward into your ribs, your clavicles, the soft tissue of your throat where the tightness has progressed from uncomfortable to actively painful. You swallow against it. Your throat clicks. The sound is audible in the quiet car and you hate it, hate the way your body keeps betraying you in small acoustic ways, producing evidence of its own distress for him to collect.

You think: say something back.

You think: defend yourself.

You think: tell him he’s wrong, tell him the hesitation was clinical judgment not fear, tell him the hardware count was a transcription error not negligence, tell him the tremor was fatigue not incompetence, tell him he doesn’t get to sit there in his seventy-two-thousand-dollar car smelling like that and sounding like that and dismantling you with seven sentences spread across ten minutes of silence-

You don’t say any of it.

You don’t say any of it because your throat is closed and your eyes are wet and your hands are shaking and everything he said is true. Not approximately true. Not partially true. Not true-with-caveats-you-could-argue-if-you-had-the-energy. True. Completely, specifically, documentably true, and the fact of its truth is sitting on your chest like a sternum retractor, cranking you open one inch at a time.

A tear escapes. It tracks down the side of your nose and catches at the corner of your mouth and you taste salt and you don’t wipe it away because wiping it away would require moving your hand and moving your hand would require admitting that you’re crying and you are not admitting that you’re crying. You are sitting in this car looking straight ahead and the moisture on your face is condensation, it’s a physiological response to dry air, it’s anything other than what it is.

Park doesn’t look at you.

He knows. You know he knows. The quality of his silence has shifted again- it’s softer now, or not softer, that’s not the right word, it’s attentive. The silence of a man who is aware that something is happening beside him and has decided to let it happen. To let you sit in it. To not offer a tissue or a word or even the small mercy of turning up the radio. He just drives, steady and unhurried, and the road unspools, and you cry without sound in the passenger seat of his car while he navigates the route to your house.

You wait for the rest. The elaboration. The lecture.

It doesn’t come. Instead, after a long moment, he says something worse.

“You know what’s funny?”

You don’t answer.

“You’re actually not bad.”

The sentence lands wrong. It lands wrong because it sounds, for one disorienting half second, like a compliment, and your starved, exhausted brain almost reaches for it before the rest of him catches up- the tone, the timing, the particular way he says not bad. A minimum. A floor. The lowest possible bar of acceptability, offered with the cadence of praise so your body responds to it like praise while your brain is still trying to decode that it isn’t.

“You’ve got a feel for the work. I’ve seen you read a fracture pattern faster than most of my third years. Your spatial reasoning’s above average. Your hands- ” He pauses. You feel the pause in your sternum. “When your hands are right, they’re right.”

He’s building something. You can feel it assembling in real time, each sentence another load bearing element, and you don’t know what the structure is yet but you know it has a weight it hasn’t distributed.

“That’s what makes it hard to watch, actually.”

There it is.

“Watching someone who could be good just… ” He makes a sound. Not a sigh. Something smaller. Something almost like amusement, which is so much worse than disappointment that your vision blurs. “It’s like watching someone with perfect pitch sing off key on purpose. You want to fix it. But you can’t want it more than they do.”

He turns onto your street.

“And I’m starting to think you don’t want it at all. I think you want to want it. I think you like the idea of being good. But when it actually costs you something, when it means admitting the tremor, asking for the break, counting the fucking screws, you’d rather protect your ego than protect your patient. And that’s- ”

He pulls into your driveway.

The engine idles. The blue dashboard light hums. Your house is dark. The porch light is off because you forgot to set the timer this morning, because this morning happened to a different person in a different version of your life.

“That’s not a skill problem. I can fix a skill problem.” He’s looking straight ahead. Blue lit profile. One hand on the wheel. “That’s a you problem. And I can’t fix you.”

I can’t fix you.

Four words that shouldn’t feel like anything. Four words that are, technically, a statement of professional boundaries, an acknowledgment that his role has limits, that your development is ultimately your own responsibility. That’s what they are on paper. That is not what they are in this car at eleven pm with salt drying on your face and his cologne in your lungs.

I can’t fix you means you’re broken. It means I looked, and what I found isn’t worth the effort. It means he assessed you the way he did with the engine and the prognosis is: not salvageable. Not worth the parts.

You should get out. You should open the door and walk inside and lock it behind you and shower and sleep and come back tomorrow and be better, be sharper, be the version of yourself that doesn’t hesitate on the approach and doesn’t miscount hardware and doesn’t sit in a man’s car at eleven pm leaking tears onto her own scrub top.

Your hand is on the seatbelt release.

“The hesitation,” Park says.

You stop.

He’s looking straight ahead. His profile is blue lit, jaw set, one hand resting on the steering wheel at twelve o’clock. His index finger taps the leather once, a single, idle percussion that might mean nothing and might mean everything.

“It’s going to get someone killed.”

Six words. Delivered without emphasis, without cruelty, without any of the sharp edges that have characterized everything else he’s said today. That’s what makes them worse. The previous comments were barbed, they were designed to cut and they cut and the cutting was something you could be angry about, something you could push against, something that gave the pain a direction.

This is different. Neutral. Factual. Almost gentle in its certainty.

It’s going to get someone killed.

Not it might. Not it could. Going to. Future tense. Inevitable. A definitive, not a warning.

You sit there with your hand on the seatbelt and the salt drying on your upper lip and you feel the sentence settle into the shape of your self concept like a fracture propagating, a slow, branching failure that spreads outward from the point of impact into every adjacent structure until the whole system is compromised.

He doesn’t say anything else.

He just sits there. Engine idling. Blue light. One hand on the wheel. And the silence after the sentence is the worst silence of the night because there’s nothing left to wait for. He’s said the thing. The final thing. The thing that all the other things were building toward- the corroded terminals, the loose cable, the tremor, the miscount- all of it was scaffolding for this, the load bearing statement at the center of the construct, and now that it’s in place the scaffolding falls away and you’re left sitting in the bare, terrible clarity of what he actually thinks.

He thinks you’re going to kill someone.

He thinks it with the same certainty that he had when he looked at your engine and found the problem in four seconds. He looked at you the same way. He looked at your hands the same way. He’s been looking at you for months, confirming what he already suspected, and tonight- the car, the drive, the prognosis- tonight was the consultation where he tells you the findings.

Your seatbelt is still buckled. Your hand is still on the release. Your body is doing something that doesn’t align with the plan your brain is trying to execute, which is: unbuckle, open door, leave. Simple. 

Three steps. Motor planning so basic a first year anatomy student could diagram the neural pathway. But the signal is getting lost somewhere between your prefrontal cortex and your extremities, scrambled by the interference of everything else your body is processing- the smell of his cologne in the warm car, the blue light on his hands, the tear track tightening on your cheek, the ache in your trapezius, the tremor in your dominant hand, the sound of his breathing.

His breathing.

You’re listening to him breathe. You’ve been listening to him breathe for the entire drive, you realize, a low, even rhythm that hasn’t changed once, that maintained the same rate and depth through every cruel observation and every silence and every tear you failed to hide. His respiratory rate is probably twelve. Maybe fourteen. Resting. Resting. He’s been resting this entire time. His nervous system has been in parasympathetic mode for the entirety of this drive, calm and regulated, while yours has been in full sympathetic cascade- tachycardic, diaphoretic, pupils dilated, hands trembling- and the asymmetry of it, the sheer physiological unfairness of it, lights something in the back of your skull that isn’t sadness and isn’t defeat.

It’s rage.

Not the sharp, vocal, defensible kind. Not the kind that generates arguments and rebuttals and righteous indignation.

Something lower. Something that lives in the body, not the mind. Something that has nothing to do with what he said and everything to do with the way he’s sitting there, breathing his twelve fucking breaths a minute, resting his hand on his thigh, occupying his leather seat with the boneless ease of a man who has never once lost sleep over the things he’s said to someone while you sit fourteen inches away vibrating at a frequency that might actually be damaging your soft tissue.

You want to hit him.

The thought arrives without preamble. You want to hit him in his calm, blue lit face. You want to put your fist into the hinge of his jaw and feel the impact travel back up your metacarpals and into your wrist and you want him to feel something, anything, any disruption at all in the flat, metronomic equilibrium of his goddamn resting heart rate.

You don’t hit him.

You look at him.

You turn your head and you look at him and he must feel the weight of it because he turns too, slow, unhurried, and his eyes find yours in the blue dark of the car and they’re steady. Completely steady. No tension in his eyes, no furrow in his corrugator, nothing in his expression that suggests he’s experiencing any version of the catastrophic internal event currently leveling every structure in your chest. He’s just looking at you. The way he looks at the surgical field. The way he looks at a fracture pattern on a film. Assessing. Reading. Processing the data without any visible emotional response to the findings.

But there’s something else. Something you almost miss because it’s buried so deep in his face that you’d need to be exactly this close, exactly this wrecked, exactly this far past the boundary of professional distance to catch it.

His gaze drops.

To your mouth.

It’s fast. A quarter second. Maybe less. And then it’s back, steady and clinical and blank, but you saw it and the seeing rewires something in your brain so fast you feel it as a physical lurch, a tilt in the axis of the car, the sudden sickening recalibration of a system that just received information it doesn’t know how to process.

He looked at your mouth.

He has spent the last twenty minutes telling you that you’re negligent and broken and dangerous and going to kill someone and he just looked at your mouth.

And the thing that breaks you isn’t the cruelty. It isn’t the silence, or the criticism, or I can’t fix you, or it’s going to get someone killed. It’s the quarter second glance. It’s the knowledge that somewhere inside of this man who has spent seventeen hours making you feel like the smallest, most incompetent person in the building, there is a circuit that looked at your mouth. That the same eyes that catalogued your hesitation and your tremor and your miscounted screws also, in the same sitting, looked at your mouth. And he thought you wouldn’t catch it. And you did. And now you’re both sitting in the knowledge of it and the air in the car has changed entirely.

And something about the way he can sit here in the aftermath of everything he’s said and look at you with the same detached focus, cracks the last load bearing wall in whatever structure was keeping you upright.

Your body, which has been running on cortisol and adrenaline and seventeen hours of accumulated fight-or-flight with no outlet, moves without conscious thought. Your hand comes off the seatbelt release and goes to the back of his neck and your fingers close in the short hair above his collar and you pull, and your mouth finds his in the dark, and it’s not a kiss so much as a loss of structural integrity. Catastrophic failure at the point of highest stress. The break you saw coming but couldn’t prevent because the forces were already in motion before you understood what they were.

He doesn’t flinch.

That’s the last thing you register before everything goes: he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull away, doesn’t stiffen. His mouth is warm and the sound he makes against your mouth is quiet and short and so unsurprised it makes your blood run sideways.

He was waiting for this.

The knowledge doesn’t stop you. It should. It should be the thing that makes you pull back, that trips the wire between mistake and trap, but his mouth is already moving against yours and your brain has been demoted to a purely observational role, a bystander taking notes while your body runs the operation.

You kiss him like you’re trying to hurt him. Teeth and pressure and the graceless, artless force of someone who doesn’t know what they’re doing and doesn’t care, and for a second- a long, terrible second- he lets you. He sits there and he takes it, your mouth on his, your hand fisted in his collar, your breath coming in sharp little pulls through your nose, and he doesn’t move. Doesn’t reciprocate. Doesn’t push you away. Just absorbs it, and the passivity of it is so much worse than rejection that you feel your eyes sting behind your closed lids.

Then his hand moves.

It goes to the back of your neck, fingers closing around the nape and gripping, thumb pressing into the tendon beside your spine, the rest of his hand spanning the width of your neck, and he holds you there. Holds you mid kiss, mid breath, mid everything, and the grip says stop. Not stop kissing him. Just… stop. Stop thrashing. Stop fighting. Stop moving.

You stop.

He pulls you back. Just enough to break the contact. An inch of cold air between your mouth and his, and you can feel the heat of his breath against your wet lower lip and you can see his eyes, close enough to make out the individual fibers of his iris contracting in the low light, and he’s looking at you with something that makes your animal brain go very, very still.

He doesn’t say anything.

He just looks. And the quality of the looking is- you don’t have language for it. Something pre-verbal, pre-civilized, something that belongs in a context where the lighting is firelight instead of dashboard glow and the power dynamic is measured in muscle mass and jaw strength rather than titles and institutional hierarchy. 

He looks at you like he’s deciding where to bite down.

His grip on your neck tightens. Fractionally. A compression you feel in your molars.

Then he kisses you.

And it’s different. Everything about it is different. Where yours was frantic and desperate and searching, his is slow. His mouth moves against yours with a patience that feels predatory, that feels like the unhurried gait of something that doesn’t need to chase because it already has what it was after, and his hand on your neck isn’t holding you still anymore, it’s steering. 

