seen from T1
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Australia
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from Japan
seen from United States
seen from Argentina
seen from Türkiye
seen from Mexico
seen from United States
One of the best things about being a writer is thinking of something small you can add to your work that’s just. Devastating. Like you’re sitting there going. Oh. That would be diabolical. People would get really riled up about that. Exquisite. Let’s do it.
I hate when I say things like "oh I want an ipod classic but with bluetooth so I can use wireless headphones" and some peanut comes in and replies with "so a smartphone with spotify?" No. I want a 160GB+ rectangular monstrosity where I can download every version of every song I want to it and it does nothing except play music and I don't need a data connection and don't have to pay a subscription to not have ads and don't have popups suggesting terrible AI playlists all over the menus.
Gimme the clicky wheel and song titles like "My Chemical Romance- The Black Parade- Blood (Bonus Track)- secret track- album rip- high quality"
*shane and ilya hugging, very early relationship days, prob at the cottage*
shane: squeeze me
ilya: what
shane: just. squeeze me. really tight.
ilya: *squeezes*
shane: tighter than that, come on
ilya: *squeezing a little harder* better?
shane: no. like. seriously, use all your strength.
ilya: i could hurt you, no?
shane: you won't, i promise. please just. tighter.
ilya: *squeezes shane as tight as he possibly can, grimacing a bit as he does it*
shane, groaning: thank fuck. do you have any idea how long i've waited to have someone strong enough to do this for me who isn't my dad
to me, there's an innate horror in tradwife content. it's always a pretty young girl in her late teens, early 20s. she's so young. she's basically a baby herself. maybe she's about your age. you just watch it happen. you can't save her.
either way, she always has at least three kids, sometimes more. you don't want to ask when she had them, but she had to have them young because her youngest had to have been born when she was at least seventeen based on how time works. you just watch it happen. you can't save her.
she's smiling but there's something missing in her eyes - a spark that should be there. there's no passion, there's just the movements of the day. sometimes she'll give an interview where she says she barely feels like getting out of bed, and other times she says nothing. you just watch it happen. you can't save her.
her world isn't real - it's neat kitchens and made from scratch cheese. she tells you how she doesn't need feminism because she likes this life, she likes wearing pretty dresses, don't you dare pity her. you just watch it happen. you can't save her.
you scroll up to an ex tradewife in her forties talking about how her husband divorced her and left her for a younger girl, leaving her destitute and penniless and twenty years out of the workforce. you scroll again to a pretty young girl saying she doesn't need a job, her husband will take care of her. you scroll again. you just watch it happen. you can't save her.
another woman, this time in her early thirties, talking about how she just managed to leave her abusive husband and has nothing and he took the kids, warning and pleading young girls to not fall for tradwife lies. you scroll again to a young tradwife girl saying that would never happen to her, and you're just jealous of her. you just watch it happen. you can't save her.
you scroll again. a teen girl tells you that she'll just track her period, she doesn't NEED a toxic chemical like birth control. you scroll again to an obgyn pleading with young girls to understand birth control is just hormonal, and that period tracking isn't effective. you just watch happen. you can't save her.
you scroll again, and it's jd vance saying how women belong in the homes and shouldn't be allowed to vote. that their husbands should decide how they should vote. you scroll again to a domestic abuse counselor telling women their vote is private and they can lie to their husbands. you just watch it happen. you can't save her.
she doesn't want you to save her. how dare you pity her. you just watch it happen. you can't save her. a horrible feeling washes over you. you just watch it happen.
BIG D!CK! Steve x reader
S5! Big Dick! Steve Harrington x reader WARNING: short one-shot, smut ahead! 18+ CONTENT, rough sex, praise kink, dirty talk, choking, unprotected sex, end of the world sex for Steve. Couldn't resist this. . .
The group had finally agreed to one full day to recover, breathe, nourish and basically pretend the world wasn’t ending tomorrow. Everyone filed out of the dusty WSQK radio station, Robin and Vickie lingering longest, trading shy smiles and quiet goodbyes before the door finally clicked shut behind them.
Steve couldn’t even wait another second.
He locked the door and he was on you in a heartbeat. Lips and teeth crashing against yours with a hunger that stole your breath, hands already tugging at clothes and hitting the floor one piece after another, scattering across the cluttered room.
You barely had time to gasp his name before he had you backed against the nearest wall, then down onto the worn sofa, his body a scorching weight over yours.
“Steve,” you moaned directly into his ear, the sound wet with desperation.
A guttural groan ripped from his chest and out of his throat in answer, vibrating against your skin. He attacked your neck like a man possessed. Teeth scraping, lips sucking, leaving dark, claiming marks across your throat, your collarbones, your chest.
No inch was left untouched. If tomorrow was his last day on earth, he’d find heaven in you. He wanted you painted in proof that you were his, so tomorrow, when everyone saw the bruises blooming on your skin, they’d know exactly who you belonged to.
His mouth found the sensitive spot just below your ear, voice dropping to that raspy low, wicked whisper that always unraveled you. “It’s alright, baby. You can take it, can’t you?”
Then he pushed in . . . slow, deliberate, letting you feel every thick inch of him stretching you open. Your eyes slammed shut, a sharp cry catching in your throat as the truth of Robin’s earlier joke hit you all over again.
That damn meeting. Robin had tossed it out so casually. Something about Steve having a “big dick,” and “. . .going in anyways,” after something Dustin had said. Yes. It was ridiculously well-endowed you thought . . . But it was meant as a teasing jab at him.
Everyone went back to the matter at hand quickly. But Steve played it off with an eye-roll and a sarcastic quip. But you saw it. The way his jaw tightened. The way his gaze snapped to you across the room, dark and utterly focused on your form.
You’d given him that look right back . . . head tilted just so, a sly, knowing smirk curling your lips. You knew his secrets. Knew his kinks well. You knew exactly how much he loved hearing it, how it lit a fire in him that only you could feed.
His hands had clenched hard. One on the edge of his seat, the other fisted on his thigh, as he held your stare for one long, lingering moment before forcing his attention back to the group. That look had promised one thing. You were in for it later.
And now “later” was here. He had you pinned beneath him, one strong hand collaring your throat with just enough pressure to make your pulse race, the other gripping your hip like he’d never let go while circling his thumb in that one place.
His eyes were locked on where your bodies joined, watching himself sink deeper into your heat before he finally snapped, hips driving forward, fucking you hard and relentless into the cushions.
"Fuck." He hisses, head throwing back.
Every thrust was possessive, punishing, perfect. He wasn’t just taking you, he was claiming you, burning away the tension from the day, the fear of tomorrow, until there was nothing left but the two of you and the desperate, heated proof that you were undeniably, completely his. He saw heaven in you.
Robert's a 𝓶𝓾𝓷𝓬𝓱
A/N: The engagement from the last piece was very motivating. So basically, this is y'alls fault. Enjoy the debauchery! Also, I made a banner. Go me, teehee (ﾉ≧ڡ≦).
I guess this is my first truly detailed smut writing. As always, engagement is appreciated. Reblogs, notes, and likes are great. Check out my other work here. Check out my short Robert Fic too. There's also a pt.2 and pt.3. Requests are open lovelies. Got a fresh ko-fi as well.
Warnings: MDNI. Smut. Female reader. AFAB reader. Cunnilingus. Referring to female genitals as she. Pet names. Filth under the cut.
-He’s a lazy munch. But hell, he’s fucking persistent. Honestly, this man will stick his face between your thighs for shits and giggles. Only instead of giggles it’s the sound of his tongue lapping you up for fucking hours.
