Cw: oblivious!reader, . Age gap, Maekar being a hopeless romantic, Maekarlings, kissing, Makear being horny for reader? not proofread
Makear knew he had been out of the courting game for a while; he knew he was older than you, prephas more sotic than most ladies would like, but he had tried. Gods, since the day you had walked into the red keep, he had tried to court you. Had tried to flatter you in the ways his sons and nephews told him ladies liked. Compliments to your hair, your dress, your eyes. Everything. Gifts of flowers or jewels. Everything, and yet you avoided him like the plague.
Was courting him truly that awful?
You seemed to run the second he entered any room, seemed to shy away from his conversations and seemed more than happy to sit in silence than even acknowledge him.
Your body turned away from him the second he turned to face you, gifts he sent were returned, and his longing gaze was faced with what seemed to be cold indifference. Had he been a lesser man, he would have taken your actions as rudeness. But he had seen the way you looked at him the first few days in the keep.
The longing stares, the deep blush every time he looked at you. A blush that still existed, or at least did in the few glimpses he had before you ran away. You had been kind to him, to his brood of children. Still where. Even heck, you spent more time with his children than you did with him.
He had thought you wanted the same as him, and wanted the courtship. And yet you deflected his every advance.
He had thought perhaps his longing for you was one-sided; he saw what he wanted: a helpful desire for a wife. To find love again.
But then he overheard you with Daella and Rhae. The girls seemed to drag you off most days and make you endure their endless makeovers; it was where he knew he could always find you with them.
Today was no different, watching you sit as the girls played with your hair. He wanted to make himself known to speak to you, but then he heard Daella speak, “Are you going to marry my father?”
You smiled softly at the girl, “Why do you ask that?”
“Well, he’s courting you, isn’t her?”
“He is just being nice,” you dismissed, scrunching your eyes as Rhae brushed your hair.
“He’s in love with you,” Rhae giggled, “you're all he asks us about!”
You laughed, “I doubt that he is,” you shook your head, a small smile on your lips. Your eyes met Maekars as he lingered in the doorway, eyes wide as you took him in.
“My prince!” You stood up quickly, knocking the endless accessories out of your hair as you stood to greet him. Your hands reached to play with your necklace as he walked into the room.
He looked at his daughters, “What are you telling her?” he asked, watching as the girls giggled, looking between them.
“The truth?” Daella laughed. Looking up at your and your nervous face, she shrugged, reaching for your hand “I just wanted to know how your courtship was going!”
Maekar shook his head, reaching for his daughters and hearing them out of the room, “Go and find your septas.” he shook his head, his hand reaching out to stop you as you went to follow after them.
You smiled at him, blushing deeply as he stared into your eyes, your eyes stuck in his gaze. “I’d like to hear your answer to the girl's questions,” he coughed, clearing his throat and leading you back into the room, the door closing behind you both.
“They were just being silly! I know you aren’t courting me!” you rushed out, your hand reaching for your necklace to play with it once more.
He cocked his head, scoffing, “Yes, I am.”
“No, you are just being nice,” you dismissed, refusing to look at him. He scoffed again at your answer, walking towards you andreaching foro your chin, forcing your gave from the floor and to look at him.
“Is that why you have been so dismissive? You believe I was just being nice?” he shook his head, “I have been courting you since the day I met you, was i not obvious?”
“I…at first I believed you were, but then I” your cheeks grew red, “I did not think you would be interested in me, and you just wished to be nice and thank me for spending time with your children,”
He laughed, “You are…” he scoffed, his hand pulling you back to look at him, “Do I need to state it clearly? That I wish to court you, and marry you?”
“Yes,” you swallowed, “I do not wish to assume, I like to be told... directly,” you blush deepened at the look in his eyes, eyes dark.
He hummed at your words, a smirk playing on your lips, “very well,” he pulled your face closer to you, “I wish to court you, my lady, would you allow me to?”
You smiled, “I would like that.”
He smiled, “I shall be more direct in future,” he looked at you, focusing entirely on you and the heavy breaths falling from your lips, “I would like to kiss you know, is that okay?”
“Yes,” you breathed, “Please do,” you leaned forward, meeting his lips halfway as he pressed a kiss to your mouth. The kiss was messy, his lips moving against yours in a way that had you again. His hands flew to your hips, pulling you against him, before he abruptly ended the kiss.
You whined as he broke away, trying to pull him back to you. He shook his head, smiling at you, “If I continue, I will not be able to stop,” he smirked, “and I do not plan on rushing our courtship,”
He placed a soft peak to your lips, before placing distance between you both.
second ovulation week with maekar, and he thinks he knows what can help?
cw : modern au. dark, (non con in the previous part) boderling on non con. dubcon, age gap.reader is 20s and maekar is 40s, clueless reader / bimbo reader. old grump!maekar. hermit!maekar. brat!reader. sex toys. double penetration. cock drunk reader. dacryphilia. overstimulation. maekar keeping track of your cycle - the perv. somnophilia. smut. 18+ MDNI
a/n: well, well, well. here we are again. okay guys i have been sick and this took me so long to write, promise im back on writing this weekend when im not working. also got to give credit where it's due @fushigurosbabygirl with this idea on my post, thank you. to all of you that replied on this post, i have read them and im writing away.
not proofread.
recluse neighbour series
you are responsible for the content you consume. make sure to read warnings before proceeding with any of my fics
Last ovulation week had Maekar worn to the bone by the end of it. To the point that him fucking you, turned into you fucking him— feet pressed into the mattress, legs on either side of his hips as you rocked yourself into another climax. Maekar can remember the way your eyes rolled to the back of your head, tears spilling out of them and falling onto his chest. Your lips opened, a sound tearing from your throat— to Maekar, you looked heavenly. It had been the last thought before his eyes closed, and he fell into a well needed slumber.
He woke hours later, cock still buried into your drenched cunt, warm and half hard. You were curled up into him, body still slick with sweat. You must have still been fucking him into his sleep and he was certain of it in the days after, barely able to move without feeling the stiffness in his joints.
You liked him like that, docile in his bed, pathetically hanging off your every need. Wide eyes softening as you took care of him, nursing him back to health like you hadn’t been the one to put him in the hospital bed.
The days after you finally simmered, and Maekar was allowed to rest properly. After two days, he felt somewhat back to his normal self, gaining some sense of his dignity as you allowed him to dote on you.
It’d been sweet, having you all tucked up in his bed or underneath his arm while you watched tv and not having you constantly crawl over his lap, or peck at his neck for some affection. You guys still fucked— but ovulation had gone past the line of enjoyable sex, and to the point of animals in heats.
Three more days, that’s all Maekar has before you’re back into that swing again— Well he’d thought three more days.
—Thought that until you were crawling onto his lap this morning, rubbing yourself against his thigh like some needy slut. Not even a good morning falling from your lips as you situated yourself on top of him, grinding your hips down and lifting his shirt you had been wearing to show him just how wet you were.
He made sure to fill you up, make sure you were so full this morning he would be dribbling out of your walls and onto the bed sheets. Just enough to keep you sedated so he could come check on the calendar he kept on the fridge door.
That’s what he does, eyes drawn to the red flag he has planted on the calendar for this month. Tomorrow— fuck. Ovulation week starts tomorrow, and it’s clear you’re already feeling the effects now.
Maekar wants to be able to keep up with your stamina, he really does— maybe if he knew you twenty years ago, he might have been able to— but the reality is that he just hasn’t got that energy in him anymore. As much as he enjoys watching you take your pleasure from him, he doesn’t quite get the same satisfaction from being used endlessly. He likes to be the one in control.
But maybe there’s another way?
Your eyes widen at the sight in front of you— let’s just say this isn’t what you expected when Maekar left you a text saying he’d be out for a few hours.
Your finger falls on one of the toys in front of you, the silicone dildo isn’t something that you’re completely new to. The size and the girth, don’t exactly measure up to Maekar’s dick either and yet the idea of Maekar using it on you excites you.
“I didn’t know you were into all of this,” You say, lips falling into a grin. “But if this what you want then I don’t mind—“
“It’s not for me.”
You look up at him and your smile drops, lips falling into an “oh” as you wait for him to explain.
“It’s for you,” he clears his throat, eyes falling to the bed and you notice the tips of his ears turn a tad pink— is he blushing. “For when you get too much and I can’t—“ he bites on his words, watching the way your finger trails the veiny dildo. “You know.”
“I know?”
Your eyes meet then. You act all coy, pretending you don’t know exactly what you’re doing while he stares at you with that hard glare. His face is flushed, but he’s not embarrassed— his eyes are dark, pupils blown out.
You know exactly what you’re doing.
“I’m almost fifty,” he tells you, voice stern and jaw clenched. “I can’t always fuck you as much as you want.”
You pout then, sticking your lips out, purposely wetting them beforehand just the way he likes.
“Don’t.”
“Don’t, what?”
His eyes fall to your chest then, the way you nipples have stiffened underneath the face— then down to when you kneel on your legs, watching your thighs clench together. He chuckles low and deep, he knows exactly what you’re doing.
He turns away, shaking his head as he makes his way out the door. Not without you calling out to him one last time.
“Don’t you at least want to see me use them?”
He laughs harder and you roll your eyes— two can play that game.
Four days and four long fucking nights.
Maekar knows you can be stubborn but this has taken a whole different meaning. He'd gotten the toys to help you, thinking he was doing good by you even. But apparently you hadn’t been too on board with the idea of using the toys instead of using him.
It meant to be a 50:50 scenario, toys when he needed a break and then when he felt capable he could fuck your needy cunt just the way only he could. Only you decided to abstain from him, completely.
After the first night Maekar might have not seen it as intentional, thinking you’d worn yourself out from playing with those toys all day. Yes, he’d been fucking harder than a rock finding the bed soaked from where you’d been fucking yourself on top of it. Maybe he’d even licked the slick of your dildo as he pumped his cock into his hand— that was beside the point. He hadn’t been mad.
Only on the second day when he woke up to find you already pleasuring yourself, he’d woken up a bit mad. The image of you waking him up with his cock stuffed inside of you is a memory he looked back on fondly, something he definitely wanted to repeat again. Still he couldn't be mad— envious? Yes. Mad? No.
When your pussy lips stuffed the dildo inside of you, and you shook your head at him; when he told you to come here, and you smirked at him, pushing the dildo in deeper, then he had every right to be mad at you. Ungrateful brat.
Each day you spend torturing him, moaning and whimpering as you make a mess of the bed, making sure to be extra loud when he’s too occupied with the tv downstairs. All for you to deny him any access to between your legs.
If he finds you awake in the evening, you’ll slyly kiss him good night before rolling over to the other side of the bed.
On the fourth night he’s had enough, decidedly done with your bullshit. To think he gifted those toys to help you out and you’ve turned to using them against him.
He comes to bed earlier— much earlier on the fourth night. With the sun still heavy in the sky and one thing on his mind, Maekar steps into the room without so much of a word.
You’re on the bed, the silicone dildo buried deep in your cunt and the rose toy attached to your clit. You wiggle your hips around, desperately trying to push yourself to the edge again with a whine, tears in your eyes from the intensity of it all. You’re so lost in it that you don’t even hear him come up behind you, only realising he’s there when he’s got his hand wrapped around your throat.
You halt, legs freezing up as your whole body tenses up with the feel of him behind you.
“Oh, don’t stop on my account,” Maekar growls—albeit low, careful with a chuckle bubbling under the surface, wanting to frighten you.
You eye him then, twisting your head over your shoulder to watch him cautiously.
“Nothing to say?” He asks, mimicking your pout as he hums. “Good.”
You don’t exactly remember the circumstances that lead to it, don’t know how much of a fight you put up— if any— but you do know you feel— too full.
Tears stream down your cheeks as you force your legs to move, up and down as fast as they can over him— his cock slipping in and out of you— and the silicone dildo. He didn’t even prep you, before he pressed the tip of his cock and dildo to your entrance. He laughed at your pitiful whine before he told you that you're lucky this is the only punishment he’s going to give you.
You told him he was mean, before he repeated the words back to you in a mocking tone.
“Down.”
His tone was harsh and you didn’t even argue against him, just whimpered out about how much it hurt while your pussy struggled to take both of them, wiggling your hips in hopes it would help. It didn’t. But eventually you managed, leading you here— hands perched in front of you, one each knee, ass facing Maekar, lifting your hips rhythmically up and down.
It feels wrong, how full you feel right now and yet you’re… enjoying it? Your loud moans, along with the obscene squelching of your pussy fills the room. It’s like your pussy is sucking his cock and the dildo and every so often you feel yourself squeeze around them, like it wants more.
Your pussy begins to flutter, and Maekar sighs at the feel of your impending orgasm. You think he might stop, like the first time he felt like punished you, but instead he pushes his hips up in time with yours, fucking you right through it.
You don’t know what noise comes out of you, something between a scream and a moan, animalistic to the ears. Maekar thinks it's beautiful.
When you’re coming down, Maekar doesn’t stop— No, those hips rut into yours, hand moving at the same time to keep that dildo inside as well. Both abusing your walls, making your pussy oversensitive. Your nails claw at his skin, walls clenching down on him hard, like they’re trying to push him out. But you’re too stretched out to resist, too sensitive to shove him away.
“Maekar, please.”
You lift your hips, going to crawl away but he follows.
You’re on your front before you know it, ass up in the air with Maekar drilling into you from behind.
“Take it,” Maekar spits out, tone nasty and deep —just like the thrusts he’s delivering.
You want to speak but you can’t. You can’t form the words, can’t even think them. You’ve been reduced to babbles, tears flooding your eyes as you obey every single one of his commands.
You can’t even say his name properly, half of it coming out incoherently as he delivers another mean thrust that is just damn right cruel, balls swatting against your cheeks.
“Going to milk this cunt dry,” he grits out, free hand gripping your hips so tight it bruises. “Keep going until you fucking can’t cum anymore.”
JABBER'S an annoying little shit… until he’s covered in blood and making out with you. then he gets even worse.
"let's make out, come on, comeoncome—" jabber had been pestering you for the past hour, his voice a relentless, teasing hum in the back of your mind. normally, his stupid overboard antics didn’t get under your skin. but today was different. today, you were on your last nerve.
you were trying to fix a gadget, carefully navigating the tiny maze of wires and cogs with your pliers. precision required quiet, focus, and patience. quiet was something you had cherished long before this leech decided you were his favorite person.
he leaned close, his shoulder brushing yours, his warm breath teasing the side of your face. “you’re so boring… c’mon, kiss me— kissmekissme—”
that was it.
you needed to shut him up.
you dropped your tools with a clank, seizing him by the collar and yanking him toward you with deliberate force. your lips smashed into his, hard enough to sting, and then your tongue slid into his mouth, claiming it with sheer dominance. he hummed low, muffled against you, eyes rolling back and fluttering shut as your hand cupped his jaw, teeth grazing his bottom lip, drawing a thin line of blood. the metallic tang mixed with the heat of his mouth, setting your own pulse racing.
jabber moaned into you, caught under your control, his hands tangling in your hair as your tongues tangled together in a fierce, messy rhythm. each press of your mouth was sharp, demanding, your frustration pouring through every bite, every press. you could taste him; salty, slightly sweet, spiked with the copper of his blood and it made you want more.
another guttural moan slipped from him just as you pulled back, a thick string of saliva and blood stretching between you, snapping with a wet pop! his lips were swollen, glistening crimson, while yours bore a faint tint, like a devilish, bloody lipstick.
“holy shit… " he stared at you, dazed for a moment, then grinned wide, eyes dark with hunger. "that was so fucking hot. i’m hard. let’s do it again—”
so much for shutting him up.
★ i wanna make out with him diaudbahiudad looooord
Hiii can I request Brook x goth reader 😓 hear me out.. I thought it would be such a cute idea like a goth girl and her skeleton I’m not really sure on a plot though but I’ve been sitting on this idea FOR WEEKS maybe it starts at thriller bark when he’s introduced and she thinks he’s SO cool and continues on over the arcs.. I’m not rlly sure how their romance would work tho he doesn’t have lips i guess that doesn’t matter tho🤔 I think their love would be like pure tho even tho he’s lowkey a pervert and would ask to see her panties all the time !!
Bones & Roses
brook × fem!goth!reader
a/n: trying to use canon events but changed a lot of things. it's the first time I write for brook and didn't know how to make it work so I hope I did a decent job anyway lmao
words count: 4.0k
tags: slow burn, comedy, this covers different arcs, fluff, light perv!brook
m.list || ao3 || ko-fi || requests list
The sea is dark, the air heavy. Everyone is quiet on the Sunny… until a strange voice drifts across the water.
“Yohohohoho…”
It’s eerie, hollow, almost ghostly. The crew stiffens.
“W-what was that?!” Usopp shakes, grabbing the rail.
“A spirit?” Chopper hides behind Nami “No, no, no!”
But your eyes shine. You lean over the rail, hands gripping it tight “THAT. WAS. BEAUTIFUL.”
Everyone whips their head at you.
“Beautiful??” Nami shouts “It was terrifying!”
You shake your head fast, black clothes and hair swaying with the motion “No, no, no. You don’t get it. It was like… spooky and sad and cool at the same time. That voice… it sounded like a soul calling!”
Luffy bursts into laughter, bouncing on his feet “Y/N gets it! I wanna see who it is!!”
Brook’s little ship floats by in the fog. A shadow stands tall on it, slender, with afro hair, holding a cane.
You and Luffy lean over the railing so far you almost topple in.
“A skeleton?!” you whisper, practically vibrating with joy “A singing skeleton?!”
The others just look horrified.
Once Brook’s ship drifts farther, Luffy spins around, eyes sparkling “We HAVE to go see him! Y/N, let’s go!!”
You nod so fast you might snap your neck “Yes. Yes. Yes. Immediately.”
Luffy grabs your hands and jumps in place, squealing “Skeleton! Skeleton! Skeleton!”
You don’t move, but you let him and just smile at him.
The crew stares.
Usopp frowns “Why can’t they just go alone if they want so badly?”
Nami and Chopper nod fast “Yeah! Good idea!”
Zoro sighs, crossing his arms “Are you sure you want those two to go alone?”
Everyone looks. You and Luffy are practically foaming at the mouth from excitement, eyes wild.
“…Ah.” Usopp gulps “Point taken.”
Zoro pulls out the sticks “Short straw goes with them.”
Sanji lights a cigarette, glaring “Tch. Fine.”
One by one, everyone picks. The shortest straws end up in Nami’s and Sanji’s hands.
Nami’s legs give up and she’s crying on the floor “Ugh, of course.”
Sanji instantly perks up, swooning “To accompany my Nami and my Y/N to meet a creepy skeleton… ahhh, my destiny!”
Soon, the four of you climb aboard Brook’s tiny ship.
“Yohohohoho! Welcome, strangers!” The skeleton bows dramatically, cane in hand. His empty eyesockets somehow sparkle “Forgive me, I must say… what BEAUTIFUL ladies!”
Nami keeps on crying “No, we’re not…”
Brook steps closer to you, hand over his chest “Mademoiselle… so cool, so mysterious. My heart, though I have none, beats again when I see you. May I… kiss you?”
You freeze, eyes wide “I… uh…”
Your face burns. A skeleton is flirting with you?? Asking for a kiss?? Your goth heart is screaming yes, but your brain stalls.
Before you can even answer, BAM! Nami kicks him in the head “Pervert!!”
Brook flies on the floor with a laugh “Yohoho! Worth a try!”
You’re still stunned, lips parted, when suddenly, warm arms wrap around you from behind.
“Y/N!” Sanji presses his cheek to your hair, holding you back “Don’t even THINK about it! I know you’d say yes, you’d kiss that bony freak right now, wouldn’t you?! Over my dead body!”
You blink “…Sanji, I wasn’t even moving.”
He squeezes tighter “Doesn’t matter! I can feel it in my soul!!”
Brook groans from the deck “Yohoho… what interesting people”
You cover your face with your hands, torn between laughing and fainting at the whole situation.
The table is set… well, “set” is generous. Brook has only one place setting. One plate, one fork, one knife.
Nami glares at it “Only one?”
“Yohoho!” Brook claps his bony hands “I only ever cook for myself! Or… what’s left of myself!”
You sit down too, folding your hands neatly on your lap, studying the skeleton with wide eyes. He pours tea for everyone and moves with a strange elegance, bones rattling with every step.
He’s like death in a suit. You can’t take your eyes off him.
Sanji notices immediately. He leans over, whispering in your ear “Stop staring at him like he’s dessert, Y/N-chan. I’m right here.”