Tilting your head where he wants it, adjusting the angle, his thumb pressing under your jaw until your chin lifts and your throat is exposed and the sound that comes out of you is something you’ll hear in your own head for weeks.

Your fingers scramble against his shoulders. Your nails catch the fabric of his scrub top and drag and you feel the muscle underneath shift in response, a twitch, a contraction, involuntary and brief, and that one small proof that his body is responding makes you desperate in a way you don’t recognize.

You need to be closer. The thought is incoherent and absolute. There’s a center console between you and fourteen inches of dead space and it’s intolerable, physically intolerable, your body rejecting the distance, urgently, violently, without higher input.

You pull back. Fumble the seatbelt. The buckle snaps free. You get one knee on the console and your hand on the headrest behind him and you’re climbing, graceless, desperate, your shin banging the gear shift, your elbow catching the rearview mirror, and the logistics are terrible and you don’t care. You don’t care because his hands have dropped to his sides and he’s not helping you, he’s just watching, his head tipped back against the headrest, his eyes half lidded, tracking your clumsy, frantic movements in the space with something that isn’t amusement and isn’t patience.

It’s hunger.

Controlled, banked, hunger behind glass.

Your knee finds the seat beside his thigh. Then the other one. You settle into his lap and the steering wheel cuts into your lower back and his thighs are solid beneath yours and you’re breathing too hard, chest heaving, hands shaking where they grip his shoulders, and he’s… still.

Completely still.

Looking up at you. His hands at his sides. His jaw set. The only thing moving is his chest, rising and falling with breaths that are marginally faster than they were ten minutes ago, and you fixate on that the way a drowning person fixates on a piece of floating debris.

You wait for him to touch you.

He doesn’t.

The seconds stretch. Three. Five. Seven. You’re sitting in his lap and his hands are resting on the seat on either side of his thighs and he’s looking up at you with that banked, glass walled hunger and he is not touching you. 

He is making you sit in it, in the wanting, in the desperation, in the raw, humiliating fact that you just climbed into your attending’s lap in a driveway and he’s giving you nothing back.

Your hips shift. You can’t help it. A restless, involuntary roll that presses your cunt into his cock, and you feel his abdomen tighten beneath you, a hard, sudden contraction that he controls almost immediately but not before you feel it, not before you register the proof that his body is doing things his face won’t admit to.

His jaw tightens. You see it. The masseter flexing, the tendon standing out below his ear.

Then finally- finally- his hands move.

They don’t go where you expect. They go to your hips. Both of them. Settling over the bones with a grip that is immediately, unambiguously possessive, not exploratory, not tentative, not the careful hands of a man testing boundaries. He grips you like you’re his. Like you’ve always been his. Like the last four months of corrections and cruelty and silence were just the long, patient process of wearing you down to this, to the moment where you’d put yourself in his hands because you had nowhere else to go.

His thumbs dig into the hollows inside your hip bones. The pressure is just on the edge of pain, right at the threshold where sensation tips from one thing into another, and you gasp and his hands tighten in response and you realize with a full body lurch that the sound you made didn’t concern him. It fed him.

He pulls you forward. Down. A controlled, forceful drag that seats you flush against his him, and the contact makes your vision white out at the edges and one of his hands goes from your hip to your hair and he's gripping it, pulling it, fingers twisted strands at the crown of your head, yanking, exposing your throat, and the sound he makes rewires something fundamental in your nervous system.

His mouth finds your neck, teeth grazing the tendon that runs from your ear to your clavicle, a slow, dragging pressure that leaves a trail of heat in its wake, and then he bites down, hard enough to make you jolt, to make your fingers tighten on his shoulders, to make your hips roll forward again in a motion that is completely involuntary and that he responds to by pulling you into his clothed cock harder, fingers digging into the meat of your hips with a strength that’s going to leave marks. 

You know it’s going to leave marks. You know because his hands are surgeon’s hands, hands that crack bones into alignment and drive hardware through cortical shell, and they are currently clamped onto your body like he’s setting a fracture and the thing he’s reducing is you.

He doesn’t let go of the bite. He holds it. His jaw flexing against your throat, his breath hot against your pulse point, and you can feel your own heartbeat hammering against his teeth and he can feel it too; you know he can feel it, your pulse trapped between his mouth and your skin, and he stays there. Counting it, maybe. Tasting it.

Your hands are moving without thought. Down his chest, pulling at the fabric, trying to find skin and not finding it fast enough. You’re making sounds- small, fractured, desperate things that you’ve lost the ability to be embarrassed about because embarrassment requires a functioning prefrontal cortex and yours left the building sometime around the moment you smelled the cologne on him in the parking garage.

He releases the bite. His tongue passes over the indentation once, flat and slow and then his mouth is at your ear and his breathing is different now. Ragged at the edges. Fraying. The composure that he’s worn like a second skin all day is coming apart in increments you can measure by the roughness of each exhale and the tightening of his grip.

“You should eat more,” he says and his hands slide under your scrub top, palms flat against your bare skin and the heat of them is obscene, radiating a constant steady warmth that seeps into your tissue, spreading outwards from the points of contact and into the muscles beneath. His hands slide up your sides, palms dragging over abdominal muscles, calluses catching against your skin, and his thumbs find the ridges of bone, thumbs tracing your ribs, counting them. “I can feel every one of these.”

It’s not tender. It’s not concern. It’s inventory. He’s cataloguing what’s his and finding it insufficient and the disapproval is so tangled up with the want that you can’t separate them, can’t tell where the criticism ends and the desire begins because in him they’re the same thing. The same impulse. He wants you and he’s angry about the state of what he wants, angry when something he’s claimed isn’t being maintained to his standard.

His hands stop. Bracketing your ribcage, fingers splayed across your back, thumbs resting in the shallow valley between bones. The heat of his palms is sinking through your intercostal now, settling into the spaces between your ribs like something poured, and you can feel your own lungs expanding against his hand with every breath, pushing into the warmth, your body leaning into him without your permission because its been so long since anyone touched you with this much sustained focused heat.

His hands drop to the hem of your scrub top. He pulls it up, bunching the fabric at your ribs, exposing your waist, your stomach, the line of your hip bones above the drawstring of your scrub pants until your shirt is pulled above your head and dropped somewhere to the side. The air in the car hits your bare skin and you shiver and he flattens his palms against your stomach.

“Someone needs to feed you,” he mutters. His thumbs press into the soft tissue below your navel. “Make sure you actually sleep.” His hands drag down, hooking into the waistband pads of his fingers against your lower abdomen, the weight of his grip tilting your pelvis toward him. “You’re a goddamn mess.”

You are. You are a goddamn mess. You are shaking and crying and half undressed in your attending’s lap in a parked car and his hands are on your bare skin and his teeth marks are throbbing on your neck and every word out of his mouth is an insult wrapped in something that sounds, horribly, like a promise.

A promise that he’s going to fix what you can’t fix. That he’s already decided. That this- the car, the drive, the cruelty, the bite, his hands inside your waistband- this is just the intake assessment. The preliminary exam. The first step in a treatment plan that he’s been designing for months, one that ends with you exactly where he wants you, which is right here. Underneath his hands. Dependent on his attention. Unable to function without the particular combination of damage and repair that only he provides.

You should be terrified.

His hands tighten. He pulls you into him again, harder, and your breath leaves your body in a rush and your forehead drops to his shoulder and your teeth find the muscle where his neck meets his trapezius and you bite down because it’s the only language your body has left.

He groans. The sound travels through his chest cavity into yours, a vibration you feel in your sternum, and his hand slides up your spine and fists in your hair again and pulls, arching your neck back, exposing your throat, and he looks at you, looks up at you from below, his lips parted, his breathing finally, irrevocably wrecked, and the expression on his face is the most honest thing you’ve ever seen from him.

It’s not the mask. It’s not the bored superiority. It’s not the carefully metered cruelty he portions out across an operating day.

It’s greed.

Simple, uncut, undisguised. The face of a man who found something he wants and is currently in the process of closing his hand around it and he does not intend to open that hand again.

“Come here,” he says, for the second time tonight, and this time it means something completely different and exactly the same.

You come, your body answering the order the way it answers every order he’s ever given- before thought, before shame, before the part of your brain that still pretends it has dignity can raise an objection, and you lean in, mouth crashing against his.

You hate yourself for it. You hate the speed of it, the automaticity, the way your knees dig harder into the leather on either side of his thighs and your mouth finds his again. You hate that you’re shaking and he’s not. You hate that your hands are fisted into his collar and pulling and desperate and his are still, idle, unbothered, a man being kissed by someone while he decides whether or not to kiss back. 

He tracks you. Every tremor of your lower lip, every frantic slide of your tongue against his, every wet graceless sound you make when his teeth catch your bottom lip and tug. Controlled. Proprietary. Taking this in like he takes in everything, filing it, noting it, adding it to whatever mental inventory he maintains of all the ways you embarrass yourself in front of him. 

You pull back. Your chest is heaving. His isn’t.

“Fuck you,” you say.

It comes out wrecked. Shaking. Nothing close to the strength you want it to be. He looks at you flatly, unimpressed. 

He hooks two fingers into the drawstring of your scrub pants and pulls. One motion. The knot gives. The pants slide down your thighs and you should stop this. You should stop this right now. You should climb off his lap and open the door and walk into your house and lock it behind him and never look at him again. You know this. The knowledge is clean and certain and completely irrelevant to what your body is actually doing, which is lifting one knee, then the other, kicking cotton of your ankles, while your hand stays fisted in his collar like letting go would kill you. 

His hand goes behind your back. One flick of his thumb and the bra releases and the straps slide down your shoulders and you feel the air hit your skin and the humiliation is so acute it tastes metallic, like biting down on foil, like blood from a split lip. 

He doesn’t even look. 

He lets the fabric fall and his palms settle over your breasts and his thumbs brush across nipples already tight from the cold and the adrenaline and he does it with absent focus, like this is a step in a sequence, like your body is a series of tasks to be completed on the way to something else. 

“You’re an asshole,” you whisper. Your voice cracks. “You know that? You’re a completely fucking-”

His hand slides down your stomach. Hooks into the waistband of your underwear. Drags. The fabric catches on your thighs, resists, then gives away with a tear. 

“- asshole.”

“Yeah,” he says. That’s it. Yeah. One syllable. Bored. His eyes haven’t changed. His breathing hasn’t changed. You are sitting in his lap in nothing but the blue dashboard light, stripped and shaking, every flaw and rib and tremor illuminated, and his pulse is resting. 

You want to claw his face off.

You want to rake your nails down his cheeks until he bleeds, until something in his expression breaks, until he shows you one single shred of evidence that this is affecting him even a fraction as much as it’s affecting you. But he’s still dressed beneath you- scrub top, scrub pants- and the obscene imbalance of naked and clothed, wrecked and composed, is doing something to the power dynamic that you feel in the base of your skull like a boot on your neck. 

One hand leaves your hip. You hear the shift of fabric, the elastic drag of a waistband, and then he’s there, cock pressing against the inside of your thigh, hard and hot. He wraps his hand around himself and strokes once, slow, lazy, and you watch the muscle in his jaw flex and that’s it. That’s all he gives you. One flex of one muscle while you’re sitting naked in his lap with tears drying on your face and your whole body vibrating like a plucked string. 

Then he lines the head of his cock up, blunt insistent pressure of him against the entrance to your cunt, and your body- your traitorous, mutinous, shame soaked body- is already wet. Has been wet. Has been wet since the you smelled his cologne in the parking garage, maybe earlier, maybe since the OR, maybe since the moment you were first introduced to him as your attending and the knowledge of that is so humiliating you actually close your eyes against it, squeeze them shut like a child who thinks not seeing makes them invisible. 

“Sit.” A command. Like he’s speaking to a dog, like you’re a dog, like you’re a misbehaving mutt caught doing something you shouldn’t and he’s issuing a command to correct. Sit, heel, lay down, roll over-

Don’t, you think. 

You sink. 

The stretch is immediate. Obscene. A slow, relentless parting that you feel in your cunt, your thighs, your abdomen, your teeth, and you hate every inch of it and the contradiction is going to break you in half. He fills your cunt the way he takes up any space around him- completely, unapologetically, without any interest in whether you were ready to accommodate him or not. 

Your hands fly to his biceps. Nails through fabric into muscle. And for one heartbeat you sit there, trembling, adjusting, feeling the way you body has to restructure around him, and your eyes are open now and burning and you’re looking directly at his face and his expression is…

Calm. 

He looks calm. His dick is buried inside of you to the hilt and his face is the face of a man sitting in traffic. Waiting for the light to change. Reading a notification on his phone. And you want to scream, wrap your hands around his throat and squeeze until something in those steady, half lidded eyes shows you that he’s here, that he’s present, that this is costing him anything at all. 

