Warnings: smut, unprotected piv, thigh riding, oral f!receiving, missionary, doggy, dom!bruce, big dick!bruce, multiple orgasms, multiple rounds, creampies, rough sex, semi-public sex, fingering in the back of a limo, begging, edging, hair pulling (Bruce!receiving), also some plot, angst, minimal comfort, reader smokes and drinks, reader is an implied housewife, reader wears a dress (no descriptions), commitment issues, idiots (afraid to be) in love, tense & grammar, lmk if I missed any
(updated vers)
Bruce Wayne cannot love.
Neither can you.
There is nothing meaningful about the relationship you have. It is not much of a relationship to begin with. It is a marriage, distilled down to what a marriage really is. A contract. An apathetic, though mutually beneficial, exchange. Bruce’s public persona is bolstered by having a pretty thing like you on his arm, and it’s much less effort than being a playboy. You, on the other hand, have at your fingertips anything and everything you might need — wealth and security in excess.
There is nothing more to it. Once all the photos have been snapped, the right hands shaken, the galas ended, Bruce returns to being the Batman, and you return to being the hausfrau of a billionaire.
There is nothing more to it, except for the sex.
The bed, the one the two of you have never truly shared, is a mess.
The silky sheets are rucked up, half upon the floor and half tangled amidst your limbs, stained with a mix of your arousal and Bruce’s cum, dripping down from between your thighs. The frame rattles as it is shoved forth with every thrust, headboard thudding against the wall. He’s buried balls deep, fucking into you from behind; his fingers dig bruises into your hips as he keeps your ass up, your face buried into the pillows, back in a smooth arch that deepens as he hits just right.
You’ve lost track of how many rounds he’s put you through. It was just one of those nights. Rough and raw and rife with unspoken things that will never, not ever, not with you, be put into words.
Because it’s never making love with Bruce. It’s plain and simple fucking.
It had started when Bruce slunk into your bedroom in the early hours of the morning. His Batsuit was gone, in its stead a pair of sweatpants hung low on his hips, black boxers peaking out from underneath. He was already patched up. Showered. Skin warm and hair dripping over his face. He perched himself upon the edge of your humongous bed, shoulders tense and body stiff. You hadn’t been waiting, but nor had you been asleep.
Without affection, without question, you’d climbed into his lap and within seconds his sweatpants were tugged down and he was grinding you down on his thigh until you were sick with the need to cum.
It was only when his skin was covered in your slick, when the room echoed with the squeaking, squelching noises of your hips rocking back and forth, that he was satisfied. Then he’d hoisted you up and tossed you onto the sheets with a practised efficiency. He’d crawled after you, his broad hands spreading apart your thighs and hooking your knees over his shoulders, and he ate you out like a man starved.
Starved for your pussy, yes, but for more. For things that he could only ever confess between your thighs. Things he could only ever confess with sex.
You’d cum so hard on his mouth; your hips bucking, a litany of moans spilling from your mouth, and your thighs clamping down around his head — Bruce could’ve sworn you wanted to choke him out.
He teased another orgasm out of you, and then another, before he’d finally decided to fuck you. He’d buried his face in the crook of your neck, a low groan muffled as he bit into the soft, sensitive flesh there, rocking forward that first inch. Your pussy had missed his cock, though his cock never left your pussy for very long. Your walls had all but sucked him in, greedily welcoming the burn of being slowly split apart.
“Fuck, Bruce,” you’d gasped when he’d bottomed out — that was the last coherent thing you’d managed to say that first round. The pace at which he’d fucked you made it difficult to think straight, let alone string together much more than incoherent, desperate sobs.
The rounds had blurred together since then; Bruce had filled you up, and then fucked his cum back into you over and over again. His mouth had marred your skin with bites and bruises. His fingers squeezed your nipples or rubbed your clit until you felt drunk on a dozen sensations.
It was a fool’s paradise.
Being married to Bruce often felt as such. Being fucked by Bruce even more so. Though, being face down, ass up, on the verge of tears from how good it felt, makes it easy to forget the fact.
“Shit... You want it?” Bruce grunts out, almost condescending, when one of your hands reaches back to grip his thigh, pulling on his leg to jerk him deeper.
He likes the sight of you — all desperate and demanding when he pulls his cock out in the middle of fucking you through the sheets. He likes to tease your folds with the tip, press against your puffy clit, and slip back in only enough to give you an inch of stretch.
“Want more?” He probes, and there’s no doubt about the mean condescension in his tone now.
You nod your head. Adamantly. Dig your nails deeper into his flesh. Give his thigh another firm pull, though this time, he resits. It’s desperate, your clawing, but it’s not quite enough by Bruce’s standards. One of his hands pries your fingers from his thigh, pinning your wrist against the arch of your back and pressing down. It makes you feel fuller, but not full enough.
“Words.” He orders.
“More.” You whine out. “I want more. Now, Bruce.”
It’s far closer to a tantrum than polite, proper begging, but you suppose Bruce takes pity on you for once. Instead of pulling out and teaching you manners, as he might’ve on a more patient night, as he intends to do in a more patient mood, he gives you another inch. Then another. Your pussy has been thoroughly stretched out by his cock, and yet he still feels big, and you sill feel tight.
You rock your hips back against his cock, fucking yourself onto him when his pace becomes too excruciating to take, and Bruce groans, low and rough; “So fucking demanding.”
Yet, he gives into your demands.
When does he not? He pushes himself all the way in with one heavy thrust. He follows it with another, and then another, and then another, until he’s resumed that rough, perfect, head-board banging pace. Each thrust hits right against your g-spot, his cock grinding against the gummy ridges in a way that has you crying out and your walls clamping down around him.
Bruce knows you’re close then. Knows by the way your pussy clenches around him, making it harder to pull back just half an inch, as your sounds become punched out and your hands white-knuckle the sheets.
He hates he knows you so well. Hates it, and yet, in the fucked-out, pussy-drunk haze of sex, feels real proud of it.
He lets your wrist go free, only to haul you upright, back flush against his chest. One arm wraps around your waist, fingers finding a loose grip around your neck, to keep you there. He takes full advantage of the new position to fuck himself even deeper, as deep as possible, until you can almost taste the tip of him in the back of your throat.
His other hand slips between the folds of your pussy. Your hips jump when he presses down on your clit, and the dual sensation has you seeing stars when he begins to circle.
“God, Bruce!” You gasp, head falling back against his shoulder. Your hands reach back to mindlessly tangle in the sweaty mess of his black curls, and your nails leave little red crescents at the nape of his neck when he pushes you towards the edge. Yet again. “Bruce — Bruce, s’too much.”
“One more.” He grunts. He refuses to let up. Even as you squirm in his grip, at once overwhelmed and desperate for your nth orgasm of the night. Even as his head falls forward against your shoulder and he has to bite into the flesh of it just to last, his balls clenching as your pussy does the same around his cock.
“Fuck, ‘m gonna — can’t — ” Your words are slurred with moans and gasps as Bruce drives himself into you again and again, chasing both your releases with equal vigour.
“One more.” He repeats, thumb pressing firm and insistent on your clit. “Give it to me. All over my dick.”
You obey his order without the tantrum this time. You cum on his cock as the sensation peaks and crashes down around you; thighs shaking, eyes rolling back, pulling on his hair hard enough to hurt —
“That’s it,” Bruce pants, not letting up his thrusts, not stopping his thumb circling your clit, “c’mon.”
“Oh, oh fuck, Bruce! Bruce! Bruce!” You scream his name, over and over, loud and lewd and nearly pornographic in its intensity.
That, and the way your pussy is practically milking his cock, has Bruce following after you.
He cums with your name on his mouth and the closest thing to a whine you’ve heard from the man all night. He pushes himself all the way to the hilt when his balls tighten, and for how much he’s already filled you up tonight, it should be impossible that he’s filling you up even more. But he does, until it’s leaking out from around his thick cock, trailing down your thighs and joining the wet, slick mess on the sheets.
You’re both breathless and panting.
He holds you there for a while. His head buried into the crook of your neck, breathing in the scent of sweat and sex and you. His arms wrap around your waist, almost as though he does not want to let go. You let yourself stay in his hold for that little while. Your head against his shoulder, eyes half-lidded and observing the ceiling, a mosaic of moonlight and shadow and nothing much at all.
You’ve been thoroughly fucked out of thought, but somewhere in the back of your mind lingers the knowledge you will probably fall asleep all by yourself. You always do. Once Bruce has thoroughly fucked you, cleaned you up, and tucked you in, he will find better things to do than offer those little comforts that might make this relationship anything more than what it is.
A contract. An exchange. A marriage of convenience that, every night you are left all by yourself, feels a little less convenient than it should.
You woke up alone.
It was late in the day, the clock on the wall telling you it was nearing noon. Not that you much cared when you woke or when you slept. Days and nights blurred together more often than not. An endless, rather boring, cycle marked only by the occasional dinner, regular shopping excursions, galas, races, charity balls, paparazzi here and there, and getting fucked through the mattress.
Commencing the day felt like too behemoth of a task, though your day would not consist of anything particularly taxing or greatly important. Still, your body was sore, limbs aching and stiff, and your head was worse. The ensuite felt miles away. The latest edition of Vogue and the pack of Marlboros on your nightstand were much closer. Rolling onto your stomach, groaning at even that small effort, you rubbed your eyes and pawed for both.
After fumbling through the drawers for a lighter, you were at last in a sedated state of numbness. Cigarette in hand, glossy pages spread open on the bed. The items displayed in the magazine were all the same. They were all distinguishable, you supposed, though by what you did not know. The draw of smoke from the cigarette, the cloud of smoke that poured from your mouth and into the air afterwards, made it easy not to care so much.
“Is this how you intend to spend your days, Mrs Wayne?”
You hadn’t noticed the bedroom door click open, or perhaps Bruce had left it ajar when he’d left. The question was all you got in the way of greeting from Alfred, sweeping into the room with a tray of breakfast — or, more accurately, brunch, seeing that it was already midday. You were long past embarrassment with the butler, little went on in the Manor without his knowing about it. Including the details of your marriage. Though you preferred not to wonder too long on how much Alfred knew. Or heard.
“I take it you have thoughts.” You sighed, taking another long drag of your cigarette, as though it might ward off Alfred’s judgements.
It would not, of course.
Alfred set down the tray of food on the nightstand with a smile. Small and wry. Your words were an obvious understatement for the many reservations he had about your relationship with Bruce. You knew that, of course. You never much liked spending time within the Manor. Big and cold and empty, it wasn’t truly your home. You weren’t sure it ever would be. Still, when you exhausted your options and wandered about the halls, listless, it was Alfred you had for company. Him and his judgements.
Once, you might’ve found it sad your best friend was a butler. Now, as you found yourself becoming to most things, you were largely apathetic to the fact.
“I only mean to say that, perhaps, this — ” he made a broad gesture to the state of things, “ — is not the most productive use of your time.”
“And what do you propose I do instead, Alfred?” Your words were weary. As though you’d seen all the world and realised there wasn’t much worth living for. A touch melodramatic to be sure, but there wasn’t much else to be. You looked up at him with that same weariness, though it was quickly bleeding into exasperation. “Get a job? Call home? Spend time with my husband?”
To a normal person, a happy and invigorated person, all of those choices would have seemed much better options than the one you were currently pursuing — lying in bed till noon, doing nothing but smoking a cigarette, flipping mindlessly through a magazine, and being judged by one Alfred Pennyworth.
“I would not presume to tell you what to do,” Alfred said, though he was obviously going to, “but if you tried, he might surprise you.”
“If I tried, he might think I’m having a stroke.” You corrected with a scoff, another puff of smoke wafting in a hazy cloud across the room.
“As I said, he might surprise you.” Alfred insisted, picking up the mug of coffee he’d brought up with the tray and presenting it to you.
“I doubt it.” You replied tersely, waving away the coffee alongside his efforts at what? Bringing life into your marriage? “I’m really not in the mood for all that, Alfred.”
“Mrs Wayne — ”
“We don’t spend time together.” You cut him off.
There was a pause, a moment spent in silence as the words settled into the vastness of the room. Not spending time with the person you were married to was a ridiculous, unthinkable notion to some. To happy couples. To the ones so deeply in love they could not imagine a day going by without the other. To the ones whose entire being was deeply, impossibly, irreversibly rooted in the other’s. For those, it was a notion so far removed from reality. To you, it was not. To you, it was your reality.
“We don’t.” You found yourself repeating the words. “We’re not going to. So don’t start, Alfred. Not today.”
“Very well.” He nodded, just once. You felt small under Alfred’s gaze. It wasn’t unkind, but you always sensed it had seen things you couldn’t yet comprehend. It was knowing. Too much so. “Shall I take away the tray?”
You looked up at him just a moment longer, then your shoulders slumped and you sighed; “No. No, leave it. Coffee I can manage.”
When he handed you the mug of coffee again, you begrudgingly accepted it. It wasn’t much in the way of a concession, but it was enough for that small smile to return to Alfred’s face, and for him to leave you alone.
You watched him go.
There was a strange emptiness where his presence had been as the door shut behind him. It was only primitive human nature. Wired to exist within a society, wired to crave meaningful connection and whatnot. You knew, though, that loneliness was far better company. Alone, the only person who can hurt you is yourself. So, though you had half a mind to trail after him like a sad puppy, you took a sip of coffee, a drag from your cigarette, and flipped the page.
Bruce’s hand finds it’s way onto your thigh innocently enough in the back of the stretch.
The latest high-society event the two of you must attend is to take place in the city penthouse of some mind-numbing couple, hosting their little boy’s seventh birthday party. Naturally, everybody who is anybody in the vicinity of Gotham is invited, and naturally the celebrations will be at once extravagant and exasperating. Though, if only to exchange gossipy titbits or suburban scandals and have a slice of cake, it is reason enough to get out of the Manor and into some company. Your lacklustre cycle would not be what it is without such events.
The journey there isn’t particularly long, but there is enough time for Bruce’s hand to inch higher and higher up your thigh. You pretend not to notice, but all pretense of innocence is given up quickly enough.
Bruce leans over you, his mouth wandering across your neck and his fingers toying with your panties. He presses his index right against the wet spot his teasing has wrought from you, his finger rubbing up and down, just shy of your clit. You bite your lip to keep from moaning at just that, your hands wandering into Bruce’s hair, finding purchase amongst the soft black strands.
“So wet.” Bruce grunts against your skin, satisfied — if not surprised — to find that you are. You always are with him, and he knows it as well as you do. Your body craves this. Constantly. If not for this, there might be nothing between the two of you.
“Hurry up.” You whine, your hips pressing insistently against his finger.
He leans back to give you a look, the sort that tells you to behave. You do. Though it is with a sigh and a pout, you slump back into the seat and force yourself to wait. He’s maddeningly close to your clit — it craves friction, and your pussy clenches needfully around nothing at all.
“Good.” Bruce nods.
His spare hand hikes your dress up all the way, and he pushes your thighs a little wider, giving him a perfect view of your soaked panties. Watching his movements intently, Bruce tugs your panties to a side, exposing your slick folds to him. The moment his thumb meets your clit properly, your back arches with a soft, shuddering gasp. He starts slow. As he rubs lazy circles on the bud, his other hand comes to hold your hips down, keeping you from bucking into the sensation and seeking more — as you very desperately want to do.
“Bruce, please.” You moan softly, your head falling back against the seat as you try not to squirm under his grasp, as you try to be good. “Fuck — need your fingers, Bruce, please.”