You elbow him lightly “Shut up, I’m just curious.”
Brook suddenly turns, pointing at you and Nami “Now then… before we eat—may I see your panties?”
BAM! Nami smashes a fist into his skull, sending it bouncing across the table.
“IDIOT!!” she screams.
Brook’s body calmly walks over, picks up his rolling head, and puts it back on “Yohoho! Always worth a try!”
You choke on a laugh, covering your mouth. He winks at you… well, you think it’s a wink, his empty sockets tilt in your direction.
Sanji practically combusts “STOP LOOKING AT HIM, Y/N-CHAN!! HE’S A WALKING BAG OF BONES!!”
But Brook doesn’t skip a beat. He sits, places a napkin on his lap, and folds his hands politely.
“Tell me, miss,” he says, tilting his skull at you, “are you always so radiant in the presence of the dead? Or is it just me?”
Your cheeks heat instantly “I—uh—I just like… spooky things.”
“Then I am most honored,” Brook replies smoothly “For what is spookier than a man who died, and yet, still wishes for tea with a beauty?”
You nearly faint.
Sanji grabs you by the shoulders, shaking “Y/N-chan!! Don’t fall for him! He doesn’t even have lips!!”
Brook taps his jaw thoughtfully “That is true. Yohoho. But love is deeper than lips, is it not?”
You blink. The joke is light, but something about the way he says it makes your chest ache.
Luffy slams the table, interrupting “SKELETON!! JOIN MY CREW!!”
Brook freezes. His hand trembles on the tablecloth.
For the first time tonight, his voice grows low “…I cannot.”
Everyone stops.
Brook’s bony fingers curl, and he stares down at his teacup “I… lost something precious. I cannot leave until I keep my promise.”
You lean forward, softening “A promise?”
Brook looks up. Empty sockets meet your gaze, but somehow, you feel the weight of his grief.
“Yes. To my nakama. My crew. We… sang together until the end. And I swore I’d meet them again.”
His voice trembles, but he laughs to cover it “Yohoho… forgive me. Dinner should be cheerful!”
But you can’t shake the heaviness in your chest. The others fall silent too.
You whisper, almost to yourself “A skeleton who sings for his lost crew… That’s not scary at all. That’s cool.”
Brook stares at you for a long moment, his grin frozen, but this time, it feels softer.
Sanji hisses in your ear, panicking “Stop making goo-goo eyes at the skeleton, Y/N-chan!!”
But you ignore him. Because in this moment, you see Brook not as a joke, not as a pervert, not as just bones, but as someone carrying a heart-shaped hole inside his chest.
And you think… you’d like to fill it.
Thriller Bark is bigger than you imagined, dark towers, broken tombstones, eerie laughter in the distance.
“This is AMAZING,” you say, spinning slowly to take it all in “It’s like… a giant haunted castle. I could live here.”
“Y/N…” Nami grabs your wrist “You’re seriously insane. Do you want to get kidnapped?”
You just smile, slipping from her grip “Relax. I’ll just look around.”
“Hey, wait!”
But you’re already walking deeper into the mist. And this time, you’re not alone.
“Yohohoho! So, you’re really a fan, uh?” Brook falls into step beside you, cane clicking on the stones.
You grin at him “Of course. This place is beautiful. Creepy, sure—but in a good way.”
Brook chuckles “How rare. Usually I frighten people away.”
“Not me,” you say honestly “You’re like… the coolest person I’ve ever met.”
He stops walking. For a moment, his hollow eyes widen “…Coolest? Even though I’m nothing but bones?”
You nod, serious “Especially because you’re bones.”
Brook clutches his ribs dramatically “My heart—though I have none—is touched!”
You laugh, covering your mouth. He smiles at the sound, though it’s only in his voice, not his face.
The two of you wander past gravestones, twisted trees, and misty corridors. You keep asking questions “So, you play violin? Did you always wear suits? Can you, like, pop your head off whenever you want?”
Brook answers them all, joking in between. You listen intently, fascinated. For once, he doesn’t feel like a monster, he feels like a person being seen.
But soon, his voice turns heavier. He stops before a cracked tomb “…My shadow was stolen here. By Gecko Moria”
Your smile fades a little “Gecko Moria…”
Brook grips his cane “Until I get it back, I cannot fight in sunlight. I’ve tried… and failed. Many times.”
You look at him, serious now “But you keep trying?”
He nods slowly.
You walk ahead a few steps, then turn back with a grin “Then I’ll cheer for you until you win.”
Brook blinks “…Cheer? For me?”
“Of course,” you shrug “You’re my favorite skeleton.”
Silence. Then “Yohohoho! Your favorite?!” Brook doubles over, laughing until his bones rattle “Then I simply cannot lose!”
You laugh with him, the eerie mist echoing with your voices.
For the first time in decades, Brook doesn’t feel lonely.
The Sunny rocks gently under the moonlight. Most of the crew is asleep. Only the sound of the sea fills the air, until Brook’s violin joins it, soft and haunting.
You sit on the deck, knees pulled up, chin resting on them. Brook stands a little away, bow gliding across strings, notes drifting like ghosts.
“Beautiful…” you whisper.
Brook pauses, tilts his skull toward you “…The song?”
You shake your head “The way you play.”
If he had cheeks, they’d be red. Instead, he laughs, bones rattling “Yohoho! You flatter me too much, my dark rose.”
You roll your eyes, though your lips twitch “Stop calling me that.”
“Shall I stop?” His voice drops, a little softer “But it suits you.”
You hug your knees tighter “…Do whatever you want.”
Silence falls again, but it’s comfortable. You watch him, his suit jacket swaying with the breeze, his posture proud yet tired. A lonely elegance.
Your chest aches. Months of traveling together, talking, wandering dark corners of islands side by side, it all built into something heavier now. Something you can’t say out loud.
How do you tell a skeleton you like him?
Brook lowers the violin. He looks at you for a long moment. Inside, he feels the same ache. He wants to tell you too, he wants to say that your laugh makes the emptiness in his chest feel less hollow. But how could you ever love someone who doesn’t even have skin?
He clears his throat,or tries to “Yohoho… may I ask you something?”
You glance up “What is it?”
“…Why do you always stay up with me?”
You blink “Because your music’s too good to miss.”
Brook chuckles softly, but there’s a tremor in it.
Your heart squeezes. You look away, hiding your face.
He studies you. Your dark clothes, your calm gaze, your quiet smile. Not scared of him. Never once.
He thinks, if I still had a heart, it would be hers already.
But instead, he raises his violin again “Then… this next song is only for you.”
You don’t move, don’t breathe, afraid to break the moment.
You just listen, and neither of you says what you’re really thinking.
Chaos explodes in Sabaody. The crew scatters, screaming names into the smoke.
“BROOK!” you cry, sprinting through the broken plaza. He’s ahead of you, sword in hand, bones gleaming in the light of explosions.
He turns just in time to see a beam charging toward you “Y/N—!!”
He shoves you back, stepping in front. The blast strikes his chest, sending him skidding across the ground. Bones crack.
“BROOK!!” you scream, running to him. You grab his arm, trying to drag him up “We have to go! Please—get up!”
Brook coughs out a laugh, though he has no lungs “Yohoho… forgive me, my rose. I am not as strong as I wish.”
Tears sting your eyes. You don’t let go “Don’t say that! You’re the strongest I know!”
Another explosion rocks the grove. The Pacifista looms above. You throw yourself in front of Brook, arms spread “Then I’ll protect you!”
He stares at you in shock. Protect me?
Before either of you can move, light flashes. Kuma’s paw descends. A rush of pressure swallows the world. He hits Brook before you can even notice and suddenly, Brook is gone.
You hit the ground, alone.
“No… NO!” you scream, reaching for empty air. But the grove collapses around you, light swallowing you next.
Two Years Later
The world is different. Islands blur together. You fight, survive, train, but through it all, one thought anchors you.
Brook.
You admit it to yourself one night, staring at a moonlit sea.
“I love him.”
The words burn your throat, but you finally say them. Not a silly crush, not admiration… love. The way he plays under the stars, the way he makes even death laugh, the way he made you feel seen.
You clench your fists “When we meet again… I’ll confess.”
Even if he laughs. Even if he says no. You can’t carry it inside anymore.
Elsewhere
Crowds scream his name. Lights blaze on stage. Brook, now “Soul King”, bows dramatically as music dies away. The applause is deafening.
But when he returns to his dressing room, silence swallows him. He sits with his guitar, fingers hovering over the strings.
He thinks of you.
The way you stared at Thriller Bark in awe when you met. The way you sat up with him at night, listening to his music. The way you once stood between him and death itself.
Brook chuckles weakly to himself “Yohoho… I suppose I love her.”
The words echo in the empty room. They sound unreal, but true.
He lowers his head “But she deserves a man. Not a bag of bones.”
Still… he thinks of your smile. He holds his guitar close.
“…I will tell her.”
He braces himself for the rejection he’s sure will follow.
Two years. Two hearts. One secret.
Both waiting for the same reunion.
The Grove is loud, crowded, chaos everywhere. Marines run, people scream, but none of it matters.
Because across the plaza, you see him.
The afro, the suit, the violin case on his back. Taller somehow, brighter, surrounded by screaming fans calling “Soul King!! Soul King!!”
Your breath catches. Your legs almost give out.
“Brook…”
He freezes mid-step. Slowly, his skull tilts. Empty sockets meet your eyes across the noise.
For a second, neither of you move. Then…
“Y/N!” His voice cracks, louder than the crowd.
You stumble forward, shoving past people, heart hammering “Brook!”
And then you’re colliding into him, arms wrapping around cold ribs. His bones creak under the force, but he doesn’t care. He hugs you back, tighter than you thought possible, violin case digging into your shoulder.
“I thought you were gone…” you whisper, voice breaking.
“Yohoho…” His voice trembles, the laugh weak “I thought I’d never see you again.”
You pull back just enough to look at him. His empty sockets should feel hollow, but all you see is warmth. Two years of silence, loneliness, and longing crash together in this one moment.
Your throat burns. Say it. Tell him.
But your courage wavers. Instead, you smile shakily “You look… amazing. Soul King, huh?”
Brook chuckles, trying to play it cool “Yohoho! Just a silly title. Means nothing next to this moment.”
He wants to say it too. That he loves you. That for two years, he carried you in every song. But… how could you ever love a skeleton? He swallows the words, even though he has no throat.
Instead, he squeezes your hand “You have not changed, my rose. Still radiant as ever.”
Your cheeks burn. You grip his bony fingers tighter, heart screaming. Say it! Confess!
But before you can…
“Y/N!! Brook!!” Luffy barrels into both of you, arms wrapping you in a crushing hug “You’re here! You’re both here!!”
The spell shatters. The crew gathers, laughing, crying, yelling over each other. The reunion swallows your secret.
You smile through it, tears slipping down your cheeks. Brook laughs, loud and musical, though his bones tremble.
Neither of you confess. Not yet.
But when your hand brushes his again in the chaos, neither of you let go.
Two years of silence. One reunion. And a love still waiting for words.
The Sunny is alive with laughter. Luffy’s voice echoes, mugs clash, Sanji cooks nonstop, Franky yells “SUUUPER!” until his throat’s raw. Everyone’s celebrating, drinking, singing, together again at last.
But you slip away.
The deck is quiet now, the sea black and endless. Above you, stars spill across the sky like glitter on velvet. You sit cross-legged, arms around your knees, staring up.
Two years. You waited. You survived. You came back. And yet… the words are still stuck in your chest.
Footsteps tap lightly on the wood. You don’t need to turn.
“Brook” you say softly.
He chuckles, cane tapping once “Yohoho… how did you know?”
“You’re the only one who creaks when you walk.”
He sits beside you, careful, folding his long legs. His bones glow faintly in the moonlight, and for a moment, he looks like he belongs among the stars.
You both sit in silence, listening to the waves.
Finally, Brook speaks. His voice is lower than usual, without its usual laughter “Y/N… may I tell you something?”
You glance at him “Of course.”
He rests his cane across his lap. His hands fidget, bones clicking together “These two years… you never left my mind. Not once.”
Your breath catches “Brook…”
He laughs softly, bitter “Yohoho… it is foolish, isn’t it? A skeleton, loving a living woman. What could I possibly give you? I cannot touch, cannot kiss, cannot even hold you without fear of breaking.”
You stare, heart hammering.
“But,” Brook continues, his voice trembling, “I must say it, even if you reject me. I love you, Y/N. From the moment you called me ‘cool’ instead of monster… my heart, though I have none, has belonged to you.”
He bows his skull, ashamed “Forgive me. I should not have burdened you with this. Please… forget I said anything.”
The sea roars in your ears. You sit frozen, staring at him. For so long, you imagined this moment, and now it’s real.
You whisper, “You idiot.”
Brook flinches “Eh?”
Tears prick your eyes. You laugh weakly, shaking your head “All this time, I thought I was the only one. I love you too, Brook. I just… I didn’t know how to say it. How could I tell a skeleton that I…”
“...that you what?” His voice is breathless.
You turn to him, smiling through tears “That I have feelings for him.”
Silence. The waves crash, stars burn, the world spins, but for you two, time stops.
Brook raises a hand, trembling. He doesn’t dare touch you, not yet “…You mean it?”
You nod firmly “Every word.”
His laugh breaks, raw and shaking “Yohoho… then tonight, I am the luckiest skeleton in the world.”
And though he has no lips, no flesh, no heartbeat, you lean closer, resting your forehead against his skull.
Your first embrace is quiet, imperfect, strange… and utterly perfect.
The sun rises slow over the Sunny. The crew stirs, groaning from last night’s celebration.
You’re still on deck, curled against Brook’s side, your forehead resting against his shoulder. His arm is carefully draped around you, as though even in sleep, he’s afraid you’ll vanish.
It’s quiet. Peaceful. Warm.
Until… “EH?!”
You jolt awake. Nami’s standing there, hair messy, holding a cup of coffee. She blinks once. Twice. Then “…What the hell am I looking at?”
You sit up fast, face burning “N-Nami! Wait—it’s not—”
“BROOK?!” Sanji’s voice explodes across the deck. He drops his pan with a clang, eyes bulging “You bone-headed bastard!! How dare you touch Y/N-chan in such a way!!”
Brook raises his hands quickly, panicking “Yohoho!! Nothing untoward happened, I swear on my violin!!”
Usopp runs in, eyes wide “WAIT—does this mean you two are—ARE YOU DATING?!”
“WHAAAAAAT?!” Chopper’s little voice cracks, spinning in circles “When did this happen?! Did I miss it?!”
Zoro, leaning against the railing, barely opens one eye “…Tch. Knew it.”
Everyone turns “YOU KNEW?!”
Zoro smirks lazily “I’m just observant.”
Franky bursts onto the deck, flexing dramatically “OOOH, YEAH!! THIS IS SUUUPER!! A LOVE STORY BEYOND DEATH ITSELF!!”
Robin just smiles into her book “How romantic.”
“ROMANTIC MY ASS!” Sanji screams, grabbing Brook by the lapels “SHE’S SUPPOSED TO LOVE ME, NOT A SKELETON!!”
You yank Sanji back, glaring “Sanji, stop! I like him, okay?!”
The deck falls silent.
Brook freezes. The words hang in the air, louder than any shout.
Luffy suddenly beams, punching the sky “WOOOAH! Y/N and Brook are together?! THAT’S AWESOME!!” He throws his arms around both of you in a crushing hug “Now our crew has MUSIC and LOVE!!”
You and Brook laugh despite yourselves, both embarrassed like crazy.
The chaos explodes again, Sanji crying rivers, Usopp firing off questions, Chopper admiring you, Franky singing a love ballad on the spot…
But through it all, you and Brook stay close, hands brushing, secret smiles shared.
No more hiding. No more silence. Just you, him, and the wild, noisy family that will sail beside you.
Epilogue
The Sunny rocks under cannon fire. A ragtag pirate crew swarms aboard, shouting and swinging their weapons. The Strawhats, of course, are already tearing through them.
You stand beside Brook, arms crossed, perfectly calm. His sword gleams in the sun as he slices through anyone foolish enough to get close.
Then, one pirate staggers up the deck, eyes landing on you. He grins, greasy teeth showing “Well, well, hey there, goth girl… why don’t you ditch these clowns and come with us? You’d fit right in with our crew. Especially me.”
His men snicker. He nudges them with his elbow “Totally my type.”
You don’t even flinch. Your arms stay crossed, eyes cold.
Brook tilts his skull, silent for a long moment. Then “Yohohohoho!!”
The laugh rattles through the air, deep and eerie. The pirates jolt back “D-Did that skeleton just laugh?!”
Brook steps forward, cane tapping the deck. His voice sharpens, low and dangerous “She is my girl. Only I am allowed to see her panties.”
“BROOK!!” Nami’s furious voice cuts across the deck from the other side, mid-battle “NOW IS NOT THE TIME!!”
Brook only laughs louder “Yohohohoho!!”
You smirk, finally turning your head toward the trembling pirate “Yeah. What he said.”
The pirate’s face drains of color “D-Did he just— Did he just TALK?!”
“Wait… the skeleton wasn’t a prop?!” another shrieks.
“What the hell IS this crew?!”
But Brook doesn’t falter. His blade flashes once, twice, and the pirates collapse at his feet. He dusts off his sleeves with exaggerated flair and turns to you, straightening his tie.
“Forgive me, my love, I could not resist the chance to sound gallant.”
You chuckle, bumping his bony shoulder with yours “You sounded perfect.”
“Yohoho… my love,” he says, almost shy beneath the theatrics “Would I be terribly selfish to ask for a kiss? For victory, and for you not even having to lift a finger?”
You raise a brow, but your smile betrays you “You’re ridiculous.”
And before he can panic, you lean forward and press your lips softly against his teeth.
The enemy crew, still conscious enough to watch, all go pale.
“D-Did she just… kiss the skeleton?!” “No way, that thing wasn’t just TALKING… it’s dating?!” “What the HELL is this crew?!”
Brook freezes for half a heartbeat, then trembles like a live wire. His skull tilts up, hands pressed to his chest as he bursts into giddy laughter “Yohohohoho!! Ah, Y/N, you make these bones feel alive again!”
You roll your eyes, smirking, but your hand lingers on his arm “Don’t let it go to your skull.”
The terrified enemy pirates scream and throw themselves overboard, choosing the sea over whatever nightmare they just witnessed.
The Strawhats don’t even look up, they’ve seen this before. Brook is still laughing, high on both victory and love.
And you smile, knowing you wouldn’t trade this ridiculous, impossible skeleton for anyone else.
pairing: perv!ser duncan the tall x former brothel worker!reader
masterlist | part 2 (tba)
synopsis: traveling with ser duncan and egg, you make sure that you never allow your presence to become one of burden unto them. you help where you can, when you can... and with time, dunk grows to be rather fond of you. one day a game that you play – something that you'd started as a means to an end and eventually turned into fun way to work duncan up – takes a turn for the worst when you accidentally chat up the worst type of man for the job.
Trigger Warning, for a scene that contains allusions to almost being SA'd (not by dunk), as well as general conversation about SA. you have been warned, proceed with caution.
word count: 3,600~
content warning(s): 18+ mdni, guilt, jealousy, mentions of sex work (f!participating), mentions of oral (f!receiving), mentions of p in v, m!jerking off, orgasms (m!only), reader being mischievous and participating in shenanigans, biblically accurate: men being pigs in the ASOIAF universe, mentions and depictions of assault, mentions of violence (dunk beats their asses), possible death (one of them may or may not be dead), angst, disassociating, hurt with comfort, tenderness, sub!dunk but he daydreams of dicking you down, one(1) hand job, cum eating, and kissing the tip of his cock... is that weird?
basically, dunk saves you and you give him a handjob. (it's sweeter than it sounds)
notes: originally written as a quick ficlet, but evolved into its own thing and is more of a true fic now... may possibly get a second part.
