ㅤㅤㅤ✟ VENUS AS A BOY :
aerion 'brightflame' targaryen !
⋆˚࿔ finn bennett as aerion x actress! reader ꒰ ✟ ꒱ … you are an actress playing a prostitute from Lys, and Finn is so committed to giving his best on stage that he makes you wet, and you lose control between the acting and the desire. — based on this ask.
warnings ⟢ +18 (MDNI) ⋆ smut ⋆ p in v ⋆ oral sex (cunnilingus) ⋆ rough sex ⋆ praise kink ⋆ consensual ⋆ anal play ⋆ intense orgasm ⋆ fluff and smut ⋆ masturb. ⋆ you're not just acting. ⟢ words count: ~11,1k
notes ⟢ I'm in my ovulation era, and this was the sun of Icarus in my life heheh writing this was a perfect dose of any drug. — please like & reblog if you enjoyed !
⋆ MASTERLIST ⋆ AKOTSK TAGLIST ⋆ TIP JAR ⋆
The air inside the set-built brothel smells of cheap incense.
You’re on all fours on the fake silk sheets, and the weight of Finn Bennett — no, the weight of Aerion Targaryen — presses your back down against the foam mattress that’s meant to mimic straw and duck feathers. His platinum lace front is starting to peel away at the nape, out of sync with the sweat beading at your temple, and you feel every inch of his body against yours; his broad chest against your shoulder blades, his large hands gripping your hips with a force that isn’t purely the character’s, his warm, uneven breath against the curve of your neck.
"I don’t need a dragon, you hear me? I don’t need one to devour you," he murmurs, and Finn’s voice blends with Aerion’s in a way that makes your stomach turn. "Look at me."
You obey because it’s what the script says. You turn your face, your jaw resting on the pillow smudged with makeup, and you meet his pale eyes, a blue so glassy it hurts to look at, but there’s something underneath that’s entirely human, entirely him, and it’s burning.
The cameras are at every angle. You know this. You know the cinematographer is three yards away, crouched behind a monitor, and the Steadicam operator is circling the bed like a vulture. You know there are earpieces, reflectors, a clapper loader holding a slate somewhere beyond your peripheral vision.
But what you feel — what you can’t ignore — is the way the tip of his cock presses against your inner thigh through the modesty pouch they use as standard production practice.
We’re both covered, you repeat in your head. This is choreographed. This is professional.
He’s wearing an unlaced linen tunic that’s been open since the scene started, and you’re in a silk robe torn at the shoulder — a costume deliberately destroyed to suggest Aerion’s violence, decadent luxury, the aesthetic of Lys where everything is bought and sold. Underneath, you’ve got nothing on, because your body needs to be exposed, because you don’t have a problem with that, because you signed the contract that agreed to it.
The first take was a disaster.
The showrunner, Ira, yelled “action” and Finn moved over you like a dragon, and you suddenly forgot every single mark you’d spent two weeks rehearsing in an office with no cameras, no lights, without the smell of him — neutral soap, cold coffee, and something warmer, more human, that your fingers had memorised.
On the first take, you laughed.
Not on purpose. It was that nervous, childish thing, a strangled sound that escaped when Finn tilted his head to bite your neck like the script said, and his lips tickled your skin in a way that made you squirm. He stopped right away, pulling back enough to ask “are you alright?” with that concern he has in every interview, every behind-the-scenes clip, every time a fan gets too close at a convention.
“Sorry,” you gasped, and you felt your whole face catch fire. “Sorry, I just… I didn’t expect it to be so…”
“It’s fine,” he said, and his thumb traced a small circle on your waist. “We’ll go again.”
The showrunner didn’t complain. Ira’s known for her patience with intimate scenes, and the first take was written off as “calibration.” But you knew — and she knew — that there was something wrong with that first attempt that wasn’t just your nerves.
On the first take, when Finn pushed your legs apart with his knees and settled between them, when your breasts pressed against his chest through the layers of fabric and his hand grabbed your hair (wig, you were wearing a silver wig to match his, to look like a Lysene courtesan of Valyrian descent), in that moment, you felt it.
You felt the heat coming off his cock against your body. You felt your own nipples harden in a way no structured bra or padded body stocking could hide. You felt his mouth brush yours, and how his tongue slid between your lips as if you were alone, as if there weren't 47 people standing around watching.
And you kissed him back.
With tongue. With teeth. With a small moan that escaped your throat before you could swallow it, and that got picked up by the boom mics, that made the sound tech raise an eyebrow, that made Finn lose his rhythm for half a second.
That's why the first take wasn't any good. Not because of your nervous laugh, but because you both forgot you were acting.