His hands find your hips again. Thumbs pressing bruises into bone. And then he moves you. 

Up. Down. Controlled. Like you’re nothing more than a doll, an instrument, something he can use and play until he’s had his fill, and that pisses you off.

You start to move on your own and the first roll of your hips without his guidance is yours, angry and hard, grinding down onto him with a force that’s closer to violence than fucking, and you watch his face for the flinch, for the flutter of his eyes, for his lips to part open, for any crack, any goddamn indication that you’re getting to him. 

His eyes lower. Barely. The faintest contraction around the corner of his eyes. 

That’s it. That’s all you get. 

His hands tighten and he takes back control of the rhythm, pulling you down on his cock hard, forcing the depth, and the sound that rips out of you is something between a sob and a moan and you hate it, hate the wet broken sound, hate that he heard it, hate that his expression doesn’t change when he hears it. 

“This is what you’re good at.”

The words are like a slap and you feel them behind your eyes, in your lungs, in the slick slide where your body is betraying you again, again, again.

“Fuck you- “

“Not the tibial plateau.” His hips drive up. “Not the hardware count.” Again. “Not even remembering to get your fucking car serviced.” His hands drag you down so hard onto his cock that your clit grinds against the base of him and your vision whites out and your mouth falls open with a sound you can’t control, high pitched and needy. “This. This is the only thing I’ve never seen you hesitate on.”

“I hate you- “ Your voice splinters with another thrust, that grinds his cock against the spot that has your nails digging into his shoulders hard enough to break skin through fabric. “I hate you, you fucking-”

“I know,” he says. Quiet. Unbothered. Like you just told him the weather. And then he rolls his hips up into you with a hard grind that makes your spine arch and your head fall back and the I hate you dissolves into a whimper you’ll never forgive yourself for. 

“Look at you,” His breathing hasn't changed. Twelve per minute. Resting. While yours comes ragged and sobbing, chest heaving, your whole body shaking on top of his. “Seventeen hours of your hands shaking. Seventeen hours of being unable to hold a retractor steady. But you can ride cock like this. Perfect rhythm. No tremor. No hesitation.” He pulls you into another downstroke, meets you with his hips, punches the breath from your lungs. “Maybe this is what I should have had you doing all along instead of letting you pretend you’re a surgeon.”

You hit him. 

Your palm connects with his face, an open handed strike that lands hard enough to make a sound in the car, and he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t tense, just absorbs it the way he absorbs everything, and his hands on your hips don’t even stutter. 

He smiles. 

Not wide. Not warm. A thin, asymmetric thing, one corner of his mouth pulling up in the blue dark, and it’s the first genuine expression you’ve seen on his face and it’s the worst thing you’ve ever looked at. Because the smile says he liked that. The smile says do it again. The smile says he has been waiting, patiently, methodically, for the entire duration of the encounter, for you to hit him, and now that you have he can file it alongside every other piece of evidence that you are exactly as out of control as he’s always suspected. 

“There she is.” His thumb slides between your bodies. Finds your clit. Circles it in a way that makes your spine lock and your teeth clench. “There’s the good girl I knew was buried under all that incompetence.”

“Don’t call me- “ Your voice breaks, hips moving faster not, frantic, beyond your control. “Don’t you dare-”

“Come on.” His thumb presses harder. His other hand drags you down into the next thrust. “Show me the one thing you’re actually competent at.”

“I fucking hate you- “

“You keep saying that.” His mouth is close to your ear. His breathing is finally, finally different- rougher, a fraction faster, the composure fraying at the thinnest edges- but his voice is still steady. Still controlled. Still the voice of a man who is winning and knows it. “And yet here you are.”

And yet here you are. 

The truth of those words- the bare, unarguable, catastrophic truth of them- hits harder than anything else he’s said all day. Here you are. In his lap. In his car. In his hands. Naked and shaking and full of him and crying and still moving, still rolling your hips into his, still chasing the orgasm that’s building in your lower abdomen, because he told you to and because you want to and because the wanting and the hate have fused into something singular and molten that you couldn’t separate even if you had the higher brain function to try. 

The car is rocking on its suspension. The windows are opaque. Sweat slides down the valley of your spine. Your breasts move with every thrust and his eyes track them and the shame of being watched makes something tighten in your lower belly and you hate that too, hate the wiring of your own body, hate that humiliation and arousal are using the same neural pathways and you can’t tell where one stops and the other starts. 

“This is what you’re good at,” he says again. Quieter now. Almost fond. And the fondness is worse than the cruelty because the cruelty you can fight but the fondness seeps in and finds the soft tissue and stays. “Not saving lives. Not pretending to be a doctor. Just this. Just taking what I give you until you forget you ever had anything else to fuck up.”

“Shut up.” You’re crying openly now. Tears and sweat and the sounds coming out of your mouth are wet and broken and you can’t stop them and you can’t stop moving. “Shut the fuck up-”

“Make me.”

Two words. And they’re not said like a challenge. They’re said like a dare, and underneath the dare is something that sounds terrifyingly like affection, the way someone would talk to a small animal that keeps trying to bite them, amused and patient and completely unthreatened. 

Your orgasm is building. You feel it in every trembling muscle, the quiver in your inner thighs, the tightening low in your abdomen, the involuntary clenching of your body around his cock that makes his breath hitch for one unguarded second before he smooths it over. 

You’re close. You’re so close it’s blurring the edges of your rage, softening the anger into something needier, something that wants to collapse forward against his chest and be held and the wanting of that- the wanting to be held by the man who’s been destroying you- is the most humiliating thing that’s happened all night and that is a competitive field. 

His grip adjusts. His thumb digs in deeper. His pace doesn’t falter. 

His mouth finds your ear. 

“Don’t you dare come until I tell you you’ve earned it.” His thumb circles your clit and the contradiction- don’t come while his hands do everything to guarantee you will- is so perfectly, characteristically cruel that a laugh rips out of you, unhinged and wet and bordering on hysterical. “You don’t get to be good at anything unless I say so.”

And you keep bouncing, because he told you to. 

Because somewhere between the parking garage and the engine and the drive and the months of him taking you apart and breaking you down like you were a failed construct, you stopped being a person who makes her own decisions and became a person who waits for his. 

You hate him.

You don’t stop. 

***

The hospital smells the same. 

That’s what gets you. The absolute, insulting sameness. You walk through the door at six thirty and the air hits your face with its standard cocktail of antiseptic and recycled ventilation and floor wax and the distant, perpetual ghost of coffee, and it is exactly, precisely, atomically the same as it was yesterday morning when you walked in as a person who had not yet detonated her entire life ion the front seat of a Lexus. 

Your neck hurts. 

Not the muscular ache of a bad night’s sleep, though there’s that too- you slept maybe ninety minutes, in twenty three minute increments, each one interrupted by the sensation of waking up inside a body that still smelled like him despite the shower. The shower that was too hot. The shower where you stood with your forehead against the tile and your hands flat on the wall and mentally assessed the damage- bruise on your left knee, bruises on your hips in the shape of his fingerprints, raw patch on your lower back from the steering wheel, and the bite. The bite on your neck, which you examined in the bathroom mirror, reddish purple, visible above the collar of a scrub top. Visible above the collar of anything you own. 

You’re wearing a turtleneck under your scrubs. In September. 

You keep your head down. Badge clipped. Hair pulled back so tight your scalp aches. You walk with a posture that says normal day, regular morning, nothing to report, and you’re almost to the locker room when another resident steps into the hallway and says, “Admin wants you.”

Every drop of blood in your body goes cold. You stare at him. 

“Underwood’s office.” He says. “Now.”

You don’t ask why. You don’t ask why because your body already knows. Your body already knows before he opened his mouth, maybe before, maybe the moment you walked through the doors and the air tasted the same and the hallway looked the same and nothing was different except everything was different. 

The walk takes ninety seconds. You count your footsteps because counting is something your brain can do while the rest of it shuts down. 

You see him through the open door. 

Park is in the left chair. One ankle crossed over the opposite knee. He’s holding a coffee, steam curling from the lip, which means its fresh, which means he stopped on his way here, which means he budgeted time into his morning for this.

He doesn’t look up when you walk in. 

Gloria Underwood is standing beside her desk. She’s holding a manilla folder. It’s thick. Too thick for something assembled this morning. Too thick for a single incident. The thickness of it does something to the air in your lungs, displaces it, compresses it, makes the next breath feel like trying to inflate against a weight. 

Gloria’s face is arranged in the express you’ve seen administrators use when they’re about to change the trajectory of a person’s life. Controlled. A mask of professional compassion that has been practiced in mirrors and refined in meetings and has nothing to do with whether the person wearing it actually feels anything at all. 

“Please sit down.”

You sit. The chair is identical to his. Your elbow is inches from his elbow and you can smell him, smell the coffee, and the soap, and the cologne, and your body responds with a full system lurch of sense memory so violent you have to press your fingernails into your palms to stay in the chair. 

“A formal complaint has been filed,” Gloria says, opening the folder. Turns to a page that’s already been flagged with a colored tab, pre-marked, pre-organized, the administrative infrastructure of a process that was set in motion before you arrived. “Regarding conduct of sexual nature directed at Dr. Brendon Park by a subordinate member of the surgical team.”

Directed at. 

The preposition enters your ear and detonates. 

Directed at Dr. Park. Not by Dr. Park. Not between you and Dr. Park. At him. By you. 

“Dr. Park has reported that over the course of several months, he has been subjected to escalating patterns of inappropriate attention from an intern under his direct supervision.” Gloria’s eyes move across the page but she’s not reading. She memorized this. “Including persistent attempts to initiate physical proximity, repeated instances of unprofessional fixation during surgical procedures, and recently, an incident of unsolicited sexual contact initiated in his vehicle after he offered professional assistance with a mechanical issue in the hospital parking garage.”

Persistent attempts to initiate physical proximity. 

That’s- standing near him. In the OR. Where he assigned you to stand. 

Unprofessional fixation during surgical procedures. 

That’s- watching him operate. When you were assisting. 

Unsolicited sexual contact.

That’s-

The room is doing something. The walls aren’t moving but the space between them is contracting, the air thickening, the fluorescent light taking on a quality that feels granular, particulate, like you’re trying to see through something that’s settling between you and the rest of the room. 

“The complaint has been supported by documented observations,” Gloria continues. She turns another page. Another colored tab. “Dr. Park has provided a written timeline of concerning behavior, including specific dates and incidents.”

A timeline. 

He kept a timeline. He’s been keeping a timeline. Every shift, every surgery, every moment you stood too close or looked too long or held your breath- he was writing it down. Dating it. Building a file. Constructing a narrative in which every single thing your body did in his presence was evidence of you pursuing him, and the evidence is in Gloria Underwood’s hands right now, and it’s thick, and it has colored tabs, and it’s been here since before you walked in the door. 

“Given the nature of the supervisory relationship and the severity of the allegations, you are being placed on immediate administrative suspension pending investigation, effective as of this meeting.”

You open your mouth.

Nothing comes out. 

You try again and what emerges is a sound that isn’t a word, is a breath, a fragment, the beginning of that’s not what happened that stalls in your larynx before your larynx has done the math that your brain hasn’t finished yet. 

The math is:

He is a senior attending. Board certified orthopedic surgeon. Ten years at this hospital. Published. Respected. The kind of name that appears on department letterheads and in the acknowledgment section of textbook chapters. He has a reputation. He has colleagues. He has a record, spotless and long and documented in the same filing system that is currently absorbing this complaint. 

You are an intern. Four months in. No publications, no tenure, no institutional weight. You have a shaking hand and miscounted screws and a performance record that he has been personally authoring for your entire rotation. 

Who is Gloria going to believe?

Who is anyone going to believe?

The intern who can’t hold a retractor steady? The one who freezes on approaches and forgets to count hardware and cries in parking garages? The one who ended up naked in her attending’s car at midnight? 

Or the attending who has spent months carefully, meticulously, documentably expressing concern about a subordinate’s fixation. 

“During the suspension period,” Gloria is saying. “You are not to enter clinical areas, access patient records, or make contact with Dr. Park directly or through intermediaries.”

You turn your head. 

Park is looking at Gloria. He’s been looking at Gloria the entire time. Sitting in the chair with his coffee and his crossed ankle, and his face arranged in an expression of restrained concern; brows drawn, mouth set, carefully composed like a man navigating a difficult situation with professionalism and grace. He looks like someone this is being done to. He looks like a man who tried his best with a troubled intern and is now dealing with the unfortunate consequences of his own generosity. 