I realized about midway through writing this that the scene of dunk saving you was very reminiscent of when aerion broke tanselle's finger. 😔 I just like the idea of this man coming to our rescue, please do not flame me for the similarities LMAO
I subscribe to the "submissive service top" dunk agenda!!
divider visuals made by @cafekitsune
dunk feels incredibly guilty for thinking of you in the way that he does.
oh, how you've been so good to him and so sweet to egg...
you wash and patch their clothes, dress and mend their wounds, help prepare their meals, play the voice of reason. you even go as far – as much as dunk has rather grown to hate it – to offer your body to men to cover your own room fees.
never once have you been a burden unto him. you'd made certain of such.
then he repays you by... thinking about what it would be like to have his face buried between your thighs? imagining what your moans would sound like when he'd sink into your sweet, gummy, cunt?
what kind of knight does he think he is? dishonoring you like that.
and of course, he would never act on these impulses. he could not...
not unless you'd show an interest in him yourself. which dunk thoroughly doubted that you'd ever deign to look at him the same as how he looks at you.
even still, the guilt that he carries could not stop him from mercilessly jerking his cock raw as a means of release and punishment for himself.
squeezing his balls as he cums into his hand, guilty and groaning from the mixture of pain and pleasure.
filthy, disgusting, guilty.
yes. dunk wagers that the gods ought to strike him down where he stands.
there's a special place in the hells for men like him. cold and barren. where the only thing left to warm him is your name, hushed and whimpered on his tongue.
—
you'd already figured that dunk was pining after you by the second time that he'd insisted you needn't house yourself in a separate room from himself or egg.
between his sad puppy-dog eyes and the way that he'd get huffy after you return from your most recent 'escapade...' it really was like he was walking around with a big red arrow that pointed to him and had text above it that said 'I AM IN LOVE WITH YOU.'
he certainly didn't make his feelings difficult to miss.
you thought it to be rather sweet.
but the truth of it was... you hadn't used your body as payment since the second moon after you'd met dunk. which was many months ago and long before you'd gotten confirmation of his affections for you.
you actually were rather well off from your time spent in the brothels of king's landing– before you'd met dunk and egg.
so there really was no reason for you to offer yourself up as collateral for accommodations... it was only something that you had done a handful of times to hide just how much coin you truly had to your name, and once you'd deemed dunk as someone you could trust, you'd stopped.
dunk just hadn't properly taken the time to consider why you'd always supposedly had the coin to pay for his and egg's rooms, but not your own.
if he did, he'd find that – in reality – you actually had been giving the innkeep or the odd man that you'd talked up some extra coin to keep simply to act particularly winded after you'd both return to the inn. further instructing them to use the other coin you'd given them to pay for your room.
... which was something you began to do just to work dunk up, of course.
oh, dunk, the sweet man that he is... you just loved to have him doting and worrying over you.
egg, observant as he is, had caught on to your mischief months ago and decided himself to play along. he lived for the dramatics of it all, and the both of you often giggled amongst yourselves about how long this had been going on for.
at this point, you really were just waiting for dunk to either figure out what you have been doing or to finally reach a breaking point and confess his love to you.
truly, it really was just some harmless fun!
until one day... it wasn't.
—
exhausted from a long three weeks on the road, you feel you might cry tears of joy at the sight of an inn sitting quaintly beyond the tree line that you and your merry band emerge from.
thoughts of a roof over your heads and real beds – albeit, likely shitty ones – being welcomed warmly in the minds of at least two of you.
dunk, however, is already dreading what he knows is coming.
your hand – soft and warm – just like everything else about you, finding it's place reassuringly on his forearm as you nod in the direction of a particularly drunk man. "gonna go do my thing, yeah? I'll be back in a few."
already being halfway across the dinning space, you don't give dunk much room to protest.
with his frown and furrowed brow more prominent than ever, dunk watches as the man in question gives you an especially sleezy grin when you approach. he can't help but grit his teeth while the man escorts you outside with his hand, dirty and undeserving, placed far too low on your back.
"well?' a bald head glints at the edge of dunk's sightline in the dimly lit tavern space. he knows that egg watches him now his own brow downturned and furrowed – but more out of exasperation than anything else. "ser, are you not going to do something?"
scoffing, dunk looks to the boy, disapproving. "that is none of your concern," and then he shakes his head, speaking in a lower voice now. seemingly discouraged. "...'sides, it's not like I haven't tried."
incredulous and rather peeved now, egg groans.
bristling in response to the lad's reaction, dunk goes to speak once more... but then he freezes.
"what-" egg flinches backwards when dunk's hand shoots out in front of him as he shushes him.
from across the bar, the gaggle of drunkards who had been in the company of the man you'd escorted out are cheering and grinning amongst themselves. jostling each other like most men do when they celebrate a friend's escapades.
the rest of them laughing when one of them says something that puts both dunk and egg on edge.
"aye," the bearded man slurs, sloshing is tankard as he sways, "good on 'im- catchin' himself a proper king's landing whore!"
they knew you.
he's on his feet in an instant, the bench he'd been sitting on screeching and rocking against the wooden floors. briefly pointing at egg firmly and commanding him to, "stay."
then dunk is running out the inn like a rat out of flea bottom.
you should have known something was amiss when you felt that tell-tale feeling of disgust settle in the pit of your stomach just from how the guy stares at you...
but you merely wrote it off as being weary and exhausted from several weeks spent on the road. this guy was nearly black-out wasted – what harm could he really do?
outside, the skies had darkened and grown overcast since your arrival. the pressure of an incoming storm hangs heavy in the evening air.
it puts dunk on edge.
his sense of urgency tunneling his vision when he hears your distressed voice cry out from the cover of the woods. sounding something close to a yelp and a frustrated: "get- OFF!"
he's charging then.
his worn-in boots – so lovingly mended by your hand – thudding heavy on gravel path until he forks from the road into the forest. crunching dead leaves and sticks beneath his soles when he breaks through the undergrowth.
dunk doesn't have much time to process the sight in front of him from then on.
all he knows is that you're crying and this... this waste of air – this scum made man – is on top of you.
gods, you're crying. he'd made you cry.
dunk had never seen you crying before.
. . .
those next few minutes are all a blur to him. he really can't recall all that happened.
both yourself and egg would later tell him that he'd beaten the man till his was bloodied and (you think) unconscious – but egg is certain that he'd been dead.
then following that, when they came outside to see what all the commotion was for, dunk had done the same to his buddies, too.
—
with all pretenses dropped, you get only two rooms that night. one for egg, and the other for yourself and dunk.
you insist, despite his (weak) protests, that you'll share the room and take care of the cuts that he accrued in the heat of the scuffle... and for a moment, you worry still that he'll stand firm on his decision.
but dunk caves quick because he is weak to you.
always you, of course. but especially now.
all because, given the circumstances, he finds himself unable to object any further when your gentle hands come up to cradle his face, your eyes watery and pleading.
plus, if he had remained steadfast in his resolve, something told him you'd have found each other in the night either way.
so, sharing a room really is the easier of your options.
what isn't so easy, however, is getting dunk up the stairs to said room.
he's stiff and hissing in pain with each step you ascend. the adrenaline in him having long since faded, allowing for a dull and heavy ache to settle in on him.
but you get there with time and patience, and you shoo egg off to his own room despite his own protests. reassuring and reminding him that dunk is in good hands – your hands – and that you'll have him patched up quicker if you have the room to yourselves.
so then it's just you and dunk.
duncan and you.
silence, heavy and sharp, thrives in the space between the both of you.
then... blunt and commanding, you speak. "strip, ser duncan. then sit on the bed."
like a deer spooked by lamplight, his eyes widen and he freezes. face growing hotter the longer he stares and stands there – stiff as a board, and stunned.
"not like that," you nearly roll your eyes, but refrain from doing so as to prevent him from feeling too guilty for where his mind first went. "I need to see where you've been hurt."
it's not like you could blame him.
"oh..." nodding, he sputters into lethargic action, shucking off both his shirt and trousers, and doing his best to remain mindful of his injuries.
as he strips you start to prepare some things. the methodical nature of grinding up herbs keeps your hands and mind busy for a moment in time that feels much longer to you than it truly is.
when you turn back to him, you find him with his thumbs hooked beneath the hem of his briefs... and you just barely can stop him with a raised palm and blank stare.
"unless you've been stabbed in the ass... those can stay on, ser duncan." with that, you seat yourself on the bed.
meekly, duncan murmurs a bashful apology and joins you. careful not to jostle the various salves and bandages you've laid out meticulously on the blanketed surface when he sits himself beside you.
without a word, you set to work.
cleaning first. if you find anything while rinsing with a dampened cloth, you debris the wound of any foreign objects – gravel, thorns, and dirt, all plucked and washed.
assess the damage. if the wound is deep, you note that it will need to be salved and wrapped – if not, you just salve it and move on.
rinse, repeat.
you hear your heartbeat and the rushing of blood in your ears.
rinse, repeat.
each shaky breath you take, each movement you make.
rinse, repeat.
your fingers feel numb, they tremble before each touch.
rinse-
"are you okay?" duncan's voice.
you flinch... and your gaze flickers up to meet duncan's. those damning puppy-dog eyes. pretty and blue as the sky.
too quick, too sharp, you answer. "yes. I'm fine."
so, murmuring your name, he shakes his head. "no... I don't think that's true."
he doesn't miss how you pointedly turn your eyes back to his injuries, fingers prodding rougher now. less careful.
duncan winces, but says nothing of it.
you seem to be in thought.
so he lets you think... and with your attention fixed to your hands while you continue to tend to his wounds, you eventually murmur. "it's a tale as old as time, ser duncan-"
"...dunk." he corrects, tense beneath your clinical touch. so familiar yet alien – starkly different from how gently you'd always tended to him in the past.
he hadn't noticed until you called him by his title again that you'd put a distance between yourself and him. not physically, of course... but emotionally - with a dazed sort of air to you.
you look him in the eyes, softening. now realizing what you had been doing, as well. "dunk..."
he lets himself breathe then, nodding shakily.
"selfish an' powerful men... they beat, rape, kill, an' conquer..." you continue to speak on the thought that he had interrupted, "it's the weaker, kinder, and smaller folk who have to suffer at their hands."
this is something dunk knows well. he's seen and experienced it many a time before in his own lifetime.
but just because it's the norm, "doesn't mean it's right..."
you smile, and it strikes him then that it's the first one that you've given him since you came into this room with him.
it made sense, of course. you didn't have much to smile about right now...but dunk finds himself feeling glad that he can be a reason for you.
nodding, you finish up with cleaning and dressing the most concerning of his wounds and begin to bandage them. "yes, dunk... that doesn't mean it's right."
after that, the both of you fall into a comfortable silence while you work, with dunk watching you as you do.
this lull in conversation feels significantly different from the one before. calmer.
rain, pitter-pattering and whispering against the roof over your heads, subtly closes the space between you. a sound that somehow feels both soothing to the soul and wordlessly intimate.
to dunk, even now, as your eyes are heavy and tired – and you've been worn down to nothing more than your basest self, you're as beautiful as ever.
bathed in dim and warm candlelight, he takes you in wholly as you are.
yellow light, faint and flickering, highlights each curve, slope, and arch of your face – your lashes fluttering while your eyes dart between his injuries and the care that you offer in each featherlight touch.
when you inhale, ready to speak again, dunk is on the edge of his seat.
"you're hard," another pregnant pause follows your observation. "...by the way."
he blinks, confusion twisting his mouth into a puzzled frown.
you meet his stare, blinking back at him... then look down to his lap.
following your gaze, dunk realizes what you meant... and startles away from you. his sudden and jerky movement tears his arm from your grasp.
which is fine. totally fine.
you were basically done bandaging his wounds anyways... really, you were just groping his gloriously beefy forearms for the hell of it when he pulled away.
so you tell yourself that it's fine that he pulls away. not that you wished he would have stayed close.
"fuck-" he chokes, "gods, sorry- 'm so sorry, milady-" mortified, dunk cringes further away from you and hides his face in his hands. almost trembling now as a deep crimson dusts over his cheeks while he avoids eye contact with you.
expecting to be scolded, he stiffens when he's met with your laughter instead.
"dunk, it's quite alright-" you attempt to soothe him, but he shakes his head furiously.
"it's not, though," clenching his eyes shut, his hands fall to his lap in fists. refusing to meet your gaze, still. "it's wrong. I shouldn't– I can't be thinking of you like this."
when dunk feels one of your warm hands pressing over the top of his own, he quivers at the way butterflies fill his stomach.
then you speak, your voice reassuring. "it's a natural reaction, dunk."
your palm moves from his hand and he briefly mourns the loss of contact... until he feels it cradling his face instead, your soft fingertips brushing over the apple of his cheek.
"you are alone... in a room with a pretty woman mending your wounds," his eyes finally flutter back open at that, meeting your own while you smile at him. "and you're nearly naked, sitting on a bed with said woman... you cannot blame your body for responding accordingly, dunk."
you crowd closer to him and with a shaky inhale, he suddenly feels like he's drowning in the sweet scent of you.
gods, how did you do that? smell so good that he felt like he could happily live and die in it.
he feels like he grows impossibly harder then, and it prompts him to look away from you again. horrified as he actively watches the spot damped with his pre at the front of his briefs grow in size.
why must his body betray him so?
with shame weighing heavy on his conscious, dunk shakes his head again, groaning this time. "no-" yet he still sucks in another lung-full of your scent and finds himself nearly choking on it, "no... 's not okay..."
you deadpan as your advances go in one ear and out the other, clicking your tongue disapprovingly at his insistence to beat himself down.
yet he continues. "you don't... you don't deserve to be thought of like that-"
of course, you know dunk doesn't mean that in the way that his words sound. but regardless, you raise an eyebrow. "huh, interesting. so you're saying... I don't deserve to be thought of in that way? like... ever?"
registering only then how his words had sounded, dunk jolts and looks you in the eyes. "GODS, NO-" he stammers, "w-well, yes. you should- but not by the likes of someone like me- or... well..."
suddenly losing himself in the tender way that you stare at him when he rambles, his voice tapers off into a poignant silence.
it's then, as your thumb races over the stubbled skin of his cheek, that he is reminded that you are touching him still... and when your stare turns downwards to his lips, his uncomfortable tension melts away and is replaced with something warmer.
"I'd much rather have you think of me, than men like... well..." you shrug, and the message is clear.
men like that one.
the one who was either off with his friends, licking his wounds... or still on side of the road, cold and dead.
you lean closer, and his breath catches in his throat. "dunk... I find it tremendously flattering that someone like you thinks of me like that. I think it's rather nice, really..."
he looks to your lips, then, and lingers there for only a second... but not a second longer, because any more than that was more than what dunk felt he was deserving of.
then his attention is back to your eyes... where he stalls when he finds that yours have returned his own as well.
"y' don't haveta say that... don't haveta try 'n make me feel better." he exhales shakily. subconsciously leaning closer till your face is a mere two or so inches from his own.
"that's good, I'm glad," hushed and smiling, your hand moves from his face to the back of his neck – playing with the soft fawn-colored curls there. "because that's not what I'm doing, dunk..."
so dunk kisses you.
his lips soft and hungry on your own.
starving for your touch. your hands and lips and everything on him.
but when he tries to pull you to his lap, arms looping around your waist, it hurts.
his wounds sting, his bruises ache, and dunk groans. pulling away from the kiss to catch his breath and look you in the eyes.
hungry still.
petting his hair down, you smile so sweetly.
in the same way that is always so utterly and breathtakingly you.
dunk could fall to his knees then, miserable and resigned to his fate of being unable to go any further without the risk of hurting himself.
"'m sorry." he whines, frustrated.
but instead of responding to his woe, you gently push him to lay fully on the bed – and he allows you. watching as your smaller hand makes quick work to pull away his last piece of clothing. freeing his cock.
"it's okay," propped beside him, you lean over and give him a reassuring peck on the lips. your voice oh so tender and low. "let me take care of you..."
so he does. just like he always has done.
dunk gasps when your fingers wrap around the width of his cock. arching into, yet equally shying away from, your touch.
hissing as if it burns him – like his skin is lit ablaze under the press of your skin into his own. but at the same time, he's gasping and begging for more. "gods, please-!"
his eyes meet your own, and he groans at the way that you smile down at him. your lips curling upwards in an almost fae-like sort of way. ethereal and mischievous.
an image he only ever dared to imagine – to dream of – brought straight into reality while you stroke his cock languidly. cooing encouragement in his ear.
"that's it..." you murmur, "my loyal knight. so good for me..."
he pants, arching into your touch and trembling when your face strays from his own to lay a kiss upon his collarbone.
when you return to him, your eyes shimmering and warm, dunk stammers your name. moaning it. "I- gods be good, I lo-"
yet you stop him, shushing and laying your freehand over his mouth – which he instinctively licks?
hello?
best not focus on that for now. that is an entirely separate bottle of worms to analyze at a later time.
pressing a tender kiss to the side of his sweat sheened forehead, you hum. "you can tell me that later, pretty boy."
dunk's brow furrows at this, his attention torn between your sweet hand – deliciously pumping his cock – and your words. confusing as they are.
"wuh-"
he loses that internal battle of attention fast when you palm his tip, further slicking your hand with the copious pre that has been drooling down his length before you fist the length of him on a downward stroke.
you know he's already too far gone to listen, but you explain, still.
"I've had too many men confess their love for me in the throes of passion," your breath is hot and bated against his ear as you side-eye the way your hand fists him. "and I have never believed them, my knight..."
dunk shakes his head 'no' his eyes clenching shut as a whimper threatens to spill from his lips.
huffing at that, mouthing the words but not quite saying them, he microscopically thrusts up into your hand.
"so... tell me later, dunk." your grip on him tightens and he groans in a way that lets you know he is close to finishing.
dunk sees stars behind his eyelids. glimmering and bright.
while you see him. fully and entirely as he is. your knight – ser duncan the tall – your dunk.
continuing to stroke him, you sit up and shift closer to his midsection. if dunk notices, he does not say.
here, you watch intently as dunk's cock twitches and drools more pre-cum for you. pearly and sticky on your fingers as you spread it down his twitching length.
he certainly has a pretty dick.
that is, it is as pretty as they can be.
paving the way to the base of his length is a speckled happy trail in the form of whispy darker blond hair. leading to a messier nest of thicker curls that he clearly had never put much thought into.
you wonder briefly if he would ever let you trim him up and make him all pretty and presentable for you.
... you continue your investigation. deciding that you would get around to asking about that passing thought at a later date, perhaps.
the rest of him is as proportional as you expected he'd be. thick and long, but not in an unimaginable to take sort of way... and a heavy set of balls to match that you momentarily think about sucking on.
you give a hum of approval. satisfied with your assessment of him, and draw even closer now.
breathing in the musky smell of him.
when your hot breath hits his cock, dunk knows he is done for... he could cum any second now.
but what he doesn't expect then, as he tenses, is to feel something softer.
his eyes shoot open as his orgasm just about takes him, just barely catching the tail-end sight of your lips pressed to the tip of his cock in a gentle kiss. before you pull away with a giggle.
"fuck fuck-" he cums then, some of his seed spilling into your hand while the rest splatters across his soft stomach. he babbles breathlessly. "thank you- fuck, gods, thank you. thank you."
you stroke him through it, cooing softly at him and returning close to his upper body to run your unsoiled hand through his damp hair.
he keens you work him through his climax in a far gentler way than he had ever afforded himself. encouraging and praising him throughout it all. "that's it, there's a good boy."
dunk groans at that, jerking his hips into your touch while wincing at the hints of overstimulation that begin to settle in. a few strokes later and dunk whimpers your name, brow furrowing in a way that lets you know he needs to be done with it now.
so you release him, satisfied, and bring your fingers to your lips instead – sucking and licking his salty spend from them while dunk watches on in stunned silence.
his eyes so empty of thought and blown out with so much love for you... yet tired, too.
smiling, you reach for one of the rags you had brought over earlier when you'd been tending to his wounds... a clean rag that you then wet in a bowl of equally clean water that rests on the bedside table. then you get to wiping him again but this time, in a different way.
with far less concern and sharp anxiety surrounding the both of you.
you shush and hum him a soothing melody while his eyes drift shut. contentment and exhaustion mixing and settling heavy on dunk's mind and body, dragging him into a sleepless daze.
when you finish, you nudge him into action and he all but grumbles instead. he'd be content with just laying and falling asleep then and there. "no..."