The second take went differently; it was more professional, and you repeated those words in your head while Finn moved over you, his breath warm against your ear, his weight pressing your back into the mattress.
You’re on all fours, as the script dictates. This is the part of the scene where Aerion, exiled in Lys after the incident at Ashford, drowns his frustrations in the body of a whore who dares to look like the family that rejected him — silver hair, violet eyes (your contacts sting a bit, but you’re used to it now), sharp features that could’ve come straight off an Old Valyria tapestry.
"Please," you say, and your voice comes out rougher than you rehearsed. That’s not acting. "Please, my prince."
He obeys. His body presses against yours with a rhythm that isn’t penetration — it can’t be, the laws forbid it, the contract you signed forbids it — but it mimics penetration with obscene precision. His hips push against your hips, and the pressure against your cunt through all those layers is exactly the wrong pressure to relieve what’s building inside you.
You’re wet.
You’ve known it since the first kiss of the second take, when Finn pushed you against the brothel’s fake wall and bit your lower lip with a ferocity that made your knee buckle. You feel it now, while being on all fours exposes you to him, while he can surely see the outline of your cunt, the way you open for him instinctively, the way your body asks for something the script won’t allow.
He’s hard.
You felt it when he got into position behind you on the first take, and you feel it now. The tip of his cock presses against the inside of your thigh, and there’s a dampness there — he’s wet too, you realise with a jolt, with a wave of heat that travels down your spine. His precum has soaked through the fabric covering the head of his cock, and you feel the cool wetness against your skin.
He’s aroused.
That’s not acting. You know the difference now. On the first take, when his mouth went down your neck, when his lips closed around your nipple (and you felt his tongue, the wetness, the heat), when he murmured "you’re so beautiful" in a way that wasn’t in the script — you knew.
And on the second take, the two of you are trying to hide it. You’re trying to turn desire into performance, to channel all that electricity into the choreographed gestures, the memorised lines, the rehearsed moans. But the truth is, on all fours, with your breasts swinging with each thrust of his hips, with your mouth open and your eyes rolled back because that’s how the script describes it — you’re not acting.
"I’ll spend inside you," Finn growls, and the line is Aerion’s, but the accent is Finn’s, terrifyingly intimate. "I’ll fill you with my seed, and you’ll thank me for every drop."
Your reply is in the script: "Please, my prince, please, I beg you."
But what you’re really thinking, what echoes in your head while he grabs you by the hair and pulls, arching your back into a position that exposes your cunt even more to him, is: yes, Finn, please, yes.
The fictional orgasm of the scene is choreographed down to the smallest detail.
Aerion grabs the whore’s head — your head — and slaps her arse with his open palm. The sound echoes across the set, loud and wet, and you let out a cry you didn’t need to rehearse. The pain is real but small, a warm tingling that spreads across your skin and blends with everything else: the heat, the friction, the constant pressure of Finn’s body against yours.
"Beg for more," he orders, and his voice is shaking.
You notice. He's losing control too. His hands, which should only be placed on your hips, grip hard enough to leave marks. His breathing, which should be an actor's panting, is genuinely uneven, breathless with almost, with nearly there.
"More," you moan, and the word comes out wet, desperate. "More, Aerion, more, more…"
He slaps you again, and another, and another, timed with the thrusts of his hips, and you feel your own orgasm approaching slowly at first, then faster. You're so close. So close that your hands grab the sheets and your vision blurs and you bite your lip to stop yourself from crying out the wrong name, his name, the name you can't say because this isn't real, this is just a scene, this is just work.
And then Finn moans.
It's a low, guttural sound that vibrates against your back. You feel his whole body tense, the muscles of his stomach contracting against your spine, his fingers digging deep into your flesh. For one second, one terrifying and glorious second, you think he's actually going to spend inside you, despite the barrier between you, despite the cameras, despite everything.
And you're going to spend with him.
You can feel your body getting ready, your pelvic muscles clenching, the warm wetness pooling at your entrance. If he pushes one more time, if his hand moves from your hip to your clit, if his mouth finds your neck one more time, you'll fall apart. You'll writhe and moan and drip onto the set sheets, and everyone will know. The director, the camera crew, the assistants. Everyone will know you weren't acting.
Cut!
Ira's voice echoes across the set like a bucket of cold water.
Finn freezes on top of you. His breathing is still heavy, his chest still presses against your back, his erection still hard against your thigh. For one long second, no one moves. You hear the techs sighing, cables being coiled, the assistant director jotting something down on a clipboard.
"We got it," Owen Haris says, and his voice is elated. "My God, we got it. That's the best simulated sex take I've ever seen in my career."