-He’s not super vocal when he’s going down on you, but fuck the man eats and drinks your shit up like its a meal in itself. It takes all of 15 minutes for him to get pussydrunk, after that is where he’s probably the most audible. The man grunts and hums, you swear he probably forgets you’re there half the time.
-The man has gotten it down to a science. He’s an active observer; it's in his nature to notice things especially pertaining to you. The way his spit mixes with your slick and runs down his chin like syrup is addictive. He’s filthy about it but unashamed about how diligently he eats.
-And filthy means filthy because the few times that man does speak is at it, your sodden cunt that is.
-”Look at her, she’s ready for it, huh?” He’d mutter before sliding his tongue up and down those puffy lips.
-”Fuck, I didn’t even start, babe. She’s drooling down here.” He’d be briefly amused before pushing his face into your pussy. His nose nudging your clit, his tongue shoving itself in and out of your hole.
-He’s done it so much he’s got different modalities depending on his mood. Your favorite is when he’s got your pussy in a mating press, calves resting on his shoulders while he’s holding up your ass. The face down ass up is a classic second.
-Carpet burn. He doesn’t clean shave. But that’s on purpose, because the fucker knows when his stuble bullies your folds while he’s munching your clit, you make puddles. So you can’t complain too much.
-He’s a lazy munch because there is no urgency. He doesn’t let up. That’s why you think he’s deadass using it as a meal substitute. Because only after hours and hours worth of grool and spit has coated your thighs, cunt, and his face.
-Only after, you know the mattress is fucking ruined because the puddles soaked through the towel and the sheet, is when he’ll finally pull back. But no problem, he wants you to sit on his face anyway.
— i promise none of this is a metaphor | clark kent
+ clark kent x f!reader
summary: tired of waiting for clark kent to tell you he likes you too, you invite him over to help with your new apartment— and seduce him with your tiny clothes and blatant flirting. it's a desperate, final attempt to force a confession out of the shy, beautiful man you're totally not in love with. the problem? clark kent is many great things, but he is also very oblivious.
tags: SEXUAL TENSION FINAL BOSS, clark is oblivious (but not stupid), major clark kent simping, reader is a FREAK™ and super super horny, banter, getting-together, SMUT SMUT SMUT (18+ DNI), shower sex, p in v sex, fingering, all the works
notes: this is loosely based on a request by anon who wanted something with oblivious!clark, inspired by "house tour" by sabrina carpenter. see if you can spot all the references and can you tell ya girl was ovulating when she wrote this
This has to be the best bad idea you’ve had in a while.
Is it completely delusional? Probably.
Is that going to stop you from seeing it through? Absolutely not.
Clark is at the door; hair messier than usual, a white t-shirt delightfully clinging to every cut and crease, and a bag slung over his shoulder. His glasses rest on the bridge of his perfect nose, hiding his brilliant blue eyes as usual.
“I’m here,” he declares, a little throatily, and you suppress a smile.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” you reply, letting your gaze linger on the fit of the t-shirt before flashing him a cheeky grin.
You watch his eyes quickly skim your body, taking in the clothes you’d specifically planned— a crop top that confidently shows off your midriff and a pink and brown checkered skirt.
“Sorry for being late,” he says sheepishly, a blush beginning to creep up his neck. He lifts his hands, showing you a brown paper bag in one and a fresh bouquet in the other.
“Had to take a detour for these,” he says, holding the flowers out.
You gasp, reaching for the bouquet. Ever the gentleman. Of course he bought food and flowers.
“White roses? How did you know I like these?” You bury your face in the bouquet, sighing deeply at the familiar fragrance. A fragrance that transports you to a field of the same flowers, where Clark has you in his arms, lips attached to your neck—
“You mentioned it once, I think,” he says, his apology pulling you out of your momentary reverie. “And it was the safest bet.”
He remembers your favorite flowers from one throwaway comment. You practically melt right then and there.
“Always the sweetest,” you murmur, then shake yourself. “And shit, I’m an idiot. Please, come in.” You pull him gently by the arm, closing the door behind him.
“Ta-da,” you announce, gesturing towards the chaos. “Welcome to my humble abode. Please make yourself at home!”
Clark grins, his eyes taking in the room. Right now, it’s an organised mess; unpacking boxes stacked against the walls, most of which are haphazardly draped with a few white moving sheets. Your comfy sofa and bed are the only things fully assembled.
“It looks… cozy,” he says, making you laugh, the blush on his neck deepening as he avoids looking at the pile of forgotten laundry near the bedroom door.
“You, Mr. Kent, are far too kind,” you quip as he chuckles.
“Water?” you ask, as he sits himself down onto your sofa. He nods politely.
“It’s not very ventilated, but the rent is low,” you shrug, handing him a glass of water. You watch as he tips the glass further and further, his throat bobbing up and down and god, you’re already tingling all over.
“That’s Metropolis for you,” he says, half pouting. He's an adorable puppy in big man muscles, and you can't help but want to kiss that pout off his pretty face.
"Hey, thank you for offering to help me with my new apartment by the way. You're my hero,” you coo, playfully patting at his arm.
He gives your knee a nudge with his.
"Oh, it's no problem at all," he says, a blush tinting his cheeks. "You know you can count on me."
And you know he means it. Sweet, simple, kind Clark is always there for everyone.
Is always there for you.
You know he likes you. Wants you. You've noticed the lingering stares, the excuses to press his hand against your back, the quiet smiles that say everything. And if Jimmy's words are to be believed, Clark Kent has a crush on you that's anything but small. He wants you, just as much as you want him, but ‘he’s too pussy to say it’— in Jimmy’s own words.
So you've tried upping your game— flirting with him, dropping hints at work, going on walks with just him, begging to be partnered with him for assignments… but you've been failing. Spectacularly.
In fact, you're beginning to think Clark Kent might take this secret to his grave.
While this has been unfolding, your want for him has only grown and taken deeper roots. Every glance, every accidental touch, every rumble of his voice has wound you tighter, and now, it is no longer a want, but a need— urgent and all consuming. So urgent, that seeing him in a white t-shirt alone has your head spinning.
So earlier today, when an opportunity had presented itself, you could not help but take a last Hail Mary.
“You er… wanna get started with the work?” he asks after a beat, and you shake yourself from your thoughts. You spring up, pulling his hand up behind you and leading him to your kitchen.
“Let’s get that shelf installed first, yeah?”
The kitchen’s a tight space and Clark has to squeeze himself in next to you by the counter— his hips accidentally grazing your side. Every time. Every time you forget how much bigger he is than you, and every time your heart skips a beat.
“This wall here is where I’m thinking the shelf should go," you say breathily, gesturing to the unpacked pieces of the shelf from IKEA you've placed against a wall that’s inline with the countertop.
He crouches down then, letting his bag fall to the floor. He slightly pulls up his slacks as he does so and you don't mean to look, but if your eyes choose to follow the curve of his butt then is it really your fault?
The sound of unzipping takes you out of the haze and you kneel opposite him, as he opens his toolbox, pretending to look at the tools but really eyeing how huge his hands are compared to the screwdriver.
“Those look… intimidating,” you murmur.
Clark glances at you, then back at the drill he's pulled out. “These are not too complicated. I could show you how to use them sometime, if you want. Maybe, after I’m done fixing these bad boys up,” he says, tapping the shelf pieces with his fingers.
You grin, leaning in a little too close and letting your voice drop. “Oh, I’d love to get a feel of those things."
“Good! It’s always useful to know your way around tools," he agrees, completely straight-faced and proceeds to pull out the power cord.
You blink, not sure how to respond to that. He then takes out a tape measure, and a couple more tools you have never seen before.