"let me tuck us in, my dear," while you pet his hair, you admire his pretty face up close – taking in every eyelash and freckle. storing them away in a special corner of your mind and heart where you would always remember them.
then dunk stirs... groggily moving to get himself under the blankets and pulling you with him when you join him.
craddled safely in his arms, you find yourself beginning to settle as well.
then dunk murmurs something – something you can't quite understand, but know what it is regardless.
kissing him on the cheek as he falls asleep, you smile. whispering those words back to him in a hushed voice. "I love you too, dunk..."
then, your eyes close. slumber taking you quickly while you rest in the safety of your knight's arms.
a/n: this one will probably come with a second part if anyone winds up being interested in seeing more of these two.
as always, asks are open!
some general headcanons for subby!aerion and his wife…
beware. headcanons with scenarios | pnv sex / minors dni | riding subby!aerion | cunnilingus | mentions of coming untouched | unprotected sex | creampies | aerion is a warning | mentions of blood | not proofread
your husband is a shallow man. he is vain, cruel in every sense of the word - mindless in his want for destruction and power.
at least, he was.
recently, you’d uncovered a different side to aerion. it was quite the shift. you were accustomed to his usual cocky, dominant, violent approach in bed — where, more often than not, he’d push you beyond your limits and leave you sore for days after. his needs fulfilled, and yours thoroughly forgotten.
yes, bedding your husband was pleasurable enough. sure, he’d bend your legs so far you’d fear they’d snap, and he’d bite so deep into your flesh that your blood would leave deep stains that wouldn’t come out in a wash. and yes, sometimes, he’d even trace his dagger’s edge along your stomach whilst he rutted into you, the one with the hilt embedded with a dragon.
but you were left satisfied, more or less. his cock would hit that spot inside of you without effort, and when he was feeling generous, he’d reach down to play with your clit and drag you to climax. and rarely, when he was in the mood, his tongue would bring you to the brink until you passed out.
but you weren’t really satisfied. something was missing.
after you’d ridden him for the first time, in which took much convincing, you’d uncovered a whole new side to him. to you.
that night, after you’d seen him like that for the first time — whining, at your mercy, pathetic — you knew what you’d been wanting deep down all this time.
and ever since then, you’ve been wanting that sight more and more.
“Fuck.. slow— slow down.”
His voice was strained, words coming shaky and harsh, like they were punched out of him with more effort than expected.
But you didn’t heed his demand. He was in no place to demand anything of you, not like this.
He was lay back against the pillows—silks of deep reds and blacks, the colours of his House. Fire and blood. Something to be feared, respected, obeyed.
It was a sweetly ironic sight.
His hands were everywhere, one clutching the thigh that bracketed his narrow hip, the other wandering your body - your tits, your stomach, your waist, your ass. It was as if he didn’t know what to do with himself.
Likely because he didn’t. How could he?
Your hips move without the grace or elegance expected of a princess, the wife of prince Aerion Brightflame. Instead, they are quick, filthy, determined to make your husband come undone with your pace.
It seems it’s working.
You tighten around him when his pelvis grinds against your clit when his hips buck to meet yours, and he chokes on the moan he emits. The sound is loud, and he pulls a swollen bottom lip between his teeth to muffle further sounds. Embarrassed.
Anger flashes behind his lust-filled eyes, and he finds himself trapped in the same inner war he is constantly confining himself into. Torn between his shameful, buried desire to submit to you, and the resentment towards his position.
He knows that later, when you are asleep beside him, utterly spent and exhausted, he will lie awake - hating himself, feeling shame burn unpleasantly in his stomach. For his vulnerability, letting someone see such a deep part of him he thought he’d never let see the light of day. He’ll reassure himself silently, that you are riding a dragon, he should feel accomplished. He hates it. Hates feeling lesser to anyone. He is the blood of the dragon.
But his body will always betray him.
He can’t help the whimper that wrenches out of him when you nip at his neck, your cunt fluttering around him, despite him biting his lip so hard that blood rises in his teeth’s wake. He can’t resist when your lips smash against his, his blood staining you. And when your tongue dances languidly with his, and his cock twitches inside of you, and he’s on the verge of cumming inside of you for the umpteenth time that night — it doesn’t matter anymore. His name, his blood.
When his seed fills your womb, and your cunt soaks him with your own release, and he can’t help but moan and writhe with the overstimulating pleasure when you keep moving, eyes rolling back into his skull, there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.
of course, this newfound taste for offering up his control of things has translated into other scenarios too.
wherein before, he’d have you pinned to the bed by your hips, his strong fingers holding you in place as his tongue ravaged your pussy, leaving you writhing and begging and thrashing. and cumming. lots and lots of cumming.
and whenever he sinks between your thighs now, which you’ve realised is somewhat more often (he thinks he’s being subtle), he’ll smirk smugly up at you - assuming it’ll go like it always does. you submitting to your dragon’s tongue, letting him decide when you finish and when you don’t, letting him speak filth to you.
but for some odd reason, one he just can’t figure out, it always goes differently once his tongue finally meets your cunt…
You’re on the verge of death, you’re sure.
You’ve already met your climax a good four times now, and you’ve got the proof to show for it. Your bare skin is covered in a coat of sweat, your chest rising and falling harshly with each intake of breath. Your stomach is tensing with the shocks of pleasure buzzing at your nerves, and your husband is still between your thighs.
“Aerion,” you push out, breathless and desperate. “Husband, that’s.. that’s enough now.”
Usually, he’d snap at you, tell you that he decides when you’re done. Or, more likely, he’d part from your cunt and climb up your body, ready to shove his cock inside and take you rough, like he always does.
But now? He just shakes his head, and tries to sink his tongue impossibly further into your hole - the guttural moan he lets out vibrating against you.
Your breath hitches, and the fingers that are buried in his pale hair tug slightly - and you slightly hope it might aggravate him a little, make him cease his ministrations as ‘punishment’. But he just grows deep in his chest, hips twitching against the bed, and his eyes roll back behind his eyelids.
Despite yourself, you let out a moan of your own. You love him like this. Desperate, needy, unlike himself.
And when his tongue drags up to flick at your clit, you decide a fifth peak wouldn’t hurt.
“One more,” He mutters, words slurred against your sex. His voice is still deep, still his, but it’s lilted with a whine at the end. It almost disarms you. Almost. Instead, you smile, and your fingers tug again at his hair. He grunts, and repeats, more high-pitched than before, “Give me one more.”
You nod, even though his eyes are closed blissfully, and silently part your trembling thighs more for him. A hint of a cramp curls in one - his broad shoulders keeping them parted uncomfortably.
It’s worth it when he sighs against you, furrowed brows relaxing, and tongue lapping at you with all the grace of a man starved.
And, despite your exhaustion, and frankly, your belief that you have no more orgasms left to offer - when he groans deep against you at the taste of your cum, and rags you harder against his face, you decide one more wouldn’t hurt.
You briefly wonder, amidst the throes of mind-numbing pleasure, when you’ll tell him to lie back, and seat yourself on his face.
Soon.
and finally, aerion has lost himself completely.
once he let you mount him for the first time, it was inevitable.
now he cannot crawl between your legs without turning into a green boy that paints his breeches white. pathetic. humiliating.
but now? you have completely stole him of everything he once prided himself of.
he cannot even fuck you like he once did.
he would hold your calves against his elbows, pushing them back, and his hips would snap against yours so aggressively that there are still dents in the wall from the headboard.
and he’d whisper pure filth in your ear, promising you his seed, vowing to paint you until you’re dripping with it for weeks, and even after that, he’ll keep going. all night, if he must. however long it takes.
now, things are different. he’s different. maybe he isn’t, not really. mayhaps he’s always been this way. mayhaps you have merely conditioned him to be like this. he supposes he’ll never have the answer to such intriguing queries - but he does detest the change so.
“Oh… that’s- fuck..”
Indeed.
Your husband is above you, elbows pressed against the mattress, either side of your head, and his biceps tense and strain with the labours.
His hips slap against yours, sloppy and nonsensical - different. His cock has been twitching since the moment he sank inside, and your thighs had wrapped around his narrow waist so perfectly.
“Yeah?” You whisper, the hand that’s holding the back of his neck pulling him down towards you. Your lips brush his cheekbone, and your eyes flutter when his hips dart forward faster. “Do you like that? Hm?”
He’s the one fucking you, he thinks, it should be him asking you that.
But it’s difficult to remember that when you clench around him so deliciously.
And instead of snapping at you, snarling and ripping at you, he just groans - deep and guttural - and nods. He fucking nods. Fury flares in his gut. Sorceress, you are. Come to steal his soul, a dragons magic, and leave him human and obeying.
He wants to hate you for it, to thrust harder, rougher, make you bleed and apologise, like he used to. But all he can do is sink his head into the crook of your neck when your fingers rake through his hair, nails tickling his scalp, and let you.
And where he used to bite, he now kisses, and where he used to dig his nails in, he now just grips to ground himself.
“Fuck— I can’t, I need..” His voice is sharp, words cracking and quick. He lifts his head from the safety of your neck, lidded eyes flitting down to where the two of you connect again and again and again and the sight is so lewd he’s already going to come-
“Aerion,” You moan, thighs twitching around him, pussy clenching. “Doing so good..”
He chokes out a garbled sound, brows pinching as he stares down at you, violet irises staring into yours. His hips stutter in their pace.
“I’m going to come.” He announces, rather loudly (you foolishly hope the guards outside didn’t hear that), and his tip hits that spongy spot inside your cunt so perfectly when his cock twitches.
You nod, your legs coming together harder around him, making it harder for him to actually keep up with his thrusts.
“Come inside of me.” You demand. You nod encouragingly again, willing him to continue. He stares down at you, fingers flexing beside you, pace growing more desperate.
His breath catches when you reach down to rub at your clit, and when you tighten around him impossibly more, he doubles over, face meeting the pillow, his nose against your cheek. His pathetic moans are hit against your skin.
“I’m.. oh— you’re going to make me-”
“Come.” You interrupt, nails digging into the back of his neck. “Give it to me, Aerion. Make a mess.”
Your face turns towards his, and his eyes barely open to meet yours. Your other hand reaches to hold his cheek - lovingly, softly, like you can.
“My dragon.”
And then he stuffs you full, coming undone with a cry that you muffle with your lips.
And it’s so filthy - his seed drips out of you, staining both your and his skin, the bed. Both of your bodies are slick with sweat, and your breaths are panted into the others, until you can’t decipher who’s is who’s.
And he’s looking at you, his pale lashes tickling your cheekbone with how tired he is. And for once, he doesn’t have it in him to rebuild his walls, reconstruct that facade of dominance.
A moment to seize is not to go to waste, you’ve gratefully learnt.
“Again,” You mutter. Your hips shift slightly to encourage him.
And, with a nudge of his nose against your skin, and the fluttering of his eyes, he shakily picks himself up again - already hardening inside of you again at just a mere demand.
He doesn’t know when this shift underwent. He hates it. Hates you for making him like this. Manipulating him, torturing him.
Yet, he finds himself seeking it out more and more, this, you. Don’t ask him to admit it though, because he likely will. (And regret it later).
𝒔𝒚𝒏𝒐𝒑𝒔𝒊𝒔 ;; aerion’s actions at the joust greatly displease his betrothed, and he all but hates himself for it.
𝒄𝒘 ;; 17+ ╱ oral (f! receiving) ╱ pathetic, lovestruck!aerion ╱ cum eating ╱ worship ╱ the dragon loves his gold ╱ dornish!you
ꫂ᭪݁ the lace dividers are by ︵ @uzmacchiato
“Is that what I gave my favor for? For you to utterly embarrass me in front of all Ashford Meadow?”
Aerion hated this, no — the dragon despised the weakness he had for his Dornish gold; for you. Shame dwindled in him, an emotion he knew little of before meeting you. His tongue quickened its work. Slipping into your warm entrance like it was heaven-given. A grunt left his lips as you gripped the silver roots of his hair, painfully pulling him closer.
Apparently, his betrothed didn’t find his victory worthwhile, but rather false — much to his dismay, the last thing he wanted was your wrath. The prince’s tongue explored your warm walls before retracting. He focuses on your clit; foul sounds are brought forth as he kisses and worships the hard pearl. His violet eyes look into yours, filled with adoration and regret, begging for your approval, for your love back.
Aerion groans as you move against his tongue; the movement is almost nonexistent. Clearly, you are holding off out of anger at your soon-to-be husband. Nonetheless, the Targaryen gripped the flesh of your thighs, pulling you further onto his devout mouth. Your fingers leave his hair, reaching for the velvet of your chair instead, breath hitching as you near release.
As you reach your high, the prince swallows your essence with reverence, hoisting your thighs on his strong shoulders for better access. His violet eyes never leave your face, examining your expression — now softer, eyes closed, and teeth biting into your bottom lip to keep quiet. But just as he began to think all is well between the two of you, you push him away, making the royal fall onto his arse.
He watches you, brows furrowed and jaw set, as you stand up and adjust your skirts. He follows after you as you near the door, carefully catching your forearm.
“Please.”
You stop at the plea. The Aerion Brightflame that everyone knew ceased to exist when he was in your vicinity. From the first mishap he made to your resistance to forgive, he yielded — and he would keep yielding for you until eternity. The last thing the dragon wanted was to lose his precious gold.
“I apologize, my Dornish medallion. Do not deny me any longer. Don’t torture your dragon more than I can take...”
His lips planted a chaste kiss on the back of your hand, knees sinking to the floor. He starts to lift your skirts once more, bunching them up and over his head. A gasp left your lips, eyes shooting up at the ceiling as you fell back against the door when you felt his tongue on your sensitive mound afresh.
Summary: The ceremony ends, the feast fades, and the expectations of the court settle in almost immediately. An heir.
By the end of the night, Baelor Targaryen has heard the word enough times to know exactly what everyone expects of him. Fortunately for the realm, it’s exactly what he wants too.
A/n: sorry this took so long to write 💀 I just started classes again so I have to focus on that for a bit, but I’ll try to keep updating whenever I can.
also… please ignore the ending. I still have no idea how to write proper endings apparently (·•᷄ࡇ•᷅ )
@oldermanslurt
The pressure started weeks ago. Letters from allies hinting at stability. Counselors talking about the fragility of alliances and old lords remembering what happens when an heir takes a long time to arrive.
Days later, as you crossed the gardens you heard how two knights debated about how long it would take to announce a pregnancy. One bet that before winter.
You didn't interrupt them, but that night when you were alone in your room, the thought didn't leave you.
You didn't mind the idea. I turned you on.
The pressure of the kingdom coincided with something that Baelor already felt. I wanted you and I wanted what could arise between you.
For him you had always been different.
Someone sacred.
Something in you forced him to treat you with an almost religious reverence.
In the weeks leading up to the wedding, the image he had of you slowly began to crack.
It didn’t destroy it, but it did transform it.
When you crossed paths in the corridors, he would look away a second later than was proper. He offered you his arm with perfect formality, though his fingers were slow to let you go.
Sometimes he remembered too late that the two of you were not alone.
When you dined together out of duty, if your dress left your collarbones bare, his jaw would tense almost imperceptibly. He still saw you as something sacred.
One afternoon, Baelor overheard two ladies speaking in hushed voices about how beautiful you would look while pregnant. The image formed in his mind with an unexpected intensity.
Your belly growing
An heir.
His.
With your smile and his temperament.
…
The morning of the wedding arrived.
And Baelor’s anticipation did not show. He was calm.
But beneath the heavy fabrics, his breathing was deeper than usual.
Not because of the vows.
Not because of the ceremony.
But because of the night that would come after.
For your part, while the servants adjusted your dress, a septa reminded you-with rehearsed sweetness, almost false-that some princesses were fortunate enough to conceive on their wedding night.
You smiled and nodded.
You were not naïve. You knew what they expected from you. And if you were honest with yourself, you also knew what Baelor expected.
You thought of him. And of the way he would look at you when it was finally just the two of you, with no witnesses.
When you would finally be his wife. The woman who would share his bed. The woman who could give him children. The woman he could touch, love, and long for without rumors surrounding it.
The ceremony was held beneath a high dome, where the light streamed through the glass and gave the place an almost magical feeling.
The air smelled of incense.
So many eyes upon you that it felt as though every breath was being watched. Your families, nobles, lords, knights… all gathered to witness the same thing.
The union of two houses under a single vow.
And even if it was not necessary to say it aloud, everyone knew it was the beginning of something more.
His grip on your hand was firm but warm. His thumb moved slightly over your skin as the septon began to recite the words.
The vows echoed beneath the great dome.
Promises of loyalty, protection, and union before the gods.
When the moment came to seal the marriage, the eyes of your now-husband briefly drifted toward your belly.
It was something subtle, something that went unnoticed by everyone.
Even he could not be certain when that thought had begun to take shape and claim his mind. Perhaps it was in the conversations at court.
Or what those two ladies had said that day. Or when he saw you smile and noticed that brightness in your eyes.
The great feast began as evening fell. The tables stretched across the entire hall, covered with fruit, meats, bread, and countless goblets of wine.
Laughter was loud, echoing through the room. The toasts were even louder.
“To a long and happy life together,” you heard a lord shout as he raised his cup. “And to the inevitable heir who will arrive very soon.”
The hall erupted in laughter and clinking cups.
Baelor did not laugh.
But his gaze found yours and held it. Long and intense.
As if the lord’s words were far more than a joke. You had heard those same words all day: heirs and lineage.
When the night finally wore on and everyone withdrew, the castle was almost silent. The only thing that could be heard was the sound of the wind.
The bridal chamber was lit only by the fire in the hearth. Baelor closed the door behind you. Finally alone: no rumors, no watchful eyes, and no witnesses. Only the distant sound of wood burning.
For a moment, neither of you said anything. You stood in the center of the room while Baelor simply watched you. Then he approached with calculated slowness and placed his hands around your waist as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“Did you notice?” His voice came out calmer than usual. More intimate. “Did you notice they only talked about the same thing all day?”
One of his hands left your waist and moved to your belly with restrained desire.
“As if it had been easy to ignore the looks and whispers…” you said with a sigh, letting his touch relax you.
Your comment seemed to amuse him, because a slow smile formed on his lips. “Heirs,” you whispered, looking toward the fireplace.
“They said it as if it were our obligation… but to me it isn’t,” Baelor replied, pulling you closer to his chest. You lifted your gaze back to his face, holding his eyes and silently urging him to continue. “I don’t see it completely as a duty.”
The silence that surrounded you was not uncomfortable. There was calm, but also so many things held beneath it—hunger, desire, desperation, and love.
“Soon we will have children,” he said. Not like an order, nor like a political promise. “Many, if you agree.”
He said it with a desire that had been growing for a long time, fed by every comment and glance from the court, by the anticipation of each day leading closer to this moment. One of his hands left your waist and moved to your cheek, gently caressing the skin. His gaze was resolute. Baelor was not a man of hesitation; when an idea formed in his mind, he did not rest until he achieved it.
“And now that you are my wife,” his voice lowered, almost inaudible.
“I see no reason to wait.”
He did not say it like an order, nor like an obligation.
He said it with certainty, as something he truly desired and longed for.
His fingers slowly moved up to the clasps of your dress. You raised an eyebrow slightly and let him continue. The fastenings began to loosen beneath his fingers, allowing the heavy fabric to slacken slowly.
“I thought the prince would have more patience.”
“I have been patient for weeks.”
In his eyes there was something darker than his usual calm. The last fastening of the dress gave way. The fabric slipped from your shoulders. Baelor did not look away for even a second. His hands returned to your waist. The sudden change in temperature made you exhale softly.
“And now?” you asked with a teasing softness.
Baelor slowly shook his head, letting his eyes wander over you before returning to yours. “The truth is, now I don’t feel much like continuing to be.”
Without waiting much longer, he lifted you with ease. The gesture was unexpected but certain, as if he had already decided what would come next.
“I’ve waited through the entire ceremony,” he murmured against your ear. With determined steps he walked straight to the bed. He set you down gently on the sheets, leaning over you, one hand at your neck and the other braced at your waist. “And the whole feast.”
His lips found your neck, kissing slowly before descending along the curve of your collarbone.
“My prince…” you breathed against the curve of his neck, your hands gripping his doublet tightly.
Baelor let out a low exhale, as if hearing that from your lips carried more weight than any blessing spoken during the ceremony.
His hand remained at the back of your neck as he leaned over you again, his lips returning to your neck before slowly descending once more along your collarbone. With a deliberate hand he began to trace your body until he reached the start of your hips, stopping just short of where you needed him most. He pulled back slightly to look at you, and without breaking eye contact murmured: “I want to taste you.”
His warm breath made you shiver. “Yes… please.”
Deliberately, he began trailing down your body with wet kisses, leaving small bites along the way, marking every inch he found. He didn’t waste time -he buried his head between your thighs, pressing his nose into your folds, kissing your entrance. His tongue slipped out and lapped up all your wetness in one long, slow stroke.
The sudden contact made you bury your head in the pillows and let out a high-pitched moan. Baelor spoke against your folds, his words muffled by your heat. You lifted your head to look at him -and he was already staring back, pupils so blown wide there was barely a trace left of his signature blue.
“Baelor…” Just saying his name was enough to push him over the edge. His jaw clenched, and he spread your thighs wider, exposing you completely to him. He opened his mouth over your entrance and, without hesitation, let his tongue plunge inside -without waiting for your walls to adjust. With both hands gripping your thighs, he deliberately rubbed his nose against your clit while devouring you like a savage.