“Do you, now?” Bruce hums. His eyes are still fixed on your pussy, and he watches as his middle finger circles your entrance, dipping in just barely, and slipping out just as fast.
“Yes.” You huff, impatient and painfully needy. “Please?”
“Fine, then.” Bruce slips two fingers in, big and thick and stretching you out perfectly.
He wastes no time then; his fingers fuck you quick, and his thumb picks up it’s work on your clit, alternating between fast flicks and long circles. You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve been in this position — in the back of the limo, with Bruce’s fingers shoved knuckle-deep into your sopping, greedy pussy, sucking and clenching on them. He curls his fingers, and he knows how to do it just right, finding your g-spot and rubbing on it’s ridges.
“Oh, fuck, Bruce — ” You gasp out, a slew consisting of moans and curses and his name falling from your mouth as Bruce’s fingers work relentlessly on your cunt, bringing you to the edge almost embarrassingly fast.
“Not yet.” Bruce tuts, watching as his fingers pump in and out of your pussy. “Begged so nice for my fingers, you can take them a little longer.”
He stops his movements then, leaving you hanging on the edge.
Though, before you’ve a chance to complain, he pulls his fingers out, slow and careful to let you feel every last, little bit. Your pussy is left empty and squeezing desperately around nothing, and your whole body feels tense with the need for release. Then again, before you’ve a chance to complain, he’s pushing three fingers back into you. The stretch is obscene and perfect and has your back arching, your fingers digging into his scalp and pulling on his hair.
“Come on,” Bruce groans, his voice gone a little rough, “cum for me now.”
When his thumb finds your clit and his fingers curl just so once again, you do. He keeps his movements fast and steady, watching your face and your pussy as you cum on his hand.
Just in time for the limo to pull up to your destination.
“Are you serious?”
Bruce’s face is one of cluelessness, his blue eyes wide and almost puppy-dog in their innocence. There he stands, already in the elevator, with a massive gift bag housing a massive box housing, of all things to gift a child, a drum set.
“What?” He shrugs.
“Do you hate these people?” You ask.
“They’re... tolerable.” Bruce supplies in lieu of a proper answer.
“Do you have any idea how much noise that kid is going to make?” You sigh.
“Well, one look at the price tag, and I’m sure they won’t mind.” Bruce shrugs again, just as the elevator comes to a stop and the doors sweep open. He takes a step back, gesturing for you to pass through.
Before you have a chance to reprimand him any further, the moment you step into the foyer, you are swept into the embrace of the hostess, and then into the crowd.
It is a familiar scene. Rubbing elbows with the snobs of Gotham, flaunting your marital bliss to your peers, lying shamelessly through your teeth. All of it is little more than putting on a show. The company is, indeed, mind-numbing, and yet you find yourself almost glad for it. It is like being alone in a crowd. You needn’t say a word that is true or make conversation that is substantial. Besides, your mind could certainly do with a bit of numbing.
Time passes as easily as the champagne and hors d’oeuvres.
You find yourself in a better mood than you expected as the celebrations wear on. Perhaps it is that infectious joy that children bring, naive, innocent, and bubbly as they go about their little lives.
Then again, it is probably the buzz from the excess champagne and the benefit of having been... sexually satisfied in the limo over.
Though you would not consider the hostess much of a friend at all, let alone a good one, this newfound happiness had you agreeing to box up left-over cake for the guests to take away. Her kitchen is expansive and grey and empty, well-removed from the rest of the celebrations. You do not mourn the company, though — you’ve used up what little they have to give. Your mind is well and truly numb and you are as happy as one can, superficially, be. Instead, you sway side to side, humming some long-forgotten tune under your breath.
“You know, there are people for that.” Your solitude is cut through with an all-too-familiar voice.
You look up to see Bruce stepping into the kitchen, his shoulders relaxed and his hands in his suit pockets. His hair is a little out of place. The grey light is soft against his skin. He seems more at ease than you have seen him in a very, very long time.
“But I like doing menial chores.” You reply casually, carefully slipping another slice into another box.
“Should I tell Alfred?” Bruce returns easily. Easily enough to have you fooled.
“Are you crazy?” You watch him, as he wheels around the kitchen island.
“Are you drunk?” He questions, coming to a stop a touch closer than convenient before you.
“No.” You answer with a huff, setting down the cake knife to put your hands square on your hips as you glare up at him.
“Clearly not.” He nods, a mocking agreement, the closest thing to playful he’s ever let himself be with you.
You doubt you’ve had enough to be drunk, just enough to dull that incessant edge. Just enough to not question why Bruce cares. Or why he’s here — alone with you in a stranger’s kitchen, talking to you as though you’re friends, as though you’re dating, or as though you’re in love. Even though there is no necessity and no possibility for sex. You’ve had just enough to lean in that little bit when Bruce takes a step closer. Close enough that your chests brush together with every breath.
His eyes find yours.
They’re blue.
Your breath catches in your throat. The colour of them, the intensity, cuts through the dull, achromatic world that you have wrapped yourself up in. They discomfort you. Excite you. Butterflies claw at your stomach at the sight of them. It is strange, the sensation — like the nervous, giddy, nearly impatient feeling before a first kiss that you’ve waited for much too long. You’ve had your first kiss with Bruce, and perhaps a million more filthy, sloppy ones since. The feeling persists despite the fact.
“You have... very blue eyes.” You inform him, and though you hoped to cut through that tension in the air, your words seem to do anything but.
“Do I?” Bruce’s hand reaches up to tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear, as though it was in the way of something beautiful.
You feel his eyes drop to your lips, his breath warm against them, as he leans in ever so slightly.
It is barely anything.
It is enough for you to cross that line and close the distance between the two of you, your mouth finding his in a kiss that feels like the very first.
His lips move against yours, soft and slow at first. He tastes different, and more familiar than you could’ve imagined Bruce Wayne would ever be to you. His hands settle on your waist, and yours find his hair. When you tug on the strands, his mouth falls open for your tongue like second-nature. Perhaps, after a million kisses, such things are second nature.
You find yourself lost in the kiss. There is only the movement of his tongue against yours, the way his thumbs rub small circles into your sides, the feeling of his hair between your fingers, the soft noises that you exchange. There is only that for the longest time, until you find yourself pulling apart for air.
That is when reality seems to kick in, a bucket of ice over the head that has you sober in an instant. You pull apart a dozen times as fast as you’d kissed, gaping at each other for the longest moment. Bruce’s eyes are blue and blown-wide and looking at you in a way that you simply cannot explain.
“I should...” He clears his throat, taking a step back.
“Good idea.” You nod, turning away from him. Your heart speeds in your chest in a way that disgusts and terrifies you. You do not give yourself a moment to think about it, reaching for the knife to cut up more cake to put in more boxes — though your mind persists in thinking about it anyway.
Bruce lingers a moment, as though he might say something else.
He does not. He leaves the kitchen without a word. You are left alone with the cake and the boxes and the colourless, to replay that stolen moment where your marriage seemed anything but convenient.
Bruce makes for his study the moment you return to the Manor.
He had said hardly a word to you since that treacherous, stolen moment in the kitchen. Beyond the cursory and the necessary, those familiar foundations of all your conversations, he had been a wall of silence. It should not have felt as jarring as it did — you should not have felt an inch out of place. But you did. The remainder of the party had been an awkward sort of hellish, and the ride back home had been much, much worse.
Being back in the Manor was meant to be a relief. The halls were vast. You could run off to indulge in your vices of choice alone — or, at the least, have Alfred act as a buffer should you choose to spend any measure of time together. Yet, because you had apparently lost your mind, it was anything but.
For when Bruce made to his study, all repressed tension in an Armani suit, you chose to follow him. Stupidly, foolishly, you chose to follow him. As though anything beyond the very barely necessary was allowed in your marriage of convenience.
“So, are we pretending nothing happened?” You ask, barging into the room right after him.
By the way he clenches his jaw, you know that he is suppressing a groan, or a litany of choice words. “Nothing happened.” He manages instead.
“Something happened.” You insist, drawing yourself further into the room as he tries to retreat into it.
“You were drunk.” He presses.
“Nowhere near enough.” You press back.
“Must we do this?” Bruce lets out that groan then, running his fingers through his hair, leaving them a tussled black mess that hang over his face in a way that is almost pretty. In a way that you should not be noticing at all.
“Bruce — ” You begin, but he cuts you off.
“You were the one who kissed me.”
“As if you were not a second away from doing the same.” You scoff, crossing your arms and staring at him, upset with him for his hypocrisy and upset with yourself for not having anticipated it.
“I would not have kissed you like that.” He returns, ever stubborn and unrelenting in his denial.
Bruce turns from you then, and though you cannot see his face, it does nothing to hide his frustrations. The tension in his shoulders, the hunch to his back, that sharp inhale and even sharper exhale as he struggles to gather his composure — fighting to keep himself the ever cool, ever detached man that he is. That he must be. His hands find his tie and he tugs on it until it unravels, tossing it onto the leather chair behind his desk.
“No?” You question, tone wavering between offended and outraged. “What, you can only kiss me back like that?”
“I did not — ” Bruce turns back around, only to find that you have strode up to him. The gap between you has shrunk down to nothing at all, and suddenly your chests are close enough to brush together with every breath. Yet again. His eyes meet yours, vivid blue lenses to a world that has always felt so far removed from the colourful. He swallows, his throat bobbing. “I did not... kiss you back... like that.”
“Bruce — ” You begin, but he cuts you off. Yet again.
“Don’t.” He sighs, his breath wavering, fanning against your cheeks. His hands flex by his sides, as though he does not know whether to push you away or pull you close and never, not once, let go.
You make the choice for him, stepping back until there is space enough to think — and yet it is futile. There is not enough space in the study to distract from his presence, it still seems to consume every inch of your being. Because he is still looking at you. Like that.
“You did.” You insist, clinging to the argument because it is all you have to cling to. “You kissed me the same way you are looking at me right now. Like — ”
“Like what?” He snaps, as though he does not know what you mean, as though he did not say it first.
“Like that! Like — like — ” You stammer, and you despise yourself for it. You feel overwhelmed and angry and unable to think straight. “Like you do feel — something! Anything!”
“Is that what you wish, then?” He questions, though it comes out with enough venom to be an accusation. “For me to feel something for you?”
“Something, yes!”
The words leave your lips unbidden, without thought. A secret you did not even know you were holding in. Then you realise what it is you have said. What it is you have done. With those words goes all your conviction, all your anger, all your foolish and desperate hope. A sudden sense of defeat crashes over you as you realise the stupidity of your confession. Something. As though anything at all were possible between the two of you.
The words hang there, in the air between the two of you.
The distance across the study stretches to the length a thousand miles.
“You want to know what I feel?” He questions.
The accusatory, venomous edge is gone from his voice. He is no longer looking at you like that. He is no longer looking at you at all. His gaze is turned down, perhaps to a frayed thread on the edge of the rug, or an indent in the wood from a long-ago broken vase.
Your confession, your mistake, has replaced his anger with something a dozen times worse. Disappointment. Disappointment that you, till now the perfectly sedated, silently discontent housewife, have made that impossible demand for something more. Emotion. Intimacy. Love. Things you have always known Bruce could never give. You, yourself, could never give. Things you have never desired.
Never before desired.
You see the disappointment in the way he stiffens, his face tightens, and he retreats into himself. You are left with nothing but the shell that he allows you to know, and you feel yourself go cold with the realisation that it is all you will ever be allowed to know. The glimpse of colour that you saw in Bruce’s blue eyes is drained from your world, and the monotony returns. It always, inevitably, returns.
“No.” You answer, monotonous. “No, Bruce, I don’t care anymore.”
He seems to be still for a very, very long time at that. A muscle in his jaw twitches. His knuckles flex. His shoulders rise and fall stiffly beneath his suit. The movement is strained, as though his breathing is, too. Then at last, he nods. Just once. Nothing more.
You return the gesture.
That is all you do before you turn on your heel and leave Bruce’s mammoth study with it’s mahogany desk and shelves and endless artefacts and books and things that might have had value. Perhaps, to a person whose life was not so oversaturated with the monotonous material. You do not bother with a small smile, or a polite farewell, not even a good night.
Bruce does not stop you from going.
Why bother?
You could maul him like a rabid dog, and he’d still be slinking into the bed you do not share in the early hours of the morning. He will have subjected countless thugs, grunts, and low-life criminals to his frustrations, but he knows nothing will rid himself of them. Of you. Patrol will only have left him feeling rough and raw and rife with feelings you do not care about. Feelings he must confess to you anyhow, lest they eat him alive from the inside out. And he will. Not with words. Not with soft touches. Not with grand gestures.
With sex.
Filthy, dirty, endless fucking.
So he lets you go, knowing it won’t last till tonight.
And maybe, tonight, when the darkness bleeds into dawn, he might slow. He might be soft. He might betray the very covenants of this marriage, and he might let himself indulge in that strange, impossible something.
He might fuck you in a way that is dangerously close to making love.
warnings: pwp, unprotected piv, semi-public sex (obvs), slight exhibitionism, quickie, up against the wall, praise, pet-names, finger-sucking, kissing, biting, slight marking, slight begging/cock-drunk reader, creaming, creampie
“Here?”
“Right here. Nobody’s gonna look for us right here, baby.” Dick hums. His fingers are tangled with yours as he pulls you into the latest public space he was hell-bent upon defiling. “It’s... perfect.”
“It’s a broom closet.” You correct.
Dick’s practically an exhibitionist, the way he constantly manages to sniff out a place to fuck wherever the two of you go. The bar bathroom? Did it. The gas station? Did it. The park? Did it. Bent over the bat computer? Did it twice. Dick knows you like it. Knows how wet it gets you. It’s written all over that shit-eating grin permanently plastered across his face, crinkling the edges of those pretty blue eyes that are peering down at you, alive with mischief.
“Exactly.” Dick draws you in close with a sharp tug, and you stumble flush against his chest with a small gasp. “Discreet. ‘Sides, it’s not my fault you look this pretty.”
“Oh, shut up, Grayson.” You huff, but his grin only pulls wider.
“No can-do, sweetheart.” He laughs, brushing his nose against yours.
As the door swings shut behind you, Dick’s hands leave yours to settle on your hips, wasting no time backing you up against a wall. Neither of you mind that he knocks over half-a-dozen things as he does — who knew broom closets were actually used for housing brooms?
He palms at your ass for a moment, before he’s bunching up your dress and hoisting you up from under your thighs. Like instinct, your legs wrap around his hips, and he leans down to capture your mouth in a kiss. It quickly turns messy; his tongue presses into your mouth, and you gladly welcome the familiar feel of tongue and teeth and spit.
“Look so pretty it would be a crime not to fuck you.” Dick murmurs when he pulls away, his mouth working a sloppy trail along your jaw and down the column of your throat.
He’s memorised the map of your skin, he kisses and sucks and bites till he’s marked the spot that has you shivering, your hands wandering up his chest and winding around his shoulders, tangling in the dark strands at the nape of his neck.
He only pulls away enough to undo the buckle of his belt, a low laugh leaving him when you tug his hair in a silent hurry up. His cock is hard, thick and flushed when he pulls it out, pumping it with one hand as the other pushes up your hips and shoves aside your panties.
“Fuck, baby,” he groans, that grin returned as his fingers slide through the slick gathered between your folds. The slightest of sensations is enough to have you nudging your hips forward, your thighs clamping around him. “So wet f’me.”