Well, Mr. Handyman does not seem to be in the mood for flirting, you think and stand back up. Only, Clark glances up just then, eyes trailing up the expanse of your smooth, exposed legs and stopping timidly at the hem of your skirt.
His cheeks burn bright pink and you have to suppress a smirk.
“So, how’d you learn this stuff?” you ask, sparing him the embarrassment and leaning back against the counter.
You watch him pocket a hammer and a screwdriver, then put a pen behind his ear.
How can everything he does look so attractive?
“Grew up on a farm, remember?” he replies, piling the shelf pieces onto the counter that you’ve covered with old sheets and paper. “Paa taught me stuff, and I’ve been doing any and all repairs at our house since I was sixteen.”
He then stretches to measure the space for the shelf, pulling one end of the tape measure with his other hand— and his shirt rides up just enough to flash a line of skin at his waist. The weight of the hammer and screwdriver is already pulling his jeans low, giving you a peek of the band of his underwear, a small trail of dark disappearing in the middle.
You nearly choke on your own tongue.
“You, uh… sure you don’t need help with that?”
He glances at you, smiling kindly. “Oh—no, I’ve got it. Tall guy perks.”
“Yeah. Very… tall perks,” you muster, eyes fogging.
Clark chuckles, still focused on the wall, eyebrows knitted with concentration.
You would climb that man so fast, if he only asked you.
Instead, you watch as he quickly pens a couple measurements on his hand. He moves to measure some of the pieces, eyebrows furrowed as he spins numbers in his head.
This whole tough-handyman look is really getting you going.
“Clark,” you say before you can stop yourself.
“Hmm?” he looks up, the damned pen clutched between the bows of his perfect lips.
“As much as I’d love to ogle you while you work, give me something to do, eh?”
It’s direct, even for you, and you notice that he freezes momentarily.
“Yea — er," he says, composing himself but the pink creeping up his ears betrays him, “—you can hold up this bottom plank while I nail it to the wall.”
Please, nail me to the wall. You snort at your own internal thoughts and Clark spares you a brief, quizzical look before resuming his work.
You work in easy silence for a while after that, somehow managing to move around each other in the narrow kitchen like it is second nature. Except for the time he sets your entire being on fire by steadying you by your waist while you fix the top-most plank.
“All done!” you say, admiring your handiwork from on top of the stool.
“Looks perfect," Clark hums in agreement. “Good job, hon’.”
Clark calls everyone honey. Okay, not everyone. Only you and his great grandmother, but that's not really a good sign. You beam at him nonetheless and he smiles back, all generous dimples and flashing teeth.
“C’mon,” he says softly, fingers coming to rest at your waist as he helps you down. Not ‘helps’ you down, more… lifts you up from the stool and sets you onto the floor. You land close enough that the space between is suddenly thin and humming; his fingers soft and warm against your bare skin. He accidentally drags them up an inch and heat erupts somewhere deep and low in your belly. You are aware of how close he is; his breath fanning against your cheek, gentle and impossibly warm.
You keep telling yourself you’re the one trying to rattle him, to make him crack first. But every time he touches you, every look that lingers too long — it’s you who ends up breathless, undone by the very game you started.
He's looking so deeply into your eyes, you fear you might collapse in his arms if you don't look away. But you try to lean closer. He lets go just then— perfect timing— leaving your waist feeling too cold, too bare suddenly.
“Did you… just… lift me up from the stool like it was nothing?” you ask, clearing your throat.
He rubs the back of his neck, a sheepish but proud grin dimpling his cheek. “I forget to limit my abilities sometimes.”
“Mhm. How tragic, being so strong,” you step away from him, all too aware that he's watching you as you bend over and put his tools back in their case. You grab the rag from the workbench, wiping off some of the dust on your fingers.
“Come on, hero. You’ve earned a break.”
You bite into one half of the giant sandwich he’s bought the two of you and a bottle of pineapple juice to share. The silence that settles between you is comfortable at first— then just a little too aware.
“This tastes fucking amazing,” you moan, really digging into the sandwich.
He laughs, something warm glinting in his eyes when they settle on you. He's taken off his glasses and his eyes look even more oceanic without them.
“I knew you’d like them.”
“Jesus, Clark,” you say, only now noticing the wrapping paper. He looks up at you quizzically, mouth full.
“These are almost too neat to eat,” you gesture at the tidy folds of paper that hold the sandwich in perfectly, safe from spilling. “You wrap all your food like government files?”
He chuckles. “Force of habit.”
You take another bite, watching him from the corner of your eye. He eats the way he does everything else, methodical and deliberate.
“You really don’t know how good you are at this, do you?”
Clark frowns. “Good at what?”
You gesture wildly. “At everything. You’re too perfect, Smallville."
And you mean it. A blush creeps up his cheeks and he smiles, sheepish. “Is that a bad thing?” he muses.
“It’s suspicious.”
“Suspicious?” the corners of his lips curl. “Because I can fold wrapping paper?”
“Because you look like you enjoy folding wrapping paper.”
He laughs softly — that deep, rich sound that settles over you like a weighted blanket. And for a heartbeat, all the tension slips away. You know you’re playing a dangerous game; wanting him is one thing, but realizing how much you’ve already fallen for him is another entirely.
“So,” he says between bites, “what’s next on your list? Paint?”
“Walls in my bedroom, yeah.”
“Should take us the evening to get that done,” he notes, checking his watch.
“Lucky me,” you say, tonguing your cheek, “More time with the handyman.”
He glances up, hopefully startled by the teasing edge in your voice. You just smile innocently and sip your juice.
Once you're finished, you let out a big sigh. Clark being able to cook just makes him all the more perfect. And you, all the more needy for him.
“C’mon,” you say, dusting off your fingers and standing up. “We’ve got a lot of work to do — just, let me change first quickly.”
You're getting desperate. Clark really doesn't seem to be responding to anything you're putting down. But he's here, in your apartment and if flashing the words in his face is what it takes, then you will not back down.
You change into the tiniest shorts you own and a really low cut top from college that's been rotting away in the back of your closet. It's even smaller on you now and leaves very, very little to imagination.
All’s fair in love and war.
“Ready!” you announce, walking back to the drawing room.
Clark glances up, does a double take and goes slack-jawed instantly.
You notice he's already cleaned the crumbs off the sofa and packed the trash into a neat bag.
“You're…going to be wearing that? While we paint?
“It's the oldest thing I own. I don't want paint getting on my good clothes, do I?” you ask innocently.
His cheeks flush crimson and you feel bad for him, you really do.
But not as much as you feel bad for yourself.
“Yeah,” he agrees, voice strained, as he follows you to the bedroom. “Good point.”
You haven't unpacked anything in the bedroom yet, except for a nice fitted sheet and duvet to sleep on, while you slowly sort things out.
The paint buckets are already there, the tarp laid out— along with a ladder and a couple of brushes and rollers.
You both set to work, Clark kneeling to peel the tops off the buckets, while you decide to free the wall of settled dust.
You move past him to grab a rag, close enough that your chest brushes against his bicep. The contact is brief, but warm, and it sends an unexpected shiver through you.
“Careful,” he murmurs, glancing up at you. “You almost made me spill the paint.”
You smile, a little crooked. “Guess I should stay close— make sure you don’t.”
Clark blinks up at you, and then goes back to the paint bucket.
Okay. He's definitely ignoring you on purpose. You take a deep breath and focus on cleaning the wall, not noticing his gaze flicker your way again.
The smell of fresh paint has filled the room, sweet and a little dizzying. Clark stands near the wall, roller in hand. A streak of pale blue paint runs across his forearm where he’d wiped his wrist without thinking.
“You missed a spot,” you say, pointing.
He squints at the wall, scratching the trip of his nose with the back of his wrist adorably. “Where?”