The sounds spilling from you were so sinful that if a septon heard them, he’d mistake your moans for desperate prayers and Baelor’s name for blasphemy.
With every skilled flick of his experienced tongue, he felt you clench around him -and let me tell you, it was driving him insane. He was hypnotized.
The only thing in his mind was you and your dripping entrance.
“So sweet,” he growled against your lips. The sudden vibration shot up your spine, making you arch hard against his face. You reached down and tugged at his hair, but the sudden movement caught his attention. He smiled up at you, flashing his fangs. He pulled his mouth away from your entrance for just a moment, shifting all his focus to your clit-sucking hard, making your grip on his hair tighten as you bit your lip to stifle a moan.
“Let me hear you,” he murmured, then sucked again, harder, making your face twist in pleasure.
“S-someone might h-hear us,” you managed between gasps, biting your lip so hard you thought it might bleed.
“Then they’ll know you’re finally mine, my sweet girl.”
And as if your body and mind had stopped obeying you, you reacted without thinking -letting a high, desperate moan tear from the depths of your throat.
“That’s it…”
Maybe it was a contest to see who could make the filthiest sounds: you, moaning helplessly beneath him… or Baelor, answering with primitive slurps and licks.
With one hand still tangled in his hair, you forced his head down harder against your core. He happily accepted the invitation, gripping your thighs and -without even pausing to breathe- thrusting his tongue in and out. Again and again, curling it, hitting the roof of your cunt, making you see stars.
“So beautiful,” he managed to mumble, his tongue sliding up and down your folds, teasing you mercilessly. Then pushing back inside, the sharp tip of his tongue grazing your most sensitive spots.
You were so lost in pleasure that when he pulled away for a few seconds, a loud, frustrated whine escaped your throat. You were about to protest -but he didn’t make you wait long. He returned to your core, this time bringing his fingers along.
Long, slender fingers, marked by years of dedication to battle, training, and the sword. From now on, there would be a new dedication claiming his attention: you.
His fingers moved against you perfectly, rubbing those sensitive spots and stretching your walls, leaving a satisfying burn. Just when you thought you were already losing your mind, he began thrusting them fast and methodical, tenderly caressing your ridged inner walls. Then he changed his rhythm, pumping roughly -and right then, he started abusing that poor sweet spot inside you.
“My sweet wife.”
“Let everyone hear how sweet you are for me.”
He joined his mouth to your swollen clit again, this time grazing it lightly with his teeth, earning a hiss from you. He sucked until his cheeks hollowed, filling the chamber with indecent sounds.
You looked down again and noticed your wetness smeared all over his beard and nose. He began licking your clit carelessly, making your hips jerk away instinctively. You tried to speak, but your voice broke when he pinned your hips to the bed and kept devouring you.
"B-Baaelor," you whimpered, clutching the sheets beneath you.
“Yes, my sweet girl?”
“I-I think I’m going to come.” All you could do was throw your head back and lose yourself in the sudden wave of pleasure. Both hands gripped his short hair tightly, his name spilling from your lips like honey. “B-Baelor, I’m…”
He murmured something against your folds, but you had no time to process it before his mouth sealed over your clit like a suction cup, sucking hard while his fingers thrust with calculated precision. As he drew out your orgasm, his fingers slammed against your G-spot over and over.
From so much stimulation, tears formed at the corners of your eyes, and you bit your lip against the overwhelming intensity -your heart pounding in your ears, your toes curling painfully.
With a few more thrusts, your orgasm crashed through your body without resistance, a huge tingle blooming in your core. While you put on a show, Baelor caught every drop of your sweet nectar, wasting nothing.
If you hadn’t been trying to push him away by his hair, Baelor would have stayed right there: moving his fingers, prolonging your climax and overstimulation, pushing you toward a second orgasm.
“Stop…” you whimpered, trying with all your strength to push him away. Don’t get me wrong -you wanted more, but you needed something bigger.
“You did so well, my darling,” he said, caressing your sides gently, never breaking eye contact with your glistening eyes.
“I want you,” you said, biting your lip softly and cupping his jaw.
“I’ll give you everything you want…”
“Undress,” you ordered, releasing his jaw and relaxing back against the bed.
Who was he to question such a command from his beautiful wife?
Baelor took his time removing each layer -so many layers that you grew impatient. Your eyes were glued to his movements. His hands moved firmly, untying what was needed, letting the garments fall to the floor beside the bed. The light outlined every line of his body: broad shoulders, defined chest, marked abdomen that flexed slightly as he moved. When he reached his shirt, he didn’t take it off completely -he just left it open, not bothering to remove it. The fabric fell to the sides of his torso, framing the firmness of his chest and the soft tension of his abs. All of it framed by the happy trail leading down to his pronounced V.
His cock was long but not overly thick; the rosy tip glistened with precum, veined so prominently you could already imagine feeling them inside you.
Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, pressing to bring his cock flush against your folds.
“Please…” you whimpered, barely rocking your hips. You didn’t even know why you were begging -the word simply melted on your tongue and fell between you before you could stop it.
Baelor tilted his head, pressing one hand to your abdomen while the other gripped the base of his cock. “Look at how you open for me… I didn’t think you’d be so needy…” he said, his tone dripping with amusement.
You rocked your hips harder, a frustrated cry escaping you -you couldn’t take his teasing.
Without another word, with one smooth thrust, he slid his cock into your slick entrance. The sudden intrusion made your mouth fall open in a silent scream, the bed dipping beside you as he leaned over you.
He crashed his lips against yours in an open, hungry kiss. One hand went to your thigh, gripping it to give himself better access.
Soon he was fucking you with slow, long, deep thrusts, making your breath catch in your throat. Your head fell back onto the pillows, your back arching.
He fucked you slow and precise, as if he wanted your walls to mold perfectly to his shape.
“We need to have a child,” he commented, not waiting for a response, propping his forearms on either side of your head so he wouldn’t crush you completely -but his weight fell over you deliciously: enveloping you, covering you, enclosing you in a cocoon of heat and muscle.
You were so lost in pleasure that you barely processed what he said -you just nodded, joining your lips to his and moaning into his mouth when his tip brushed your G-spot.
“So good for me.”
“We won’t waste time -you’ll be filled with my heirs tonight,” he said, kissing your cheek and thrusting harder and faster. The new rhythm made your hands wrap around his shoulders, your nails leaving crescent marks.
You knew that, as husband and wife… and future queen, the duty of producing heirs weighed on both of you. But it didn’t feel like a burden. Not tonight. The idea of carrying something of his in your womb, merging your bloodlines and perpetuating his legacy, didn’t scare you. On the contrary, something inside you ignited at the certainty.
One of his hands slid down to where your bodies joined, large, calloused fingers finding your swollen clit. His thumb rubbed slowly at first—precise circles that contrasted with the brutality of his hips. Then he sped up, syncing with every thrust.
“Look at you…” he gasped against your neck, lips brushing the slick, salty skin as he pressed open-mouthed kisses there, tasting the sheen of sweat and desire that coated you both. His voice was wrecked, low and reverent, each word vibrating straight through your core. “So beautiful… so perfect taking everything. Filled with me. Filled with my children already.”
His thumb pressed harder on your swollen clit, rubbing merciless circles with ruthless precision -fast, unyielding, the calloused pad dragging over the oversensitive bundle until sparks exploded behind your eyelids. At the same time, his cock slammed against your G-spot again and again, the thick ridge of his head bullying that spot relentlessly. You could feel the obscene bulge of his tip pressing outward against your lower belly with every deep thrust, a visible claim under your skin, as if his body was already carving space inside you for the heir he kept promising -demanding- with every roll of his hips.
“B-baelor…” you sobbed his name, voice shattered and raw, tears of overwhelming pleasure spilling freely down your cheeks, hot tracks that cooled against your flushed skin.
“Look at me,” he murmured, almost pleading, his tone cracking with something desperate and achingly tender beneath the lust.
You forced your heavy lids open. When your tear-blurred eyes finally locked with his, the blue was nearly swallowed by black—pupils blown so wide they looked feral, yet the expression behind them was pure, raw adoration. His breathing came in harsh, uneven pants that fanned across your face; the regal composure he’d worn during the ceremony, that mask of princely calm, had shattered completely. Sweat beaded on his brow, dark strands of hair clinging to his temples, and for a heartbeat he looked almost vulnerable.
Like a man staring at the only thing that could ever undo him.
He pressed his forehead to yours again, noses brushing, breaths mingling in the scant space between you. The intimacy of it stole what little air you had left; it felt like he was trying to crawl inside your soul the same way he was already buried inside your body.
But when he spoke again, his voice was still thick with that unshakable devotion, every syllable a vow carved into your skin.
“My wife… my heir… my blood.”
The words weren’t just spoken -they were branded. A sacred oath wrapped in filthy need.
He sped up without warning, hips snapping forward with bruising force, the wet, obscene slap of skin on skin echoing through the chamber louder than your broken moans. “You’re going to come with me, aren’t you?… You’re going to stay so full… clenching around every drop so nothing escapes… And then
The orgasm didn’t build gently; it crashed into you like a brutal, unstoppable wave. Your walls spasmed violently around his length, fluttering and clenching in frantic pulses, sucking him deeper, milking him with greedy, rhythmic contractions that dragged a guttural groan from his throat. You screamed his name over and over—raw, shattered cries that bounced off the stone walls—as white-hot pleasure ripped through every nerve, your toes curling painfully, thighs trembling uncontrollably, tears streaming faster as your whole body seized in ecstasy.
He followed you over the edge with a broken growl, burying himself to the hilt one final time. Hot, thick spurts flooded you, pulse after pulse, painting your insides until you felt impossibly full, the warmth spreading deep and claiming every inch. His hips jerked erratically through the aftershocks, grinding against you as if trying to push even deeper, sealing every last drop where it belonged.
His thumb pressed harder, rubbing mercilessly while his cock slammed against your G-spot again and again. You could feel the bulge of his tip in your lower belly with every thrust, as if he were already claiming space for what was to come.
“B-baelor—” you sobbed his name, voice broken, tears of pleasure rolling down your cheeks.
“Look at me,” he murmured, almost pleading.
When your eyes met his, his breathing was ragged. The serenity he’d shown during the ceremony was gone.
For a moment, his forehead rested against yours again, as if trying to regain some of the composure he’d lost.
But when he spoke again, his voice was still thick with the same devotion.
“My wife… my heir… my blood.” As if the words themselves were a vow.
He sped up, hips slamming against yours with wet, obscene sounds. “You’re going to come with me, aren’t you?… You’re going to stay so full… And then I’ll put another child inside you. As many as you want. As many as your perfect body can take."
The orgasm hit you like a brutal wave. Your walls clenched around him, sucking him in, milking him, as you screamed his name over and over.
Baelor groaned and buried himself to the hilt, spilling hot, thick spurts inside you. He stayed still for a moment, breathing heavily against your mouth, as if the entire world had narrowed to that point where your bodies remained joined.
Without a word, he lowered slowly, staying inside you with reverent care. The position was pure missionary, intimate to the point of pain: his chest crushed against yours, arms surrounding you as if afraid you’d slip away, forehead pressed to yours while his hips rocked just enough for you to feel every inch of him pulsing inside. It was rawer, deeper. It was him giving himself entirely, as if staying inside could bind you to his soul forever.
“You did so well, my dear.” He kissed your eyelids, your cheeks, the trembling corner of your mouth -each kiss a silent vow. His hips stilled completely, but he didn’t pull out: he remained buried deep, thick, hot, throbbing, sealing his seed in your depths. The wet heat felt alive, constant, a sticky, tender reminder of what he’d just promised.
Slowly, with a gentleness that contrasted the earlier ferocity, he slid to the side without breaking the connection. He turned you with him until you were spooning: your back pressed to his broad, sweaty chest, his arm around your waist, his large hand covering your belly as if already protecting what would grow there. And he was still inside. Deep. Motionless. Filling you completely.
He felt your walls flutter softly around him -one last involuntary spasm of exhausted pleasure- and let out a low groan against your nape.
He kissed the base of your neck slowly, almost religiously devout, his hand staying on your abdomen, tracing soft, protective circles. His body heat wrapped around you like a living blanket; his breathing calmed against your hair, syncing with yours.
Exhausted, sated, your soul as full as your body, you closed your eyes. Baelor pulled you closer, as if even in sleep he feared letting go, and whispered one last time against your ear: “Don’t move. I want to feel you all night.”
His fingers traced possessive circles over your abdomen.
“Tomorrow we continue,” he murmured. “Night after night. Until you carry my heir… and many more until the maesters lose count of how many little dragons we've made."
A final, lingering kiss was pressed to the nape of your neck-open-mouthed, soft, almost worshipful-before his breathing began to deepen, to slow, syncing unconsciously with yours. His cock gave one last gentle twitch inside you, a quiet reminder that even in repose he was still claiming you, still marking you from the inside out.
And so you drifted into sleep: bodies joined in the most intimate lock, limbs entwined until it was impossible to tell where you ended and he began, his steady pulse echoing deep within you like a second heartbeat. The dying embers in the hearth cast faint, ruddy light across sweat-slick skin and tangled sheets, but neither of you noticed.
The night refused to end -not really.
Not while he was still inside you, warm and heavy and unyieldingly yours.
And somewhere in the quiet dark, between one slow breath and the next, you knew this was only the first of countless nights that would end and begin-exactly the same way.
Your stall may be small, but it’s by far one of the most frequented in all of the marketplace.
Settled next to a grumpy man selling spices, your setup consists of a single table covered by a rugged grey cloth. Atop it lies an arrangement of soaps and oils, nice-smelling little bars and bottles you sell to the public. You make them yourself, grinding flowers, herbs, salts, ashes and various ingredients you experiment with to create your hygienic products.
You learned the craft when you were little, and it had become a passion of yours. It’s an absolute necessity at the Tourney, where dirty knights and sweaty crowd members gather into one big stink fest. That’s the one thing you can’t stand about the Tourney: the smell. You’ve grown so used to pleasant scents, being in the presence of a foul smelling man is no longer something you can tolerate.
Today isn’t as busy as usual, the early craze from the arrival of knights and lively festivities has begun to die down as the final days before the Tourney approach. Still, there is a small flow of people and the occasional horse-rider trotting through. The morning air is dewy and fresh as the sun tries to reach past the grey clouds.
You turn around and reach into your pack, pulling out the few bars of soap you had finished setting the night before. You bring one to your nose and inhale. Rosemary. You smile.
You turn back around and nearly jump out of your skin at the sight of a very big man towering over your stall.
You place a hand over your heart and huff, and the giant immediately apologises.
"Oh-- sorry, I didn't mean to startle you!" His eyebrows are furrowed upward and his clear blue eyes stare into yours apologetically. He's strikingly handsome-- and for a moment you forget you run the stall.
You shake your head dismissively, "Oh, don't worry, I'm just skittish is all. Are you looking for anything in particular, Ser?" The man visibly shuffles as you call him 'Ser', chest inflating slightly to match the title. You know he's not a true knight, with his ragged clothes and rope for a belt. But flattery works wonders on customers.
Your neck is craned up as the man finds his words, and you want to laugh at the size difference of you two.
"Do you have anything that smells--well nice? Just a regular bar of soap?" You give him a humored look. Anything that smells nice at a soap stall? Hm. You'll need to check.
He seems to catch onto his obvious statement and quickly attempts to correct himself, "It's just I've been--y'know I've been told I smell bad--Well not bad just not incredible-and I was looking for--" A laugh bubbles out of you, the large man's personality was very much the opposite of what you'd expect a tall, intimidating appearance to be like.
"Aye, I know what you mean, it's not a problem." You reassure him, smiling cheekily.
He offers an embarrassed smirk and nods his head slowly, and you lean over your table to look at what scent would suit him best. Mint, Basil, Thyme, Marjoram--Sage. Your eyes flit back up to the handsome man and you observe his face. Big, blue eyes, a strong jaw, but a gentle looking man. Sage will do perfectly.
"I think this sage soap would fix your problem, Ser." He had been staring back at you, and he snaps out of his trance as your sweet voice reaches his ears. His eyes don't meet yours as he speaks, fidgeting with the handle of his simple sword.
"Yes, that'll do just fine. How much for the soap?"
"10 silver coins, Ser."
He deflates. His mouth opens and closes again, and he seems embarrassed. You feel a pang in your chest.
"I--uh, never mind then. Have a good day--"
"Wait." Your mouth moves before you know what you are saying. You look at the tall man, covered in a light layer of grime, wearing worn clothes. He stares back at you, listening attentively to every word you utter. The eyes are the window to the soul, and you can tell he has a kind soul. A gentle giant.
An idea springs into your head.
"I.. I'll give you a deal on the soap." His eyebrows raise slightly, and his shoulders stand taller.
"I've been meaning to expand my business to services, not just goods." You explain. "Massages. I've yet to master the skill, I need practice and to be truthful, I don't trust too many men with whom I can be alone in a tent. I'll give you the soap for 3 stags if you let me practice on you." His mouth stays open as you speak, in disbelief of the proposal. A reduced cost on the soap and a free massage? A faint flush rushes to his face and he shuffles his weight from one foot to another. He's never touched a woman--or been touched by a woman before. The idea felt very intimate.
You watch his reaction and you can see the cogs turning in his head. His breath hitches nervously, "That would be- uhm-- great, thank you-- but I mean are you sure?-- Not that- not that you can't trust me to be alone in a tent with you--but about the deal?" He cringes at his words, and you feel like this man has put you under a spell. He's so awkwardly charming and pleasant to watch.
"I'm sure. You'll give me some free advertisement, too." You try to act unbothered, like the deal was only put in place to benefit you, and this time you have trouble meeting his eyes.
"Well--thank you. I'll buy the soap. And I-- I shall come back here once I've cleaned myself, around nightfall?" He suggests, swallowing thickly.
You feel a growing excitement in your chest, and you push it down as you nod to the oblivious man.
"What's your name, Ser?" You lean forward, palms pressed into the table.
His eyes flick down to your cleavage before immediately fleeing back to your face. He presses his eyes shut as he stutters, reddening again. His shyness is awfully endearing.
"It's-- It's Dunc- Ser Duncan. The tall. Ser Duncan the Tall."
You offer him your name and he stares at you like a child before a storyteller. A small smile grows on his face as he repeats your name, feeling it on his tongue.
"I'm set up 4 tents to the right of Lyonel Baratheon. I'll see you tonight, Ser Duncan the Tall." He half bows, offering you a nervous smile before shuffling off.
Tonight is going to be a good night.
----------
The tent is warm and filled with pleasant fumes from the burning candles, and is aglow in a soft light. The space isn't enormous, but there's plenty of room for the two of you.
You flatten the make-shift bed that consists of your furs piled over a wooden table, and a few of your cushions. You suck in a deep breath. You're a little nervous, the memory of Duncan's sweet face has been replaying in your mind since this morning, and you've been waiting for this all day.
A sound interrupts your thoughts, a muffled shout-whisper coming from outside the tent.
"You'll stay outside, understand? I'll be an hour, no longer. You run off I'll give you a clout in the ear." Duncan's voice is distinctly his; a low hum you recognize from this morning.
The flap of the tent opens, revealing the tall man. You catch a glimpse of a little boy behind him staring inside curiously before the fabric closes on him.
He's clean, now. His hair holds more volume, and shows a lighter reddish-blonde, and his skin glows. He mumbles a quick greeting, accompanied by a shy, toothy smile. His hands have found the hilt of his sword again, a nervous habit his body takes in stressful situations.
Your feet carry you closer to his form, until you are directly beneath him. Even hunched and attempting to look nonintimidating, he towers over you, broad shoulders blocking your vision behind him. He looks tense, right hand now balled into a fist next to his thigh, his clear blue eyes avoiding yours.
He looks even more handsome than he did this morning.
You reach and grab his hand, soft fingers wrapping around his rough ones, and his breath catches in his throat. His hand envelops yours completely, and he looks at you like a lost puppy, unsure of what to do. It's difficult to see in this lighting, but you can tell he's gone pink.
You smile at him. "Hello, Ser Duncan." Your eyes flit back down to your entangled hands, and you think the image is forever engrained in your memory.
"Come this way, settle down."
You pull him to the bed, sneakily placing your other hand on his forearm as he clumsily sits.
"You'll need to remove your top, Ser, and lay on your stomach."