He draws away his fingers, but they’re promptly replaced by the head of his cock. He drags it against you, smearing his precum from the entrance of your cunt up to the sensitive bundle of your clit, circling there just to watch you squirm for a moment.
“Dick,” you whine, tugging on his hair once again, hips pressing forward once again, desperate for the feel of him inside. “Don’t tease.”
“Greedy thing,” Dick tuts, but you can feel his head line up against your entrance. He may be a tease, but god, if some days he isn’t downright needy to get buried in your pussy.
Whatever retort, whatever demand, was on the tip of your tongue is promptly muffled by the feel of his hips rocking forward that first inch. The stretch is a familiar burn, the slow feeling of being split apart as his cock bullies you open inch by inch. At once, your walls are desperate to suck every bit of him in. He lets you feel the drag of every vein against your walls when he pulls all the way out, only to push back in again.
“Perfect...” Dick coos as he feels his balls slap against the curve of your ass, the head of his cock kissing your cervix as he rocks back and forth, back and forth, feeling your pussy mould around the girth of him. “Perfect, perfect pussy, baby.”
“Dick,” you whine out again, though this time it is less greedy and more desperate, your hips meeting his as he rocks against you, “please, need you so bad.”
“I know, pretty. Gonna give you what you need, don’t worry.” He murmurs, leaning forward to graze his teeth along your throat, nipping until he finds a spot to clamp down and bite. You moan, louder when he begins to fuck you in earnest.
Dick’s quick to pick up the pace. His thrusts grow faster, harder, creating a symphony of the slick sounds of his dick pounding into your soaked cunt, his balls smacking against you, and the slew of moans you can’t quite hold back — even though you’re perfectly aware that anyone could walk past this broom closet and hear Dick fucking out your brains.
One hand still slick with your arousal, comes up to your mouth, rubbing your wetness over your lips, hanging parted.
“Suck f’me, pretty.” Dick croons at you, pushing two of his slick fingers past your lips right down to the knuckles, humming with approval as you obeyed, gagging around them and biting down. “That’s a good girl. Don’t want everybody knowing what we’re doing in here, now do we?”
You nod around his fingers, which effectively muffle your whines, your moans, your sobs, as he keeps fucking you full of his dick. Each drag of his cock against your walls has your nails digging into his scalp, pulling on his hair as he mouths at up your neck and at the crook of your jaw.
“Feels so good, always feels so good, baby,” Dick’s praise had your walls clamping down around his cock, “fuck, baby, she’s just loving my dick, feels so perfect ‘round my dick.”
His hips thrust up a little faster, his hand squeezing the underside of your thigh, hiking it up higher, angling himself till the tip of his cock was ramming deep into your g-spot, and you were on the verge of crying from how good it felt. It was only then that Dick pulled his fingers from your mouth with a soft pop. When his hand found your clit, rubbing his fingers against it in fast, tight circles, any sense to keep quiet was forgotten in favour of crying out.
“‘M so close,” you gasp, your head falling back against the wall when he pushed up a little harder, “fuck, Dick, ‘m gonna cum — ”
“I know, baby, me too.” Dick pants against your ear, pounding into you a little rougher, rubbing on your clit a little faster, pushing you closer and closer to the edge, that hot, tight sensation coiling low in your stomach as he fucks you. “Make a mess f’me, pretty, want your cum all over my cock.”
You did — you always did with Dick, especially when he fucked you where anyone could catch you.
Your orgasm all but crashed down upon you. Your fingers dug deep into Dick’s skull, tangled and tugging on his hair as your back arched up from the wall and against his chest. Every roll of pleasure shuddered through you, every roll of his hips keeping you steady through it.
“Dick, Dick, Dick,” His name was falling almost incoherently off your lips, you were a babbling mess as you came, creaming around his cock till he could see the slick ring of it at his base. He watched, eyes dark and awed, till at last letting up on your clit.
“That’s it — fuck.” Dick’s thrusts grew more insistent, less measured, as he chased after his own release, the pleasure of your orgasm blurring into overstimulation. “Gonna fill you up, yeah? Shit, gonna fuck you full, pretty girl.”
Dick did, too. His balls tightened as he buried himself right to the hilt, his dick all but bruising your cervix as he came, hot lines of cum painting the walls of your pussy for a good, long moment, before he finally relaxed.
“See?” Dick hummed, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Broom closet’s perfect for a quickie.”
Warnings: praise, pet-names, degradation, explicit references to piv (missionary, riding, cowgirl), fauxcest (use of ‘dad’/‘kid/kiddo’), ben refers to reader’s v as ‘she’, bit of brat/brat-tamer and sub/dom dynamics, slight dumbification, hint of free use (ben for reader), mentions of mirror sex, talking you through it.
will talk you through it — even if, at times, it’s just talking during it.
loves to tease you, in whatever way; overstimulation, edging, talking
asks you questions he knows you can’t answer
he’s heavy with the praise, with the caveat that it’s so disgustingly condescending
he’d absolutely refer to himself as your “dad”
(gross? yes. will he stop? no)
definitely will talk to your pussy as well
pet names galore: “doll” “dollface” “sweetheart” “pretty” “pretty girl” “good girl” “honey” — even “kid” or “kiddo”
will also use some less savoury pet names — “slut” mostly, but he can get creative
(he’ll usually throw in a bit of praise around it so you don’t get too mad, not that he doesn’t like it when you do)
he won’t shy from outright degradation, but it’s for his meaner days
if you’ve been a brat, or you’ve picked a fight, he’s so much worse
he’ll probably be sweet from time to time — given it lets him fuck you longer
he’s much sweeter, almost soft, when you’re making love, but if you’re fucking? you’re getting fucked
see below:
“so fucking wet f’me, doll.”
“what happened to all that big girl talk, hm?”
“thought you fuckin’ hated me, what happened to that?”
“gonna put it in pretty, hold still.”
“christ, relax a little, would you kid? that’s it, good girl.”
“perfect fuckin’ pussy, know that?”
“don’t need me — fuck, is that right?”
“look at the state’ve you. god, do anything for this dick, wouldn’t you?”
“now, c’mon pretty, cum f’me, all over dad’s cock.”
“jus’ the prettiest slut, ain’t you?”
“what? no snarky comeback from little miss feminist?”
“did I fuck all that big talk out of you?”
“too dumb for my cock to use that smart mouth, huh?”
“well? I’m listening, sweetheart. c’mon, tell me how dumb you are over dick.”
“think you can give me one more. c’mon pretty, be good for your dad.”
if you haven’t pissed him off, it’s a whole lot more praise — it’s still condescending, but a little less so
especially if you’re on top
when you’re on top it’s not really a different story
loves to lean back, let you get off, whilst giving you the full running commentary
for example:
“that’s it, honey.”
“know it’s big, but look at you. fuck. taking me so well.”
“wish you could take a look at this view princess, so fuckin’ pretty.”
“jus’ taking what you need from dad’s dick, yeah?”
“shit, already making a mess. you gonna clean that up later?”
“selfish little whore. been waiting for this, hm? been a good fucking girl for this?”
“y’know your tits look so perky when you bounce like that. christ.”
“c’mon kid, keep going, know that pussy just loves bouncing up and down on dad, don’t she?”
“wanna see you make a big fuckin’ mess all over my cock, sweetheart.”
“that’s it, keep going... knew you just couldn’t wait to cum f’me, always such an eager fucking slut.”
“gonna give me one more, ain’t you? turn ‘round and let me see that ass while you ride my dick.”
“gonna miss ‘em tits, though.”
“god. remind me to get a mirror next time I’m out. just gotta see both.”
Warnings: cursing, possessiveness, toxic relationship dynamic, oral f!recieving, unprotected piv, loss of virginity (reader’s), breeding, knife play (aerion has a dagger to his throat basically the whole time), kissing, biting, blood, slight choking, dubcon, power imbalance, slight praise, canon typical, Aerion Targaryen
It was your fate to be Aerion Targaryen’s wife.
It was a fact as simple, as unchangeable, as the sky was blue since you were a child.
You had not much understood what it would mean to be Aerion’s wife when you were first told of it. You saw only a pretty dress, and the court calling you “princess,” standing besides your strong Targaryen husband, and all your beautiful Valyrian children. Those were the delusions of a child — a sheltered girl, who did not know better. It did not take long for you to learn.
Aerion was clever, but he was cruel. Aerion was beautiful, but he was brutal. You grew to know him well, and you did not like what you knew. The Brightflame, the Monsterous, the man whom you would someday wed.
You made no effort to hide your resentments. He made no effort to hide how very much it amused him. You defied him at every turn. He would laugh at your defiance. You busied yourself keeping as far away from him as possible. He would weasel his way by your side with a taunt ready on his tongue. He was impossible, you decided. He was the only thing possible for you, he decided.
He proved himself right.
Your fate proved itself inescapable.
On a day deemed auspicious by the Faith, the two of you were wed. The black and red cloak of House Targaryen was draped over your shoulders. You exchanged vows you did not truly mean. In the eyes of the Gods, of the Realm, and of Aerion most of all, you became his.
His, in every sense of the word.
The wedding feast was suffered through without so much as a glance his way.
It did not keep him from taunting you. His hand still found your thigh beneath the table. You were still forced to put on a false smile as you stood beside him and cut the pigeon pie. You were still made to take him up in a dance, a show of your happy marriage to all the world.
The revelry grew boisterous as the night bore on. The men were deep in their cups, dancing and groping the serving girls, spilling drinks wherever they went. The pair of you seemed to be forgot for a moment, and it was a relief. A relief, until Aerion stood up beside you abruptly, holding out his arm with the expectation you would accept.
“Let us retire, wife.” He said.
You’d half a mind to refuse, but should you stay, you would certainly be made to endure the bedding ceremony. You had thought he might want for one, if only to humiliate you, but perhaps he was all too possessive for that. Perhaps he did not enjoy the thought of every drunk lord of the Seven Kingdoms groping his newly wedded wife.
“Very well.” You took his arm stiffly, though that did not upset him in the slightest. In his mind, you were his, and he had won.
He did not bother with words once your chambers were reached. He was upon you the second the doors fell shut. You had seen the dogs in the yard, seen a stallion mount a mare, your maids told you scandalous stories they heard of one another — you were not a fool. The ladies of Westeros were sheltered, and though you remained a maid for the sake of it, you knew what Aerion’s intentions were. The thought of it sent something hot and uncomfortable running down your spine.
He did not kiss you, no, he simply grabbed hold of your elbow and pulled you towards him. For a moment, you went stiff. His hands found your cloak, unfastening it with little ceremony, letting it fall behind you with a satisfied grunt. Then his hands were upon your gown; one held your waist, firm, refusing to let you slip away.
“Aerion — ” you hissed when his other hand found the laces of your bodice; when he threatened to tug them loose, you swatted his hand away. “Let go of me.”
“No.” He answered, blunt, not letting you move an inch when you made to jerk away from him. You felt your stomach twist with fear, and for a moment you thought you might be sick. He should not have been so strong. He did not deserve his strength. His hand reached up for your laces yet again.
“Let go.” You repeated.
“No.” He repeated, mocking, fingers toying with the strings, watching how you might react.
You’d a very beautiful wedding dress; Myrish lace was carefully worked over the bodice, it was encrusted with blood red rubies and black diamonds, with flowing silk skirts. It had long, billowing sleeves, too, the sort which were good for keeping things tucked away. You were not a fool, you knew Aerion. He was an overgrown babe at arms, afflicted with delusions of grandeur, who believed that all in the world were beneath him, that all the world belonged to him — yourself included.
So, in your wisdom, you had tucked a dagger into your sleeves. It was a simple thing, not the elaborate creations of Valyrian steel with decorated hilts that Aerion might enjoy. It was sharp, however, and that is all that mattered. He would see it, and he would release you. You knew that he would. He would, would he not? He had to.
You let the dagger slip from your sleeves, taking a deep breath, steading yourself, steadying your resolve. You did not give him the opportunity to realise what you were doing. You were quick, you had to be quick.
The blade presses against his throat.
Aerion stills.
His eyes flicker down towards the blade. There is something detached about the way he studies it, as he might idly observe any number of the mundane happenings of life.
“Will you do it, then?” He asks, with a callous disregard, entirely unperturbed.
It is terrifying that he holds such little regard for his life. It is terrifying that he holds such little regard for you. For the threat you might pose to his life. He seems every inch a dragon, a haughty and prideful monster, not in the least affronted by a little bird, beating her wings against the cage of his claws.
It sets you off balance — you had expected he would balk. You had expected that he would seethe and rage, every inch the indignant, arrogant, spoiled child that all the world had made him out to be. That you had expected him to be. You had not considered that he might be quite so sure, so deluded, that even with a blade pressed up against his throat, he had not the slightest worry that he might be denied.
“Well?” Aerion drawls, something too close to a cold, ugly amusement playing across his face as he observes your turmoil. “You’ve drawn the blade. Do not tell me you do not mean to follow through.”
“Aerion.” You warn.
“Wife.” He hums, the word a taunt, a reminder.
You press the blade closer. It is an effort to keep your hand steady. He leans in, towards it, until the edge kisses the line of his throat. Too deep a breath, and the dagger would draw his blood. It was infuriating that it made your breath catch in your throat, fear spiking up your spine.
You were no fool, you knew better than to murder a Targaryen prince. He knew you did. Or, perhaps he did not. Perhaps he simply did not care if you would murder him. Perhaps he wished to toy with you a moment further, to poke your flank and see if you might bite. Never-mind if you do.
“No?” Aerion sighs, bored too quickly, the brief excitement of the moment soured by your hesitance.
“Let me go.” You hiss, but he has stolen the conviction from your words, he has stolen the threat from your hands.
“Ah, would that I could...” He shakes his head, as though your suggestion is entirely implausible. To a princeling like him, it must seem as much.
His hand, the one not toying with the strings of your bodice, trails up your side, to skim across your neck. His fingers are cold. His touch burns. He observes a moment, as he writes secrets across your flesh with his fingertips. His hands frighten you more without a blade, than yours, with a blade, had frightened him.
“But you are my wife.” He continues, words simple. “We are married before the Gods.”
“You have no respect for the Gods.” You interject, breathing too fast, too shallow as his hand slips around your throat, tightening a moment, then easing the next.
“It makes no matter how it has been done, but you have been made mine. From this day, till your last, you are mine.” His words have conviction. There is not a question in his mind about what he says; to him they are more than vows and laws and traditions, they are the truth, and the only truth that matters.
When his eyes rise back to yours, you are caught between stiffening and shuddering.
“Put away your arms, wife.” His words soften around the command, as though he has any desire to ease the humiliation that eats up at your pride. When your only response is to set your jaw with defiance, he huffs, something between a sigh and a laugh. “Keep it, then.”
He tilts his head to the side, eyes pinned upon your face, as his fingers once more tug at the laces of your bodice. They come undone with a practised ease, and you tense, your hold on the blade tightening. He pays it no mind.
“Take it off.” He orders, hands falling away from you to gesture broadly at your undone dress. He takes a measured step backwards, away from the blade, though you’re sure it is only to give you the room to obey.
“If I refuse?” Your protest feels futile, but you’ve enough pride to protest him still.
“I will not repeat myself.” He snorts. “I’ve let you keep up your dagger, have I not? The least you could do is obey like a proper wife.”