You step forward and tap a tiny section with the tip of your brush. “Right here. Honestly, for someone with x-ray vision, you have terrible eyesight.”
He laughs softly. “I have glasses, remember?”
You give him a pointed look and he laughs again, biting his lip.
Another hour goes by; your steps around each other and the wet wall an unspoken, intimate dance. You are so deeply in sync with his natural rhythm, it's nerve-wracking.
He leans across your space to grab the empty paint tray just then, his movement pulling his chest taut against your shoulder. You hold still, allowing the brush of cotton against your skin. For one long second, he freezes, inhaling sharply. He clears his throat and takes a careful half-step back, unnecessarily adjusting the handle of his roller.
You dip your roller into the paint, the movement slow and careful, and glance over at Clark. He is laser focused, running a careful brushstroke along the edge of the doorframe, absolutely committed to his perfect straight line.
“If you treat a wall with such care…” you comment, your voice casual as you roll a long stripe of paint up the drywall next to him. You make sure the stripe overlaps his perfect boundary by a fraction. “I wonder how you treat your girlfriends.”
Clark’s eyes flicker down to the slightly imperfect, overlapping line your roller just laid down. He finally stops painting. He doesn't look up yet, but the corner of his mouth twitches into the ghost of a smile, slightest pink hinting at his cheeks.
“I’d like to think I’m more careful with people than I am with drywall,” he replies, his voice low and sincere, finally meeting your eyes.
“Especially when I know the surface is delicate.”
You have to bite down your tongue to keep from smiling.
This. This is what you wanted.
You take a step closer to the wall, maneuvering your body so that you are nearly touching his side, forcing him to shift his weight to maintain the distance. You watch the pulse beat quickly in his neck just above the collar of his t-shirt, and consequently can't help but admire the way his muscles ripple under the tight bands of his sleeves.
Oh, you'd do anything to see him out of that tee.
You lean in just slightly, your voice dropping to a near-whisper that only he can hear.
“Then maybe you can show me how you use your tools?”
Color immediately floods Clark's face, rising from his neck up to the tips of his ears. His breath catches, and he stands there in all his six foot glory, as flustered as a farm boy.
He clears his throat again, a strained sound, and stares intently at a spot just over your head, completely speechless.
“You missed another spot by the way,” you add, voice cutting through the warm air.
“Where now?” he sputters, a shadow of annoyance on his face that quickly dissolves into amusement.
You don't answer. You simply level your gaze at him, biting your lip, the mischief in your eyes a clear warning. Before he can anticipate the movement, you flick your wrist and draw a cold, sticky trail of blue paint right across the apples of his cheeks, mimicking a war stripe.
“There. Fixed it for ya.”
He blinks once, the surprise catching him mid-breath. The stripe is uneven and thick and frames his eyes well. He lifts a hand, touching the sudden coolness of the paint on his skin, a slow, predatory smile curling his lips.
“You didn’t just do that,” he murmurs, the low temper in his voice sending heat blossoming over your body.
You laugh and dip the brush into paint again, ready for your next attack. "I absolutely did."
That is his cue. He pounces; the sudden, fierce energy of his movement sending the paint bucket beside him slightly rocking. You don't know when he gets his hands on the paint, but he grabs you and smears the blue pigment up your forearms, your knuckles, and finally, right across your own grinning face, leaving you gobsmacked. Everywhere he touches, your skin erupts on fire.
He'd grabbed a handful of liquid paint, that now drips down your face and over your top, seeping into uncomfortable places.
You start to move again, hell-bent on getting back at him but he moves in close.
“Wait!” he yells, in a voice that's more Superman than Clark. The word is sharp, an actual command cutting through the giggling anarchy of the paint fight.
You freeze. Before you can process the sudden shift in tone, he moves. In one swift, captivating motion, his fingers hook the hem of his t-shirt, and he rips the fabric up and over his head. The rough cotton catches on his ears for a brief second before the shirt is tossed aside, landing in a soft heap outside the room.
His chest is bare. Broad, sculpted, and heaving. It's heaving and you're mesmerized. The sight stops your heart and sends a sudden, sharp heat lurching into your stomach.
You drag in a ragged breath, the oxygen doing nothing to cool the sudden fire in your cheeks.
“Absolutely fucking not,” you manage, the denial tearing out of you as your chest heaves, eyes desperately trying to fixate on anything but the man standing before you.
Clark blinks slowly, a picture of faux innocence, the smear of paint still framing his devastating blue eyes. “What?” he asks, the question quiet but genuine.
Now, at this point, you genuinely can’t tell if Clark is truly that oblivious, or if he’s enjoying watching you squirm.
“You can’t be shirtless, Clark!”
“Why?
You swear he takes a measured step closer.
He tilts his head ever so slightly, a small, innocent motion that holds the weight of a thousand calculated intentions.
“I don't want paint getting on my good clothes, do I?”
Your heart plummets to your stomach. You realize, with a dizzying rush, that you’re not the only one playing this dangerous, seductive game. You have been so focused on setting the pace, that you never saw it coming. Never anticipated your opponent pulling the absolute winning move.
You let the brush fall from your fingers and hit the floor with a soft clatter.
“It’s too distracting,” you whisper, your voice barely audible as Clark takes another step closer, nostrils flaring.
“You’re dangerously distracting.”
He's impossibly close now, warm breath fanning over your hot cheek. You breathe in his intoxicating scent, knowing he can hear your heart pound wildly inside your ribcage— sense heat pool in all the right places. You watch as his gaze drops from your eyes to your lips and back up, and the ground slips from underneath your feet.
He is on you an instant later, his mouth crushing down on yours with a force that backs you against the nearest wall, but not before he cups your head and back with his large hands, softening the blow.
Of course, Clark would never let anything hurt you and your entire body instantly sags against his.
The kiss is impossible. It’s hungry and fervent, yet gentle and dizzying. His bare chest is warm, pressed flush against yours, stealing your breath and replacing it with a famishing heat. You feel the heavy thud of his heart against your ribs— or maybe that is just your own— and wrap your arms tightly around his neck, pulling him closer, desperate to anchor yourself against the sudden, overwhelming sensation.
“Clark,” you moan-whisper into his mouth, feeling light-headed.
You've been dreaming about this very moment for a while now and you can hardly believe that you’re living it.
The world narrows to the sound of his breathing, the slick friction of his bare skin on yours, and the soft pressure of his lips.
"You started this," he mutters against your mouth, the words thick with accusation and desire. His hands, so annoyingly, so wonderfully large, slide down your back slowly, finding the curve of your ass that's barely covered by your flimsy shorts.
You can't speak, only whimper as he lifts you slightly, pressing you more firmly against the cool surface of the wall. This isn't a game anymore. Now, you are simply reacting to him— to the solid weight of his body, the intoxicating smell of him, and the impossibly gentle force of his kiss.
When you come up for air, when your feet finally feel like they're touching ground, you're still not sure what happened.
Clark's forehead rests against yours, those damned dimples eclipsing everything around you. You feel a little delirious, from how his lips and hands felt on you.
“You wouldn't just come out and say it,” you blurt, taking a sweeping glance at his lips again.
“Hmm?” Clark hums, straightening up, but not letting go of his arms wrapped around your waist.
“I had to play this game,” you say slowly, addressing his accusation,”because you couldn't just be a big boy and say it.”
Clark’s mouth splits into a smile and he leans in again, pressing another long, gentle kiss into your mouth.
“I needed to be sure you felt the same,” he murmurs into your mouth, moving to litter kisses along your jaw and your eyes flutter shut again, heat flaring across your body once more.