The poor man already looks overwhelmed, eyes caught between the soft touch of your feminine hand on his forearm and your enchanting face staring at his. The warm light of the candles expose your soft features, and highlight the curves of your body, visible through your thin satin dress. He remembers himself and nods, a sentence caught on his lips.
"Of course."
You turn to your table of oils, and pretend to ignore the sound of rustling cloth behind you. You bite your lip, fingers dancing over bottles until you find the one you are looking for: sage oil.
You turn back around to a flushed Duncan, with his hands locked firmly to the side of the table, staring at the floor. He looks even larger now, muscles visibly flexing under the skin of his arms as he shuffles. He has a beefy build, athletic but well fed-- you struggle not to ogle at the wonderful sight.
You clear your throat, "Who was that boy outside?"
He looks up at you, "Oh, Egg--that's my Egg--m-my squire." He stutters, and you laugh at the slip up.
"Your Egg." You repeat with a small smile and he shakes his head, huffing.
You gesture to the table, and Duncan clears his throat, moving to settle his body on the bed. As he lowers his front to the furs, you nearly drool at the sight of his back muscles flexing, his beefy arms holding his weight while he lies down. At first, his neck is twisted to the left, head facing your direction. He catches a glimpse of your figure all up close and immediately picks it up again, settling it to the right.
You rub the oil in your hands, chuckling softly. What a gentleman.
"You can lay in whatever way feels most comfortable, Duncan." You mutter softly, voice catching through your whisper.
You see him visibly tense, and you move your hands forward, to his scalp. Your fingers smell of sage: minty and earthy, with top notes of lavender. They introduce themselves into his dark blonde hair, weaving over his head. A small sound comes from, so quiet that you could have missed it. His reaction tells you he's never been taken care of before.
Your movements are slow and calculated, rubbing large circles through his hair and over his scalp, from bottom to top. You've never seen a man melt so fast, he deflates at your touch, shoulders dropping forward. His eyes flutter closed, eyelids relaxing fully and pretty long lashes casting a small shadow over his cheeks. The ecstasy of your soft fingers playing with his hair and brushing his scalp seems to trump his embarrassment, he no longer has it in him to be tense. Duncan didn't grow up with a maternal figure, and has never been comforted this way before. The unique gentleness and care of a woman is lulling him into a state of bliss.
Your fingers find his neck, and the oil allows your thumbs to glide firmly up his nape, pressing into the tough muscle. This time, the noise he makes is louder, and he's wretched away from his dream-like state, eyes flickering open.
"I'm --I'm so sorry that's-" He panics, stuttering. He tries to get up, face red and scrunched in distress.
"Shhh.. Duncan, look at me please." Your voice is soft and you plant a hand over his back. He halts and faces you, his breathing uneven and head lowered in guilt. Your heart aches for this man.
"I'm here to massage you, Duncan. Massages are supposed to be relaxing. How you react doesn't bother me in the slightest." You say gently, like you are afraid to scare him off. You don't realize your thumb is caressing the skin on his back slowly.
"In fact, it's more like a compliment, hm? That I'm making you feel that nice?" He stares at you like you strung up the stars, lips parted.
Your free hand comes up from your side and finds his hair again, this time you hold his gaze. They caress his dusty blonde strands over the front of his forehead, weaving over and around the side of his scalp. Duncan doesn't know if he's still breathing.
"So you lay back down and let me take care of you, love." Duncan can't remember how to speak, and nods his head, spellbound by your soft touch. The look in his eyes are almost glossy, greedily consuming the sight of the angel in front of him--hypnotized by your heavenly touch.
He lies back down shakily.
Pouring more sage oil into your hands, you waste no time in finding his body again. His back is warm, and comically large under your fingers, muscles tight with years of struggle. With four fingers, and a fair amount of upper-body strength, you slide over him, pressing down firmly. You hear a trembly exhale.
Your hands find a routine, spread wide as they rub over his back, warming the slick oil over his body before kneading him strongly. You work through clicks and knots, squeezing muscle and coaxing small whines from him. Your arms burn, it requires a tremendous amount of energy to properly get into the man's shoulders and relieve him of his stiffness. You work tirelessly over his lower back, stomach fluttering as you follow the arch of his body, imagining ashamedly what the rest of him looks like nude.
He lays perfectly still, as if any sort of movement will wake him from this wonderful dream. The sensation of your soft hands over his back, pressing into muscle he didn't know needed to be pressed makes it difficult not to shed a tear of pure pleasure. It feels so caring and maternal, which makes the warmth pooling to his lower half all the more upsetting to him.
But he can't help it, the unfamiliar touch feels so right, like something he's been missing his entire life without realizing. It makes his heart flutter and his head spin, and he's powerless to the delicious ache that presses into the bed.
You continue massaging, relishing in the sight of the big man so compliant and vulnerable under you.
You don't know how long passes, maybe an hour or two; you only stop when your fingers threaten to snap, drained of any energy left.
Only a few candles still burn, the light in the tent is low and the soft breathing of Duncan is the only sound that fills the silence. You stand for a second, swaying in place. You had given it your all, all your strength and attentive care to comfort this man, to make him feel good.
You lean forward to see his face. His eyelids are relaxed, every muscle in his face uncontracted and soft, free of any worry. His mouth is open slightly and his breathing is regular.
You smile softly, eyes low-lidded.
"Excuse me?" A high-pitched voice comes from outside the tent.
You quickly remember the boy outside, Egg, and recall what Duncan had told him. You gasp softly and hurry over to open the flap of the tent. The poor thing had been waiting outside all this time.
The small bald boy looks up at you, a tired look on his face. You feel a pang of sadness in your chest.
"Come in, Egg." You offer in a low voice, as not to wake Duncan. "Ser Duncan is sleeping here tonight. I have a few extra furs and cushions I can put together for you."
His eyes light up, and he gives you a grateful smile.
"Thank you, milady."
You creep past the large, sleeping figure, and set up a little bed for Egg, on the floor to the right of Duncan. You two work in a playful silence, Egg almost making you laugh by mocking Duncan's sleeping face, imitating him with his mouth open.
You realize you don't have much to sleep on, but you don't care. Getting into your bed, you stare at the two boys. Egg is still smiling to himself, and you wonder how long it's been since the poor boy has slept inside.
What a wonderful day. You hope that he will be okay waking up here tomorrow. Was leaving him to sleep here the right choice? Your eyes find his face, sunken and lulled into a peaceful, deep sleep. You dismiss your anxiety. The man needed this.
As fatigue pulls your eyes closed and you fall into a deep slumber, your mind presents to you images of a beautiful man with clear blue eyes and a gentle, sweet smile, and you happily dream of a tall hedge knight.
Ok but Aizawa is absolutely obsessed with chubby/fat women bc they’re soft and they smell nice and he will use you in place of his sleeping bag all the time. He will come home from a shift or his hell class, see you on the couch and bully you into a position where he can sleep comfortably on you.
If you pout n whine at him just right he’ll let out this huge sigh like you’re stressing him out and then wiggle down between your legs to eat you out until you’re crying, wailing that you can’t take anymore and then he’ll just smack your thigh or ass, enthralled at the way the flesh jiggles before diving right back in.
You wanted his attention right? So be a good girl and take what he’s giving you, and thank him for it.
anon u r brilliant i’ve been thinking ab this for days
you’re not thinking much of him when aizawa comes to sit by you. no, not even when he slots his huge, dense body over your back.
you gave him an initial side eye, but he just grinned real lazy. said he likes being close—don’t you, pretty lady?
you don’t think much of shouta, or his schemes, until he raises his head from motorboating the back of your thighs to slapping a hand into the meat of said luscious thigh. he’s sick, you decide, when he presses his nose against the sweat-slicked skin there.
you squeal and tense at the sudden pain that blossoms where he hit you. you don’t have long to relish in it when his fingers sink into you. he holds you still where you lay on the couch, and shouta groans deep as he molds your flesh with hands.
“it hurt?” shouta asks, sounding like it hurts him to breathe anything but the bewitching aroma of the cute, twitching pussy beneath his nearly drooling mouth. “sorry.”
“i need—,” you whine, rocking back to meet his mouth despite knowing you shouldn’t. “y’can’t, ‘cause i’m gross.”
your shouta doesn’t even bat an eye. the minute the words leave his mouth, he’s gone back to harassing your pussy-soft pillow thighs with his scratchy beard. “i don’t care for the shaved shit.”
“i need t’shower,” you hiss. “you’re tactless.”
you’ve been home all day. well, you showered last night for your early-morning errand run. and then you went and did some roller skating. then, you came back and watched a movie. and now, your husband is home and hungry—
and you’re trying to tell him dinner isn’t ready?
you don’t even bother after that. shouta’s strong hands take to your legs, spreading them a bit. just enough to get space for his shoulders to take up between your hips. for a while, aizawa just looks. and talks shit. fake worry drips from your husband’s tone when you, to his pleasant surprise, fight back against him.
“i just want to lick you a little,” aizawa says. he kisses you now, soft half-bites to soft, delectable parts of your legs. “woke up thinkin’ ‘bout it, came home thinkin’ ‘bout it…”
“you want my pussy in your mouth all the time,” it’s more of a hiss than you mean for it to be. and you nearly cry out as part of him brushes your clit. one of his hands supports your weight on his face; the other slides up your body to pinch your nipple.
“fuck yes. are you offering?” shouta loves how your hips grind back to him, taking the pleasure he’s giving you with a clenching, sloppy pussy. “wish you’d cut it with the panties, too.”
“think i give a fuck about a shower?” aizawa is not shy about it at all as he continues. he bites into the silence your swirling brain so dumbly encourages you to leave. and your brickhouse of a man fills it with the filthy, nasty ways he plans on making those pretty eyes cry as you grind cum all over his mouth.
he growls, “make me fuckin’ messy, baby.”
you whine.
“whining about later—you don’t think this spoiled pussy needs me now?”
shouta revels in the gooey squishes your pussy makes when his thick fingers come to pry your ass cheeks apart. you don’t even get a chance to answer before he spreads you again, and this time his tongue claims the insides of your cunt instead.
Hi, my name is Kara!!! I’m getting kicked out by my verbally abusive mother. She told me I have until the end of November to leave or she’ll call the police. I’m 18 and starting university this year, and I need help covering the cost of a dorm since it’s my only affordable option. I don’t have a stable job yet, but I’m working on getting one. I have no other family I can turn to. Even $1 helps. Thank you so much for your support!!! (Also, I apologize for the tags but I'm in a very tight situation right now!! 😭)
[ warnings: fingering, virginity loss, sex content, poetic smut, angst, a detailed description of the deadly disease and the unpleasant symptoms associated with it ]
[ description: After their nuptials, the court becomes even more divided. The King, however, wishes to spend the last years of his life experiencing the joys he finds in the closeness of his wife. His bride was never to lose her maidenhood, however, is what the King has proclaimed to his subjects what he really craves? ]
Author’s Note: After the warm reception of the first part, which I didn't expect at all, here is the second part of their story! I have to admit that I had a great time writing it and I love them. I tried to leave some realism and not forget about his illness and the fact that it is contagious.
Part Two of Paradise Fruit. Can be read as a standalone story.
Word count: 4.600
* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *
My other works: Masterlist
_____
Their nuptials were humble – apart from the Archbishop, who gave them his blessing, uniting them for eternity, they were accompanied only by Sibylla and her husband, enraged, thinking that the King was just fulfilling his sneaky plan.
He truly believed that he would have exposed her to such danger, condemning her to the cruel disease that tormented his members to try to beget an heir.
She was grateful to her Princess for lending her one of her beautiful, gold-embellished robes that day – Sibylla knew what purpose this marriage was intended to serve and that it would not change the order of succession.
She was to be his comfort, a moment of relief and solace, nothing more.
Nevertheless, she smiled, feeling happiness filling her heart, her king's gaze tender and full of affection, from which she felt warmth in her chest.
She thought that she had fallen in love with him.
Their marriage was announced to all and sundry, and she became a king's wife, but not a queen.
She was not bothered by this.
She was assigned a chamber right next to his – she could now visit him whenever she wished and did not have to worry about the King's honour.
As she walked into his quarters, clad only in a thin night robe, a smile of happiness adorned her face. Baldwin, though tired, also seemed pleased and rose at the sight of her.
"Wife." He said, entwining his hands behind his back.
His figure was all clad in white as usual, though the material of his wardrobe seemed thicker to her, a silver mask on his face.
To her surprise she noticed that his gloves were black, apparently made of leather.
She bowed to him, recognising that she was not intending to think about it now.
"My King. My husband. You are the man of your word." She whispered warmly, looking up at him from above her long lashes, feeling a pleasant tickle in her lower abdomen meeting his gaze, hot and dark.
"I am." He replied. "I couldn't deny myself this pleasure. It was an act of my selfishness, not my greatness."
She blinked, cocking her head, feeling for some reason amused by his words.
"Does it matter now?" She asked lightly – something flashed across his gaze, she thought he smiled.
"No. Not in the slightest."
She looked at him expectantly, waiting for his orders – he had announced that because of his disease he would not take her maidenhood and their marriage would be white, however, after what had gone on between them earlier, she did not think her husband would want to remain an ascetic in every aspect.
"Let me see you." He said finally, his voice like a sigh.
She knew what he meant, she knew what he wanted – she could see it in his gaze. Her hands rose to the small knot above her breasts, untying it, slipping the thin material of her nightgown off her shoulders in a light, gentle motion, remaining bare before him.
She shuddered, feeling the chill of the chamber surround her body despite the flames burning in the fireplace beside her, her lips parted as she noticed her king's gaze shift, misty and filled with a familiar, hot desire.
For a moment he looked at her with his head tilted, as if he was simply admiring her, nothing more.
"My physicians have said that the leather material, as opposed to linen, will ensure that you are protected from the touch of my bare skin and what it may cause." He said, tentatively extending his hand to her, and she felt her heart thump harder in her chest with joy.
She could touch him.
They both drew in a loud breath as she placed her fingers on his palm, letting him pull her a little closer, the spot between her thighs all swollen with desire, slowly growing moist with her wetness.
Her lips parted with her gasp of surprise as his other hand touched her cheek – she snuggled her face into it, placing affectionate kisses of her lips on it.
"I would give all the treasures of this chamber, my possessions and my gold coins to feel the taste of your lips on mine." He gasped, looking at her as if she were a precious jewel, a spring water that quenches thirst, an olive tree that feeds whole nations.
She closed her eyes, listening to the sound of the sizzling fire and their hitched breaths as his thumb ran over her full, lower lip. She parted it before him and let him slide it deeper, between her teeth. Her lips clamped slowly around his finger, looking up at him with desire as she began to suck.
A low groan escaped his throat at the sight, clearly imagining that he was forcing something completely different down her throat.
He placed his other hand on her back, at the same time pulling her closer and holding her at arm's length, apparently afraid that even his breath was dangerous to her, possibly dooming her to his fate.
She moaned when he gave in, when his mask pressed against her forehead, his eyelids all red around his bright pupils.
"– forgive me –"
She didn't know why his words, filled with so much sadness and desire, made her throw her hands on his shoulders, her lips clinging greedily to the unpleasantly cold, silver structure of his mask.
She closed her eyes, hearing his gasp of surprise, placing lingering, hot kisses full of her saliva and tongue on the surface of it, imagining he was able to feel it, his hands sinking into her hair.
"– touch me, husband – I crave you –" She mewled helplessly, running her hands over the material beneath which was his head, his hair, his jaw and neck.
She squealed when he lifted her suddenly by her buttocks, the quiet hiss that escaped his lips made her understand that this sudden movement must have caused him pain.
She stroked the back of his head as he moved towards his bed with his face nestled between her breasts, not wanting to show him any sympathy now that he wanted to be a strong man in her eyes.
He let out a breath as he laid her down on the soft sheets, his gaze full of tenderness as he looked at her face.
"– lie on your stomach and spread your thighs –" He said calmly and gently, however, something in his words and their undertone made her feel a heat in her lower abdomen and a wonderful tickling sensation.
She obeyed his command immediately, feeling her legs become stiff as he caught her around the waist and lifted her hips, forcing her to buck her buttocks in front of him in a shameless manner.
She heard his heavy breath as he positioned himself behind her on his knees, running his leather-gloved hands over the soft skin of her buttocks, herself panting hard, knowing where he was looking now.
"– the reason why Paris abducted Helen of Troy – the cause of the downfall and delight of all mankind locked deep between my wife's thighs –" He whispered in such a sensual way that she moaned pathetically, clenching her eyelids as his thumb ran over her leaking, throbbing womanhood.
Apparently he liked the sound she made, because one of his hands slid into her hair, holding her in place, reassuring him that she wouldn't take advantage of his weakness and try to expose him in an act of pleasure, endangering him and herself.
"– lie still – shhhh, my love –" He whispered, hearing her innocent cry of desperation as his fingers began to trail around her oversensitive, swollen bud, waves of tingling and tickling sensations spreading through her body dulling her mind, causing her to emit uncontrollable sounds.
She could hear him panting as she watched what he was doing to her, his fingers digging into her delicate folds with a loud click of her wetness, barely teasing her – her hips began to roll back and forth, responding to his treatments, trying to find a better source of rubbing.
"– have mercy on me –" She mumbled with difficulty, her lips parted wide in a girlish moan when, at her request, the tip of his middle finger burst into her fleshy, hot interior.
The experience was at once full of discomfort and delight – at first the material of his glove was cold, but in time her body temperature enveloped him with its heat.
"– God – so warm –" He whispered in a voice trembling with emotion, in some involuntary, primitive reflex forcing her to take his finger deeper inside her, meeting resistance.
"– yes or no –" He breathed out, making her gasp.
Yes or no.
She froze, feeling her heart begin to pound like mad, knowing that he had lied: he had only declared their marriage as white so that after his death his sister's husband would not attempt to kill her out of fear that she might be carrying his heir.
The future King.
"– yes –"
Her fingers clenched on the fabric of the sheet beneath her as he pierced something inside her in one aggressive motion, along with her squeal taking her maidenhood.
She began to wriggle under him with sweet whimpers of delight as his first finger was joined by a second, opening her wide for him only to fuck her before his eyes.
Tears of pleasure and shock ran down her cheeks as she moaned like a mere whore, spreading her thighs wider, his fingers thicker and longer than hers, stretching her so wonderfully.
"– please –" She whimpered, responding with her hips to each thrust of his hand, the tips of his fingers hitting the sweet spot deep inside her with startling precision again and again, while his thumb teased her little pearl between her folds with reluctance.
She bucked up more, panting loudly along with him, feeling the drops of her own wetness begin to run down her thighs one by one, soaking his hand, the fingers of his free palm clenched in her hair.
"– go on – please your King –" He commanded in a low voice from which her weeping cunt clenched around his fingers in convulsions of ecstasy, the sweet, stupefying pleasure making her cry out loudly, her legs bent at the knees quivering all over from the exertion.
"– a-ah –" She mumbled out, her face red with emotion as her body shook with a fulfilment so strong that her leaking, hot walls began to simply suck him inside. He felt it and moaned in a boyish manner, stopping moving, keeping his two fingers slipped deep into her body, just wanting to feel how it pulsed around them.
"– yes – just like that – easy now – easy –" He praised her, slowly sliding them out of her, and she swallowed hard, letting her body fall back onto the bed, panting loudly.
She sighed as he turned her onto her back and spread her thighs, looking at her with eyes black with desire, his hand slipped under the material of his robe.
Only then did she notice that his garment had a slit in the area underneath where his manhood was.
Although he had not allowed her to look at it then, now that he had grasped it in his hand and directed it at her throbbing womanhood, she saw the fat, pink head of it, dripping with his desire.
His hand clamped down on her soft breast, careful, however, not to cause her pain as he began to squeeze his swollen erection in his palm, with sharp, aggressive strokes from the very base to the tip chasing his fulfilment.
She moaned innocently, surprised, tilting her head back as his thumb ran over her hard, sensitive nipple, playing with it, something like satisfaction flashed through his gaze when he saw that this kind of touch was giving her pleasure.
"– my wife is so eager – so devoted to her poor husband – hm? –" He gasped, his breathing heavy as he accelerated, already squeezing only the base of his manhood, rocking his hips back and forth, struggling to restrain himself from opening her up, from sinking into her, from feeling her.
She rolled her hips forward encouragingly, rubbing her moist cunt against the thick head of his erection, drawing a low, almost animalistic groan from his throat, his silhouette moving slightly away.
"– no –" He growled with pain and anger, involuntarily returning again and again to her warmth, letting the tip of it push against her swollen, thirsty slit.