He is sitting in this chair, hours after his teeth were in your neck and his cock inside you and his hands on your hips dragging you down onto him while he told you that riding him was the only thing you were competent at and he looks troubled. 

Something happens behind your face. Not tears. Something past tears, something drier and more dangerous. A sensation like the moment before something snaps, the last frame of structural integrity, the instant where the material is still holding its shape but the forces have already exceeded its capacity and the failure is inevitable, just not yet visible. 

“Do you have anything to add,” Gloria asks you. 

You're still looking at Park. 

He turns his head. Finally. Slowly. Meets your eyes for the first time since you walked in. 

His face is still wearing the mask. The concern, the gravity, the restrained compassion of the Wronged-Mentor. It’s flawless. Every muscle recruited, every micro expression calibrated, the kind of performance that could only be produced by someone who’s been rehearsing it for a very long time. 

But his eyes.

In the space behind the performance, in the deep architecture of his gaze, where the mask doesn’t quite reach, there’s something looking back at you that makes your blood crystallize in your veins. 

It’s not guilt. It’s not satisfaction. It’s not even cruelty.

It’s patience.

The bottomless, immovable patience of a man who built something and is now watching it work. 

He holds your gaze for two seconds. Then he turns back to Gloria and picks up his coffee and drinks and the meeting continues, and the folder stays open, and your badge is collected, and you walk out of the hospital at seven forty one am wearing a turtleneck in September and it’s sunny outside and the sky is very blue and you don’t remember driving home.

(And Park watches you leave, coffee in hand. You look very small. Smaller than you looked in scrubs, which is saying a lot, because you already looked like a stiff breeze would snap you in half-

(And the first part is done. Solved. He doesn’t have to watch you bite your lip when you concentrate anymore, doesn’t have to correct the angle of your hands and pretend the contact is clinical. Doesn’t have to stand behind you during a procedure and smell your shampoo and keep his hands professional while he vividly imagines what he’d do to you if the room was empty- 

(Four months of that. Four months of keeping his hands on the instruments instead of on your waist, of watching your throat move when you swallow and thinking about his teeth there, of memorizing the exact pitch of your voice when you’re nervous because he wanted to know what it would sound like under him, or fucking his fist to the memory of the little punched out breath you made when you startled coming out of the supply closet, imagining you making that sound with his fist in your hair and his cock grinding against your cervix-

(And you’ll spiral. That’s fine. That’s the design. You’ll go home and fall apart and burn through the anger hot and fast the way you burn through everything, and then the anger will run out and what’s left will be the silence. No OR. No corrections. No one watching. No one who knows you hold your breath when you’re nervous or that your left hand shakes first or that you haven’t been eating enough or sleeping enough or taking care of yourself the way someone should be taking care of you. The way he would, if you’d stop being so fucking difficult about it-

(Give it three weeks. Maybe four. You’ll reach for your phone. You won’t call, not yet. But the intervals between looking at his name and putting the phone down will shrink every time until eventually you just stop putting it down. And he’ll answer when he’s ready, and you’ll be crying, and he’ll listen the way he always listens to you you- completely- because that’s the drug and he’s the only supply you’ve got left. 

(Pavlov’s dog with a prettier face. He spent four months ringing the bell- every correction a tap, every silence a withhold, every rare scrape of approval timed to land when you were most desperate for it- and now that the bell is gone and you’re salivating into nothing, confused and aching and reaching for the only hand that ever fed you even though it’s the same hand that kept you starving-

(He’ll feed you. Get your weight back up. Move you into his place once you can’t make rent. He’ll frame it as practical. You’ll be grateful. And in six months you’ll be standing in his kitchen in his T-shirt and you’ll look up when he walks in with that open, searching expression- the same one you used to give him across the operating table- checking his face for what he wants you to do next, his pretty obedient wife, trained so fucking well-

(But until then. He has surgery at nine.) 

[andrew-codys]

Sadistic // Titus Danforth x Wife!Reader

Summary: your husband is a monster. You know this, and yet, his bed is still your favourite place to be.

Content/Warnings: reader is described as "younger" than Titus, but there's no specific age gap || pregnancy (light theme) || Titus comes with his own warning tbh || dirty talking || pussy slapping || Dom/Sub dynamics heavily implied || unprotected PIV || begging || spanking || oral sex (f! Receiving) || edging || reader has no physical description but is AFAB and able to get/be pregnant ||

Notes: I have no excuse for this. It's been sitting in my drafts for almost a month and then I saw the movie at an early screening and uh. Yeah. This will probably be part of an ongoing series. Oops.

Titus Danforth is a brutal, complex man. This much, you know. He doesn't so much make love to you as he does claim you. You'd been a nobody, really, before he'd met you. Chosen you for your quiet, pleasant nature. Your willingness to obey him, and your interest in the occult.

His twin sister had hated you at first, hated your dirty, common blood, and the way that you seemed to have her brother's ear. The way you could so easily control him.

She tolerates you now, well enough. Or at least hides her disdain.

You never thought you would see the day where your husband was anything but almost feral whenever he took you. Not that you minded. Titus often left you a complete mess, his age and experience making it almost too easy for him to fuck you senseless, until you couldn't feel your legs and the only thing you could say was his name. Even then, it was usually more of a whimper.

While he might automatically default to roughness, you love it. He never once left you harmed or unsatisfied, spoilt you rotten on a daily basis.

Titus never showed you overt affection in front of his father and sister, regarded you with a kind of predatory possessiveness. But in private, he was softer, more open to gentle touches and keeping his hands on you in ways that weren't reminiscent of a kept pet.

He had explained it to you, once, when you had both been in the afterglow of particularly good sex. That he had once had another lover that he had thought he might marry, only she hadn't received the approval of his father, nor the dark entity that his family served.

But shortly after he had introduced you to his twin and his father, the family lawyer had come to all three Danforths, claimed you as the future of the family line.

Even if Ursula wanted to, she couldn't touch you.

You had known that your life came with a price, but you had gotten to marry the brutal, sensual man that you loved. You would have willingly given your soul for that, regardless.

Titus liked that you were soft, obedient. That you took what he gave you and thanked him for it. That you embraced the occult and the darkness of his family line. It didn't hurt that you liked the way he fucked you, had soft curves and curled into him when you slept.

He also loved that you could play the part of controversially younger wife perfectly. Slid into the roles of socialite, hostess, partner in crime, almost with a scary ease. He's not a criminal mastermind, more of the brawny type over a man of immense intelligence, but he loves to show you off.

Titus loves the way his name sounds, mewled through your soft, pouty lips. Lips that he likes best when they've been kissed plump, like right now.

You chase his kisses, and he lets you. Licks into your mouth like he's claiming you over and over again. He doesn't restrain your hands often anymore; you have a tendency to claw at his broad shoulders, leaving red marks in your wake with your perfectly manicured nails. He wears those beneath his expensive clothes like badges of honour.

Becoming his wife didn't make him handle you with any more care, but now you're carrying his child, it's a different story.

He's almost gentle with you now, by his standards. Spent the better part of half an hour with your thighs draped over his broad shoulders, his big hands holding your hips down so you couldn't squirm away while he practically made out with your drooling cunt. Sucked on your clit, fucked you with his tongue, drinking down your slick like the expensive wine in the cellar that he favours.

When you'd first met him, you'd assumed he would be a selfish lover, thanks to his occasionally petty nature. He'd fast dispersed of that assumption, still ensures you never think it again.

He'd made you fall apart for him at least three times before he crawled back up the bed; now, finally, he has you caged in beneath him, one hand caressing your curves, over where your abdomen is just slightly starting to round out.

You give him some of those pretty little mewls as he takes his thick, aching cock into his hand, slaps it against your swollen clit.

"Come on, princess," he purrs, voice low against your throat, "beg for it."

Titus loves it when you beg. Loves to watch you lose your mind pleading for him to fuck you. He's always gotten off on power, but there's something particularly sensual to him about his pretty younger wife begging for his cock that gets him achingly hard. Always has, but now you're carrying his heir? Something about that little detail threatens to have him on his knees at your feet.

"Please," you beg him, "please, I need it so bad-"

He smirks down at you as you look up at him with wide, pleading eyes, lets his heavy cock rest on your mound, sliding his hand between you to circle your clit with his fingers.

You know that look, that condescending little smirk as you whimper, know that he isn't going to show you any mercy.

"You don't need anything, you want it." Titus corrects, applying just a little more pressure to your clit, making you mewl before you can even think of something to say back to him.

He thinks you look so pretty like this, spread out for him, whimpering and writhing beneath him in the soft, expensive sheets.

"Mmhmm-" you agree, moaning again as his hand cups your pussy, just resting his palm over you.

The urge to slap your clit is strong, half because he likes dealing it out, and half because he knows you love his particular brand of sadism.

But Titus has to remind himself that he has to handle you with a little more care now. That he can manhandle you a little, but that he can't go as far as he usually might.

You're still looking up at him with big doe eyes, lips parted slightly. His cold hazel eyes search your gaze for a moment, the briefest silent check in, to ensure that you are, in fact, okay.

By now, you can read him perfectly. Know that beneath the cold, brutal monster, there is still a man with a heart. And whilst your husband may not ever be vulnerable with you, he's never given you any reason to doubt that he cares about you. Loves you, even though he's almost afraid to.

"Please..." You whisper, as he removes his hand, slides his palm back up, pausing to caress your abdomen again with a surprisingly tender touch.

No matter how rough he can be with you, he keeps finding his hands returning there, brushing over where his child - your child - grows.

Your eyes drop closed at the unexpected touch, which gives him a moment to regard you with an almost softness in his gaze before he shifts, adjusting your body beneath his.

He buries his face in your shoulder as he stuffs you full of his cock; the filthy groan that rumbles in his chest is half muffled into the soft skin of your neck.

Your reaction doesn't disappoint him; you inhale in a sharp gasp, the exhale coming out as a drawn out, breathy moan.

"O-ohhhhh, fuck, yes-"

You whimper as his hips meet yours, giving him a breathy little whine as you stare up at him, your hands sliding up his forearms, over thick biceps, settling on broad shoulders.

That's something Titus likes, but won't ever admit to you; that he enjoys the soft touches you give him, regardless of how brutal he is.

Even more, he likes the way you stare up at him with such desire and love in your eyes. Being desired isn't new to him, but the love in your gaze whenever you look at him is more precious than any antique he owns.

"Shhh, shh, I know, it's a lot, but you can take it, can't you? Yeah, you can, baby, that's it, good girl-"

He coos at you, drags the pad of his thumb over your kissed plump lower lip. You nod, still speechless as he slowly starts to move, giving you shallow little thrusts, barely allowing you any friction.

The little whimpers and moans you give him as he starts to pick up the pace only serve to make him harder somehow, more determined to have you coming apart around his cock.

He has to almost force himself to take his time, giving you deeper, heavier thrusts but still not fucking you the way he knows that you love.

"Ohhhh, ohhh fuck-"

You moan, each pretty sound more high pitched and needy than the last; truthfully, Titus is glad that you have an entire wing of the family mansion to yourselves, because he's certain that the sound is echoing.

He groans softly as you cling to him, pull him down into another greedy kiss. He allows it, almost melts into the embrace as he grinds against you.

"That's it, there you go," he grunts thickly as you mewl, start to tighten around him as he works you up to the edge.

By now, he knows exactly how to move, how to kiss and touch you to make you come apart for him; which is how you know for certain that he's deliberately edging you, making sure you get close only to pull away at the last moment.

You give him pretty little frustrated whines, trying to rock your hips to meet him, but he's much stronger than you, keeps you pinned with almost extraordinary ease.

"No, no, you know better than that. You cum when I tell you to, remember?"

His voice is dripping condescension, and yet somehow still low and sensual and only makes you more desperate.

Titus has spent so much of his life under the control of others; his father, his sister. You're different. You know he isn't someone to be controlled, know that he's powerful in his own right. Submit to him willingly.

After your own painful past, you were happy to switch off. To be claimed by him, to belong to him, knowing he would burn the world down before he let anyone ever lay a finger on you again.

The sort of love you share is intense, probably a little toxic, but you want nothing more.

You writhe beneath him in the luxurious sheets, gasping breathy little whines as the fat tip of his cock kisses your cervix with each thrust, each deep, deliberate grind of his hips.

"Please-" you beg, elaborating when he raises an eyebrow, "- kiss me?"

The smirk he gives you is gorgeous, lightens every detail of his handsome face as he leans down. He kisses the way he fucks - passionate, rough, not so much kissing you as claiming you.

He licks into your mouth, your lips parting automatically to let him in; sometimes you think about the other women before you that he's kissed, that he's had in his bed, and it makes your heart twist with jealousy.

You're just as possessive as he is, just as needy.