His hands frame your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones before they glide down to the dip in your collarbones. He doesn't need his super strength to make you feel utterly weightless. He shifts, pulling your hips closer until you are flush against his solid frame— a press of heat and muscle that steals the oxygen from your lungs. He leans in again, this time brushing his long, pretty nose against yours and taking a deep breath. The air crackles with unspoken need. He pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, his expression a plea that tugs at something in your abdomen. Then his lips return, exploring every curve of your mouth as if committing it to memory. He pulls your arms closer around his neck, and you cling to him, the room fading to a blur.
“Clark, wait,” you muster breathily, even though you don't want him to stop. But he responds immediately, pulling back to look at you, eyebrows knitted. His pupils are dilated wide enough to hide the blue of his eyes. The souvenir from your earlier ambush is caked on his cheekbone, but the look on his face is anything but playful. It’s raw, heavy, and hungry.
“We're filthy,” you manage against his hungry state, stroking his paint-streaked cheek.
His hands slide down your arms, thumbs tracing the lines of paint on your skin.
"You're right. This... this is starting to get cold,” he refers to the paint, but his gaze is fixed on your lips, the words meaning something entirely different.
Without another word, he gently takes your hand, tugging you away from the cool wall. There's an electric, fumbling urgency in the way you move together, stumbling over an overturned tarp and a can of spilled blue paint.
He leads you straight toward the small door of your bathroom. Once inside, he doesn't pause to turn on the light, letting the dim, early evening light spill in from the window. He doesn't even pause to turn on the shower.
Instead, his hands go straight to the hem of your paint-streaked shirt, now clinging to your body like second skin, stopping briefly to ask you wordlessly…"May I?"
You meet him halfway, your fingers clumsy on the button of his jeans and feel him freeze momentarily under your touch. He steps out of his jeans, as you help him pull them down; his half hard length pressing deliciously against his black boxers and you almost drool at the sight.
He helps you out of your much too small top, and you feel the cool air singe your bare chest. When Clark sees the dripping paint that had gotten on your breasts, he lets out a quiet, appreciative groan.
“So beautiful,” he whispers, and you feel your cheeks heat.
His eyes are a dark, dark blue and you can feel the skin burn along the path he visually traces from the curves of your breasts to your shorts.
"Definitely needs cleaning," he whispers, leaning in to place a deep, slow kiss to your parched lips again. His hands cup and knead your breasts, and you moan into his mouth, so ready for him to take you.
But then he lets go, finally reaching for the shower knob, turning it to the hottest setting. The space instantly begins to fog, creating a steamy, intimate cocoon just for the two of you. He steps back, his eyes locked on yours; expression a silent question and a definite promise.
You put on a little show for him, wiggling your hips and slowly shimmying out of your shorts. You let your hands drag from your breast and down to your thighs.
He groans, entranced as you become bare in front of him and his eyes glaze over.
The water hits your already burning skin and sizzles, but feels good as the ache of hours of work oozes out of your being. Clark steps in after you, still clad in his tight boxers; the water instantly wetting his curls, making them cling to his forehead and you let out an involuntary laugh.
You brush his hair up, as he watches you with a dimpled smile and somehow the moment feels even more intimate than being completely bare before him.
He reaches for the soap then and begins to lather his hands. An adorable hesitation clings to his touch, his palms settling shyly at the curve of your waist, circling just above your navel, a boundary he seems hesitant to cross.
You turn slowly, your back now pressing against the solid expanse of his chest. He closes the distance, pulling you flush against him, his skin slick and hot against your own. His hands finally roam, one tracing a scorching path from your shoulder, across your collarbone, and then downwards; the other thumb brushing the sensitive peak of your nipple. An involuntary whimper escapes your throat as Clark presses a kiss behind your ear.
He takes your paint-stained hands, working the soap into the creases and scrubbing away the stubborn pigment, his movements suddenly purposeful and tender. He then moves on to your chest— his long, thick fingers washing the remaining paint from the delicate skin of your breasts. All the while, his lips press a series of gentle kisses along the damp curve of your neck and you can barely control the gasps escaping you.
The water streams down, taking the last of the day's exhaustion with it, leaving only the warmth of his body. The paint and soap is mostly off of you now, but Clark continues to slowly stroke you with shy abandon as you both enjoy each other's bracelet in the steaming shower. His gorgeous hands once more make his way to your navel and— stop.
“Clark,” you whisper, letting your hands go back and around his neck. “Touch me.”
He doesn't need to be told twice.
His hands slide further down to your folds, slow and drawn out, as if still hesitant. When his long fingers finally make contact, your eyes flutter shut, heat erupting somewhere deep within your being.
Two of his fingers gently sweep your swollen folds aside, creating a clear path and the third slowly rubs the small bundle of nerves in a rhythm so perfect and intuitive like he's been working you for years. With every circular motion, you are hit with something magical, sending your senses spinning.
You can feel his chest heave against your back, low grunts and groans sounding close to your ear as he relentlessly continues his work. His fingers are pure magic; building that wonderful pressure inside you.
The warm shower only helps as you find yourself getting closer and closer to your peak.
You can feel your arousal pool against his movements, the sensation driving you insane. Clark’s embrace tightens around you, his attention only drawing sharper with each movement. He shifts, collecting your leaking arousal, and gently nudges one finger past your entrance.
You inhale sharply as your walls immediately tighten and clench around him. His lips latch to your neck, sucking hard, while his other, free hand kneads your left breast.
He barely gives you enough time to adjust to his relentless worship before he pushes another finger in. The slick, tight pressure is breathtaking, but before you can process it, he withdraws his finger and replaces it with the firm pressure of his thumb. That, added with the warm pressure of the shower at this angle is enough to send your head spinning.
You can barely contain yourself— moaning so loud that the sound probably carries over to your neighbours.
He continues to rub you in agonisingly quick paced circles and a few seconds into the motions, you come undone. Your body seizes, arching back into Clark as he slows to a stop. Another cry, this one a breathy shout of his name, escapes your lips.
You are left clinging to him, utterly spent, your breath coming in shallow gasps. The residual tremors make your legs feel like water, and without Clark's solid grip around your waist, you would have collapsed onto the tile.
Clark buries his face deeper into the soaking curve of your neck, his breath hot and uneven against your skin. His low groan of satisfaction vibrates wonderfully against your ear and chest, a sound far more intimate than any words. He slowly, gently pulls out his fingers, which are now shaking slightly, slick with your cum and you barely register him licking his fingers clean.
He presses a series of hungry, possessive kisses along your shoulder, his voice a thick, low rumble near your ear. "Good, that's it," he whispers proudly.
“I always wondered what you sounded like.”
Your dizzied state leaves you with no energy to come up with a coherent response to something like that; only imagining the possibility of Clark dreaming about taking you and making you scream like this.
Besides, the more pressing reality is his erection, now pressing against your lower back and you are desperate to do something about it.
“Fuck, Clark,” you whine, voice ragged with need. You let your fingers find him through his thin, wet boxers, palming his length underneath, the warm shower on your back searing your already blazing body.
“I need you,” you moan, as he cups and squeezes your ass again, pulling you close against his front.
“Not here,” he whispers throatily, voice tight with restraint.
Clark shuts off the shower, the sudden quiet of the small stall feeling immense. He carefully shifts, stepping out first, then gently pulling you out and pressing you against him, letting the excess water cascade off your bodies.
He reaches for the towel, wrapping it around you both, securing you close against himself. He doesn't even bother drying you both— the sudden chill of the bathroom air is quickly replaced by the heat of his skin beneath the cotton.
His eyes meet yours, dark and burning with an intent that makes your stomach flip. Without a word, he scoops you up into his arms, your legs wrapping naturally around his waist, his face pressing into the valley between your breasts.