Your jaw works a moment as you regard him. You should refuse. You should do anything but obey. Yet — and yet, with the dagger still in hand, you find yourself pulling your arms from your sleeves, and tugging down your bodice and your skirts, till they lay in a pile of Myrish lace and silk and jewel encrustations at your feet.
“Good.” Aerion nods. “Now the rest.”
You listen again, trying to keep your breathing even, trying to fight the flushed feeling that rushes up your neck as you loosen your chemise and unfasten your small-clothes, letting them join the pile, too. It is only when your stockings have been peeled off and your slippers kicked away that Aerion is satisfied.
The air of the room bites; despite the heat from the hearth and the braziers, gooseflesh runs up your arms and legs. Yet, nothing bites quite like his gaze.
He is entirely unabashed in the way his eyes rove over your body, taking note of every little detail. You feel raw, as though more than your clothes have been peeled away, as though your insides have been turned out for him to see. You supposed, soon enough, he’d be well acquainted with your insides. The desire to heave up your wedding feast at the thought is unbearably strong.
When he steps forward, onto the fortune that is your wedding dress without a care, your dagger rises to his throat once more. He is still unbothered by its presence. To you, it is all you have to feel some semblance of control. To him, it is little more than an inconvenience, an afterthought, an amusement. A small smirk pulls on his lips when you press it firm against his throat as his hands settle upon your waist.
“Your arm will grow tired, wife.” He remarks, his thumbs rubbing circles against your skin. His hands belong there, in his mind, for you belong to him. You must seem the grandest fool for trying to fight it.
He guides you back against the bed, not so much so as flinching when the dagger digs into his throat as he moves.
“Worry not.” He murmurs, pressing your back against the sheets. “I’ll take care of you, wife. Haven’t a choice, now have I?” He nods towards the blade, his jaw nudging against it.
You despise that he does not care about the weapon, that him obliging to the threat it poses is nothing more than a favour, a small token to appease your pride. Yet, you do not stop him as he settles over you, as he pushes apart your thighs. Your spine goes rigid, your chest feels tight. There are a dozen things you should like to say, but you say none.
He spends a moment examining you, appraising his latest possession. When he is satisfied, he gives a low hum of approval. You had almost expected him to say something cruel, to mock you, but perhaps he has enough sense to know you’d certainly bleed him — if only a little — should he.
“I shall taste you, wife.” He declares, unceremoniously. “You may resume threatening my life once I am done.”
You open your mouth to protest, but even if you had the chance to speak, he would not have cared. He pulls away from the blade, dragging his nose down the length of your stomach, breathing in the scent of you, till he’s settled between your legs. He looks up at you, those pale lilac eyes hazy with desire. You’re not stupid enough to believe it is a desire for love, even for bedding you, or for any other reason than to possess you completely, to claim what is his.
“Do not look away.” He breathes, hot against you. “I will know if you look away.”
You nod, sharp, and inhale, sharper. You refuse to be affected by that smallest of sensations. Your resolve is instantly challenged when he presses closer, his tongue skimming between your folds, with teasing intentions. It seems, though, his resolve is as weak as yours; when his tongue laps out again, giving your cunt a proper lick, all the way up to your clit, he groans, and all teasing intentions are forgotten.
Your hips buck into his face of their own volition as his mouth moves against you, kissing, sucking, licking you from your entrance to your clit, letting his teeth graze against you just to see how you might squirm. Though you’re certain it feeds his behemoth pride that you do, his hands find purchase on your hips, holding them down so that he may give you pleasure only as he sees fit.
He works with a skill that belies experience. You had not thought Aerion the type to worry about a woman’s pleasure, but perhaps it feeds his vanity to see your defiance give way to your desire, perhaps it is simply the threat of being cut that motivates him to make it tolerable enough for you.
This is more than tolerable. Pleasure builds low in your stomach faster than you had thought. Your fingers were never so quick to pleasure you, you’d never the recklessness to let someone else. You do your best to keep your eyes on him, one hand fisting in the sheets, the other white-knuckled around the dagger. You’re gasping, moaning, to your shame, after but moments spent with his mouth sucking on your clit. You feel your muscles tighten, already brought to the edge, shifting beneath his grasp to further the friction, seeking relief with a desperation you despise.
He lets you for a moment, loosening his grip just enough to have you grinding against his face. Then he pulls away, leaving you raw and pathetic with your need to finish.
“Aerion.” You hiss, breathing fast.
“Wife.” His smirk broadens, his face messy with the slick of your arousal. “Do you want to come?”
Your pride tells you to say no.
“Yes.” You swallow down your pride and answer from your clit, throbbing with need, and your cunt, clenching around absolutely nothing.
“Then ask politely.” He says, as though it should be the easiest thing in the world.
“Please.” The word is dry, foreign on your tongue, and entirely debasing. It is not enough to satisfy him — it does not meet the parameters of his demands, and so with a sigh, you find yourself nearly begging. “Please, Aerion, let me come?”
“Good.” He says. “You will learn to do better, but I will not deny you, lest you cut off my cock.”
It is a tempting thought, but before you can contemplate it, Aerion’s mouth has found its way between your legs again. He makes quick work of your release; he licks a stripe up your cunt before his mouth latches onto your clit once more. Your climax comes fast, sudden, your back arching up as the tension spikes and then melts. Aerion does not cease, not until every last shudder has been wrought from you, until you’re on the verge of begging him to stop.
He pulls away with a groan, licking up the slick of you from his mouth. He’s risen up from between your legs and his mouth finds your own before you’ve the chance to put the dagger to his throat again. You taste your release on his lips. It is anything but a kiss. It is a claim; rough and demanding, his teeth bite into your lower lip hard enough to draw blood, and then he’s soothing the wound with an obscene sucking.
It is only when his tongue pushes into your mouth that you find the sense to press the dagger against his throat again, pushing his mouth away from yours with the bite of the steel.
He laughs, and it settles into a sigh, caught between something strangely bemused and something mocking as he looks down upon you.
“You’ll do well.” He muses, leaning back and away from you, only to make quick work of his own clothes, speaking on as he does. His words bear no affection, no true praise, only that same possession that is in all he says and does. “Carrying the blood of the dragon. You’ve enough fire in you. You will give me many little dragons, wife. No matter if you hold a dagger to my throat when I fuck them into you.”
His words make you bristle. It is a wonder, that his tongue can be so skilled at bringing you to your peak in one breath, and humiliating you in the next. Though, when you consider it, there is little difference between the two. Not to you, and surely not to Aerion.
His cock is hard when it is free of its confines. Your breath catches when you see it, all too much to Aerion’s amusement. You wonder how long he has wanted to shame you like this, fuck into you and make you come, over and over, till you’re round with his children. You’re sure he has thought of it ceaselessly, since he was old enough to have such thoughts.
He settles himself over you again, one hand braced beside your head, the other one running up your side, finding purchase on your chest. He squeezes your breast beneath his hand, watching you tense a moment. You know not whether it is from fear or anticipation, and you refuse to entertain any other reason besides the two.
You press your dagger against his throat, but he does not seem to notice. He busies himself lining the head of his cock up with your entrance, and you exhale, breath trembling, when he grinds the tip of it against you.
He is not rough when he sinks in, but nor is he slow. He pushes himself in with one thrust. The stretch of it burns, more than you had thought it would, and you squeeze your eyes shut with the pain of it. Aerion does not stop until he has buried himself to the hilt, but he gives you a moment to adjust. It is a small mercy, one you did not think him capable of.
“Open your eyes.” He demands, and it is only when you do that he slowly begin to rock his hips, back and forth. Testing at first. Not for long. He groans, low in his throat, wasting no further time in setting a steady rhythm, even as you stiffen beneath him, biting back the pain. “Your body will adjust. It will not if you fight it. Let go, wife.”
It is difficult to listen. Each movement of his hips stretches you out further, and it burns, sears your walls. Yet, you force the stiffness from your spine, let your head fall back against the bed. The slick from your first release helps, and so does the blood — you’re more than certain you’ve bled, your maidenhead smeared across his cock, across the sheets. Your spare hand weaves around to grip on his back, and Aerion only groans when he feels your nails dig in.
He keeps his pace steady a while, not slow, but not nearly as fast as he should like. You’ve no choice but to ignore the burn, to focus on the good that might be found in it. It is no easy task, but only at first. You observe Aerion’s face, the way his sharp lines have softened, the soft grunts he makes, and there is a begrudging satisfaction that you are capable of pleasuring him — he may never have pretended otherwise, but to see him so unguarded whilst buried in your cunt is perversely fulfilling.
The pain does not go, but the pleasure builds, becomes easier to focus on.
It does not take long for a little whine to escape you at the feeling of his cock pushing into you, and that only goads him further, moving a little quicker. You’ve kept the dagger pressed against his throat the entire time. There are times where you fear that he might slice himself upon the edge of the blade as he thrusts into you.
“Do you think it scares me?” He grunts, his hips picking up, his movements rougher, quicker. “The dagger. Wife, do you think I do not know what it is to bleed?”
“Aerion,” you gasp, nails digging deeper into the flesh of his back. It is an effort to keep the blade steady in your hand. Every thrust into you has the blade jerking upwards, threatening to bite into his neck as you tremble, as the pleasure builds up. He still does not care.
“To bleed to keep what is mine... for what is mine — ” His words cut off with a groan, his breath shuddering, chest rising and falling quicker. He doesn’t relent his pace, even as it becomes an obvious effort to keep his thrusts even. “Seven hells, look at you. Taking me so well. Your body betrays you, wife. Fuck, good, let it.”
His hand leaves your chest, trailing down until it’s between your thighs, his thumb finding your clit and circling. His movements are insistent. The pleasure is unfair; the sensation coiling low in your stomach is unfair. It has your back arching against him, your hips pushing upwards to meet him, cunt clenching around his cock as that sensation tightens. It spurs him on, he circles his thumb faster, his cock presses in deeper, faster still.
“Come.” His order is firm, but there’s a breathlessness to his voice, it’s gone higher, needier in a way you never imagined he would be. He does not make you beg this time, he simply works harder.
You obey him; that sensation peaks, then comes down in rolls of pleasure. Each one racking through you has your nails scratching harder against his back, your head tipping back, another pathetic moan escaping your mouth. He keeps steady enough through it, watching with intent focus as you ride through your release, keeping his thumb pressed firm against your clit even when the last of the waves bleed away, leaving you a melted, boneless mess beneath him. He relishes in the sight of it, that much is obvious even to your murky mind.
He does not fight the way your walls clench around his cock, practically milking the seed from him as the pleasure of coming gives way to overstimulation. His pace becomes less controlled, less purposeful, chasing after his own release with a single-minded focus. He makes no effort to hide the way his groans become whines. When he does come, when he spills himself inside of you, it’s with your name on his lips. His head tips forward, just enough for the dagger to bite into his throat, leaving a little knick of red against his skin.
He does not pull out, does not move at all — neither of you do. Both your breaths are ragged, heavy, regaining sense of the world for a moment as the haze of fucking slowly fades.
You, at last, pull the dagger away. Your fingers unfurl their iron-clad grasp around it’s hilt, letting it tumble from the bed and clatter upon the floor. As soon as it is gone, Aerion sighs, letting his head drop to the crook of your neck, his mouth pressing there in something almost tender enough to be a kiss.
He moves then; he rolls onto his side, pulling you with him till your back is flush with his chest, but he does not leave his cock out of you for long, pushing his seed back in with it.
“My wife.” He murmurs, and there is a softness to his voice that should make you stiffen, but you are too spent to fight it. “My good wife.”
His arms are gentle when they wind around your waist, but the way he tightens them is nothing but possessive. His hands skim over your abdomen, as though you might already be with his child. That thought must please him incessantly.
“You are mine.” He declares.
You are too spent to fight that, too. Perhaps you will be his. Perhaps you already are. Perhaps there are worse fates than to bleed for Aerion Targaryen, and perhaps there are worse fates than Aerion Targaryen bleeding for you. Then again, perhaps there are not. It makes no matter. There is no other fate for you.
Warnings: cursing, kissing, oral f!recieving + fingering, semi-public sex (elevator during a black-out), sexual tension, fluff, lmk if I missed something
It had been a foolish thing — to get in an elevator with Elijah Mikaelson in the middle of a raging storm.
The pair of you had never been able tolerate one another. You never failed to get on each other’s nerves, to chafe at one another’s boundaries, to drive the other to the point of insanity. Rebekah had introduced you well over a year ago now, and you’d no choice but to suffer through his presence along the edges of your otherwise best friendship. A run in at some party, an argument over board games, some incident which left one embarrassed and the other all too smug. It was constant and consuming and mutual — the way in which you despised one another, the way in which all you could ever think about was how much you despised one another.
So, it seemed only fitting that the universe, an enemy more bitter to you than even him, had chosen that you both should arrive at exactly the same moment in the lobby of some mutual friend’s apartment, be made to silently bear the ride up to the penthouse floor where their extravagant party would be unfolding, and for it to be cut just one single floor short by a black-out. What could be more fitting than being trapped in an elevator with Elijah Mikaelson?
“Do something.” Your words were clipped, expectant and demanding.
“Such as...?” Elijah returned in a condescending drawl, though that look in his eye, one he wore so often around you that it was distinguishable even in the dim of the emergency lighting, made it clear he was just as unamused.
“Pry the doors open, Mikaelson. Something. Anything.” You scowled at him, arms crossed and a toe tapping against the floor, making no effort to hide your irritation, as you might’ve had the circumstance been anything but this. “Or are you not an Original?”
“That I am — ” Elijah returned, just a touch too fast for a man who prided himself on his composure and deliberation, “ — but I will not debase myself over, at most, an hour’s wait for help.”
“Oh, please.” You scoffed, slumping against the wall. “I think you just enjoy seeing me squirm.”
“I assure you, whatever pleasure I would derive out of watching you — as you so eloquently put it — squirm... it is insignificant compared to my own reservations about the situation at hand.” Elijah returned, just shy of smooth, straightening out his cuffs — you’d learnt it was a tell of his, a means of biding time when a conversation had become too much of a thorn in his side. He did it so often when speaking with you.
“Then at least call for help.” You made a vague, snappy gesture towards the panel of buttons beside Elijah on the elevator wall.
“What a clever idea.” He hummed, sarcastic and high-held as ever, but he did press the button for the elevator’s emergency help line. After a moment spent filling them in on the situation, the both of you were made to accept their generic and entirely unhelpful response that help would be there as soon as it would be there.
Quietly, Elijah leaned against the wall himself, though in a much more dignified manner than you had, hands slipping into his pockets in that easy way they did. That alone was enough to annoy you, if the way he had spoken down to you, as though you both did not hate that you were every inch as clever as the other, had not already done such a fine job of it.
With a roll of your eyes you looked the other way, not wishing to enrage yourself any longer by looking upon the subtle poise, that refined air of nonchalance he carried himself with all the time. It did not last long. Your eyes had a nasty habit of wandering back to him, the same way his always found you.
For a moment, they caught. There was a tension in the air that always arose whenever the two of you were in the same room — the same building, the same city. The mere potential of running into one another was enough to have your stomachs aflutter with a sense of... trepidation, was it? Annoyance, perhaps? It was something uncomfortable, whatever it was that had the pair of you looking over your shoulders, seeing if you might catch but the shadow of the other.
Of all the things you hated about one another, the worst must’ve been that the pair of you were the same, if only in different ways. Had you made it to the party, no doubt would Elijah have attended with his perfect manners and aloof grace, and no doubt you would have with a more forthcoming attitude towards the company and the champagne, but beneath your chosen veneers of sociability there would have been the same sense of boredom — almost. A claustrophobia unique to being surrounded by something less than what the both of you sought out in life. It had been like that always, would be like that for always.