One hand slides down your side, grabs hold of your thigh and hikes it high up around his waist, making you both moan in satisfaction at the sudden angle change.

All restraint he's been clinging to snaps; planting his free hand on the mattress to brace himself, he starts to pound you into the bed, harder and faster with each thrust.

The room swiftly fills with the obscene wet slap of his hips against yours, your high pitched moans, his filthy groans. He isn't quiet, never has been, never feels the need to pretend that he isn't taking immense pleasure in ruining you.

"Ohhhh, ohh- please!"

Your hand moves to card through his soft silver curls, tugging lightly at the roots. He lets you, for a moment, but when your other hand reaches up, he releases your hip, catches your wrist and pins your hand above your head.

He can feel your velvet walls tightening around him, your thighs starting to tremble just ever so slightly, knows you're close again. For a moment he considers edging you again. Making you cry with how badly you need to cum.

But he feels merciful today. Likes the feeling of you coming apart for him more than he likes to torment you.

He looks down at you, at your parted lips and your lust blown pupils, listens to every perfect, sweet moan you give him as he fucks you.

"Cum." He orders you, voice low and raspy, expecting you to obey.

Blissfully, you do, letting go, your back arching up off the bed as best you can with his broad frame holding you down. The climax seems to go on forever, peaking and then dropping, only to reach a new crescendo as he fucks you through it.

Titus is older, wealthy, handsome - he knows how to fuck a woman, how to draw pleasure out. So you're still barely through it, dimly aware of the obscene wet sounds of his cock stuffing your still fluttering cunt, when he pulls out of you.

You whine at the sudden loss, but he has you flipped onto your front before you can form a proper thought.

Big, rough hands seize your hips, pull your body up so that there's no pressure on your abdomen; face down, ass up, he stuffs his cock back inside you with a satisfied, filthy grunt, planting one foot on the mattress to give himself better leverage.

"Mmmffff, you love that, don't you? Yeah, you do. You fucking love it. Sold your soul for this cock, didn't you, princess?" He purrs, landing a heavy slap to your ass, groaning when you clench around him.

You gasp, hands balling into the sheets as you keep yourself upright, choked moans muffled until you turn your head to one side.

"Nnghhh- fucking... Take it-"

You love the raspy, low gradient to his voice, the way he leans over and purrs in your ear as he fucks you into the mattress, alternating which side of your ass he slaps every so often, hard enough to bruise.

He keeps himself in good shape. Better than good. Peak physical condition, stronger than most men half his age.

His endurance and stamina may be incredible, but even he has his limit; his thrusts start to become sloppy, brutal, less rhythmic.

You have no strength left in you, can only mewl and sob as he uses you to get himself there, groaning thickly as he spills inside you in a series of particularly deep, intense thrusts.

"Ohhhhh, shit-"

He chokes out, finally slowing inside you, hips stilling, palm soothing the deep purple hand prints he's left on your ass cheeks.

Once he's caught his breath, he pulls out of you, helps you turn over, watches the way you look him up and down with an expression of sheer desire and satisfaction.

"Fuck," you manage to get out, giggling breathlessly. "Every time... You manage to surprise me."

Titus shakes his head, lays down beside you, makes grabby hands, pulls you against his chest when you're within reach.

"And every time, you surprise me by just taking whatever I give you."

He sounds impressed, runs his hand up and down your side as you rest your palm on his solid pectoral muscles, fingertips tracing the soft greying curls that litter his chest.

"Did I not swear my mortal body and eternal soul to you? In this life and the next?" You remind him of the ritual vows you spoke as your blood mingled in the ceremonial bowl at the altar.

His palm caresses your abdomen once more, rests there.

"You did. And I to you."

Again, you smile, your hand moving to brush sweat damp curls from his hazel eyes, your own expression soft and loving as he reiterates his own vow.

"I love you," you whisper, uncaring how soft it may make you seem, how weak.

Titus Danforth is more monster than man most days, but you make him feel human again, evident in the way his gaze softens as he kisses your forehead.

"I adore you. I would burn this world down for you."

Perhaps from anyone else, that sentiment would unsettle you. But from Titus? It's different. As comforting as a kiss, and his arms around you.

Perhaps you and he aren't so different, after all.

[fxckingjo]

𝙱𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙸𝚝 𝙾𝚗 𝙷𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚃𝚘 𝙼𝚎 ⋆˙⟡ j. abbot

☆ meet doctorpedia!reader ⋆˚꩜｡ main masterlist ☕︎༯ tip jar

ɴᴏᴡ ᴘʟᴀʏɪɴɢ: ʙʀɪɴɢ ɪᴛ ᴏɴ ʜᴏᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴇ - ꜱᴀᴍ ᴄᴏᴏᴋᴇ 0:01 ❍─────── 2:42 ↻ ⊲ Ⅱ ⊳ ↺

jack abbot/gf!reader. established situationship turned relationship. nsfw warning. pinv sex, oral f. receiving. miscommunication tropes. noah wyle-ception (iykyk). approx 3k words. unedited.

Today is a bad day.

You've had bad days. You know bad days. Some are easier to stomach than others, but you're tough. Most of the time, you're tough as nails. You can handle the patients, the bad calls, the hard cases. Most of the time.

Today is not one of those days. You're exhausted, beyond exhausted. You've been working eighty-hour weeks forever, because you have no work/life boundaries and obsess over the job. So when you lose two patients back-to-back, and get screamed at by a grown man baby with spit flying from his mouth, and nearly piss yourself because you can't take a goddamn break, you break a little bit. You find the nearest on-call room, storm into it, grab a pillow, and scream like hell. You kick your feet, scream louder, and then freeze when you realize you're very much not alone.

Jack Abbot sits up, smug, mouth twitching. You’re not even sure why he’s here, on day shift, interrupting your moment of zen.

“Well, damn, didn’t know you had that in you, doc,” he teases.

The double entendre isn’t lost on you, but he still wiggles his eyebrows anyway, lips curled into a wry smirk.

“Maybe it’s an indictment of your skills, Dr. Abbot,” you huff.

“Ouch,” he says, sitting up.

“Look, I’m really not in the mood, Jack. Why are you even here?”

His brow furrows. “Hand off ran late, and Robby needed back-up. Figured I’d nap until my shift. You okay?”

You shake your head. Pinch the bridge of your nose. “Yes. No. I don’t know. I don’t know!”

“You want your boyfriend or your attending?” Jack asks, tilting his head to the side.

You’re disoriented by the ease with which he says it. Boyfriend. You’ve been skating by without labels, and he just dropped a massive committed label like it didn’t hold any weight.

“I don’t know.”

“Okay.” He grabs your hand, tugging you down to the bed. The mattress dips. His calloused hands find your cheekbones, framing your face. He takes an exaggerated breath, his gaze searing. “Come on, baby. Eyes on me. Just breathe in. That’s it… now out.”

He coaches you through it, a few more deep breaths. He knows how to make your world slow down, always has. Sometimes you get so worked up, your mind moving too fast, and Jack is always there to bring you back down to earth.

“Better?”

You nod.

“You want me to take the night off? We can order in, crack open a bottle of wine,” he suggests. His thumb brushes across your cheek, reverent and sweet.

“I’ve only got two hours left. I’ll be fine. You don’t need to call out because of me.”

“Leg’s been hurting me anyway,” he tells you. You’re not sure if it’s true, or if it’s just him trying to make you feel better. Probably a bit of both. The phantom pain causes him aches, and after some long, long shifts, the prosthetic is just dead weight he drags along with him. More than once, you’ve taken a bath together after a sixteen-hour shift. Even when he’s the one suffering, he massages your shoulders.

God, you think you might even love him. Even though you really shouldn’t. Even if it’s a bad idea to sleep with your attending, and worse to then fall in love with him. You can’t help yourself. He does all these soft things that act as a soothing balm on your soul. He’s so tender and kind and perfect.

But he’s a doctor. That’s the job. Treat people with compassion and do no harm. You’re not special just because you’ve slept together, and you have to remember that. Especially when your heart starts getting the wrong idea.

"Hey," Jack says your name again. "Come back. I'm right here."

"I should get back to work," you say, because the way he's looking at you is going to split you open, and he'll see everything inside you, all your mushy-gooey, half-hopelessly-in-love feelings. "The student doctors are helpless."

"You were a student doctor not too long ago."

"Which is why I know," you retort, flatly. "I'll see you later."

It comes across as more flippant than you mean for it to be. After all, you're shooting for casual, but your body doesn't get the memo. You're high-strung and defensive, terrified of all the emotions you'd normally keep shoved deep, deep down.

"When?" Jack presses.

Your hand hovers over the door handle. "What do you mean?"

"When am I gonna see you?" he asks. "Tonight?"

"I don't know—"

"Did I do something wrong? I mean, I know I'm new at this whole dating thing, but I didn't upset you, did I?"

Dating. Dating. Dating. The blood whooshes in your ears.

"Hey," he says. "Would you just—"

Your pager goes off at the same time the Code Blue gets called for your patient in Trauma One. The one you just got stabilized, whose family still tore into you when you gave them good news. One patient survived. But the fact that it was only one is entirely your fault, and not the drunk driver's responsibility, or the medics who intubated him incorrectly. That weight is pressing into you as the alarm goes off and your pager screams in your pocket.

You run. Like the devil's on your heels, or you're escaping a fire. You haul ass to be the first one there, beating out the other doctors and med students. Suddenly, you're grateful for your marathon training, but you don't get time to ruminate.

You code the patient for five minutes, and wind up wrist-deep in his chest cavity to staunch the internal bleeding. By the time Garcia takes over, you're breathless and sweaty, and the prognosis is terrible as they wheel him into the OR. He'll be lucky to make it through the night.

You don't see Abbot again after that. When your shift is over, and you've waded through your charts until your vision blurs and the letters become alphabet soup, you head out to your car and pray for a second wind to carry you home. Otherwise, you'll be the next ER patient.

You drop your keys when you see him.

Jack's leaning against your car, blocking the driver's side. "Hey."

"Hi," you say, your voice small. Thin. Tears prickle at the corners of your eyes, and you can't stop them this time. They slip down over the apples of your cheeks, and then your mouth splits open into a sob.

"Oh, kid," he coos. "C'mere."

You let him hold you. Because you love him, and he's there, and even if it won't last and it's probably doomed, you want this memory to hold onto for a little longer.

You eventually let him pry your keys from your sweaty fist and tuck you into the passenger seat of your own SUV. Let him smooth the hair out of your face and drive you home. He gets you a milkshake from a drive-thru and orders your favorite without asking, and then watches you eat to make sure you finish your food. He doesn't make you talk about it. He doesn't judge you for the tremble in your uneasy fingers.

He knows his way around your place a little too well, you realize. As he disappears into your bathroom, running the shower, you notice he's navigating without turning on a light. You follow him into the restroom, watching the mirror fog over with steam.

"You gonna ask me to join you?" He teases you gently, but there's a seriousness underlying the words, like he wants to make sure you know there's an option.

"Join me," you say.

He grins. "Atta girl."

You'll never get tired of watching Jack undress. Every movement is fluid, and the muscle ripples under his skin in a tantalizing wave. He's got freckles on his shoulders that don't fade in the winter, his battle scars, the wrinkles on his face—they all come together perfectly. To make this man you can't help but love.

You strip off your scrubs piece by piece, and so does he. Your panties pool at your ankles, and he unclasps your bra when you turn around. He installed a bench in your shower for you weeks ago, after you slipped while shaving your legs. As he shucks off his prosthetic, bracing himself on your shoulder, you're glad he did.

He washes your hair, slowly and methodically. Then he scrubs your back, following the curve of your spine, lingering just above your ass, which you know he's obsessed with. More than once, he's nipped at it playfully when he has you on your stomach, a pillow shoved under your hips as he takes you from behind.

It's not the first shower you've taken together, but it feels different tonight. More intimate.

After, he sits down on the closed lid of the toilet, a towel wrapped low on his hips. You brush your teeth, and he uses the spare from his duffel. He gives you an extra shirt from his go bag, like he keeps one handy just for you.

Everything about it feels so practiced. You wonder when it became like this: a routine between the pair of you, a language only you can speak. How you never noticed it before is beyond you.

As he reaches for his metal leg again, you place a hand on his wrist.

"I have spare crutches," you say. "Swiped them from the lost and found forever ago."

"You stole crutches for me?" he asks, brows raised.

"Not for you. In case of emergency."

He chuckles. "This isn't an emergency."

"You said it hurts," you reply.

He nods, leaving the prosthesis off. You retrieve the crutches from the coat closet in the hall, and he gratefully takes them.