"– please, my King – put inside me –" She begged, but he shook his head and simply came with a loud moan of pleasure, his pearly, sticky spend spewing onto her womanhood.
He stared at this shameless sight, his head bowed low, his breath heavy as if he had just accomplished some heroic feat.
"– you need to bathe in hot water – immediately – dress yourself, I'll call the servants –" He exclaimed, rising abruptly from the bed, covering his manhood back with his robe, wiping his hand sticky with her wetness into its material.
She stood up quickly, horrified that he was surely angry with her for not listening to him, hastily dressing her nightgown over her shoulders, bursting into sobs.
"– forgive me, my King – forgive me, do not send me away –" She begged, but he did not listen to her, ordering his servant to immediately bring the tub into his chamber and fill it with hot water.
Although it slightly burned her skin when she stepped inside, her husband-king explained that the heat killed whatever was spreading his disease, and the oils and herbs that were thrown in were to prevent any other infections.
She looked at him with big eyes as he sat beside her, dipping his leather-gloved hand into the water along with a piece of cloth, sinking it then between her thighs, making sure not a single drop of his seed remained on it.
"– will you forgive me, my beloved? –" She muttered pleadingly, watching his face. He looked at her with a chastising look and sighed heavily.
"– it is I who should beg your forgiveness – I have allowed myself to be carried away by my desires, which have suppressed my reason – do not fear, it will not happen again – after your bath you will return to your chamber and will no longer visit me in the evenings –" He said calmly, looking away.
Her heart stopped in her throat, her brow arching in pain and disbelief at his words.
"Are you sending me away?" She muttered with difficulty. He looked at her, surprised apparently by her question and reaction, his hand froze in mid-motion.
"You can't sleep here because I am here. My breath, my proximity are deadly. I am exposing you even now. Before sleep, my physicians pull off most of the fabric that covers my body. I will never let you see this." He said and swallowed hard, seeing as tears one by one began to run down her cheeks.
"You break my heart. At least let my bed be placed next to yours. Drape it with curtains so that I may not see you or your body at night, but that I may at least hear your voice, hear your presence in the same chamber." She said pleadingly, touching his beautiful silver mask with her hand, his gaze tired and sad, filled with pain.
He hesitated.
"The chamber is not locked. Place my bed by the windows, by the fresh air. Do not condemn me to solitude, show me mercy, my King." She whispered, once again placing a kiss on his mask, on his cold, silver lips, his sigh testifying that he pressed his lips on the other side, reciprocating her caress.
"You are my doom."
At his command, her bed was moved to his chamber, raising voices full of resentment from some of the monks and priests, commenting on the fact that her maidenhood might be called into question.
"White marriage, to my knowledge, does not mean that husband and wife live separately. On the contrary, we should indulge in prayers together and be each other's comfort by day and night."
Honour Knights and Lords were concerned about what kind of comfort his little wife was to him.
Each day, the physicians sent by King Saladin checked the condition of her body and whether there were any signs of infection – her husband watched it from the sidelines in horror, relief in his gaze each time he heard from their lips that his wife was in good health.
However, taking advantage of the fact that the King had left the chamber after her examination, returning to his duties, one of his medics approached her, pale.
"My Lady. Spending so much time in the King's company, you will certainly contract his disease. Often its first symptoms do not appear until years after infection. It is possible that it is already too late." He muttered, bowing before her.
She swallowed loudly, looking at him calmly, feeling discomfort in her stomach.
"Would my husband live to see the time when the first symptoms could be apparent? If it turned out I was infected." She mumbled, and he shook his head.
"No, my Lady."
She smiled at his words and nodded.
"Thank you. Assure my King that I am well and can abide with him as before."
The man looked at her, in his eyes disbelief but at the same time a kind of admiration, compassion and warmth from which she felt a squeeze in her throat.
"My Lady."
The days in Jerusalem were often sunny and hot, and as her husband rejoiced at the sight of her bare body, she walked around his chambers naked, feeling like a Greek goddess, Aphrodite or Artemis.
She would read old volumes, play the lute or embroider while spreading out comfortably on large cushions so that he could see her, and he would admire her from afar like a nymph.
"– my wife is like a fruit of paradise – like a goddess born of the sea foam –" He murmured, looking at her contentedly, bent over the dozens of parchments spread out on his table.
The servants knew that they could not enter his quarters without permission, for although he was gentle and affectionate in his manner, he did not wish to share this shameless sight with anyone.
However, what most of their days consisted of were conversations.
Her husband was a great speaker – they were discussing the Bible, faith, philosophy, poetry, art, war and history for long hours.
At nights, when he couldn't sleep from his pain, hearing his sighs and quiet moans that he tried to suppress for her sake, she would ask him questions.
She couldn't touch his hands or embrace him – his body needed rest, to breathe to keep from rotting and for at least a few hours a day it was supposed to be uncovered.
"Christ says to the adulteress: go and sin no more. However, he knows, as God incarnate, that this is not his command, but a recommendation. Sin is the fatal disease of every human being and we all sin in thought, in speech, in deed, in neglect. This is no reason to be sad. Christ is merely saying: live in such a way as not to cause yourself or others suffering, try to live with dignity, in harmony with yourself and your Father in Heaven."
"Is it known what happened to her afterwards?" She asked quietly, looking at his silhouette, seeing only its outline on the other side of his bed.
"Some identify her with Mary Magdalene or Mary, the sister of Martha and Lazarus. But it could also have been a person not mentioned by name in the Gospel. She certainly followed Christ and became one of his disciples." He said, his voice clearer without his mask, calm and soft.
"Do you think God considers me an adulteress?" She asked in a trembling voice and heard him shift restlessly in his bed.
"Why should such an unjust and harsh judgment fall on my wife? Because she is devoted to me with her soul, heart and body? Haven't you done everything I asked of you and even more? You are as pure as the sheet I lie on, as the delicate fabrics I wear on my skin. Your beauty makes me even more aware of my ugliness." He whispered with pain that made her swallow hard, shocked by his words.
"To me, you are the most beautiful of men. Before I met you, I swore to God that I would never marry, that I would not share Sibylla's fate. He showed me mercy, filling my heart with a burning feeling for you, my beloved."
He was silent, but she heard him exhale loudly, his trembling sigh full of suffering.
He cried.
"If only you could look at my face, see what a disgusting caricature of a human I am, you would understand what a great mistake you made." He howled, choking on his own tears, clearly letting out what had been weighing on his heart for weeks.
The fear that if she accidentally saw his face, she would scream in terror and run away.
"Is your faith in me so weak? I hoped you think of me with respect." She mumbled, heartbroken, feeling a squeeze in her throat.
She heard him swallow hard at her words, clearly terrified that he had offended her.
"I do, my love. Forgive me."
"I fell in love with a human, not an earthly shell." She said, but he didn't answer her.
She watched the silhouette of her husband and his physicians each evening through the curtains, seeing them only as through a fog in the candlelight, their shadows dancing around her.
She could hear his hisses and cries of pain as they treated his wounds, see the outline of his head, always with his back turned to her.
When they were finally left alone and he lay down on his bed, she heard his sigh of relief, his face, though she couldn't see it, turned towards her.
"My sweetest?" He whispered, and she smiled warmly, feeling a wonderful delight in her heart every time he called her that.
"I'm here, my love." She murmured, twisting comfortably in her bed.
"I desire you."
She swallowed hard, feeling her warm womanhood throb around nothing.
"I desire you too, my beloved."
They were both silent for a long moment, the tension around them palpable in the air.
"– one of my physicians –" He began in a trembling voice. "– at my request, he created something that I can – put on my length so as not to touch you directly – from what I understand, he made it from the intestine of some animal and disinfected it – he assured me that it would be safe for both of us, but –"
"– yes –" She muttered, feeling her heart begin to pound like crazy at the thought that he wanted to do this to her.
"– you know it's a risk –" He said, his voice quivering with longing, the shadow of his silhouette turned towards her.
"– I knew it from the very beginning – I don't care what happens to my body – I just want to feel my beloved husband inside me –" She whispered with embarrassment and that seemed to be enough for him.
She heard him stand up, quickly putting the cloth and mask over his head as he appeared on the other side, beside her bed, looking as he usually did – the same black leather gloves on his hands, his fingers clenched on a small wooden box.
"– undress –" He commanded, and she did so, literally ripping off herself her nightgown, laying down on her stomach.
His silhouette was instantly next her, kneeling behind her buttocks, his breath hitched and quickened when she heard the rustling of something and another strange, sticky sound.
After a moment, his fingers tentatively and gently ran over her swollen, pink folds, collecting her wetness, which had already managed to trickle down her thigh.
"– no other treatments are needed – my sweet wife is leaking like a forest stream –" He hummed with delight and admiration, she felt her cheeks blush with embarrassment.
They both sighed as she felt something thick and hard begin to push against her puffy slit, opening her wide – despite her lack of preparation her cunt pulsed in delight, moist with desire.
The feeling of him deep inside her, so intense and definitive, of how hard his long, thick erection stretched her fleshy walls was shockingly pleasurable and terrifying at the same time, as if her body no longer belonged to her.
"– yes, yes, yes –" She mewled as she felt his hands clamp down on her buttocks, spreading them apart as if he were tearing a piece of fruit, another determined thrust of his hips sinking him completely into her hot core with their moans of pleasure.
"– fuck –"
She wasn't sure if he had ever cursed before, but then, as his hips immediately began to pound into her with loud slaps, nothing more than their panting, grunts and words insulting to God left his mouth.
"– we'll do it frequently – so that you can remember this feeling well – your husband deep inside your warmth –" He exhaled in a way from which her little cunt began to squeeze him greedily, sucking his erection inside, her lips parted wide in a loud, helpless whines of pleasure so strong that she had to close her eyes, her hands clenched on the bedding.
His gloved fingers dug into the delicate structure of her hips, imposing a more aggressive pace on her, his fat manhood bursting deep between her fleshy walls without slipping out of her, hitting again and again her sweet little spot.
"– yes – yes, I love you, I love you, I love you, please –" She cried out, feeling the tension in her silky womanhood reach its zenith, the pleasant tingling in her belly testifying to the fact that she was about to reach her peak with him and dreamed of nothing else.
He moaned low, slamming into her like mad, feeling her weeping core clench around his twitching length more and more, his manhood hard as a rock with desire.
"– G-God – oh, fuck, yes, yes, my sweetest, let me, ah –" He gasped in delight, coming deep inside her, filling the thin material overlying his manhood with his release.
Her eyes closed and her mouth parted wide as her peak came down on her like a thunderbolt, shaking her body with convulsions of delicious delight.
They both moaned and panted, rocking their hips for a moment more with the loud click of her slick cunt, his hands soothingly kneading the skin of her buttocks.
"– I will order more of this to be prepared – so that I can fulfil my marital duty every night –" He sighed with satisfaction.
She involuntarily smiled under her breath, looking up at him over her shoulder, the moonlight shining outside the window reflected in his mask.
"– what kind of white marriage is this? –" She asked teasingly, rolling her hips, feeling his half-soft manhood pulsate inside her again.
"– our kind – do not fret – I will explain it to God once I am before him – I will tell him that I loved my wife too much –"
_____
Author's note: Between their wedding day and this next act, weeks actually pass during which he doesn't touch her (she mentions the days spent in his company and how she is examined every day, how he watches her naked, but apart from that nothing happens between them). He is afraid that if he tries to touch her again, he won't hold back (he had already had difficulty not taking her on their wedding night), so he tried to think of something so as not to touch her directly with his manhood. Their intimacy is an act of their desperation, the pain of knowing that their marriage will last a year or two at most. The desire to touch her and feel her is as strong in him as the desire to protect her and push her away. Their love is tragic and complete to me, and she knows what she is risking (she knew from the very beginning).
[ warnings: watching each other masturbate, soft, poetic smut, a detailed description of the deadly disease and the unpleasant symptoms associated with it ]
[ description: After being treated by King Saladin's physicians, King Baldwin begins to leave his chambers. The people of the court whisper around her that the young ruler will not even live to be thirty years old. As a lady of waiting of his sister, she attracts his attention. ]
Author's Note: I said it and I did it: I know this isn't your typical Ewan Mitchell character, but I couldn't resist. I'm glad I wrote this because I had too many thoughts after watching this movie and now my soul is at peace! For those who haven't seen Kingdom of Heaven, I highly recommend it, it's an amazing production.
Word count: 3.900
Part 2 – White Marriage
* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *
My other works: Masterlist
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Jerusalem seemed to her at once a paradise and a hell on earth, both beautiful, sublimely sacred, as much as broken, dirty and cruel. The reign of King Baldwin IV was a reign of restraint and peace, the greatest evidence of which was his rich diplomatic correspondence with King Saladin himself.
Baldwin gave permission for the Muslim part of Jerusalem to hold prayers as it wished, on payment of appropriate taxes – a huge step towards reconciling the city's disparate population and a cause of contention among the Christian knights.
As lady of the court, she accompanied the royal sister, Sibylla, like her shadow, serving her with conversation, reading books in her company, being the equivalent of her friend and confidante, watching over her welfare.
She was the third daughter, and was therefore a burden to her lord father, who sent her to Jerusalem to the royal court when she was thirteen. Her father hoped that Sibylla herself would find her a suitable husband and put up the coins for her dowry, allowing her family to glory on the Old Continent in the fact that her chosen one was favoured by the God in the Holy Land.
Looking at Princess Sibylla's marriage, she prayed that she would never meet her fate, preferring to eventually fade into old age in a monastery.
Her Lady abhorred her husband: not in a physical context, for he was not unlike other great knights in stature or appearance, but in his heart, which was filled with the lust for power.
Although he believed that he was acting in the name of Christ on the Earth, he represented neither his mercy nor his prudence, being a simply unkind and spiteful man.
Sibylla was given in marriage to him at the age of 15, and she watched her sufferings and humiliations in silence, only being able to allow herself occasionally to close her hand on hers, giving her encouragement.
It was known that her husband's dream was the death of the King, for it would then be his wife who would become heir to the throne. Someone might laugh at this wish, knowing that King Baldwin was only 16 years old when she arrived at court.
However, despite such a young age, it was known that the King would probably not live to see his thirtieth year.
The cruel disease that had descended upon his body when he was still a young child, leprosy, was the reason why his whole body was covered, and his face was adorned with a beautiful silver mask – the only thing visible through it were his eyes, bright and wise, the skin around his eyelids all red.
His sister despaired at his undeserved suffering, at the thought that his body was falling apart, his skin peeling and pulling away from his muscles, causing him excruciating pain. He could not touch anyone or be touched directly because his disease was contagious.
Thus, one of the greatest rulers of Jerusalem, a man who had accomplished the impossible and ushered, at least for a while, the Kingdom of Heaven into this forbidden holy land, suffered daily torment.
As she prayed for the health of her family and his sister, she also prayed for him – since Christ was able to miraculously cure lepers, as the Bible itself said, perhaps there was hope for him too.
As a sign of respect and friendship, the Muslim King Saladin sent a retinue of his best physicians to relieve the King of his pain, which must have helped at least to some extent, for although she had previously only seen him in audience standing by his sister's side, now the King began to walk through the palace gardens on his own.
One day, when Sibylla noticed him standing next to one of the monks, she approached him immediately, praising his name, and she moved humbly to follow her, feeling grateful at the thought that the King was indeed feeling better.
That perhaps her prayers had been answered.
"Brother. It rejoices me to see you in the fresh air, away from the suffocating comfort of your chambers full of books and parchments." Sibylla said, pulling her shawl from her mouth, revealing her face to her brother.
As a married woman, she covered her face out of sheer decency, as her husband was a jealous man, but she, as a maiden, in addition almost always being in the presence of her Lady, did not have to do so.
"Your judgement is too harsh, dear sister. Books and parchments are my solace in the hardest of times." He said calmly and lazily, effortlessly – it was the first time she had heard his voice this close and she thought the words coming out of his mouth were like humming.
He had a white linen cloth draped over his head that reminded her of the headgear of the pharaohs, a richly embroidered white robe and gloves on his body, a silver mask portraying the features of a handsome, masculine man on his face.
She swallowed hard as his gaze shifted to her, catching her looking shamelessly at her ruler's face, causing her to lower her head immediately.
"Let's take a walk. We should take advantage of the beautiful weather." Said his sister, wanting to take his arm, he however moved away immediately and shook his head.
Pain and sadness crossed Sibylla's face, but after a moment she only nodded and forced herself to smile, walking ahead with him, letting her and the King's servant walk a few steps behind them.
That evening, for the first time, the King summoned her.
"Do not fret." Sibylla said. "My brother is a man of decency and sensitivity. Rest assured, he will not set upon your virtue or force you to do things unworthy of a lady. He confessed to me that he would like to look at your face for at least a moment longer and asked me to convey his wish to you, indicating that you may refuse."
She looked at her in disbelief, feeling the blush of embarrassment appear on her cheeks at her words, feeling her heart begin to pound like mad.
"If it is the will of our beloved King, I will do so." She said, and Sibylla nodded, giving her one satisfied smile.
She wore her most beautiful robe and hair adornments as if she were about to attend a nuptials – the material cast over her body was blue, fastened at the shoulders and waist with golden buckles, in her hair at the sides jewellery resembling a wreath of laurel leaves.
As she entered his chamber, candles burned all around, she was also struck by the intense scent of lavender – she noticed immediately his white, seated figure bent over thick tomes. His head turned towards her, in his mask she was able to see the reflection of everything around him.
"Do not be afraid. Come closer." He said softly and she nodded, feeling her heart flutter in her chest like a bird.
Her footsteps on the stone floor echoed through his chamber, the rustling of her robe as she sat down opposite him made her sound similar to the rustling of leaves.
She swallowed hard as she watched him sigh and spread out comfortably in his chair, looking her straight in the eye – she immediately looked away, unaccustomed to such confidentiality with anyone.
"No." He said. "Don't deny me this pleasure."
She tightened her fingers on the material of her garment, lifting her gaze to him again, feeling herself involuntarily begin to breathe through her mouth.
She could see the calm and curiosity in his eyes – his head was tilted slightly to one side, as if he was thinking about something, silence all around him.
"I'm making you uncomfortable." He concluded.
She shook her head quickly, horrified, thinking that something in her posture or gaze had discouraged him.
"No, Your Grace. I just don't know how to behave. What is appropriate for me to do or say in your presence. Silence is safe." She confessed in shame, lowering her eyes to her fingers again, reminding herself after a moment that she should not do so.
The King hummed at her words.
"Do not take my words as my attempt to mock you, however, knowing how little time I have left in this wretched world has made me tread lightly in courtly etiquette." He said with amusement, not taking his eyes off her, something flashed in his gaze as if someone had lit a candle inside them.
"We waste time feigning care and respect, hiding what is true, arising from the depths of our hearts, because that is what etiquette demands of us. When we stand before God, will we say to him: I have never really loved or sympathised, but my lips have left many beautiful, great words?" He asked, and she looked at him in disbelief, completely surprised by his approach and what she had heard.
Some part of her knew he was right.
"In this world, only the King can afford to lack beautiful words." She muttered, hearing after a moment that something akin to a chuckle had left his lips.
"You are mistaken. One word from the King can either create or destroy."
She lowered her head, wondering if he had just rebuked her, he, however, seemed satisfied.
"My reign will end with my death, which will be in a few years at the latest. I will not beget an heir to whom I can pass on my philosophy of ruling, the values that are essential. My sister's husband and his greed will sit on the throne, and Jerusalem will fall." He said calmly, as if he were telling her about the weather, his fingers clad in a white silk glove tapping rhythmically against the table top.
She swallowed hard, feeling a squeeze in her heart, wondering if perhaps the reason he had summoned her was quite different from what she had suspected.
"What shall I do, my King?" She asked, and he laughed again, louder this time, looking at her as if something in her question gave him pleasure.
"Your devotion rejoices my heart. Do not think, however, that you will hear from me an order that would condemn you to eternal damnation. I could not then leave this world in peace. No. I wish that when I disappear, someone will watch over my sister. To help her escape when all is lost here, no matter what her husband will desire. Do you understand what I have in mind?" He asked softly, and she nodded, thinking she felt more respect towards him than ever.
"Yes, my King." She replied.
He smiled at her words, she saw it in his gaze. She lifted her gaze higher, towards the windows by which the shoots of dried lavender hung, surrounding them with a pleasant, refreshing scent.
"I had these beautiful flowers brought in from far away. They mask well the unpleasant ailments of my illness on hot days. The smell of rotting flesh is one of the most disgusting to man, for nature equates it with spoiled food from which he can die." He explained, and she looked at him in disbelief, feeling hot shame ripple through her body at his words.