He carries you through the bathroom and out into the air, leaving a trail of damp footprints on the tarp. Your head rests on top of his as he moves back towards the bed, an eagerness in his step.
He pulls away the tarp from one side of the bed, and sets you down gently on the warm duvet— the only thing you've unpacked here. You're briefly wary of making everything wet, but then Clark kisses your left breast and every thought vacates your mind.
He lets the towel fall away, the last barrier disappearing somewhere on the floor. His gaze locks onto you, sweeping over your body with unbridled desire. You roll backwards, dragging your body up to the headboard, as he follows you and climbs over you, his weight pressing you deliciously into the mattress.
You feel the heat of him through his boxers, pressing against your stomach. You hook your thumbs in to slide his boxers down as Clark briefly lifts his hips up for easy access. When his cock springs into view, your breath hitches; even half-soft, he is heavy and impressive. You would be lying if you say you imagined anything less. Your hand wraps around him instantly, feeling heat radiating off of him.
Clark lets out a ragged groan as you slowly stroke him, expanding and hardening almost instantaneously under your touch. You let your fingers memorise every nerve, every curve and the different shades of his beautiful cock.
“Okay, okay... I'm ready, I think,” he gasps, his control slipping.
“Stop,” he pleads, pulling away from your hand, much to your temporary dismay.
“Anymore and I’m going to lose it, sweetheart.”
You have to suppress a smile, letting your head fall onto the pillow as he climbs over you once more— then pauses, hovering. "Wait," he murmurs, his eyes searching yours, a flicker of concern clouding his features. "We need to—"
"I'm on the pill," you interrupt, hands urgently gripping his shoulders.
Clark freezes, a singular eyebrow quirking up. A slow smile spreads across his face. "The pill?" he echoes. "You were planning on getting lucky tonight?”
“I've waxed myself head to toe, Clark. What do you think?” you muse and Clark laughs, a brief chuckle reverberating through his skin to yours.
He doesn't hesitate again. Bracing one hand on the side of your head, the other gripping his cock, his eyes locked on yours, he pushes forward. With one powerful, swinging thrust of his hips, he buries himself deep inside you. A long, drawn-out moan leaves your lips as you feel yourself stretch and fill completely with his warmth, the sweet sweet sense of satisfaction blossoming over your being.
“You okay there, sweetheart?”
His voice is thick and tender, the primal aggression momentarily replaced by sweet concern.
He's a sight to behold above you, his muscles taut and glistening in the dim light pouring in through the window; bright blue eyes almost black as he begins to pump into you. The rhythm starts slowly, deliberately. He draws his cock out with painful slowness, until his tip slides right to the very edges of your entrance, and then drives it back in, burying himself completely again, dragging out the pleasure.
You are flying.
“You’re so tight,” he rasps, his voice low, barely making it past his throat.
"So gorgeous."
Your hands reach up to him and thread his hair, pulling him in for a searing kiss. In between kisses, he withdraws again until you cry out in protest, his hips rocking back just far enough to scrape your sensitive core, before he drives back in with an agonizing force, filling you to the very brim.
He moves his lips to your neck, peppering wet kisses along your jawline. His journey stops at the nape of your neck, deciding to settle there and suck hard— all teeth and no mercy, leaving a purple and bruised mark in his wake.
His rhythm starts to deepen meanwhile, the strokes becoming more assured, sinking farther and farther. The bed creaks softly beneath you, the only sound apart from your sharp inhalations and his increasingly ragged breaths. The memory of the shower instantly burns away by the raw heat building here, now, underneath the weight of his magnificent body.
His right hand cups your face, thumb trailing from your top lip to the bottom, pulling it open as you moan again. He pours into you, mouth closing around your tongue as if to suck out your entire being— and you desperately want him to.
He shifts again, settling into a rhythm that is punishing in its slowness. Each pull back is a sinful routine of stretching you open and then making you beg for more. He holds himself deep inside you for seconds that feel like eternity, letting the sensation fill every fibre of your being, before pulling back just an inch, then sinking back down with a heavy, sensual grind. Meanwhile, his hands continue to work your pebbled nipples. Your eyes flutter shut at the sensation, sending a shiver that travels through your core.
It's torture of the most delicious kind.
He leans down then, letting his warm breath fan across your ear. "Look at me," he commands, his voice dangerously low, "I want to see exactly what I do to you."
If you could climax from words alone, you would at this very instant. Instead, you open your eyes and grind up your hips against him, adding to his slow strokes. Clark moans out your name and you have to bite your lip to keep from grinning. Your body threatens to become numb from the drawn out pleasure, his slow movements pushing you towards an over-stimulated limbo. Just as your eyes are about to flutter shut, his control shifts and Clark suddenly quickens his pace.
The deep motions turn into a merciless thrusting. The bed begins to slam softly against the wall with the newfound urgency, the air filling with the erotic sound of slick slaps as your grip on him tightens. He drives into you with an animalistic hunger, uncharacteristic of Clark, as you clutch desperately at his biceps that encase you.
"Let me know if it hurts, baby?" he rasps against your mouth and you whine something incomprehensible, but the furious nod of your head is answer enough.
Your skull rocks against the headboard, and every fantasy you’ve held onto is suddenly overshadowed by how utterly helpless you feel beneath him. He’s taking control, and you love it. Every stroke, every push drives you higher and faster. He leans down, burying his face in the curve of your neck, his breath coming in hot, heavy bursts. It is a beautiful assault on your senses, stretching the tension to its brink.
Then, just when you think the moment can't get any more erotic, a deafening crack! tears through the room. Your stomach drops and the bed collapses beneath you both pushing you two even closer.
A low, guttural roar rips from Clark’s throat at that instant, just as your own body contracts violently around him. The orgasm hits with the force of a tidal wave, your hips arching off the bed as a burst of intense pleasure crashes over you, stealing your breath. He holds on, still driving in as you convulse around him. His own warm release follows with a loud groan, filling you in with a deep warmth.
He collapses onto you, his body slick with sweat and the damp air. He stays still for a long moment, still buried deep. A sickening desire in you never wants him to move; the fullness of him, even between the wreckage, feeling addictive.
A beat passes as you both find your bearings, hollow pants turning to quiet breaths. The mattress is definitely on the floor, dangling precariously to the left. He finally, reluctantly, pulls back and rolls gently to your side, the springs creaking in protest.
You let out a soft sigh, the murmurs of something new sparking again as you glance over at Clark. He disappears for the briefest second— you almost believe he flies to the bathroom— and comes back with a warm towel, gently cleaning you both up.
Once done, he props himself up on an elbow and looks down at you, the darkness in his eyes having faded, replaced by a warm, satisfied blue. He doesn't speak; instead, begins a journey of cute kisses. He places one feather-light kiss on your forehead, another on the bridge of your nose, then a quick peck on the corner of your mouth.
Clark brushes a damp strand of hair off your cheek and offers a lingering kiss to your lips, as if he really cannot get enough. He pulls you gently toward him, tucking your head securely against the warm, damp curve of his shoulder.
You are nestled against Clark’s side, the soft cotton duvet pulled up loosely around your hips, both silent in the languid comfort of the aftermath.
"I think the warranty on this thing is officially void," he murmurs, his voice rough with spent energy.
You giggle softly, the sound muffled against his chest. "You think? I can't believe you actually broke my bed, Smallville."
"Hey," he protests, a vibration rumbling against your ear. "Don't put this all on me. This is mostly your fault."
You pull back just enough to look him in the eye, raising an eyebrow. "My fault? I’m not the one with super-strength."