In this moment of looking into one another’s eyes, stretching out too long for comfort, it was hard to ignore the fact that you were so similar... But it was always easy to drive all your attention into the fact that you despised one another so, and that is what you both seemed to do when you looked away the next.
It had been at the least a half hour.
A half hour of being trapped in the elevator in silence that bordered on unbearable. When you had been out on the streets earlier, the night air had felt cool and relieving, though it was storming, but you must’ve been deceived on how muggy and hot the weather truly was. It was impossible to escape it’s smothering in this elevator turned to a little box of hell. It worsened, somehow, every time you and Elijah caught each other’s eye.
“Will you not even try opening the doors?” You sighed, the first words spoken between the two of you since a torturous half hour.
“If you persist, I might consider it, if only to push you down the shaft.” He said, his tone just barely betraying just how thin his composure had begun to wear, meeting your gaze with something pointed in his own.
“And you think I wouldn’t rather that to this?” You tilted your head and raised a brow his way.
“I’m sure you would.” He scoffed, shaking his head and looking away a moment, but his eyes were back on yours in the next. “You always did prefer the easy way out.”
Your skin prickled at his words, and something within was set bristling at it, but you simply returned his scoff and told him, “Spare me the lecture.”
“Spare me the need.” He countered, in a way that rolled of his tongue effortlessly enough that it only served to worsen how irritated you were, how suffocatingly hot you felt. You could see it in his eyes, dark and downright hateful, he felt the same.
“I doubt I could do anything to shut you up.” Your words were barely muttered, but you knew better than most that nothing escaped a vampire’s ears, especially not an Original’s. Not the way your breath caught in your throat when he looked you once over, as though to scrutinise every inch of your appearance, no doubt to find something new to annoy him. Nor the way you released it in an small huff of annoyance — exasperated by the circumstances that always had the pair of you going toe to toe — when his eyes met yours again.
“I do not believe I was the one who began this conversation.” He said after a moment, folding his arms across his chest, entirely too smug, too knowing, behind all that nonchalance.
“I’m guessing you won’t be the one to end it, either.” You replied, before adding with no small amount of spite, “Not without being right.”
“Pray tell, what would make me right?” Elijah asked, something close to incredulous in the way his brows ever so slightly pressed together. As though you had not hit the mark with your assertion. You must’ve, for even though it was barely there, you could not recall the last time you’d so openly seen how he truly felt in his features.
“I wish I knew.” Your eyes did not leave his a moment, if anything, you did not seem to hold eye-contact so much as have a staring contest with one another. “I would’ve admitted to it a year ago, if I did. That way I wouldn’t have had to hear you talk — ever again.”
“I highly doubt that.” Elijah was truly incredulous now, as though the idea of you ever shutting up was something nearly novel in it’s ridiculousness. “You’d be bored in seconds, and we both know that is much too long for you to be quiet.”
“You know what? You are right.” Your words dripped with sarcasm — you could hardly fathom the audacity. What right had he to judge you? This is what a thousand years of unchecked power did to people, evidently. It turned them into total dicks. “Nice, genuine people who like me — people like your sister — are just oh-so boring.”
“I may have no clue what my sister sees in you,” Elijah replied at once, a tick in his jaw, a tense in his muscles beneath that nice suit; for a moment you thought he was about to take a step forward, but he seemed to still at the last moment, “but, it is even farther beyond comprehension what you see in her.”
You gave him a look, one of disbelief, taken aback by his words. They weren’t a quite the non sequitur, but they seemed to set the conversation off it’s intended course full of quiet loathing and chartered it for one of mutually assured destruction — after all, the pair of you never been ones to shy from dropping the nukes.
“Perhaps,” Elijah continued, his better judgement seeming to lose the battle against instinct, and he took a slow, measured step forward, “the saddest part of your entire unfortunate existence is that you are much too clever for your own good — certainly too clever for anyone else’s — and yet waste your life surrounded by mediocrity.”
He made a broad gesture, as though the elevator held some example that proved his words true.
“Do you even realise how conceited you sound?” You scoffed, struggling for a moment to find the words that could possibly encapsulate exactly how dumbfounded you were that he could possibly think in such a way. You refused to entertain the possibility his words were capable of meeting the mark, too. He was wrong. He was always so wrong. And you felt hot and irritated and utterly frustrated by him. “You think you’re so much better than me, and yet, our lives are the exact same, even with your thousand year head start.”
“Our lives could not be more different.” Elijah took one more step forward, a little quicker, a little angrier, something mirrored in his words, something like a challenge. “We could not be more different.”
You rose to his little challenge, pushing off the wall to take a step towards him of your own; “do enlighten me on all our differences, Mikaelson. Is it that when I say I enjoy the red, I mean wine, but when you say it, you mean blood?”
“Do you mean to say that we are the same?” He returned, that pointedness, that annoyance in his eyes seemed to shift as he brought himself another step closer, and that all too familiar, uncomfortable, unnamable sensation that could not possibly be anything but sheer intolerance fluttered in your stomach.
“Aren’t we?” You shrugged, but your composure, your breath, seemed to shake for a moment. Yet, you made yourself take a step forward despite it. You wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d unnerved you, that he always did. “Isn’t that why you hate me? Why you look at me like that? And look away just as fast?”
Elijah took another step, and his chest nearly brushed up against yours as he told you, “You don’t know anything of what you speak.”
“And you think you do?” You retorted, scrutinising his dark, oh-so unreadable eyes (ones that were maybe a little too pretty, in the sort of way that just made you hate him more) for anything that might betray how he felt.
He took another step forward, and you had no choice but to take a step back at his imposition. That, together with his very soft, very tense, “stop talking,” pressed at all your buttons in a way only he ever managed to do.
“Why? Are you scared, Mikaelson?” You pressed with your words, and Elijah pressed with his presence. For every question you put forward, he made you take one step back. “Are you afraid that if you look at me for more than two seconds, you’ll see yourself? Scared you won’t like what you see? Or scared that you will?”
Then your back brushed up against the elevator wall. Elijah was close. Closer than he had ever been before. Close enough that his breath brushed against your face as his hands settled onto the railing behind either side of your waist. Close, but not close enough... to touch, that is. Something you should have been grateful for. His eyes still bore into yours, with that same stubbornness, that same pride, that same feeling just beyond words, as yours did his... but then they fell, just low enough.
“Stop talking.” He repeated himself. His words were firmer now, more insistent, though they were spoken in that same, low, barely there register as they were before. He’d never been the sort of man to raise his voice when he wished to be heard. No, he just made it impossible to focus on anything but that twisting, fluttery feeling in your stomach and the way that if you simply breathed wrong, you could very well taste every little thing he said.
“Make me.” You returned, a challenge of your own.
“Don’t.” He took a sharp inhale, as though he needed to steady himself. As though he could only tolerate you as little as you could tolerate him.
“Why not?” You refused to backdown. Never would, because he would not, either. “Can you not make me, Elijah?”
“You know that I can.” His words were simple, almost arrogant, had there not been something more to them, an undercurrent of that feeling. “I will.”
“Then do it — ”
Elijah did. Before you could even finish your sentence, Elijah’s lips were against yours. The kiss was rough and demanding and entirely infuriating, just as he was. But it was a fleeting thing; it was over just as quickly as it had begun.
He pulled back the next moment, his breathing unsteadied, his eyes raw with sheer emotion, and you knew that he must hate you for having pushed him past all his composure, past that refined exterior that so easily settled over him. Your eyes caught one another’s again. The moment felt strung out and suspended and —
Then you leaned up to kiss him again, because now that there had been a taste of what could be, it ruined the possibility of going back to anything that had been. Your hands wound their way up his chest, feeling over the perfect lines of his perfect suit, and the ridges of that assuredly perfect body beneath, coming to tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck.
His hesitation, his restraint, seemed to evaporate into thin air the second you did so. His own hands found his way to your waist as he pulled you impossibly closer, and, all the while, pressed you back impossibly further — as though he would not be satisfied until every inch of you was up against his chest and backed up against the elevator wall.
The kiss turned filthy in seconds; his teeth found their way to your lower lip in one, his tongue was in your mouth the next. It was everything that the two of you were. All those dangerously similar things that lay beneath what you pretended to be, all those awful things that you truly desired, all those times that your words hit all too close to the mark, all those exchanges that had left both of you enraged, all the time you spent occupying one another’s thoughts —
His lips left yours to press hot, open-mouthed kisses along the line of your jaw, his teeth just barely grazing against the skin beneath your ear as your head leaned back, and then he went lower still, his mouth pressing over your pulse, down your jugular, working across your collarbone. His hands moved, too, ghosting down from your waist and over your thighs. He hooked beneath them and propped you up against the railing on the wall, stepping into the space between with a practised ease that belied centuries of experience in manhandling. You were not in the least bit surprised.
“Do you have any idea — ” his words were caught between kisses against your skin, “ — what I’ve wanted to do to you? What I want to do to you?”
They sent that fluttery feeling in your stomach on fire, they hade you feeling weak, in a way a man like him should not be capable of doing.
“Tell me — ” You gasped, despite your better judgement, because it would be a lie to say that you did not want to know, that there wasn’t a bit of you that did not want to know if he imagined all those terrible things that you did, things that you loathed yourself for thinking, but things you thought anyway.
His hands flexed against your thighs, as though he needed to hold himself back from tightening his grip, from doing something reckless — something reckless like indulging this moment any further. But then, restraint was not something that stayed long in either of your vocabularies when faced with one another.
“I want to taste you,” his words were almost a groan, “touch you,” he worked his way back up the other side of your neck, “make you come for me,” his words brushed against your ear a moment, before he pulled back just enough to meet your eye.
“Would you let me?”
You had expected something filthy... but that? You were more than a little taken aback; anything that you thought you might’ve said seemed to catch in your throat, and a moment passed as you looked into his eyes, as though searching for the truth behind his words, the deception they must’ve been concealing. There was nothing in them but a very real desire to make you come, right here.
“In an elevator?” You almost scoff. Perhaps a little at yourself for not being as vehemently opposed to the idea as you should be.
“Yes.” Elijah answers, immediate, but with a measured exhale, something in his gaze eases, and his hands soften, something close to reassurance in the way his fingers trace circles against the skin of your thighs. “Unless I should pry those doors open, after all?”
“Well — ” you paused a moment, considering his all too tempting offer. “I never said no.”
“Are you saying yes?” Elijah asked, anything but demanding.
“Yes.” The word was barely a tentative breath, given with a small nod after a moment’s contemplation, but there was a certainty with which you met his gaze. He held it for a moment, just long enough to lower himself down between your legs till he was down on his knees, perfectly willing to swallow his pride as the starter if the main course got to be you.
He pressed a gentle kiss to the inside of your thigh as his hands gently eaed them apart. Then they slid further up, and Elijah watched as his fingers caught the waistband of your panties, and then, slowly, he pulled them down, all the way, till they had been slipped free from around your ankles and lay discarded somewhere in the darkness of the elevator floor. All you could do was watch, with baited breath, as each movement of his bordered on revering, as though there was something nearly sacred in the fact that he was doing this to the woman he’d spent a year despising.
Another kiss was placed on the inside of your thigh, his fingers pressing deeper into their flesh, and then another, and another, as he inched his way up, till he was finally pressed between them. For a moment, he was soft; a kiss pressed right up against you, then a slow, nearly tentative dip of his tongue in — but with the taste of you, he was gone. How could he be expected to take his time when you tasted like that?
The feeling of his mouth, of his tongue against you, it was already enough to have your thighs squeezing around his head, have your fingers gripping around the railing you were up on tighter, have your back arching up and your head tilting back. His tongue, working its way up to your clit, circling over it, sucking on it, at once teasing and impatient, had a soft gasp choking out halfway through your throat. His mouth moved lower, exploring every inch of you, determined to taste every last bit; every flick, stroke, stripe — it had some more lewd, more filthy sound than the last leaving your lips.
One of his hands left it’s place on the outside of your thigh, gently tracing up it’s inside. He pressed a finger against your folds before inching further, brushing against the slick of your entrance a moment, before pushing it in slowly, bit by bit. Only once it was all the way up did he push a second in, moving them slowly, gently at first, before building up his pace as his mouth sucked on your clit in tandem.
“Elijah — ” his name was a moan on your lips, and it only spurred him on to make that pleasure build up in you faster — that aching feeling which had your hips nearly bucking up to press further against his mouth, against his fingers.
“That’s it,” he murmured, his lips leaving your clit for just barely a moment, “I want you to come for me. Can you do that? Can you come for me?”
When you nodded, desperate and quick, Elijah’s mouth was right back on you, with more fervour than before. He worked a little faster, his fingers fucking you a little quicker, curling up into you with a skill that bordered on sinful. Each time your hips rolled forward, each time you gasped and moaned and whimpered and told him you were so fucking close, he only wanted to work harder, only became all the more hard to feel you come on his fingers, to taste it on his tongue.
And then you finally did; that pleasure built up hot and sweet and tight in your gut, cresting and cresting until it finally came crashing down over you, each wave leaving you a little more raw than the last. Elijah didn’t stop, not until your legs were shaking and your thighs were a vice around his head, not until that feeling of overstimulation blurred in with the last fading bits of pleasure from your orgasm and all you could bring yourself to say was his name. Even then, he spent a moment between your legs, breathing you in, savouring the messy remains of his work, before he pressed one final kiss against your clit and pulled his fingers away — and it should have been embarrassing how tempted he was to lick them clean, if only to taste you just a little longer.
“Was that okay?” He asked, words a whisper as he rose up from his knees, the hand that hadn’t just made a mess of you coming to cradle your jaw as he brought your gaze to his.
You might’ve scoffed, because how could he possibly make you come on his fingers, on his mouth, and still need assurances that you had enjoyed every last second of it? But, you were still coming down from the high he’d given you, so you nodded, instead, and whispered back, “it was more than okay.”
Elijah’s face was the least guarded you had ever seen it — satisfaction, and something like relief, washed across his features as he pressed a kiss against your forehead, and when you titled your head to catch his eye again, he used the moment to catch your lips in a kiss instead. It tasted of your arousal, and felt like that unnamable, fluttering feeling that rose up in your stomach. It felt like something tangible enough to grasp but not real enough to hold onto. But, oh, did you want to try.
He pulled away. Your foreheads rested against each other’s, and you spent a moment just breathing him in, the same way he did you. Then straightened himself up a little, looking down at you with a look in his eye — something you weren’t used to seeing there. It was something you could read. Something soft and affectionate and warm, in a way that was entirely different to the heat just moments ago.
“Go out with me.” Elijah said, and there wasn’t a hint of pretense in his voice.
You scoffed, because surely he must not have been serious, but when he kept holding your gaze in that rapt way of his, you realised that he was. Impossibly, he was.
“You’re serious, Mikaelson?” You raised a brow.
“Perfectly.” He replied, not missing a beat.
“You do realise you don’t have to... just because of... you know?” There was something dangerously close to vulnerability in your voice, something you would have tried to cover up, and wanted to, desperately, but couldn’t.
“I want to.” He said, simply. “Not just because of that.”
“Oh. Then...” your words trailed off a moment, all you could do was nod slowly. Nothing about this moment felt real. You and Elijah could not tolerate each other. Never had. Never would... But, then again, relationships had been built on less. “Maybe... Maybe I will.”