The pair of you head into your bedroom. It's not like there's much space in your shoebox apartment full of books and stuffed to the brim with knick-knacks, but he's never complained about how small it is before. He knows you prefer your space, that you don't like sleeping in a bed that isn't yours. He's mastered the art of deciphering your idiosyncrasies, all the things that make you tick, how you think, the look you get when you're lost in space and thinking too hard.

"Sorry about the mess," you say, as you climb into your bed, the TV on with the volume low. The channel is set to reruns of some medical drama you both like to find the flaws in. ER is a favorite, mostly because Dr. Carter reminds you of Robby.

"I don't mind it," he replies. "The only reason mine isn't a wreck is that I have a housekeeper."

"You have a maid?"

Jack shakes his head. "Jesus, no. Just a lady who runs a cleaning service I treated a few years back. She gives me a nice discount in exchange for saving her life. Not that I asked for one. Every time I try to pay her more, she smacks me with a broom."

It's so Jack, that story. Your chest aches.

"You could move in with me," he suggests.

You scoff.

"I'm serious."

Your brows pinch together. "Jack—"

"What do you think we're doing here, baby?" he asks. "Hm? Because after I lost my wife, I thought I was done. Thought I didn't have anything left to give, anything left to love and then you..." Your breath hitches, his fingers curling around your chin and drawing your gaze up to his. "You happened."

"I guess I just figured this was casual. We never discussed it. You never asked to be exclusive." The moment you say it, you feel ridiculous. Defining the relationship is so Gen Z of you, and that age gap, the one that's never felt very big because of your mind, because of his wildness, suddenly strikes you. Fifteen years is a long time. What if he thinks you're childish for wondering about it?

He laughs. A real, belly laugh. "I know I'm old-fashioned, but from the moment I kissed you, I was yours. Didn't think I had to ask."

"Oh."

"The guys at the VA, the ones I do therapy with, volunteer with? They ask about my girlfriend all the time. And yeah, we keep it quiet at work, but Robby razzes me all the time about it off the clock. I'm yours, and maybe I haven't been the best at showing it, but that's where I'm at."

"I'm yours too."

He smirks. "I know."

"Jack," you murmur.

"Christ, you impossible woman, you gonna tell me you love me or not?"

"I love you," you tell him, and it's the easiest thing in the world.

"So move in with me."

"I'll think about it."

You squeal as he snakes a strong arm around your waist, flipping you onto your back and under him. His eyes are piercing yours, hazel and endless. A giggle escapes as his nose brushes yours.

"I love you, Doctorpedia," he says, using the nickname Santos has been calling you forever. "So let me wake up with you every day. Hell, I'll move in here, I don't care. So long as I got you."

You kiss him as your answer, and then he kisses you back, deeper, hotter. He nips at your bottom lip and uses it as leverage to deepen the kiss when you gasp. His tongue, wicked and sweet, pushes into your mouth and glides against yours, and he catches your moan between his teeth.

"My girl in my shirt," he groans, kissing your neck, tracing your throat. "Look at you, pretty baby."

His hand slides under the hem, splayed across your belly, and you're so aware of his touch, how close his fingertips are to the underside of your breasts or the waistband of your panties. You're glad you skipped pajama pants, because his skin on yours as your legs tangle together is enough to annihilate you.

"Jack," you whimper, as his hand slides up, cupping one of your tits. His thumb tweaks your nipple, rough and calloused, and you arch your back into his hand.

"Want something?" he asks, knowing exactly what he's doing to you. "Hm? Use your words, baby."

"Please," you say.

"Please, what?"

You blush, and he grins, kissing your cheeks one at a time. His hand continues to stroke your nipple, squeezing your breast as your nerves catch fire.

"Please, what?" he says again.

"Please fuck me."

"Impatient, are we?"

You nod, biting your lip. Your hand finds his boxers, where his cock, half-hard and twitching, is straining against the fabric. He catches your wrist with his free hand, shaking his head.

"Nah, I wanna take my time," he decides. "Need to remind you why living together is a damn good idea."

He rolls the hem of your shirt up, and you lift your arms for him. It falls away, wadded up somewhere in the abyss of your room. His comes next, but you don't get the chance to look at him before he's dipping his head, placing his mouth to your nipple, swirling his tongue around the bud, and grazing it with his teeth just so. You writhe, desperately chasing relief in your aching, fluttering pussy. He just hums as he kisses his way to your other breast, closing his lips around that nipple too. You push up against him, hips grinding, humping the air like it could give you relief.

"Dirty little thing," he remarks. "Need it that bad, huh?"

You nod. "Jack, please—"

He spanks your pussy over your underwear, and the zing! it sends through your nervous system feels like an electrical current. You're soaked, and he knows it, running two fingers across your clothed seam.

"Jack," you whimper again. "Jack, please—"

He dives under the blanket, hiking your knees up and over his shoulders, and you barely have a second to process what's happening before he's got your panties shoved to the side and his tongue lapping at your folds. You nearly fly off the bed, but his grip on you tightens, drawing you back against his mouth. He traces every part of your pussy with light kisses, working you over with the ghost of his breath where you need him most.

Finally, finally, he sucks your clit, and you cry out so loudly the neighbors might hear it. He laps and suckles at your sensitive bundle of nerves, his fingers, steady, doctor's fingers, crooking inside your cunt, your greedy pussy sucking him in. He scissors them just right, the pressure of his mouth and fingers just enough to make you implode.

The first time you come, he enjoys it with a chuckle, but he doesn't let up, doesn't stop. No, he keeps lapping and teasing and finger-fucking you until you're swollen and sensitive and digging your fingers into his salt-and-pepper curls for purchase.

When his lips find yours again, his chin is soaked with you. You taste yourself on his tongue, one hand yanking his boxers just enough to free his heavy cock and balls. He kicks them off the rest of the way before sliding his hot length against your folds, collecting your slick want on his shaft. He's long and thick, and even with two orgasms under your belt, you know he'll split you open, fuck the thoughts out of your head.

"Please," you whisper.

"I love you," he says, and then he sheathes himself completely inside of you.

You feel him all the way to your cervix, his balls snug against your ass, every inch of him so deep inside you it blinds you with pleasure. His hand falls low again, to your belly, and as he rolls his hips slowly, feeling you around him, he grins. You know he likes the way your belly bulges when you take him, and the pressure of his touch takes you apart. As he starts to fuck you, properly, his thumb slips to your clit, rubbing it in time with each thrust. You're trembling, incoherently moaning as he pile-drives you into the mattress, whispering in your ear.

"So perfect f'me, baby. That's it. That's a good girl. That's my girl. Love you, love you so much. Gonna come for me, baby? Gonna come all over my cock? Hm? Milk me dry with that pretty pussy? Give it to me. That's it, that's it—"

You come so hard you gush around him. Ever since he discovered you could squirt, he's made it his mission to make it happen a thousand times since, and you might black out for a moment, stars in your eyes, your heart in his hands. He fucks you through it, closer and closer to the edge.

"Gonna stuff you full and fill you up," he grunts. His words are getting sloppier now, just like each thrust of his cock all the way up to your womb. "Maybe one of these days I'll knock you up too. Make you a Mama. Get you walkin' around the Pitt with my baby, so everyone knows you're mine."

"Yours," you gasp. "Yours. Jack—"

He spills deep inside of you, hot ropes of his cum painting your gummy walls white. You kiss him as he stills on top of you, whispering his love for you in careful breaths.

Eventually, when the blissed-out haze fades a bit, he retrieves some baby wipes from the nightstand, cleaning you up, redressing you, and reminding you to pee before you get a UTI. Then, after, he refills your water bottle, kisses your forehead, and holds you as you watch medically inaccurate TV reruns from the 90s.

You never sleep alone after that. You also stop bothering to hide your relationship from the others at the Pitt, and McKay wins the day shift betting pool immediately after your hard launch.

[littledes1re]

daddy, i’m sorry 

Pairing: Old!daddy!joel miller x female!reader

Summary: Joel sits downstairs, reading by the stove, trying to pretend he doesn’t hear the footsteps of his son’s girlfriend. Trying to pretend he doesn’t remember what the two of you have done and feel. But when you appear in the dark—barefoot, wide-eyed, floaty-headed and call him Daddy like you still mean something by it, he knows you’re about to break the rules again.

Warnings: 18+, smut, fluff, slight angst, age gap! (60s and 20s), fingering, praise kink, slight mean!joel, daddy kink, ddlg undertones, subspace, infidelity, power imbalance, taboo relationship dynamics, needy!reader, no outbreak,

A/N: i’m not feeling very well lately. this is just an unfinished draft that I never finished, but I wrapped it up now to kinda ease myself back into writing. I also want to finally get to some requests that have been sitting in my inbox. Things might move a little slower for now, I’m sorry about that! But i hope yall enjoy this one in the meantime: filthy, taboo nonsense that just hits right when you’re horny hehe😋

The fire crackled low in the stove, its orange glow flickering across the old wooden floorboards. The room was dim, lit only by the firelight that danced around Joel’s chair. He sat still, legs stretched out, reading glasses perched low on his nose, the spine of a thick book resting in one hand.

Outside, the wind knocked against the windows, but inside it was warm and real quiet. The kind of quiet that settles into your bones and makes you forget the day.

Joel turns a page slowly, his eyes moving steady across the lines, but he wasn’t really reading anymore. Not with the fire murmuring besides him. Not with the weight of the day finally easing off his shoulders.

And then—

a sound.

Soft and unmistakable. Footsteps.

He stilled.

The book lowered an inch. His jaw tightens just slightly. He didn’t look up, not yet. Just listened. One step. Then another. A pause. Then the creak of the top stair.

Joel closed the book gently, thumb marking the page.

He didn’t need to look to know it was you.

His eyes flicked towards your figure in the hallway, dressed in white like a ghost. The room was dark, but Joel could still make out the tremble of your lips, the flush blooming across your cheeks.

He doesn’t want to know what you did upstairs with his son, he didn’t even want to think of it.

And more than anything, he didn’t want you coming to him—disturbing the only ounce of peace he ever feels, that quiet hour when the house is asleep, and it’s just him, a book, and the soft crackle of the fire.

You slip into the room without a word, the hem of your dress brushing your thighs as you move gently to the couch besides him. He doesn’t say anything. Just watches. Swallows. His jaw tightens. And you can already see his knuckles going white from gripping the book too hard.

With a quiet sigh, legs are drawn up as you settle besides him, eyes fixed on the way he turns the page—his hands broad and steady, the book looking small in his palm.

You close your eyes and take a deep breath, thoughts wrapped in cotton. Everything feels soft, distant—like the only thing keeping you tethered to the moment is Joel.

He clears his throat, making you look up to him.

“Can’t sleep?” he asks, voice low and hoarse, the sound of it rumbling deep in your chest.

You shake your head. “No, it’s too quiet up there.”

“You’re not used to country,” he answers with a hum.

He was right. Staying at Joel’s farmhouse—just because your boyfriend insisted that spending the holidays at his dad’s place would help you relax—was a mistake. Instead of peace, you were face to face with the very thing you’d been trying to avoid for years.

And now you can’t keep it together anymore. Joel knows it.

He saw it already on your glassy eyes on the breakfast table. Or on the way you gently touched him when you tried to slip past him.

“Do you always read in the dark?” You ask.

“Sometimes. When my eyes get used to it. Helps me wind down, you know?”

You nod, and you feel it in your chest—knowing that once, you knew everything about him. That he once told you everything. Every little quirk he had and has.

Silence stretches between you. Joel’s head dips, trying to make something of the words he is reading, but the only thing his mind allows is to hear your little breaths and your voice looping inside his mind.

He can feel you staring.

“You should go back to bed.” He says, finally.

Your heart thuds in your chest. You tilt your head, eyes glassy looking at him.

“Doesn’t feel right,” you murmur. “Up there. Without you.”

He shakes his head, jaw clenching, hands closing the book.

“We’ve talked about this.”

You nod.

“Remember?”

“I remember.” Your voice is just above a whisper.

“And?” His eyebrows go up, reading glasses moving with them. His voice makes your skin crawl; it makes you want to curl yourself further into the couch and disappear. You just needed him.

“I-i’m not trying to start anything.” A lie.

“Bullshit.” His voice cuts through the warm atmosphere of the room—sharp, hitting right into your heart. Your bottom lip wobbles as you look at him, breath picking up.

“Look at you.” His hand sways in your direction, eyes scanning you up and down. “You look like a mess.”

“I—I don’t mean to be.” Your voice is breathy, almost like a whimper. “I just…I don’t feel right.”

Joel scoffs, his heart breaking a little too—from being so mean. He doesn’t want to be. But you two were never meant to be. What happened between you has to stay in the past, forgotten. That was the deal: to never talk about it again. To never seek each other out. To never ask for more.