"No," he says, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. "But who spent the last two hours parading around in that tee that was clearly two sizes too small? I have a lot of restraint, but I’m not made of stone."
"Excuse me, two hours?" you scoff, poking a finger into his chest. "I hate to break it to you, but I’ve been hitting on you very openly for the entire day."
Clark pauses, a sheepish, lopsided grin slowly spreading across his face as he realizes the truth of it.
"You are sooo painfully oblivious, Kent," you tease, shaking your head.
"Well," he murmurs, his arms securing you amidst the wreckage of the bed frame, very slyly pulling you on top of him. You smile despite yourself.
"If being oblivious is what got me here... then I'm glad I didn't catch on sooner.”
tagging: @ticklish-leafy-plant @scaredofbeingbasic @indigoscribe @ilovekittycatsmeow @ventressism @serendippindots
please leave some love in the form of comments, reblogs- it would be much appreciated <3
Hide & Seek (NSFW)
Summary: You're hired by one of the senior servants to be the nanny for Prince Maekars youngest children, but when said children grow bored one day you suggest a new game and unknowingly find yourself in a compromising position below the desk of Prince Maekar.
Word count: 3k
Character(s): Maekar Targaryen
Reader: Fem!Reader
Warning(s): 🔥🔥🔥 / 18+ / Smut / Wingman!Baelor / Masturbation / Accidental Voyeurism / Spitting / Oral Sex (M!Receiving)
Support me: Kofi
Your transition to nannying Maekar Targaryens children was rather smooth. You had been introduced to the children first thing one morning and they all took to the immediately. "She is not old like the other nannies." "She is much kinder too." "I think father will like her more than the last one we saw." They had said when asked why they had made a decision so quick. So after only an hour had passed since your brief meeting you had been called back and given the position of nanny.
"Must we keep going through these chapters?" Aegon complained again throwing himself against the back of his seat. "They are awfully boring."
"I know, but your father has expressed an interest in you studying this book and I do not want to fall victim to his temper."
Their father, Maekar. Gods even his name drove you mad. From what little you had seen of him you had instantly formed an attraction, tall, miserable and not one to hold his tongue were just some of the qualities that drew you to him.
"I have read the same page three times miss." Aegon sighed. "I have read it four." Rhae added and you couldn't help but smile at the children. You walked over to each of their desks and took note of what page they were on before nodding to yourself.
"Rhae, Daella you may close your books. Aegon finish one more page please to catch up with your sisters and then we will end the studying."
Aegon picked his book up again and began reading. You knew he was not taking in the words on the page as his eyes scanned rapidly across each sentence, it did not matter though, you would get him to re-read the page on the next day.
"May we play a game miss?" Rhae asked as you placed Aegons book atop the others and put them on a shelf next to your desk. "I thought you were tired of me for the day?"
"Not tired of you, only tired of reading. We have been at it since we woke this morning." Aegon spoke.
"You have not, it has only been an hour little Prince, do not be dramatic." The girls laughed as you corrected their brother making him frown slightly before his eyes lit up. "May we play the hiding game again miss? I had a lot of fun when you showed it us last week."
You were surprised that the children had never played hide and seek before, though you suppose with the little interactions they had with other children it wasn't really too shocking. You had introduced them to many new games, a lot of them you had played with your siblings as you grew up and others you had learnt through nannying for other families.
"Fine, you three may go and hide and I shall count. Do not leave the castle, I don't want people to think I have lost a Prince's children because you have strayed too far. I could not stand the embarrassment of trying to explain that to your father."
"He likes you, he would not be mad."
"He does not like me Aegon, he only tolerates me because I keep you three out of the way." You explained though when you turned around each child had a wide grin on their faces. "What are you smiling for? You should be hiding or you will ruin the game." You turned back again and began counting. The girls grabbed each other's hands and quickly took off after Aegon down the corridor.
As you stood by the window and counted your eyes drifted down to Prince Maekar who was standing in the training yard watching Aerion fighting with a Knight. You had barely spoken to Maekar, the senior servant who hired you had said you should not speak to him unless spoken to and he'd rarely interrupted the time you spent with his children. Normally he avoided the rooms you were in completely and asked his children for updates on their learnings and activities of the day instead of coming to you.
You didn't mind though. His presence was intimidating and the hushed whispers between servants of his foul temper and strength in a battle was enough of a deterrent for you. Instead you admired him from afar, he was tall, broad and despite looking constantly miserable he was very handsome. His voice was deep and commanding and even though he'd never raised it to you you'd heard it carry down the halls as he shouted at a Knight who'd pissed him off and it instantly sent a wave of heat across your face and down between your thighs.
No matter how much you wanted to speak to the man you knew it was best to keep your words to yourself for you feared that if you spoke to him you would instantly melt under the gaze of his violet eyes and stern expression.
"Do you often stare out of the window for this long?" A voice dragged you from your thoughts and you quickly shot around to see Prince Baelor standing in the doorway. He stepped towards you as you offered a quick curtsy and tried to block the view before he could see out of the window but it was futile. Baelor stood taller than you and from his height he could see his brother commanding Aerion in the yard and smirked once he realised what you had been looking at so attentively.
"Forgive me my Prince, but I am playing a game with the children, I must go find them."
"Ah yes, hide and seek, I am familiar with it. Would you like some advice?"
"I do not want to know where they have hidden, that would defeat the purpose of the game." You replied and he chuckled softly. "No it is not that, when it is your turn to hide go to the furthest room at the end of the hall. They won't find you in there and you will surely win the game."
"Thank you for the advice my Prince, I must be off before they get restless." You replied and quickly bowed your head before sprinting out of the room. Baelor turned back to the window and looked down at his brother, a wide smirk gracing his face.
You'd found Aegon first, he was not hiding far from the room you had been teaching them in. "You only found me because you were taking far too long with counting that I had to talk to myself to prevent boredom."
"No you are just not very good at hiding, I said you should not leave the castle, not hide down the corridor from me. Come let us find your sisters and then I will show you all how to properly hide."
It did not take long to find both Rhae and Daella, they were curled into the wardrobe of their room together and failing to stifle their laughter as you and Aegon entered the room and quickly swung open the doors to their hiding place.
"Now that I have found you all it is my turn to hide. Make sure to count to fifty so that I have enough time to hide from the three of you. I will stick to our rules and will not leave the castle but please take your time going down the corridors, I don't want you falling over a loose stone again." You said but made a point to look at Aegon as you had spent an hour washing his knee after your last game of hide-and-seek after he'd fallen over.
They all turned their backs to you and began counting. You were enjoying playing this game with the children and despite wanting to let them win as it would be the right thing to do you decided to take prince Baelors advice and head down the darkened hallway to the room at the far end.
You had never stepped down this hall before, the senior servant said to stay away, but surely if Prince Baelor said for you to hide down here that it must have been ok for you to do so. The corridor carried on to a curve but when you peered down you could not see anymore doors aside from the one that you stood in front of so you quickly opened the door and stepped inside making sure to close it quietly behind you so that the sound would not echo back to the chambers of the children.
It only took you a few steps into the room before you realised it was the chambers of Prince Maekar. His heavy armour was settled over a rack beside a desk that was littered with papers. You should not be in here, surely you had made a mistake because Prince Baelor would not have sent you to the chambers of his brother.
Moving back to the door you quickly grabbed the handle but stopped turning it when you heard the sound of three pairs of footfalls running past the door. "No Aegon." Rhae whined. "She would not be in father's chambers I'm almost sure of it."
"We should still check to be sure." The boy protested and reached for the handle, you felt it move slightly under your palm. "Father will be mad if you knock his armour over again. Let us check down the hall and then we can come back around again." Rhae argued and a moment passed before you felt Aegon release the handle.