“Maybe you will.” He echoed, but his words held a certainty that you would. It was the sort of self-assuredness that only a man who had spent a thousand years being so devilishly handsome could ever possibly flaunt. He would never change. Not that you’d want him to. Not that much, anyway.
“And you’ll never be anything less than conceited.” You huffed, but the amusement you felt was palpable. It was strange, feeling your lips quirk up in a smile rather than a scowl at this entirely infuriating man.
“No, that I will not.” He smiled, a genuine thing which made that fluttery feeling bubble up in your stomach again. Then he leaned in to press a kiss against the edge of your jaw, your cheek, the corner of your mouth, before pulling back to look down at you. “I do have good reason to be, though. I did just secure a date with an impossible woman.”
“Poor thing.” You said, mocking, but not in the cruel way you once might’ve. This was an affection that was entirely too domestic for it’s own good. “I think I should warn her.”
“Mm,” Elijah hummed, his hands wandering up to tuck a few stray bits of hair behind your ears, almost hatefully, as though they had been scrutinising some grand view. “I doubt she would heed your words. She is a decidedly poor listener. I do not know how I tolerate her at all.”
“I doubt she’s capable of tolerating you, too.” You returned, biting back a smile. “But, I guess we’ll just have to learn.”
“That we will.” He obliged — for once — and then his mouth pressed against yours again, like it had been a century since the last time. And when you kissed him back, it felt like just maybe, it had... and just maybe, there was time enough left being stuck in an elevator with Elijah Mikaelson, unable to tolerate one another, to spend a few centuries more.
Your relationship can never be more than “untitled”... right?
Warnings: cursing, mentions of sex, kissing, (kind of) angst to fluff
The last thing your relationship with Jason needed was a title.
Things were better off undefined. He’d slip in through your window in the early morning hours, in a crappy old tee-shirt and torn up sweatpants he seemed to have just thrown on, bruised, sometimes bleeding, though he’d never tell you why. You didn’t ask. Gotham was hardly a kind city. You just figured he did what he had to do to make money.
Most of the time he’d be gone before the sunrise — which was a kindness, really, it was. At least that’s what you told yourself. You were spared the awkwardness of breakfast conversation, and the both of you could get on with your days as though the other didn’t even exist at all.
At least, that was the way things had been.
He began to come around a little earlier sometimes — and on a rare occasion, he’d turn up before it was even ten pm. He’d sit on your couch whilst you showered (because, for some strange reason, you were real nervous when he came around... you had no idea why. At least that’s what you told yourself), flicking through free TV channels or streaming something from some shady pirating site that tried to open up a page filled with “single moms in your area” every time you clicked the screen. There were times where you’d be too tired to do anything, or just weren’t in the mood, and probably because it was too awkward to admit that he was just there for the sex, he’d stick around. There would be pizza or Chinese food or tubs of ice cream. The man was six-foot... something? He could eat.
You’d get on so well, laughing and yapping and playing games, arguing about what to watch on the television, taking naps together — and, well, obviously, having really good sex. Time went by so easily together.
But when you weren’t together? Radio silence. Days of it, sometimes weeks. You’d miss him — but only for the sex. At least that’s what you told yourself. He’d come back around again sure enough, a couple weeks down the line at most.
There’d been an occasion where you hadn’t even been home when Jason had swung by. You didn’t really call or text each other, so you didn’t expect him to turn up when you were in the suburbs for a family reunion. Your place had been completely ransacked. It wasn’t a shock, really, not in the shabby part of Gotham you called home. Windows smashed in, most of your comparatively valuable items gone, your furniture torn apart.
When you came back, you found yourself locked out of your own apartment, fighting with the door to let you in until Jason opened it up. He’d took it upon himself to fix the place up; better windows, new (and many more) locks — he even replaced the flea-market frames of your childhood photos up on the mantle. You never realised that he noticed. When you asked him why, he just shrugged, “didn’t wanna be ‘round a messy place, is all. I didn’t think you’d have time with all those shifts you were pullin’ last week.”
You accepted his reason with an; “oh — well, thank you... so much.”
You knew there could never, possibly, ever be something between you and Jason. This untitled state of relationship was what worked for the two of you. Titles meant commitments. Commitments meant complications. Complications meant break-ups. You didn’t know if you could handle breaking up with Jason Todd... not that you really liked him, or anything... you just didn’t need to go through all that mess all over again.
At least that’s what you told yourself.
Well, you had pretty much come to assume that your relationship with the recluse had come to an end.
It had been nearly a month since you’d seen Jason, pretty much the longest stretch of time there had ever been. You’d been surprised, sort of. Before, he’d been around every night, and the two of you got on like peas in a pod — he was Forrest, and you were Jenny. You had no fucking clue when you told him to run.
The worst part of it all is that you texted him. Texted him. He’d given you his number out of his own free will, sure, but there was only a scant number of texts between the two of you guys. I mean, he was still saved in your phone as “Jacob - SL.” All you had said was ‘hey, u ok?’, but you might as well have been begging him to come back into your life, demanding intimacy. It had been three and a half weeks of no-contact and you texted him. At least it wasn’t a phone call. That would’ve been absolutely diabolical.
It was nearly eight pm on a lazy Friday when there was a knock on your door. You almost jumped out of your seat, thinking that The Exorcist had finally become interesting. Alas, the movie playing in shitty quality from an illegal website on your third-hand MacBook dragged on, and you had to drag yourself to the door, a little bit weary of who the fuck might be disturbing you at this ungodly hour.
When you peeped through the peep-hole, it was Jason. All six foot... something of him. You were surprised to see him. You honestly didn’t know what to do with yourself.
A little embarrassed, a little bit angry (or rather a lot, but pretty much all of it was being shoved back down your throat to simmer in your stomach for a good while), you tightened your robe and nervously unlocked each and every lock he’d installed and opened the door. There was a moment where you considered not opening the door. But it was Jason, so, of course, you swallowed down your dignity to wither away in your stomach down next to your rage.
“Hey.” It was the most awkward ‘hey’ of your life.
“Hey.” His was the exact same caliber.
He stepped into your apartment, it was a familiar moment, and yet he did it in such a way that everything felt completely and irreversibly changed. You knew you shouldn’t have texted him. Not that he had even bothered to read your message. You exhaled, sharp, and awkwardly fumbled trying to re-lock your door, watching Jason walk through your apartment, beyond your little dining table with mismatched chairs and to your couch.
He gestured vaguely at your laptop; “watching... what? The Exorcist?”
“Ye— Yeah.” You didn’t know why it was so fucking awkward. It wasn’t like you guys hadn’t gone a few weeks without talking before. This was supposed to be normal, if anything. “You, uh, wanna watch with me? I mean — we could always watch, like, a rerun of BBC’s Pride and Prejudice.”
“No, no. Let’s just watch this, ‘right?” He sat down on the couch, not bothering to take of his jacket or shoes, sitting so frigidly he seemed like a chair himself.
“If you want.” You hobbled over and sat down next to him, cross-legged, with a little distance between the two of you, pulling up your blanket to your chin.
It was that rigid sense of awkwardness and nothing more until the exorcism was done and the movie credits began to roll. It was just past nine, and you had ascertained through a nervous question that Jason: a) hadn’t eaten and, b) thought Chinese was “fine.”
But, of course, because absolutely nothing could go right on this night, the Chinese place wasn’t delivering. The only Chinese place around wasn’t delivering on the busiest night of the entire fucking week. The guy on the phone even had the audacity to hang-up on you after yelling, “pick-ups only.”
You wanted to throw your phone across the room — of course, it didn’t make it past the coffee table and landed with a dull thud on your carpet.
“Pick-ups only.” You re-iterated, before Jason could make a remark on your little outburst.
“Alright.” He said, taking a breath, “can’t we just get pizza or somethin’ else?”
You clenched your fists. Internally you were screaming. But, because you’d had the misfortune of growing up with a dad, you managed to stay calm; “I really, really want Chinese food, Jason.”
“Well, they’re not —”
“Does it seem like my cravings give a fuck?” You snapped. “I can just walk and get it. You don’t even have to come.”
“You are not walking around this neighbourhood this time of night.” Jason sounded just as annoyed as you, but you didn’t really care, you were already picking up your phone from the carpet, shrugging off your robe, putting on a hoodie, and a pulling on pair of Ugg dupes.
“Yes, I am.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Well, if you care so much, Jason, why don’t you come? I’m going either way.” You’d managed to unlock the door and were already out the door, not bothering to wait for him. You’d had enough of that these past four crappy weeks.
His only response was silently getting up, fixing his jacket, and following you out.
It was freezing cold outside, and completely dark. You were shivering, but you were absolutely not going to turn back — not after the massive tantrum you’d just thrown to even go in the first place. Neither of you said a word to each other; you just kept walking on in complete silence, slipping in and out of view between the scarce amount of street-lamps that were still working. Jason kept right behind you the whole time, and it was tangible just how pissed-off he was.
It wasn’t really all that far to the Chinese place, a fifteen minute walk at the most, but their delivery was pretty much free for loyal customers (which you were pretty sure you had become since you’d moved in, especially so after it became ritual to order-in when Jason came around).
When you arrived at last, all you said to Jason was, “the usual good with you?”
He nodded, and mumbled a, “yeah, ‘ts fine” under his breath, rummaging through his pockets, only to hand you a twenty.
“You don’t — I’ll just pay.” You would die before admitting it, but you felt bad taking his money to pay for a meal he didn’t even seem to want. Honestly, he didn’t seem to want a part in anything to do with you right now.
Yet he insisted. “Just take it.”
You did, with great reluctance and a sigh, but... fuck it. If he wanted to compensate for his depressing attitude with a bit of cash, who were you to say no?
It had been over a year since you’d actually stepped foot in this restaurant. There were a few metal tables and plastic chairs lined up by the windows, but most of the space was occupied by a big red counter and display windows stuffed with various dishes. You went up to place your order, listing off the top of your head what you usually got.
It didn’t sound all that appealing to you, but then again, when did you ever do anything different?
Some guy took your order. He seemed your age, maybe a little younger, a bit short. It was so obvious he was flirting with you, and normally you would’ve never flirted back, but today — well, what was really stopping you? Jason’s gaze drilling into the back of your head? You were never, ever, going to be anything more with Jason than just a hook-up. So yeah, you flirted back — just a little, anyway. He didn’t even end up asking for your number, so it didn’t really matter. It was just... nice. Nice to think that some guy out there might actually like you.
It took a little while for the order to get ready. You and Jason stood side by side in complete silence. You looked out the window, Jason was doing something on his phone. When it was done, you left, plastic bag in hand, denying Jason’s offer to hold the food for you, keeping a brisk pace so you could get home all the sooner and this night could be over all the sooner. Jason didn’t argue, just followed, hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket, a broody look on his face.
You liked walking fast — it helped clear up your head, clam you down. You were half-way to forgiveness when it started to rain. At first it was light, a drizzle you could handle without batting an eye, only annoyed you’d have to figure out how to un-frizz your hair when you got home. Then it started to pour. In the blink of an eye, it was raining cats-and-dogs.
This was your thirteenth fucking reason.
Everything had gone so completely wrong today — fuck, not even today, your entire fucking life. It all came crashing down on you with the rain. For a moment, you stood paralysed, a little ways ahead of Jason, who might’ve been about to ask you what was wrong, or to tell you to hurry up so you could get out of the rain quicker, or to offer you his jacket to put over your head or something else so fucking stupid — because that’s what he did. He didn’t talk to you for a month, and then fought with you when he finally showed up again, and then offered to do something sweet because he knew you’d forgive him at the drop of a hat.
You screamed then, really screamed, and before you even knew what you were doing, the Chinese food Jason had paid for was hurled onto the floor, chow mein splattering everywhere. You were so completely aggravated and overstimulated and a dozen other things you didn’t even know, and there was absolutely nothing left for you to do but just break down crying.
You were sitting on the floor, sweats soaked through, crying by the time Jason caught up to you.
“What —” it was humiliating to think what he might’ve thought of you in this moment.; “Here — take this,” he was draping his jacket over your shoulders, trying to help you get up, “c’mon, let me help — ”
“Stop — Jason, just fucking stop.” You swatted his hands away, a little too forcefully. You shrugged off his jacket and stood up, just for the sake of getting away from him. “I don’t want your stupid jacket or your stupid help. I — I don’t even fucking want this.” You tugged at your hoodie, the one he’d left behind at your apartment the first night you’d ever taken him home, the one you had practically subsumed yourself into, pulled it over your head and threw it on the floor.
He looked as though he’d been slapped in the face — hurt, really fucking hurt, but at the same time shocked in place. “Then what do you want?”
“Oh my god —” you scrunched up your hair in your hands, and if you had the willpower to pull it all out, you might’ve. “How long have we fucking known each other? How do you still not know what I want, Jason? Isn’t it so completely obvious?”
“No, it’s not.” You’d never seen Jason come this close to yelling before — not that you had ever had an argument before. Shutting up and taking it was the way you’d decided to play your whole entire relationship, if there even was one. “How — how the fuck am I supposed to know what you want? You wanted Chinese food, then you throw it on the floor because it starts to rain. You wanted to watch that stupid Exorcist movie, and then — then you just sat there, saying nothing, doing nothing, I mean — you have never once told me what you actually want. How am I supposed to know?”
“Because!” You couldn’t even believe him. You couldn’t even believe yourself — what was wrong with eating Chinese and then fucking and then not hearing from him for weeks, maybe never again?
“Because what?” Jason asked, just barely taking a step towards you. You fought your instinct to back away or run for it.
“Because you should just know, Jason.” You were crying so hard, your voice was so high-pitched you doubted he could even make out what you were saying, your chest felt like it was about to explode. “Because, last month, you spent nearly every fucking day of the week with me, and this month, I don’t hear from you. At all! I mean — you don’t even read my one fucking text message. And then you show up here, trying to act as though everything is normal, but it’s not, it’s absolutely fucking not, because all I will ever be to you is just sex, and you — you’re... Y’know what, just forget it, okay?”
You turned away from him then. You didn’t want to see the look of indifference on his face, you didn’t want to be disappointed again. You also didn’t want him to see you crying anymore. It was too embarrassing. You just wiped your tears with the sleeves of your top, not that it mattered all that much in the rain. It was silent then. You didn’t really know what to do, so, in lieu of doing absolutely nothing, you just knelt down and tried to clean up the mess you’d made of the Chinese food.
“I’m sorry.” You said, standing up, not because you were, but because you didn’t want to fight anymore. “Let’s just go home. I think... I think most of the food can be salvaged.”
Jason had a look on his face, and you didn’t really know what it meant. He was just so fucking difficult to read sometimes, it drove you to insanity. “Fine.” He conceded, much to your relief, “but at least put this on.”
He handed you his jacket (the hoodie you’d thrown off was tucked under his other arm, and you doubted you would ever get it back). You accepted, with some reluctance, but you had to work, and you didn’t wanna be getting sick.
The walk home was painfully quiet — just about the same as the whole evening had been. You felt like a complete and total disaster. Like, oh my god, who couldn’t keep together a sneaky link? Your life was a mess, and by tomorrow, it would be a mess without Jason in it. You had no idea how to feel about that — how to really feel about that, beyond the things you told yourself.
When you stood outside your apartment building, under the little screen over the door, you might’ve broken down again, but you were really just too tired. “I forgot my keys. We’ll... we can go up the fire escape or something.”