“You should go,” Joel says again, quieter this time. “Ain’t right, you sittin’ here like this.”

You don’t move. Just look at him, eyes wide, voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t wanna be alone.”

“That ain’t my problem.” You flinch. “You have your boyfriend right upstairs, you don’t need me.”

Silence falls again.

Neither of you move or say anything. Joel doesn’t look at you—his eyes are focused on the way the fire plays shadows on the walls and the way it lights up the place.

You, on the other hand…are almost on the verge of crying. Not because of sadness, but because you’re locked in a headspace that won’t let you think straight. One that just wants to be cradled, to be held, and to be told that everything is going to be okay.

And that should be from Joel.

Because your boyfriend doesn’t get it. He doesn’t understand your headspace, your needs. He doesn’t listen, and when he does he misinterprets what you say.

Joel doesn’t. He never did.

After a while Joel releases a big breath, and rubs his forehead.

And then he hears it:

“daddy, i’m sorry.”

It lands like match on dry grass.

Joel freezes. That word hangs in the air—thick, trembling. He squeezes his eyes shut, his mind already drifting to the past, to when you laid underneath him and called him that word like he was your anchor.

When he opens his eyes again, they’re darker. But they’re not angry. Not anymore. They’re wrecked. He knows he has been fighting this way too long, and he knows that a single word can break him. And that happened now.

“Jesus,” he mutters, just under his breath.

Your cheeks flush, embarrassment runs through your body.

He drags a hand down his face, then looks at you—really looks. At the way you’re still curled in on yourself, flushed and trembling, eyes wide, lips swollen, wet and waiting for something.

“You don’t even know what you’re doin’ to me,” breathes out.

But he’s already moving. The book slides from his lap to the floor with a soft thud. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and opens his arms.

“C’mere,” he says, voice gentler now. “Come here.”

You move fast. You climb into his lap like you’ve done it a hundred times before—knees on either side of his thighs, arms already reaching to curl around his neck, face nuzzling toward the warm space beneath his jaw.

But his hand comes up, firm against your shoulder.

“Hey.”

You pause, blinking up at him, dazed and soft. Sou try again, leaning in, seeking the comfort of his chest, but his voice sharpens.

“Hey…hey. Hey.” He catches your chin between his fingers, tilting your face up to his. His eyes focused on your lips.

“You know we can’t keep doin’ this,” he starts, voice low. “We said last time was the last time.”

You whimper, barely a sound, but it’s enough to make his grip falter for a second. His thumb brushes your cheek, gentler now.

“Last time,” he says again, quieter. “You hear me?”

You nod, slow.

“Promise?” he asks.

You nod again, eager. But he doesn’t let go.

“No,” he says, firmer. “Words.”

“Promise.”

He watches you for a beat longer, then exhales through his nose. His hand slides from your chin to the back of your neck, pulling you in.

“Good girl.”

And just like that, you curl into him, breath soft against his neck, while he can feel how far you’ve gone—how quiet, how warm, how gone. Your body’s heavy in his lap, boneless, like you’re melting into him inch by inch. And Joel knows what that means.

His hand moves slowly over your back, steady and grounding, trying to soothe you.

“You’re real quiet now,” he murmurs. “That little motor of yours finally ran outta steam, huh?”

You don’t answer. Just nuzzle closer, your lips brushing the side of his neck, barely there.

“You’re deep in it, ain’t you,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “Didn’t even see it happen.”

He shifts slightly, adjusting you in his lap, cradling you closer. His voice drops to a whisper.

“You always do this to me,” he says. “Come in here all soft, all sweet…and I try so damn hard to be good.”

You let out a tiny sound—half sigh, half whimper—and it breaks something in him.

“Shh,” he soothes, pressing his lips to your temple. “I know, baby. I know.”

His hand cups the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair.

“You’re safe,” he whispers. “Daddy’s got you.”

You feel soft in his lap, breath already hitching, hips starting to shift just enough to make him feel it. You need him.

Joel’s hand tightens on your hip, his jaw clenching like he’s trying to hold something back.

“Y’are needy, aren’t you, baby?” he murmurs, voice dropping low. “Figured.”

You nod, whimpering softly, and he exhales like it hurts.

“Can you tell me what you need?” he asks, brushing your hair back. “Just wanna make sure you’re still with me.”

“Want you,” you whisper. “Please, Daddy.”

He closes his eyes for a beat, then nods. “Yeah. You want Daddy to help you come back down.”

His hand slides lower, slow and steady.

“S’okay,” he murmurs. “I got you.”

And just as he shifts you in his lap, his mouth close to your ear, you hear it—barely a breath, like he didn’t mean to say it out loud: “This the last time.”

But his hands don’t stop.

“Y’stay real quiet, yeah? Don’t want him hearin’ that his dad’s takin’ care of his girlfriend better.”

It’s not a threat. It never is. It’s resentment, but not at you—god, never at you. It’s at the boy, his own son, who gets to have you in the daylight, while Joel only gets the dark.

He presses his forehead to yours, breathing hard while looking into your hazy eyes. You whine again, signalling that you’re ready. Ready for him to take you. He chuckles under his breath in response.

So, Joels hand slides down, slow and warm, slipping beneath the hem of your dress, then lower. He cups you over your panties, real gentle, but firm—and lets out a quiet breath when he feels the dampness.

“Messy girl.” he coos.

You whimper, hips pressing desperately into his palm.

“Shh,” he soothes, lips brushing your temple. “I know. Daddy’s here.”

He quickly hooks a finger around the edge of your panties, tugging them aside with care, while your head rests on his chest—breathing in his wooden scent. His fingers find you, slick, soft, sticky and he strokes through the wetness, slow and teasing. His fingertip brushes over your clit gently, and you gasp.

“Just like that,” he whispers. “Let me feel you.”

After letting you settle, he eases one finger inside—only one, because he knows you need time to adjust in this headspace. His finger settles into your cunt, and you breathe out, clinging to him, as he holds you tighter.

“There you go,” he murmurs. “Nice and easy.”

He waits for yuou, lets you adjust, then begins to move—gentle, curling thrusts, deep and slow, while his other hand cradles your back.

You were already feeling sensitive—like your body knew Joel was near, like your cunt could sense the weight of his big, steady hands cradling you. And you were always extra needy when you started to float.

He shifts just enough to see your face, brushing your hair back with the hand not inside you. Your eyes are half-lidded, lips parted, cheeks flushed. You look dazed, dreamy, like you’re floating somewhere only he can reach.

Joel swears under his breath. “Look at you,” he murmurs. “All gone, huh?”

You hum, barely even able to nod, and he smiles: absolutely wrecked by how beautiful you are like this.

His fingers keep moving, slow and sure, coaxing you through it, fingertip curling into that one spot that only Joel can reach. He leans in, presses his forehead to yours.

“You stay with me, babygirl. Don’t drift too far.”

You move softly in his lap, breath hitching, but hips shifting just a little more desperately—like you’re chasing something just out of reach.

Joel notices. Of course he does.

“Still restless, huh?” he murmurs, voice still against your ear. “One ain’t enough for you, baby?”

You shake your head, your body answering before your mouth can.

He smiles knowing. “S’okay,” he whispers. “I got you.”

He eases his hand back, just enough to press a second finger to your entrance. He waits—feels the way your body flutters, how you cling to him tighter.

“Breathe for me,” he whispers. “Let me in.”

And when you do—when he slides that second finger in, slow and careful—you sigh, your cunt fluttering around him. The stretch is deeper, fuller, and your whole body melts around him.

“There she is,” he murmurs. “That’s what you needed, huh?”

Joel starts with his thrusts again. Slow, deep and grinding. Every thrust now pressing into you more fully, brushing against that sweet, aching spot inside you. You can already feel the stickiness between your thighs, the way your slick clings to him, to you, to everything. It’s warm, messy, perfect.

“Daddy…” you sigh, burying your face into his chest.

“Yea? Like that?” He asks, placing a kiss on your temple. “Daddy’s filling you up nice and slow?”

You nod your head softly, coming closer to his chin, pressing a peck on his lips and then a faint one on his stubbles.

The chair under you two groans as your hips shift, chasing the rhythm of his hand. You’re trying to stay quiet, but every slow thrust makes you tremble, makes you cling to him tighter.

His fingers continue to move slow and deep inside you, while the room is quiet, so quiet that you can hear it. That soft, wet sound each time he thrusts in. It’s intimate.

A slick little whisper between your thighs, hidden in the space where your bodies meet.

He presses in deeper, and the squelch is louder now—squelching, needy. You feel it in your belly, on your skin.

The slick sounds between you grow wetter, messier, and your breath comes in soft, broken gasps. Joel feels it—the way you’re clenching tighter, the way your body’s starting to shake.

“You’re close, yea?” he murmurs, voice thick with warmth. “I can feel it, baby.”

You can’t answer. You just whimper, pressing your face into his neck, trying to hold on.

And then you feel it—his thumb, warm and steady, sliding down to circle your clit. Gentle at first, just enough to make you gasp.

“There we go. So puffy for daddy, aren’t you?” he whispers. “Let Daddy help you.”

His fingers keep moving inside you, while his thumb works soft, perfect circles over that aching spot. The rhythm is steady and grounding.

“That’s it, babygirl. Just come for me. I’ve got you.”

His fingers find that tender spot inside you again—just as his thumb circles your clit just right, and his voice drops low in your ear. “Yes, that’s it, baby. I’ve got you.”

And then you do.

Your whole body tenses, then breaks. You cry out, soft and wrecked and he holds you tighter as your release rushes through you. He feels it immediately—the way your walls flutter around his fingers, the way your slick gushes over his hand, warm, wet and so desperate.

It runs down his fingers, over his knuckles, dripping onto his wrist and soaking into the fabric of his jeans. But he doesn’t care. He loves it.

“That’s my girl,” he whispers, kissing your temple. “Let it all out. I’ve got you.”

He doesn’t pull away. He keeps his fingers inside you, gentle now, nestled deep, cradling the soft, fluttering squeeze of your walls as you come down. The chair creaks beneath you, the room still thick with heat and breath and the soft, wet sounds of your release.

“You’re making such a big mess, baby girl…” he murmurs. “Daddy has to clean ya up, hm?”

His other hand strokes your back, grounding you, while his lips press soft kisses to your temple.

“Still flutterin’,” he whispers, almost in awe. “So sweet. So soft.”

You whine, your body coming down from your release—still overwhelmed, and he hushes you gently.

“I know, baby. I know. You gave me everything, didn’t you?”

He stays there with you, fingers still inside, until your breathing evens out and your body stops trembling. Even then, he doesn’t pull away. He just holds you, full and warm and safe in his arms.

“You’re okay,” he says softly.

You hum, content. His scent is everywhere—smoke, leather, wood. You feel like you could stay here forever.

“You feel better, babygirl?” he asks sweetly.

You nod, slow and lazy. “Mhm. Thank you, Daddy.”

You’re curl into his lap, limp and trembling, your cheek pressed to his chest. His fingers slip from you now, but his arms don’t move. One hand strokes your back in slow, grounding circles. The other rests on your thigh, warm and steady.

The chair creaks softly beneath you both again, but neither of you moves. You’re still slick between your legs, the mess of your release soaking into his jeans, but he doesn’t care. He just presses a kiss to your hairline—gentle, lingering.

“You were so good,” he says softly. “So damn sweet.”

There’s a pause. Like he wants to say more. Like there’s something sitting heavy in his chest. But instead, he just holds you tighter.

“Let’s just stay like this a while.”

“Just let me have this,” he says, barely audible. “Just for a little longer.”

And you do. Because right now, in this hush, in his arms—you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

Okey i’m gonna be honest…i don’t like this🫩 but i also missed writing for daddy Joel sooo…I hope you guys enjoyed it! Also this is not proofread🫣 please let’s just ignore all the mistakes and things that don’t make sense

Now i’m gonna concentrate on some requests, and then i’ll probably post ex hitman!joel! He is miserable, bleeding but still soft for her <3

Taglist: @vickie5446 @thatgirlmendo @ihearttdilfs @pickyeater13 @sweetiegirl16 @afyreinjuly @shivispunk @kyloispunk @marisemonteiroo @meetmeatyourworst @joelmillerswife9 @iveseenstrangerthings50 @idrkman @blueberryfruittart @vanishintoyoubby @dlwrish @brittmb115 @xcallmetaniax @umadirectioner @millersweetheart @wildthyng @armandispunk @chick66i @bratty-spicee @am1a-niigo @hopelessromantic727 @styleslfreak @psclcain @rxsemarinusx @jandtmillersgirl @fertilise-me @mitskilover88 @lostboys1987girl @begginforthread @facethepascal @ddiana111 @twilightblogss @cheeseizts @pedrosgirl03 @swimmingnightcolor @gabfromgreedycity @bartzabel4 @blueflowerstranger @easybbgrl @madnessofadaydreamer @sadie6sinks6slut @hopelessromantic727 @miramindlesslywriting

[maiamore]

Clark Kent eats you out for the first time, and it was like nothing you had ever experienced before. gif creds.