Once the sound of the children running away had gone you believed that it was safe to leave the room. Unfortunately for you, there came the heavy footsteps of someone else approaching the room. You panicked and believed that these had to be the steps of the Prince himself, if you left his room he would catch you but if you stood behind his door when he opened it that may just lead to a worse outcome. You quickly scurried around the room and looked for somewhere that would hide you sufficiently.
Unfortunately, the only place that was both nearby and would be quiet was his desk so you quickly threw yourself underneath it and hoped that maybe the Prince would be in and out of his chambers. "Fucking hide and seek." Maekar muttered when he entered the room slamming the door behind him. "All the things to do and she wants to play fucking hide and seek."
He sat down in his chair and pulled himself closer to the desk forcing you to back up even more so his long legs wouldn't hit you. You could hear him writing, occasionally letting out a few curse words here and there as the quill dragged along the paper above you with such a ferocity that you were sure the tip would break off.
You hoped he would finish his letter and leave but when it seemed like he was nearly done you heard a knock on the door. "What?" Maekar shouted and the door to his chambers opened.
"The children want to know if you have seen the nanny." A familiar voice called out, that of Prince Baelor. You wanted to step out, to ask the Prince if this was in-fact the right room he had suggested for you to hide in but that would obviously be an incredibly stupid thing for you to do.
"What makes you think I have seen the nanny?" Maekar groaned rubbing his hands through his hair and Baelor laughed. "You always have eyes on the nanny."
"I do not."
"You do."
Great. You thought. Now they are bickering like little children. You had to stop yourself from letting out an audible groan and drawing their attention to your position. "I suppose I should leave you now brother, do let the children know if you happen upon their nanny." Baelor spoke and Maekar only scoffed in response.
Unbeknownst to you, when Baelor turned to leave he had seen a small piece of your dress poking out from underneath his brother's desk and that was when he had put two and two together. You had listened to his advice and gone to the room he spoke of. Of course you did not know it was that of his brother's but he did and now there you were, tucked underneath the desk of his youngest brother who appeared to be completely oblivious to your presence.
"Oh." He added as he walked back to the door, a smirk still plastered on his face when he rested his hand on the smooth metal handle. "Try not to get too carried away when you think of the nanny, I do not want to explain to another servant that you are not whining out in pain."
"Shut up." Maekar scoffed and shook his head at his older brother when he left his chambers. The silence that fell upon the room when Baelor left was horrendous. You had to cover your mouth with your hands in fear of Maekar hearing your breaths as he remained seated at the desk. He hadn't picked up his quill, or shuffled through papers, he just sat there in silence and sighed to himself.
You'd thought that perhaps he had fallen asleep, his breaths had deepened and he was no longer letting out little curse words here and there. That was until he sank down in his chair and hurriedly undid the belt of his trousers. Your eyes widened when you realised what he was doing, a deep heat settled on your face when Maekar freed his cock in front of you.
You stifled a gasp when you saw it. His cock was long and thick, his large hand fit perfectly around it and you couldn't help but look down at your own as you watched him. It was already hard-hard when he pulled it out but now as he sat there, slowly stroking, it began to harden.
Closing your eyes you listened to the sound of skin on skin as he began to stroke himself faster. Your eyes shot open when you heard him spitting followed by the wet sound of his other hand, now wet with spit, taking over the movements. "Ah fuck." He moaned, his voice deliciously deep as his chest heaved with every rough jerk of his cock.
You'd kept quiet this whole time, so quiet. But then he moaned your name. Not the title given to you of nanny, but your actual name that you thought he never learned. A moan escaped your lips and you quickly threw your hands over your mouth and squeezed your eyes shut hoping he didn't hear you.
But he did. Of course he did.
You heard the soft thwacks of skin on skin stop followed by yet another painful silence. Maekar pushed his chair back, the sound of the wood scraping on the floor causing your ears to ring and soon a hand wrapped around your arm and you were dragged from under the desk, your knees scraping across the floor as he pulled you to his knee.
"What the fuck are you doing in here?" He spoke through gritted teeth, his grip on your arm would no doubt leave a bruise. "Speak woman."
"I was playing with the children my Prince. I did not realise these were your chambers until I heard you coming down the hall. I had to hide. I did not see anything I swear." You lied. His thick cock was all you could think about. It didn't help that it was still standing to attention, bulbous head leaking pre-cum that had smeared across his doublet leaving a thin white streak.
The hand that had not been stroking his cock gripped your chin and he tilted your head up forcing you to look at him. "You." He spoke, voice lower now and brows furrowed when he realised it was you he had caught. Your chest heaved against his knee as you swallowed hard.
You tried to pull away from him but he grabbed your face harder, his fingers digging into your cheeks as he kept you pressed against him. You did not know where to look. If you looked up you'd meet his eyes peering down at you, if you looked ahead you would be staring at his cock and with his grip on your face you could not look down. You tried to close your eyes but he squeezed his digits against your face making you open them again, your gaze instantly meeting his cock once more and lingering for a moment too long.
"Stop gawking woman. Have you never seen a cock before?"
"I do not mean to stare, you are just so close. I do not, I cannot look anywhere else." You stammered out an excuse to him, tripping over your words as you tried to form the right sentence to explain the looks you had given him. You were nearly drooling at the mouth as you flicked your gaze from his face down to his cock and back up again.
It felt like hours had passed from when he first looked down at you.
"You may leave if you wish."
You pondered his words for a moment and finally decided to speak your mind. "What if I do not want to leave?" Your breath caught in your throat as you spoke to him softly. You carefully moved onto your knees and rested your hands on his spread thighs. "What if I wish to taste you my Prince? Will you allow me?" You looked up to him with a pleading expression on your face keenly awaiting his answer.
Maeker stared down at you and you watched as he began to stroke his cock again, this time keeping his eyes fixed on yours as he tightened his grip around his shaft. You took that as your cue to lower your mouth to the head of his cock and suckle it causing a deep moan to fall from his lips.
He continued stroking his cock as you lapped at the swollen tip, his fist occasionally tapping you on your chin. You batted his hand away when it struck you for a fourth time and quickly replaced it with your own stroking at the same rhythm Maekar had used on himself.
"Gods woman, your mouth is divine." He spoke and you released a seductive laugh around his cock. You took more of him into your mouth now and fought the need to gag when his tip grazed the back of your throat.
"Need more spit." You spoke after letting his cock fall from your mouth earning an irritated groan to fall from his lips before Maekar looked at you with a puzzled expression. You did not give him a verbal explanation, instead you opened your mouth wide and stuck out your tongue. "Dirty bitch." He said before allowing himself to indulge, he leant forwards, gathered up his saliva from his mouth and spat it directly onto your tongue.
You returned your mouth to the head of his cock and let the mixture of spit run down the length lubricating it so you could continue to take it with ease. Lifting one large hand, he laced it through your fair as you sucked him and surprisingly he didn't force your head down. You felt his fingers flex with anticipation against your scalp when his breaths became faster and soon he was releasing his thick seed into your mouth and down your throat.
Swallowing first you allowed his cock to fall out of your mouth once more and flicked your tongue over your lips to collect the remaining cum that had gathered. You looked up to the Prince, his eyes were closed and his chest heaved with each breath he took as he tried to come down from his high.
He was so distracted in fact that he did not feel you moving away from him and standing on shaking legs, cunt dripping with want. "If you'll forgive me my Prince, I have a game that I need to finish. Do let me know if you require any further assistance." You spoke and before he'd even opened his eyes and mouth to reply you were gone, and there he sat trying to catch his breath, his cock soft against his belly as he stared at the door which you had closed.
"Fucking hide and seek." He laughed.