“I have them.” Jason said, picking them out of his pocket and shuffling through the array for the ones that unlocked the building entrances. Of course he had the keys — of course he knew that you’d forget them.
“Thank you.” You said, trying everything but to look up at him, yet you couldn’t really help yourself. If you could, you might not’ve wound up in such a dumb situation. It took a moment before he looked down at you too, and you felt like a deer caught in the headlights, like you’d been caught doing something you weren’t really supposed to do.
He didn’t look away. You didn’t look away. You were reminded of just how easy it was to be attracted to him — of how easy it was, how easy it might’ve been, to just kiss him. But... that’s all you would ever be. Just, this. No titles, no emotions, no nothing. You didn’t even need to tell yourself this time, you’d done it enough that you knew it.
It seemed like he was going to lean in, go the distance, but he didn’t. He handed you the keys to your apartment, taking a step back, a deep breath in.
“Are you... leaving?” You asked, looking at him with so much hope, and yet, such limited expectations.
“Yeah.” Jason said.
You scoffed, but, then again, what did you expect? All you could say was, “okay.” But, before you could turn away, try to unlock your stupid building door, Jason caught your arm. It was like a movie scene, sans happy ending.
“Look —” he said, just barely meeting your eye, “I’m sorry. For being such a dick, y’know, and... for the other stuff, too.”
“Jason, you don’t have to apologise. I’m the one who ruined... this.” You tried to shrug away from him, but he didn’t budge.
“Jus’ let me speak, okay?” He said, letting go of your arm to push his hands into his pockets, the way he always did when he was uncomfortable. You could do nothing but nod ‘fine.’
“I — it’s just so fuckin’ hard to be around you, because — well, ‘cause you mean so much fuckin’ more to me than just sex. I mean — I can’t, I jus’ can’t because... It’s like that time your apartment got robbed, and I thought you were gonna be — and, I wasn’t even fucking there. I called your mom that day, y’know, and — fuck.” He was breathing hard, real fast, too, and you had never seen him so vulnerable. He had always been just out of reach, even when you were right next to each other. And here he was, pouring out his guts, to you. To you. The one person who you always supposed meant the least to him.
You had no idea what to say — you mean, what do you say to things like this? Things you had always needed to hear, but never quite let yourself wanted. “Jason... you, called my mom? I... just, don’t —” you wanted to reach out to him, to hug him, to cry, but...
“I’m so fucking scared that, if I get real close to you, I’ll pull some shit like this, and... I’d rather never have you than loose you because, well, ‘cause I wasn’t enough. You can do better, anyway, like that stupid fucking guy from the stupid fucking Chinese place.”
All you could manage was a sad little, “Jason.”
He took another step back, and even though you felt like you could finally breathe, the painful realisation that this might be the very last time you ever speak to this stupid, beautiful man was enough to knock the wind out of you again.
“Y’don’t have to say anything.” He mumbled, looking down at the floor, and you could’ve sworn he was on the brink of tears.
“I —” You dropped the Chinese again, a little more gently this time, and your keys, only to put your hands up in the air in exasperation. “Jason.” You decided that it was finally fucking time to be a little brave, and do what the fuck you wanted to do, so you put your hands against his shoulders, trying to catch his gaze, “I want you.”
He still refused to look up, to meet your eye, because that would make it so real, and both of you had spent months in fear of that — but you had no choice but to push forward. “All I’ve wanted is you, Jason, and you — how could you not know? You’ve fucked up so, so many times, Jay, but, I’m still here, I — I don’t want some guy from the Chinese place, I want you. I don’t know how much more obvious I need to make it.”
He finally, finally looked up, looking into your eyes with those pretty green ones of his. “Do you...” he took a breath, and you could feel how fast his heart was going, “D’you really mean that?”
“Yes —”
Before you could even finish Jason’s arms were around you, his chin tucked in against your head, and it was completely intense and entirely sweet at the same time. You just took the moment to breathe him in, in a way you’d never really done before. It felt like you stayed exactly like that for years, the rain crashing down around you, but the rest of the world unmoving.
When he finally pulled back, he didn’t wait a second to catch his breath to, at long last, kiss you. Really kiss you — one filled with all those pent up emotions and desires and everything else. It was intense at the start, so much passion driving his tongue against yours, but after a minute, or an hour, or a year, it softened, melted into something comfortable, something sweet, something that still left you feeling butterflies in your stomach. It felt like it lasted forever.
When he finally pulled away, you had that feeling again — like you could breathe, but at the same time were suffocating.
“Are you sure, y’know, that you want this, Jay?” You asked, chest tightening at the possibility he might say ‘no’; “we don’t have to be dating, or whatever, there’s no need for... titles or anythin— ”
“I don’t care what we call it, I jus’ wanna be yours.” Jason muttered, brushing his nose against yours, giving you one chaste kiss before picking up the keys to unlock the door. “How ‘bout next time we try somethin’ new?” He asked, picking up the Chinese as well, grabbing you with his free hand.
“I’d like that, Jay.” You said, smiling a true smile for the first time in what felt like decades. He gave a nod, and just as quickly dragged you upstairs to watch that re-run of BBC’s Pride and Prejudice whilst eating Chinese, with a little bit of gravel, wearing his hoodie, together. Each other’s.
Stark addition: Robb, Jon, Ned, Cregan... will be updated with: Brandon (Ned’s brother), Sansa x f/gn!Reader
The ways in which they’re jealous.
Warnings: jealousy, slight possessiveness, mostly fluff, allusions to sex, canon-typical
Robb
Like most Stark men, Robb tries very hard to abide by the code of honour by which he was raised. What would his father think, if he saw him sitting there, clenching his fists, staring at you and some... nothing? He might’ve laughed, or had that look on his face he got when he was trying rather hard not to laugh. And he was the eldest son, too. He’d been shouldering some of his father’s lordly burdens for as long as he could recall. Was jealousy a burden a lord must silently take on as well? A king?
Well, boy, or lord, or king, Robb Stark was not above jealousy. He was only a youth, after all, and for all the honour of the Starks, there was a wolf’s blood in them as well.
For all your innocence, Robb would never interrupt a conversation between you and some boy — for respect of you, too. But the second that other boy’s intentions became blatantly less than innocent, he’d walk right out of the conversation he had been engaging with Jon or Theon or his littler siblings, even his mother, and put himself right between the two of you. Proper or not, he would assert himself as the only man you could ever possibly have interest in, let alone love. He would make sure it was very, very well impressed. “Thank you for keeping my lady company, lord...?”
Gods forbid that poor lordling did not take Robb as seriously as one should.
Yet, if your intentions were not so innocent, Robb’s reaction would be wildly different. Perhaps he had — knowingly or unknowingly — made some impetuous comment, brushed off your affections, or, worst of all, made the mistake of being rather too kind with some other lady. Whatever the crime, your punishment was exacting. It drove him to madness. He would try, so very hard, not to snap. Yet that little thread which held together his honour, his rationality, was no match for the weight of his jealousy, of his love.
It would not matter who was present to witness it — even as King of the North he would not be above jealousy. Even with the weight of half a realm, a war, an iron crown, anything. Nothing could keep him from wanting you to be his.
He would march right over, and without so much as a glance at the boy you’d been entertaining, whisk you off to prove just how very devoted he was to you.
Jon
Though not a Stark by name, Jon had that wolf-blood in him still — and very much like his brother, that code of honour weighed heavily upon his shoulders. Unlike his brother, however, Jon did not have the same security of rank and title, and though never ousted, he existed on the outs of his family. He had learnt to bear his jealousy quietly, though not quite so subtly as he might’ve hoped.
He would tell himself not to watch. He would tear his eyes away from you and whatever lord you were probably entertaining — after all, why should you not? Yet, it was pitifully obvious to all who looked upon him that he was brooding over something — Robb might’ve teased him, but it would not take very long to come to the realisation that Jon was beyond teasing, he was so set in his misery that he would not stop brooding. It would only be after, in some rare moment of privacy Winterfell had at last afforded you, that he might make some rather depressing remark, “that lord... he suits you well.”
You would have to reassure (or perhaps even scold) him out of the idea he had somehow concocted that you were betrothed to that ‘lord’ and were certainly over Jon — you would manage though... eventually. And any time hence, he would vehemently deny being jealous; “Never. You must have me confused for some delicate lord in silks, my lady.”
With age and a good bit of time on the wall to come into himself, and perhaps not being quite so green at certain things any longer, Jon would have a bit more of a cockiness to him. He’d handle jealousy a great lot better — especially you trying to make him jealous (where once he might’ve boiled with anger and frustration and then simmered down to a puppy-dog forlornness). He’d find the manifestation of your anger with him — flirting with some lord, the sort you knew he’d never get along with — rather amusing... at first. He could cross his arms and watch the two of you spend half a day together. But then. Then he’d become annoyed. Would it take nothing short of pushing him over the edge of rage to satisfy you? That annoyance would quickly turn to anger. You had made your point. Surely it was enough? Surely there was no need to grip that boy’s arm so tightly, to laugh so vehemently at his pathetic attempts at jest?
He would walk up to you then. He’d excuse the lordling on your behalf, and pull you away, walking fast, breathing fast. Only once you were out of sight would he stop to calm himself — inhaling as much air as he could possibly manage to clear his head. “You’ve proven your point, my lady, you’ve proven what a fool I was. Am. Is that not enough for you?” If it just so happened not to be enough, then he would hoist you up into his arms with such grace; “very well then, let me prove mine.”
Ned
Ned Stark was a shyer boy than his brother had been. Brandon was older, larger, and a good deal more wild than Ned had ever been. It was Brandon who had to ask you for a dance on Ned’s behalf, for he was rather too shy to do so himself. He was just as shy when it came to his jealousy.
He could stand, with his arms crossed, amongst the wooden columns of Winterfell’s courtyard, watching some other entertain your affections for a good bit of time. He’d have a sullen expression on his face, a fidgety manner about him, trying so very hard not to look your way. He wouldn’t blame you, of course, he could never possibly blame you. He ought to have been more forthright with his feelings for you — now he had to suffer the consequence of watching your beauty in the light of someone else’s affections. It would take days of scarcely a word passing between you to for him to finally confess his pains (at your behest, of course). He’d be terribly embarrassed about it too, how unmanly it was to feel such a way. Brandon would most certainly be jealous, he’d expect that of him, but never himself.
After his brother and father’s deaths, however, as Lord Stark of Winterfell, there were more important things for Ned to worry about than whom you were consorting with. Jealousy was not a feeling he could ever truly overcome, yet when it did come on, he would simply set it aside in the name of honour and respect. He’d find it amusing rather, when some lord would attempt a jest or a flirt — as though the Lady of Winterfell should ever be interested. He knew you would only entertain them for the honour of his house, never unkind to a guest of Winterfell. It was his sons’ age to be hot-headed and jealous now, though there had never truly been an age for that with Ned.
There were many nights when you would lay your head upon his chest, warm in the furs of your bed, lazy after those long northern days, with his fingers running gently through your hair... Yet, it was rare for there to be a night where he, looking off out the window, would share the thoughts that wandered through his mind, “That lord you spoke with today... what did you make of him?”
There was never much more to it. If you teased him about being jealous ceaselessly, with time and meticulous effort weaselled it out of him, he might concede that, just perhaps, he did not quite like the way he looked at you. But, then again, Ned never lingered on those thoughts very long. You were laying in bed with an entirely different fool, after all — him.
Cregan
Cregan had been Lord Stark since he was just a boy — and the Wolf of the North for just as long. His reputation rather preceded him, down into the south, but he was just as much bound by the Stark codes of honour and duty as any other, and would much prefer remaining in the north, in the company of Northerners, between Winterfell and the Wall.
He liked to think of himself as stern, direct, and there were few who would disagree. Yet, when it came to jealousy, Cregan was never sure if it were shame to feel, or a sort of manly pride that so many others took in keeping their women theirs. He was no better than a man, though, he could hardly help gritting his jaw and watching with great scrutiny any time you seemed to take rather too much joy in the company of another — or, more like, when another seemed to take rather too much joy in your company. A company that should have been his.
He would not always interrupt a conversation, no. He would come to you afterwards, perhaps to sit by you when you dined, or to take you up for a dance on a rather festive night at Winterfell, scant as they may have been. He’d make a show of normality, pretending that there was nothing truly bothering him, though it was plain as day that he was rather... upset, to put it nicely.
“It seems that... lord — ” he’d bite his tongue, to keep from saying the things he truly wanted to say about whomever he believed had enraptured your affections — “took a liking to you, my lady.” He would never admit it, truly none of the Starks would, but he found the roots of his jealousy in his own insecurities. He was rather stern, rather direct, but there was a softness beneath, one in every Stark. Had you not seen it? “I suppose you must rather like a man who can make you laugh, too.”
He could not stay jealous for long, especially not when you looked up at him, on the brink of laughter that the Wolf of the North was reduced to such childishness by the threat of loosing your affections (an impossibility, to be sure), and told him that you rather liked him.
If you happened to play with Cregan’s affections, arousing that jealousy you knew he was so susceptible to, he would most certainly march up to you and interrupt, leaving behind whatever else he had been doing, with little care for who witnessed it. He would not hesitate as some Starks did — he had a reputation about him for his directness, and he would be damned if he would not uphold it. If he were to speak to the lord you’d been toying with, it would be nothing more than a curt, “step away. Now.”
He would drag you off, most probably to his chambers (though, if he were particularly mad, you might not make it so far), lecturing you about how you ought not to play games that you could not handle the consequences of. He knew full well just how much you could handle, and rather enjoy, those consequences, but he lectured all the same.
Warnings: cursing, mentions of sex, use of pet names, mostly fluffy stuff w bucky
“Is he home?”
“Sh — shhh,” the phone line cracked, “yes.”
“Can’t you make him —”
“What? Go away?” You rolled your eyes loud enough to be heard on the other side of the line, from which came nothing but a resigned sigh. “Yes, yes,” you go on, “let me just go downstairs and ask my landlord to get out of his own home, so I can let my secret boyfriend — oh, his best fucking friend — come over behind his back.”
“Well, when’s he leaving?”
“Never, probably.” You lean back against the headboard of your bed, looking down at the brightly patterned fuzzy socks on your feet. Bored. Bored, till a wicked little thought comes into your head.
“Why?” you ask, doe eyed innocence the definition of your tone. He doesn’t buy it.
“You know why.”
“Do I?”
“Yes.” His voice is firm. He’s well aware you’re playing him, and he doesn’t like it — because he knows you can. Like a goddamn violin.
“Well, why don’t you give me a little refresher?”
There’s silence on the other end. Then shuffling.
“Fine. I want him to leave so I can...” a deep breath cuts off his sentence, and he just knows that you’re smiling on the other line. He’s almost smiling himself. So, he gives in. Of course he gives in — was there anything he didn’t give in to? You’d practically possessed him since the first day he met you. “So I can fuck you. Loudly.”
You smiled. Sweet, sweet satisfaction. You had no objections, of course.
“Well, for that...” you lean forward and hop off your bed, “I can try to expedite things.”
Trying to be as nimble as possible (though not with quite as much expertise as your boyfriend had, with some seventy odd years of practise, mastered) as you peak your head out the door. You couldn’t quite make out your roommate — the apartment was dimly lit, except for the white beam of the TV and the dull, hazy yellow glow from a sometimes faulty lamp you’d hauled in along with a dozen odd other things scattered across the apartment. A homely touch, you’d told him, and he laughed and made fun of you, but still helped you pick out a spot for each item.