TAGS: smut, pwp, f!reader, smut, freak!clark, munch!clark, f!recieving (500 wc)

It started with an all-too polite request from him. In fact, you had to pull it out of a hesitant Clark, who was stumbling over his words, going round and round until you held him by his jaw. Your hands dwarfed at the expense of his reddened, hot cheeks.

Only then did he finally ask you.

Could I do it from the back? Please?

You weren't in the business of denying Clark of anything — but this sent a surge of terrifyingly potent arousal. The evidence of it coats your thighs with slick even before you'd begun having sex.

He's making sure you're comfortable the entire way through. Propping a hand-knitted cushion beneath your belly. Clark is mumbling endlessly to himself. Mostly grateful murmurs on just how lucky he was to have you.

You practically melt into the covers at the reverent kisses he trails from your collarbone and down your spine.

A content sigh tears from you. This was your Clark. Ever so gentle, kneading those intoxicatingly big, warm hands over your hips, down to the curve of your ass.

The sensation was good. More than good.

Especially with how he squeezed and lightly tugs the cheek apart, Clark groans lowly.

What did I ever do to deserve you?

You weren't sure what was going on behind, your face all smushed and comfortable by the satin. Absolutely nothing would've prepared you for what was coming.

He warns you before shifting, tugging your hip upward. The change in position surprised you. Being forced to relax and slacken entirely, lower half of your body to the bed. Clark holds your waist firm, not letting you feel an ounce of exertion.

You supposed it was worth it to overlook the embarrassment of having your ass up in the air. The bigger concern was him not having moved for a solid minute. Your cunt pulses at nothing in anticipation.

"Oh hell, Clark. What are you — hhrk!"

The feeling of wet, soft flesh wasn't something you anticipated. It wasn't like the consistency of lube, far cry from his fingers either — considering both of them rested on the globes of your ass.

You blink.

White hot flashes nearly blind you when Clark's entire mouth drags over your slick cunt, sluurping up your essence at one go.

There was no mistaking it now.

A torn whine leaves you, and he flattens his tongue against the puffy folds, continuing the greedy sucks that had you jerking your hips to his face.

You were horrified at the sudden, yet clit-pulsing foreign intrusion into your folds. But it turns to pleasure at the drop of the hat, the moment he probes into your velvety walls. Groaning low into your cunt, sending vibrations that damn near made you cum on his face right then.

"Oh — fuck! There. There. There."

Clark's smiling into your pussy, squeezing your cheeks apart to spread your heat, nudging his nose right where you kept trying to grind back into.

If he were able to talk, he would've surely praised you for telling him what you needed from him.

But Clark supposes too, while rubbing his hard on against the bed, that eating your pussy as he'd fantasised for months was munch much better trade.

[belleeebelleee]

based on this by @navluvr

work crush!jack abbot who is so attractively dominant, even in a nonsexual manner. who takes hold of a situation when he notices it’s slipping through your fingers, who sends you money for your pre-shift coffee run in the evenings despite your apparent protests, and always observes your person, desperate to learn your tells so he can act according to what you need. jack abbot who yearns so obviously everyone but you can see the care than man harbor’s for you.

Work crush Jack Abbott is dangerous in the quietest way.

Not loud. Not obvious.

But inevitable.

He doesn’t flirt the way other people do.

There’s no cheesy lines, no lingering touches that can be brushed off as accidents.

What he does instead?

He takes control.

And that’s worse.

It starts small.

You’re mid-shift, everything stacking up at once—too many patients, too many charts, your brain starting to lag just enough that you miss something you normally wouldn’t.

Jack notices.

Of course he does.

He’s been watching you all shift.

Learning you.

“You’re about to drop that case,” he says suddenly, appearing at your side.

You blink, startled. “What? No, I’ve got it—”

“You don’t,” he cuts in, calm but firm.

Not harsh.

Just… certain.

It stops you in your tracks.

He doesn’t take over completely.

That’s not his style.

Instead, he steps into your space just enough to steady things—redirecting, grounding, fixing the parts that are slipping while still letting you do the work.

“Start with the labs,” he murmurs, low enough only you hear. “You’re overthinking it.”

You exhale without meaning to.

Because he’s right.

He’s always right.

That’s his thing.

He doesn’t overpower.

He anchors.

And then there’s the coffee.

You complain about it every time.

“Jack, you don’t have to send me money,” you sigh, staring at your phone before a night shift. “I can buy my own coffee.”

His reply comes almost immediately.

Then buy it. Doesn’t mean I’m not sending it.

You roll your eyes.

You’re impossible.

A pause.

Then—

Drink it while it’s hot.

That’s it.

Conversation over.

Like it’s not even up for debate.

He never asks if you need something.

He just… knows.

Bad day?

There’s food waiting for you in the break room.

Didn’t sleep?

He’s handing you a coffee before you even ask.

You get quiet during a shift—too quiet—and suddenly he’s assigning you something manageable, something that forces you to breathe again without making it obvious why.

“Sit,” he tells you once, nodding toward a chair when he catches you swaying slightly after hours on your feet.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” he replies, already pulling the chair out.

You hesitate.

He raises an eyebrow.

That’s it.

That’s all it takes.

You sit.

It’s not controlling.

Not really.

Because he never takes your choice away.

He just… makes it very hard to choose anything other than what he knows you need.

And the worst part?

Everyone else sees it.

Dana corners you one day, watching as Jack passes by, dropping a protein bar onto your desk without even breaking stride.

“You know he’s obsessed with you, right?”

You scoff. “He’s like that with everyone.”

Dana just stares at you.

“No,” she says flatly. “He’s not.”

He isn’t.

Jack Abbott watches you like you’re something he’s trying to memorise.

The way your shoulders tense when you’re overwhelmed.

The way you go quiet instead of asking for help.

The exact tone your voice takes when you’re lying about being fine.

He catalogs it.

Stores it.

Acts on it.

Not because he has to.

Because he wants to.

And the thing is—

He’s not subtle about the wanting.

Not to anyone who’s paying attention.

The way his gaze lingers on you a second too long.

The way his voice shifts—just slightly—when he’s talking to you versus anyone else.

The way he steps in immediately when something threatens to overwhelm you, like it’s instinct.

He yearns.

Quietly.

Constantly.

Obviously.

Everyone sees it.

Everyone but you.

Because to you, he’s just—

Dr. Jack Abbott.

Demanding. Observant. A little too intense.

You don’t see the way his jaw tightens when you laugh with someone else.

Or the way he watches you leave at the end of a shift like he’s debating something he never quite acts on.

You don’t see it.

But he feels it.

All of it.

And one day—

He’s going to get tired of waiting for you to notice.

And when he does?

Jack Abbott isn’t the kind of man who does things halfway.

Not in the ER.

Not with you.

Not with anything he wants.

And he wants you.

[glamorizethechaos]

can we get a cute little fluff fic where reader does not work at ptmc but is dating jack :3 i keep thinking of the cutest scenario where she visits him at night!!

even better she’s pregnant and craving a certain food reallll bad and just has to go out and buy it but on the way she says hi to jack >.<

funny if when shes at ptmc everyone is like “everything okay with the baby?” and she’s like “yes, shes perfect just craving a kiss from papa”

:3 I’m in my requests era I have a writers block so everyone else will have my ideas

This is so sweet 🥲

Some notes: Water Ice is regional to the Philly area and it’s similar to Italian ice but better. Shit is FIRE. Mango and Cotton Candy are the best flavors I don’t make the rules!

Also when I was in the hospital after having my son, I ate so many graham crackers it was alarming. But they specifically had ones that were shaped like bugs, and they were GAS. Can you imagine my grown ass husband going to the nurses station at 3 am like “hi I’m sorry to bother you but my wife asked if she could possible have more graham crackers? but she asked for the ones that look like bugs”.

Graham crackers are like the only good thing about being in the hospital. I still think about those graham crackers.

Tw: pregnancy

You got up the umpteenth to pee as the result of taking a minuscule sip of water before bed. 36 weeks pregnant, feeling like a beached whale, feet looking like sausage casings, you absolutely could not wait for this to be over.

You laid back down and were reminded of the worst pregnancy symptom of all. Cravings. Each month bringing something new.

Month 1: Jack argued you technically aren’t even pregnant for the first 3 weeks, but you were convinced you needed Goldfish.

Month 2: Jack brought you home Goldfish as a surprise and you threw up and you cried. How absolute dare here. You had moved onto War Heads. Your taste buds had been burnt off by the end of week 8 but they were the only thing that took away the sensation you had been sucking on a penny.

Month 3: Jack asked if you wanted him to pick you up more War Heads and you almost put HIS head on a stake. You obviously wanted banana peppers. But they HAD to be from Subway. Which made so sense because you never once set foot in a Subway. Alas began month 3.

Month 4: Frosted Flakes. No milk.

Month 5: Baby carrots with ranch dressing. Had to be baby carrots. Jack came home with the wrong ones and had to go back to the store because you gagged at the thought of eating a normal sized carrot.

Month 6: you were about to buy a plane ticket to Vietnam to get some authentic Pho. At this point your bloodstream had turned into broth.

Month 7: during month 7 you and Jack had to go to Philly for a seminar at Penn Medicine. Well you didn’t have to go but he was too afraid to be that far away from you for a long weekend, so you cramped yourself into the car and endured the 6 hour car ride. Would have been 4 had it not been for the 50 bathroom breaks. ANYWAY, in the middle of a heat wave you found yourself sitting in your hotel room eating Cotton Candy water ice. Water Ice not being a thing back home, you somehow had convinced the supplier to overnight you 3 gallon tubs of Cotton Candy Water Ice on dry ice so it would be on your doorstep when you got home.

Month 8: Pierogis. Luckily you DID have those at home. You and Jack made it a mission to try and rank as many Pierogi joints around the city before you lost your appetite for them. The winner was Butterjoint.

Now it was Month 9, your sciatica was at its worst, acid reflux was going to come out your nose, and you REALLY wanted graham crackers. But it was 3 in the morning, where the hell were you getting graham crackers? You rolled over, you’d figure it out in the morning. Maybe Jack could bring some home.

Then you sat up quickly, not because your acid reflux was kicking your ass, no not that. Jack. He’d be the answer to your problem. You grabbed a hoodie and waddled to the car. October air was crisp in Pittsburgh and you wanted to kiss the ground having enduring your pregnancy in the middle of summer.

Pulling up the hospital you gave Ahmad a quick hello, he quickly grabbed a wheelchair but you waved him off.

“None of that, I’m okay.” You smiled before you got paged through to triage.

Ellis spotted you first, nudging Jack frantically who had his back towards you.

“Boss.”

When Jack spun his face fell, and he was making long strides towards you before he could even register he was moving. He cupped your face in his hands, looking you once over.

“Honey what’s wrong, why didn’t you call? Are you having pain? Sit down. Why the fuck didn’t Ahmad get you a wheelchair?” As he was guiding you to the closest open room, you realized how this looked.

You were blinded by your graham cracker craving that you didn’t think you’d possible give your husband a heart attack in the process.

“Jack, I’m okay.” You looked almost mortified. “I just—“

“What? What is it? Are you dizzy? Back pain?” He was rolling up your sleeve to get your blood pressure.

“I— I wanted some graham crackers.” You smiled weakly.

Jack was in the middle of squeezing the bulb when he froze.

“You wanna repeat that, honey?” He asking, taking the stethoscope out of his ears.

“Listen— baby. I realize now how bad this looks. But I really wanted graham crackers and well it’s 3:30 in the morning, all the stores are closed, but then I was thinking and well, at my last ultrasound appointment your daughter was taking a nap and they gave me some graham crackers and apple juice to get her moving again.”

“So you came to the hospital. At 3:30 am. To get graham crackers.”

“And see you?”

“Jesus Christ….” Jack hung his head low, rubbing his hands along his neck. His knees felt like jello, his heart was beating out of his chest, and his stomach was in knots. All because you wanted graham crackers.

“I mean, you knocked me up.”

Jacks looked up at you through his brow, his lips pressed together in a thin line. God he loved you.

Ellis pulled the curtain back, poking her head in.

“Need anything, Boss?”

“Can you fetch some graham crackers for my lovely wife.”

“And some apple juice.” You nudged his side.

“And some apple juice, if you bring back cranberry she might turn it into a projectile, so double check the label.”