His suffering must have been unimaginable.
"Knights praise their own greatness and bravery during battles wishing for songs to be sung about them. I, for one, hope to hear songs about Baldwin IV, a wise and prudent King, a merciful Monarch who fought each day with his own suffering and triumphed. I do not know the words that can convey my admiration for your person." She mouthed in a trembling voice, feeling that her hands lying on her thighs were quivering all over with emotion, burning tears for some reason squeezed under her eyelids.
The King looked at her for a long moment in silence, something in his gaze that made her feel a pleasant tingling in her fingertips.
"Your soul is as beautiful as your body. You are like a breath of cool wind on a hot day. I am grateful to you for allowing me to experience this joy."
As she left his chamber, for some reason she burst out crying.
She could not understand why: it seemed to her that her heart squeezed all over in pain, not only out of compassion, but also out of a sense of injustice that a man so great and enlightened was experiencing undeserved torment every day.
Or was it through his ordeal that he became such a man, such a King?
If the gates of the Kingdom of Heaven were to open before anyone in the second life, it was before him, she thought.
That night she could not sleep: she was ashamed of herself for thinking about him. She tried not to pay attention to men, knowing their nature, knowing that they might consider it an invitation on her part to sin.
However, the time she spent with him, although she might perceive his words as ambiguous, seemed to her something almost spiritual, a moment of awakening, as if she had been in a half-sleep until the moment she looked into his eyes.
His gaze would find her in the audience among the other servants and ladies of the court. She knew this because his eyes stopped on her face, and although he listened intently to what his subjects were saying to him, she knew that for that one moment he was focused only on her.
The flutter of her heart shamed her, allowing her to realise that, like a flower, a warm and pleasant feeling was blossoming within her, coming from God.
"You occupy my brother's thoughts. He follows you with his eyes." Said Sibylla as they walked together through the corridors of the great, cold stone fortress.
"It was not my desire to distract him from the affairs of the Kingdom." She confessed with shame, entwining her fingers on her womb, looking sadly at her fingers. His sister snorted at her words.
"Jerusalem is destroying him. It is the Kingdom that is his disease. He has taken upon himself all its sins, purified it. He gave it years of peace and dignity." She said with a pain from which she felt a sting in her heart.
Why was it that whenever she thought of him she wanted to cry?
"I want to relieve him." She said finally, looking at her uncertainly, afraid of how the words sounded when they left her mouth. Sibylla stopped, looking at her with furrowed brows.
"Don't be a fool. My brother will not condemn you to a fate similar to his own."
"There are many ways to experience relief. You said so yourself, Princess."
Sibylla looked at her thoughtfully and after a moment nodded, giving her wordless consent to whatever she wished to do.
The trust she had in her intimidated her.
As the siblings' chambers were next to each other, walking along the corridor from one quarters to the other was not a problem for her – Sibylla dismissed her guards so that no one could see in what negligee she went to the king's chamber.
Her long hair was loose, her body covered only by a thin nightgown, rubbed with fragrant oils, on her shoulders a cashmere shawl with which she covered herself to protect herself from the cold.
When she closed the door behind her and turned to face him, his eyes were wide in shock. He was silent for a moment, clearly not knowing what to say.
"No." He said finally. "Go back to your chamber."
"I have not come to you to sin. Does the sight of me disgust you, my King?" She asked in a trembling voice, feeling that she was breathing heavily through her mouth, her heart pounding like mad in her chest.
She saw something in his gaze that looked like he felt pain, his figure creased slightly, as if he had run out of strength.
"God created you to subject me to the ultimate trial. He is torturing me like Job."
She felt a single, warm, heavy tear run down her cheek at his words, her body trembling all over, hot and cold at the same time with desire, though she did not know what kind or what was causing it.
"God sent me to soothe your suffering." She whispered.
They looked at each other like that for a long moment that lasted an eternity, and only after a while did she realise that his silence was due to the fact that he wanted whatever she was going to do to be due to her free will. Therefore, she moved tentatively towards his bed, on which she saw a clean, snow-white sheets, and lay down on her back, putting her shawl aside.
She looked up at him – his gaze was fixed on her, his silhouette sitting in a chair by the window frozen in stillness, the whiteness of his attire seeming to her to shine amidst the candles and the surrounding darkness of the night.
She swallowed hard, feeling the dryness in her throat as her fingers lifted to the ties of her nightgown – she untied the knot, a pleasant squeeze spreading between her thighs, something sticky beginning to leak from it onto the sheet beneath her buttocks.
"– does what I am doing disgust you, my King? – is it a sin? –" She asked, sliding the thin material off her shoulders in a gentle, soft motion, unashamedly revealing her plump, sweet breasts. His gaze fled to them, as if what he had just seen simultaneously terrified and excited him.
"– looking at you, all I feel is desire – it's me sinning in my mind, not you –" He whispered so that she barely heard him, his hand sliding from the table top to his thigh.
Though she knew it was wrong, her whole body screamed, wanting him to touch her, to check for himself how soft and warm her flesh was, her moist, swollen womanhood, pulsing around nothing in desire.
"– not just you, Your Grace –" She muttered in a trembling voice, shamefully mimicking his movements, her long, small fingers sliding down her belly between her thighs, sinking into her warm folds like the moist flesh of an exotic fruit.
His head bowed as they both made a strange, unnatural sound full of surprise at the same moment, a moan as if they had caused each other pain, but yet all she could feel was a wonderful, hot tingling in her quivering womanhood, in her lips, in her nipples, in the tips of her fingertips.
He did not allow her to look at what he was touching under the material of his robe, she could however see the shape of that part of his body outlined on the material – his manhood was long and fat like a piece of stick, growing larger and larger with each squeeze of his hand.
She threw her head back, imagining feeling something that big inside her, in an involuntary reflex finding with her fingertips her puffy slit, slick and tight, resisting her as she tried to slide it inside her.
"– let me see –" He whispered, as if asking for something dirty, disgusting, repulsive.
She, however, felt only the heat of pleasure at his words shake her body – her thighs involuntarily parted, her legs bent at the knees allowing her nightgown to shamelessly reveal all that only her husband should be able to look at.
She felt tears under her eyelids at the thought of wanting to be his wife.
"– you have my love, my King – you have my heart –" She breathed out, digging her fingers deeper into the delicate structure of her folds, teasing again and again the small bud from which her body went through shivers of wonderful, familiar pleasure.
His eyes were fixed on what was between her thighs, his gaze hazy and hot, his breath heavy, the sound of his hand smacking against his flesh sticky and lewd.
"– like the inside of a ripe fruit – like Eve in paradise –" He breathed out, staring at her as if he were looking at something delightful, accelerating the splats of his hand with a low grunt of pleasure. "– so beautiful –"
She felt a thrill of pleasure shake her, shivers ran through her cheeks, breasts and legs at his words, so shameless and yet poetic, beautiful, like the Song of Songs of King David.
"– her breasts are like two fawns –" She hummed, quoting one of the biblical verses, the gaze of her King again fixed on her face, full of fire, heavenly or infernal. "– like twin fawns of a gazelle that browse among the lilies –"
"– her lips drop sweetness as the honeycomb – milk and honey are under her tongue –" He whispered in reply, quoting another of the songs from the manuscript, making her involuntarily allow her own fingers to invade her insides at last.
She threw her head back with a girlish moan, her free hand gripping the frame of his bed, rolling her hips back and forth, stretching her tight interior with the sticky clicks of her wetness.
"– she is a spring enclosed – a sealed fountain –" He muttered and let out a low, helpless groan of relief, leaning down, his hand lying on the table top clenched into a fist.
She felt a wonderful convulsion shake her body at his words, her fleshy, moist walls beginning to throb and clench around her own fingers.
She imagined that her body had just sucked his seed deep inside her, which would take root in her like a tree, giving him a future and an inheritance.
She moaned as she felt her pleasure reach its peak, seeing for a moment only the darkness before her eyes – her fingers, all wet with her moisture stroked for a moment more the little spot deep inside her, her whole body hot and sweaty from the exertion.
Her release was wonderful and sweet, as if she had tasted the most delicious of fruits.
She opened her eyes and met his gaze, his figure relaxed and spread out comfortably on the chair, his hand laid back on its armrest, his glove sticky with something pearly and shiny.
They breathed loudly for a while, just watching each other – she decided not to cover her body, wanting to give him that pleasure, wishing only his gaze could see her like this.
Bare.
He sighed quietly, cocking his head, his gaze satisfied, indicating that he had clearly made a decision in his heart.
"– I will marry you tomorrow at dawn –"
She blinked and raised herself up on her elbows, horrified.
"– my King – that's not –"
"– I know that this was not your intention – I also know that you will understand that it will be a white marriage, which I will declare to all and sundry – you will not lose your maidenhood – you will not bear me children – the Kingdom will treat you after my death as a saint who stood by the dying King in his misery – when I join my Father in the Heavens, you will be free to remarry –" He explained and she shook her head, feeling offended by his words.
"– I will not take another husband –"
He fell silent and swallowed hard, as if something in the certainty in which she said this moved him deeply.
"– very well – I have only one condition: you will never take off my mask – not even after my death – you will see me as I am only in the Kingdom of Heaven –"
He told himself that every time he crossed the skyline, cape cutting through cold rain and neon haze. Gotham was Batman’s city; His shadows, his rules. Superman had no business here.
But the museum fire changed that.
Not an attack, just an accident. Faulty wiring, dry exhibit wood, one spark that caught where it shouldn’t. Flames curled up stone archways and climbed painted ceilings older than the city itself.
And she was there.
Through smoke and alarm-laced shouting, Clark saw her guiding tourists and interns to the exits, voice calm, movements sure. Not dramatic, not heroic, steady. Always steady. Even when things fell apart.
He put the fire out before it spread. Then he vanished, before anyone could really look long enough to connect dots.
By the time he returned as Clark Kent, she was outside, hair pinned back, soot dusting her cheekbone, clipboard still in hand. Tired, but composed. Like always.
“Long time,” he said softly.
She turned, offering a small smile. Gentle. Distant.
“Clark. Hi.”
His name had never stung before.
“You okay?” he asked.
She nodded. “Everyone got out. That’s what matters.”
He exhaled—relief mixed with an ache he couldn’t name.
When she was cleared to leave, she looked like she might simply say goodbye and disappear back into the city that had swallowed her so completely.
“Let me walk you home,” he said quickly.
She hesitated, but only for a breath.
Then nodded.
The city was quieter than Metropolis. Gotham always hummed in low tones - muffled sirens, wet streetlight glow, the soft hiss of passing tires on rain-slick pavement. They walked side by side. Not touching. Not speaking.
But silence wasn’t empty.
It was full, heavy. Painfully careful.
They reached her building. She paused, key in hand. He looked tired; More than tired. Worn. Drawn. Like something inside him had been unraveling slowly and he’d only just noticed the loose thread.
She opened the door, stepped inside and then turned back.
“…Do you want to come in? I have tea.”
He nodded, almost too fast. Like the word had been waiting behind his teeth.
Her apartment was warm. Books stacked everywhere. Research papers. Field notes. Artifacts catalogued and half-wrapped from shipments and exhibitions. A life built from curiosity and patience.
Clark sat at the small kitchen table while she set the kettle on the stove.
“It’s been bad,” he said, voice rough.
She stilled.
He didn’t backtrack. Didn’t soften it. He just let it fall.
“Lois and I… we’re not working.” His hands flexed in his lap. “I think she loves Superman more than she loves me. That symbol. The admiration of safety. I don’t have a part of me that doesn’t… doubt. Or crack. Or get tired of it.”
He laughed once, a hollow sound.
“I’ve been trying so hard to be what everyone needs that I forgot to be a person.”
She didn’t interrupt. She didn’t rescue him. She just listened.
And that was somehow worse, and better, than anything else.
“I thought I could handle it,” Clark continued, voice weakening. “But then you left.”
Her breath caught. Quiet. Barely there. But he felt it.
“You didn’t say anything,” she said softly.
“I didn’t know how,” he admitted. “You were this constant in my life and then suddenly you were gone and everything felt… louder without you.”
The kettle whistled, but neither of them moved.
“I kept up with your work,” he confessed. “The museum press releases. The restoration notes. The reports you published. I told myself it was just support.” His voice cracked. “But I think I just missed you.”
The room felt painfully small.
(POV shift: reader’s POV)
You looked at him, really looked. “What do you want, Clark?”
Not ‘what hurts?’
Not ‘what went wrong?’
Not ‘who failed who?’
‘What do you want?’
His chest lifted with a breath that felt like surrender.
“You,” he said. Bare. Honest. Undoing.
“I want you.”
Something in your expression softened, broke, then mended.
You stepped closer and touched his jaw, light as breathing.
His eyes closed, like the touch was something he had been starving for.
“I waited,” you whispered quietly, a small confession.
“I know,” he murmured back sadly, eyes opening to look at you with that soft sadness only you could understand.
It’s strange, the things you start to notice when someone’s gone.
The empty space where they used to stand. The way silence feels heavier in certain corners of a room. The echo of a laugh that only exists in memory.
Clark hadn’t realized how quiet the bullpen could be until you weren’t in it anymore.
It’s been three months since you left Metropolis, and still, every morning, he catches himself glancing toward your old desk. Perry hasn’t reassigned it yet. Maybe he knows. Maybe everyone does. There’s a coffee ring on the corner, a scratch on the surface from your favorite mug. The chair’s slightly turned, like you might come back and sit down any minute.
He tells himself it’s just habit, that he’s fine.
But sometimes, when the elevator dings, he still looks up.
And every time it’s not you, something in his chest tightens just a little bit more.
Lois notices, but she never says anything. Not directly.
She just watches him with that sharp, knowing gaze; The one that once thrilled him, now makes him feel like she’s dissecting him.
“You miss her,” she says one night, voice quiet. Not accusing. Just tired.
He looks up from the stack of notes in front of him. “She was part of the team.”
Lois hums, swirling wine in her glass. “She was more than that to you, wasn’t she?”
Clark’s throat tightens. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes, you do,” she says, and sets the glass down. “You don’t look at anyone else the way you looked at her that day. The day she left.”
He doesn’t answer. There’s nothing to say.
Lois sighs, gaze softening. “You know, sometimes I think you fell in love with me because you thought you were supposed to.”
He looks up, startled. “Lois….”
She smiles; That bright, easy smile she saves for press conferences and front-page headlines. “It’s okay. I did the same thing.”
The air between them feels heavy, fragile.
And then, softer: “I love you, Clark. I do. But I think…” Her eyes flick briefly to the open window, to the night sky beyond. “I think I love what you represent more than who you are.”
He doesn’t flinch. He’s known it for a long time. The late nights she’d stay up waiting for him, but not him, not the man sitting beside her, waiting for Superman. For the cape, the symbol, the savior.
The man she sees when he takes the glasses off.
When she leans in to kiss him, it’s gentle. Distant. Like two people performing something they used to believe in.
When she pulls away, she whispers, “Go save someone, Clark. That’s what you’re best at.”
He watches her walk away, her shadow melting into the glow of the hallway. Then he turns toward the window, staring at the lights of Metropolis, the same skyline that used to feel like home.
Now it just feels hollow.
He dreams of you that night. Not the day you left, but the first time he saw you.
It had been your first week at the Daily Planet. You were late, breathless, clutching a stack of resumes and coffee cups. He’d offered to hold the elevator door open for you, and you’d nearly tripped stepping in.
“Thanks,” you’d said, cheeks pink, smile nervous. “I swear I’m not usually this much of a mess.”
He’d smiled - that small, shy Clark Kent smile that felt safe and warm. “Happens to the best of us.”
You’d laughed then.
He didn’t know it at the time, but he’d never forget the sound.
You ended up sitting across from him that day, awkwardly trying to log into your new computer. He’d helped you fix your password, shown you how to use the printer, even written “Ctrl + P” on a sticky note in his careful handwriting. You’d teased him for it later, calling him “Mr. Instruction Manual.”
Back then, he thought you were just kind.
Now he knows it was the moment everything shifted.
The night he met you, he lost something he never knew he had.
He flies over Gotham sometimes. Not as Clark, as the man Lois still loves. The man she calls a miracle.
He tells himself it’s coincidence, that he’s just passing through. But deep down, he knows better.
He’s searching for the light in your window.
Just to see if you’re okay.
Just to feel like you’re still under the same sky.
He’s seen you once - sitting by your window, typing, the city light painting your face gold. You looked calm. Happy, even. He wanted to go to you. To say something. Anything.
But what would he say?
That he finally sees you now?
That every heartbeat feels like punishment for the moments he let you slip away?
Instead, he hovers in the dark, the wind catching the edge of his cape.
And he whispers your name like a prayer.
You never hear it.
You’re already gone.
He remembers the sound of your laughter, the curve of your handwriting, the way your eyes would light up when you caught a story no one else did. He remembers every small thing - except how to stop missing you.
And every night, as Metropolis sleeps below him, he whispers to the stars,
(Y’ALL the amount of likes and the comments from Invisible is astounding cuz I just started writing!!!! I saw one comment where they wanted Clark to beg on his knees, and IDK about begging BUT I LOVE MAKING HIM CRY!)
@ventressism (this is for you!!)
It’s been a year since you last wrote Clark Kent’s name in the corner of a notepad.
A year since you stopped looking up every time the elevator dinged.
A year since you started training yourself to look right through him the way he used to look through you.
He and Lois are together now. Everyone in the newsroom knows. It’s the kind of story that people sigh over; Two reporters in love, both chasing danger and deadlines, both saving the world in their own ways.
But you know better. You see the way Lois looks at him - bright, admiring, but distant. The way her smile sharpens every time Superman’s name comes up. You see how Clark pretends not to notice. Maybe he’s good at pretending now.
You’ve stopped pretending.
Your apartment is packed into boxes. You’ve got a train ticket to Gotham, and for the first time in months, the air feels lighter. You tell yourself you’re not running away. You’re just…leaving. Before it hurts again.
You sneak into the bullpen early to clear out your desk, no goodbyes, no explanations. Just a quiet exit. But when you step out of the elevator, he’s already there.
Clark looks up from his desk, glasses sliding a little down his nose. “You’re in early,” he says with that easy, friendly tone that’s always felt like a paper cut, soft, small, and stinging.
You force a smile. “Just finishing some things up.”
He glances at the boxes in your arms, his brow furrowing. “You moving apartments?”
You swallow. “Something like that.”
He stands. “Wait…are you…leaving?”
You hesitate. You weren’t going to say it. But there’s something in his voice - confusion, maybe something else - that breaks your silence.
“Yeah,” you finally say. “I got an offer in Gotham. Figured I could use a change.”
Clark blinks, like he can’t quite process it. “You’re…leaving Metropolis?”
You nod. “Tomorrow.”
He stares at you, and for a second it’s like the whole room goes still. No typing. No ringing phones. Just the weight of everything unsaid.
“I didn’t know you were thinking about leaving,” he says softly.
You laugh, but it sounds more like a sigh. “You never really noticed me, Clark.”
He looks like you’ve slapped him. “That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it?” you ask quietly. “You were always with Lois. Always smiling, always listening, always looking at her like she hung the moon. And I just-” you shake your head. “I just wanted to be seen. Just once.”
His mouth opens, but nothing comes out. He looks stunned, almost guilty.
You set the box down and meet his eyes. “You don’t have to feel bad. I’m not saying this to make you. I just needed to say it before I go. You were… everything. And I know you never meant to hurt me. You just never looked my way.”
You turn to leave, and his voice catches, soft, broken.
“Wait.”
You freeze.
When you look back, he’s standing there-eyes wide, panic in his voice. “I didn’t….God, I thought you hated me. You were always so quiet, and I-” He steps closer, his voice shaking. “You were right there, and I was too stupid to see it.”
You can feel your throat tightening, tears blurring your vision. “It doesn’t matter now.”
“It matters to me,” he says, and suddenly his voice cracks. “I could’ve had you this whole time?”
He sinks to his knees before he can stop himself, hands in his hair, breath shaking. He looks wrecked, like the words hit him too late, like they’re tearing him apart from the inside.
“I could’ve had you,” he repeats, voice raw. “And I didn’t even know.”
You take a step back. The sight of him, Clark Kent, solid and unshakable, breaking right there in the middle of the bullpen-feels unreal. Painful. Beautiful.
You whisper, “Now you do.”
Then you pick up the box, and you walk away.
He doesn’t stop you this time. He just stays there on the floor, knees pressed to the cheap office carpet, watching you disappear.