“Well?”
“He looks like he’s eating — ” you braved a few tentative steps into the hallway, “I — yeah, he’s eating. Chips. TV. He’s not gonna leave, baby.”
He huffed; “and I thought you were gonna ‘expedite things’.”
You didn’t appreciate the mock-condescension in his tone as you retreated back into your bedroom, shutting the door behind you and then leaping onto your bed.
Radio silence for a moment. The chances of getting laid tonight were lingering low, and the both of you seemed resigned to your fate.
Well, what were the two of you meant to do? Come clean? You were practically rescued from homelessness by Sam Wilson six months ago — he allowed you to horde up in a spare room in his apartment for cheap after your asshole ex kicked you out of your apartment. It was a temporary get up.
At first, anyway.
This world wasn’t one you belonged in; all this ‘superhero’ shit was a bit much for your humble tastes. But, Sam was kind, respectful, and, honestly, the closest thing you’d had to a friend in ages. You found decent work just down the block. Put up pictures of your mom and childhood on the mantle of your dresser. It was easy to settle in — and Sam didn’t complain. Then there was... him. James Buchanan Barnes. War hero, assassin, terrorist, super-soldier, Avenger, whatever. You weren’t really into the whole depressed, broody, only here because he feels he’s obligated shtick. Been there, done that.
Turns out, you’re more of a sucker than you thought — especially when you’ve got the blues in a bar that unwisely supplied you with a fifth of vodka. Especially when you wake up the next morning, on his couch, clothes on, breakfast cooking, and with nothing to regret except whatever humiliation you certainly brought upon yourself, drunk.
It wasn’t just fucking — it never had been. ‘Course, with the natural reluctance that came with being with someone who you knew you’d really already totally fallen for, who could break your heart beyond repair and entirely ruin your life — you didn’t put labels on it. You were just two people who did everything a couple did; romance, sex, fighting... just not as a couple.
At first.
Then there were labels on it, and suddenly it felt so serious the only compromise was to keep it entirely secret. Neither of you wanted to ruin Sam’s dad jokes and mocking brotherly affection with the imposition of a relationship after all.
“There’s always the window.” Your suggestion broke the silence that had begun to edge into a minute — a minute too long for you to stay quite.
A scoff, coupled with a disbelieving, “seriously?” was the only response Bucky could possibly offer you.
“You’ve got a metal arm,” you reply, as though it wasn’t obvious.
“A metal arm, not fucking wings.”
“Same difference.” You groan, exasperated. Sometimes you seriously consider marching out there and telling Sam that, for almost as long as you’ve been living with him, you’ve been in love with his best friend. But... common sense, or a total lack of it, compelled you not to.
“For me?” You press.
And, goddammit, did you press the right button.
“Fine.” He concedes. “For you. For you, I will climb up ten feet of brick wall and crawl in through a window that doesn’t even open all the way.”
“Aww, you’re the best baby.”
“Remind me why you can’t just come to mine again?”
“Because,” you whine, “we never do anything here.”
“Did you ever think why that is?” He sighs, but you can hear him getting ready to come over by the thud of his shoes on the floor and the clink of his keys.
“I love you.” You say, to distract him from the pains of being played.
“Yeah, yeah.” He nods along on the other side; you can practically see him, given the amount of times you’ve pulled a little stunt like this, and the amount of times he’s let it slide. “How come these phone calls never end so well for me?”
“Hey, you’re gonna get to have sex with me. And — because you love me.”
“Well,” he breathed, accepting his fate, “I do. I love you.”
You had to stop yourself from giggling and blushing like a schoolgirl. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for you, and, honestly, there was nothing you wouldn’t do for him. You’d prove as much in about —
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Warnings: canon typical, cursing, sexual references, implied age gap, pet names, Daemon Targaryen
In Deepwood Motte, the home of your house, you detested late summer snows. They ate away at the first summer of your youth, when you were not yet out of leading strings. You had always envied Winterfell for the boiling hot water that ran through the castle walls, the blood of the castle’s gargantuan body, and rejoiced each time your family stayed there. What you had envied most as a child, however, was the warmth of the south. Now that a quick winter had come and gone, and you were well a woman grown, arrived in those sweltering southron lands, you missed the late summers snows of the north.
King’s Landing had felt unbearably hot the first moon’s turn you spent, but now that detestable feeling had simmer down into discomfort. Still, servants brought you iced milk each day, sweetened far beyond your liking with honey. Worse than heat and sugar were the ladies of the court. There was much frivolity in the south. The north had always been a more somber place. Your family were not exceedingly wealthy, and nor did they, as it was the southron fashion to do, attempt to imitate the exceedingly wealthy. You were educated by your septa in all ladylike things, even becoming accomplished in song and dance, as well as achieving proficiency in the lute. Your life was surmounted on how well of a match you could make, and so you had learned the necessary skills. It was, in small part, how you came to betrothed to Daemon Targaryen. Yet, you always suspected your betrothal was due in far larger part to your Valyrian ancestry.
The southron ladies of court, whom you were obliged to accompany, often and loudly bragged of their luxuries, their silks, their sweets, and all other forms of careless grandeur. To hear about it endlessly was draining — sickening, even. The young, new Queen Alicent, though modest and austere, in her silent complacence endorsed the ladies of court.
Your only true respite in this blasted place was your betrothed, Daemon Targaryen. He was not overbearing as the ladies of court, though certainly assured and arrogant, you rather found common aspects in your values. Often you would take strolls together, or stand linked by the arms amidst the court in the Great Hall, whispering and smiling about each pompous lord and his presumptuous wife. Once, he convinced you to ride with him atop his great Blood Wyrm, Caraxes; he flew you across Blackwater Bay, as far as Dragonstone, and you even spent a brief moment on the island’s stony expanse.
This day was no different.
The summer sun bore down over King’s Landing, and despite the shade provided by the expansive leaves of the garden plants, sandy canopies and parasols, you were hot. Cupbearers poured chilled wines, iced milks, and sugared lemon juice to all the ladies that were attending this outdoor luncheon, servants fanned you all excessively, and a slender fool in feathered motley danced atop the table.
“These cakes are rather nice,” a southron lady, rather large in stature, commented as she slid a plate full of thick, layered cakes that smelt so strongly of sugar you might’ve smelt them beyond the Neck across the table. You wished, suddenly, that Daemon was here to rescue you, to hold you close as you walked or gossiped far away from all these ladies, to crash in on Caraxes and eat them all — and yet, you remained trapped between a rock and several smothering southerners.
“Thank you, my lady,” you smiled politely, nibbling only the slightest bite of one with a false smile, but convincing enough to satisfy your companions.
The conversation never lulled, but did halt momentarily when another large lady loudly declared, “my word! I have forgotten to share the most interesting of news with you all!” She was old and heavily powdered, with too much colouring on her cheeks and lips, with her hair covered, even in the heat, by a traditional hood. “I did hear that House Stark was coming down to the south for a visit. I believe they shall spend a week’s time in King’s Landing. For what, I cannot say. A most unusual occurrence. I cannot recall but the names of the Starks.”
All the negativity of the day evaporated from you; how could you help but be excited at the thought of seeing the Starks once more? In your childhood you had become closely acquainted with the lot of them, and had spent many of your first years as a proper woman in their company.
Speaking more than needs be for once, you ask, “do you know when they are to arrive?”
The lady shrugged, sipping her wine, “would that Queen Alicent were here — she is awfully little, almost ridiculous with her belly so round — but I would wager that it is soon. Perhaps by the morrow there will be wolves amongst us.” Her haughty tone was not lost on your ears, but you ignored it, and ignored the laughs — some raucous and some polite — of the other ladies.
The day the Starks were set to arrive you dressed in northern fashions; a gown of grey over white, lined with a thin trimming of fur. The south favoured silks and samites in rich colours, the north had always been simpler. On your collar you pinned the silver gauntlet of Glover.
Excitement had overcome you, and you ate nary a bite of your morning meal, which for once you took in the company of other ladies of court, almost enjoyably. Before noon the Starks had arrived, and all the world (or so it seemed) had assembled in the Great Hall to witness the procession. For it you stood by Daemon, your sweet betrothed, awaiting eagerly the party of Starks. It had been nearly two years since you had last seen the Lord of Winterfell, the youthful Cregan Stark, never finding cause to visit before your betrothal, and finding it impossible to do so after.
“Eager, are we, princess?” Daemon hums, noting your excitement. It is not a particularly keen observation — you’re practically jumping up and down in anticipation.
You look up at him with an abashed smile, saying, “I’m afraid so,” before turning your gaze to look down the length of the throne room, disappointed when there are no northerners marching down the hall.
“Whilst the south has it's certain... qualities,” you add on, and you are sure Daemon knows you are speaking as generously as you might, “it has been difficult not to miss the north.”
Daemon only chuckles in response, and you take it for his amusement at your desire to be polite, even in his company.
When the Starks first enter the hall, everything suddenly hushes, and the silence is deafening. But once they have knelt before their King and Queen, and have been as warmly welcomed as they deserve by both, talk and applause spreads like wildfire through the crowd. You are not afforded a chance at a proper conversation with Lord Stark nor any of his accompanying, only a kind smile from beside your betrothed. It is only when a reception of the Starks is hosted in the garden passage that leads to the expansive godswood that you finally make conversation with the Lord Cregan Stark.
“How good of you to make the trip, my lord,” you smile as you speak, genuine, though you are surrounded by the smothering court, “I must confess, I have been missing the north terribly. It is a relief to see such a familiar face.”
Cregan laughs, lightly so, at your comment, and with all the charisma the two years since you last saw him seemed to afford, and a special sort of look in his eye that came with it, spoke, “and the north has been missing you, my lady. Your house is morose with out you, and your family seems terribly small when you are not there to accompany them. It is a shame, indeed, for you would make a fine lady of the north.”
“You are too kind, my lord,” You laugh, almost bashfully, “and I am sure my brothers and sisters are still perfectly capable of becoming a nuisance without my added assistance.”
“Hm,” he hums in agreement, a smile that you cannot quite read on his face. “If you ever feel inclined to visit, Winterfell would be glad to have you — but, until then, it would be good to have a northern lady accustomed with southron ways to keep me company.” He extends his arm for you to take. “If you would be so kind, my lady?”
You had always been too kind to decline any request, even one that you most certainly would detest doing (such as indulging the southron ladies of court), but one from a northerner you care for? You give him your prettiest smile and take his arm.
“Of course, my lord. I’d be honoured.”
Perhaps it was the way he spoke to you, how he made remarks about your closeness in youth, how he incessantly spoke of what a fine lady of the north you would make, how he constantly sang your praise and his gratitude for you playing the guide. Perhaps it was the light touches he gave you, never more than friendly... but friendly touches often led to more than friendly places. Or, perhaps, it was the fact that for the last two days he had been within the Red Keep, you had been subsumed by him, that made Cregan Stark not sit quite right with Daemon Targaryen.
He knew it gave you great joy to keep company with a northerner — how could it not? You had spent your entire time in the south discomforted by the customs, by the people, by the very earthly nature of the place itself. So, he had taken to clenching his fists and gritting his jaw, ignoring the way the two of you laughed together, the obscenity of time you spent together. He knew, or had convinced himself, that you would not look twice at the slobbering wolf if he did not remind you of home... and yet, he could not help but be pushed to the brink of criminality at the fact that it was not he who reminded you of home. He could’ve made a Harrenhal of the Red Keep to cook the bastard alive.
His patience was wavering thin through all the festivities his elder brother had, for some godforsaken reason, thought the Starks deserved. It had come to it’s breaking point by the time night fell and the feasting was finished, and the dancing had begun. He watched with narrow eyes as the Stark boy asked you, ever so coy, for your hand in a dance. Daemon knew that you were too kind to ever refuse, too polite to risk being rude, and it came as not surprise but disappointment when you took to the floor with Stark.
The dance was jovial, and the floor had become so crowded that he lost sight of you half the time, and glowered at the way the pair of you danced together the rest. Westerosi dances were never very intimate, for fear of a woman’s virtue, but there were enough brushes between you both that he was very nearly enraged.
But when Cregan Stark dipped his head down and whispered something to you, too close to your ear for his liking, making you through your head back in laughter, Daemon had enough. In a quick swallow he emptied his cup and stood up, movements too sharp, sending his chair scraping behind him. Forcing his way through the crowd he went, pushing over a drunken fool grasping at a serving girl, sending the carafe in her hands to the ground, till his hand was on your shoulder, tighter than it ought to be.
“Lord Stark,” he addressed, entirely unkind, “you would not mind if I shared a dance with my betrothed?”
There was a momentary look of shock on Cregan’s face. The boy had probably never faced a man who’d had the audacity to do such a thing to him — a little lordling. But Daemon was a prince. Your prince. Your fucking betrothed.
“Of course, my prince,” Cregan conceded, though to Daemon it was clear he was all amiss to go, but before he did, he had the nerve to lift up your hand and place a delicate kiss at your knuckles. “I do hope you enjoy your time together.”
“Thank you,” you murmur, ever the sweetheart, as he took his leave, and Daemon understood you to be too young and naive to properly understand Stark’s foul intentions.
When you dance again, he is relieved at last. It is he who gets to be your partner, to share brushes and smiles with you, and it is almost enough to make him forget about Stark... but not quite.
“You seemed to be enjoying your time together, hm, princess?” Daemon crooned, looking down at your face with his devilish eyes. His voice is sweet for you, but even you can tell that he is not entirely pleased.
“I suppose I was,” you say, meeting his gaze with a shy smile, and though you did not intend to share more than a polite answer as you often did, you cannot help but concede, “It was nice to have a touch of the north again.”
Daemon’s eyes narrow, and he lets out a short hum, his head tilting to a side as he watches you. “Hm. Looked like little Lord Stark wanted more than just a touch.”
Your soft expression furrows into one of confusion, and then you let out a scoff — not so much angry at Daemon for the jealousy that has suddenly become apparent to you, but at disbelief that such a thing could ever even be thought; “Lord Cregan is merely a friend, Daemon, he has no improper intentions.”
“My sweet thing,” he sighs, “you should not be so naive. Surely you’ve seen the puppy eyes he gives you — needy, desperate.”
“Lord Stark is respectful and kind,” you argue, “as are his intentions towards me, a woman who is already betrothed.”
Daemon cannot blame you for how quickly you jump to his defence; you cannot see the world the way he does. The ladies of Westeros are often too sheltered, made to think that every lord is genteel, and are struck by the harsh realities of the world so suddenly. He wanted to protect you from those realities, truly he did, but how could he let you walk around with another man who desires you? You were his intended. Betrothed. By the law of this world, you were his.
He ran a hand gently down your cheek and offered you a smile in part kind, and in part condescending. You come to realise your dancing had stopped, and the celebration did not feel quite as festive as moments ago, though no one around you seemed to notice — Daemon, with a wryness in the creases of his face, least of all.
“My little princess, the fact that you and I are betrothed only makes him want you more. He’ll keep on sniffing around under the fucking table until he gets a little treat.” He tilts up your chin with the edge of his thumb.
“Even if what you say is true,” you pause for a moment, contemplating that there might be some semblance of truth in his words, “I would never... never entertain his desire.”
“Of course not,” he says, voice soft but eyes dark, and picks up your hands to dance once more, leaning in to breathe in your ear, intoxicated by the smell of you, “why walk a bitch when you could ride a dragon?”
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