You want to die. You want to bury your face in the pillow and never come out. Your face is burning, your whole body is red, you can see the flush spreading across your chest, your arms, your thighs. There's a heat between your legs you can't hide, a wetness you're sure has left a mark on whatever is actually covering your cunt.
Finn pulls away from you slowly, almost reluctant. He sits on the edge of the set bed and runs a hand over his face, pushing back the platinum-blonde wig that's come unstuck at the side. You watch him through your lashes, still lying on your side, trying to steady your breathing.
He's flushed too, you notice. His neck is blotched red, and there's a bead of sweat running down his temple. He looks at you and for a second, the two of you just breathe.
"Fantastic," Ira says, already walking over with her tablet, showing something to the cinematographer. "Break for hair and makeup. You two, rest. We'll review the scene later."
Assistants move around you like ants. A makeup artist approaches with a powder compact, and you instinctively cover yourself, embarrassed by your blush, embarrassed by what nearly happened, embarrassed by how your body is still trembling.
Then Finn picks up Aerion's tunic — the costume he took off at the start of the scene — and drapes it over your shoulders.
The gesture is quick, almost impersonal. He doesn't even look at you while he does it, focused on steadying his own breathing, on regaining some composure. But the fabric is still warm from his body, and his smell wraps around you.
"Sorry about the slap," he murmurs, and now he looks at you with a genuine smile. Small. Almost shy. "I hit harder than I should have."
You shake your head, pulling the tunic closer to your chest. "I barely felt it."
That's a lie. You felt every single one. You can still feel the tingling on your skin, and some dark part of you — a part you didn't know existed before this scene — wants him to do it again.
A production assistant appears with two fluffy robes, the kind they use between takes to keep warm. You wrap yourself in yours gratefully, hiding your nipples that are still painfully hard, hiding everything your body is screaming.
Finn puts his on and sits beside you on the rumpled bed, the sheets bunched on the floor. A makeup artist approaches him with a brush, touching up his face, and he closes his eyes patiently.
You watch his profile. His nose, his strong jaw, that curve of his lips that was on your mouth, your neck, your breasts, only minutes ago. Finn Bennett, you think. The man who nearly made you come in front of forty-seven people.
He opens his eyes and finds you looking.
The embarrassment rushes back, and you look away at your own hands, which are trembling slightly in your lap.
"Have you done many scenes like this?" he asks, breaking the silence.
You laugh, a short, nervous sound.
"Never. It's my first time taking a role with simulated nudity." You hesitate, then add, trying to sound light, casual: "At least I'm just another one of Aerion's whores, right? I don't have to worry about being special."
Finn laughs too, and the sound is warm.
"Yeah, Aerion has a definite type." He pauses, his pale eyes studying your face. "But you were… you were incredible. Really. I did a scene like this on an earlier project, an indie film, and it was awful. The actress wouldn't stop laughing, the director didn't know what he wanted…" He shakes his head. "With you, it was different. It was easy."
"Easy?"
"Natural," he corrects. "You're very good at what you do."
The compliment warms you in a way it shouldn't. You're a professional. You're both professionals. It was just a well-executed scene, choreography and acting and professional chemistry.
So why are you still wet?
The silence stretches between you, and Finn opens his mouth to say something — you see the hesitation in his eyes, the way he bites his lower lip, the same lip that was between your legs — but before he can say anything, Owen appears again, tablet in hand, the satisfied smile still plastered on his face.
"Good news," he announces. "The Lys scenes are practically in the can. You've shot everything we needed for the arc today." He flicks through something on the screen. "We need to reshoot some close-ups — the bit where you beg, the initial seduction, a few reactions — but the core of the sex scene is already done. You can rest while the crew relights for the close-ups."
"How many takes?" Finn asks, and there's a tiredness in his voice that echoes in your own body.
"Five, six. Nothing major." Owen is already walking away, giving instructions to the assistant director. "We'll be back in an hour. Go freshen up, eat something, go over the script."
The production assistant reappears to guide you both off the set. You stand up, your legs still shaky, and follow the familiar path through the studio corridors — past sets of Lys, Dorne, Ashford — until you reach the trailer block.
You walk a few paces behind him and Finn doesn't look back — at least not right away — and you catch yourself watching his broad back through the robe, the way the platinum-blonde wig sways slightly with each step, how his shoulders are tense, muscles pulled tight beneath skin covered in body makeup.
The director said a break for hair and makeup, but what you need isn't a touch-up. What you need is five minutes alone, five minutes to sit in silence and try to understand what the hell happened on that set bed.
"See you in a bit," he says.
"See you in a bit," you reply.
His lips part like he's going to say something — a question, maybe, or a confession — but then a runner dashes between you with a cable in hand, muttering "sorry, sorry, coming through", and the moment shatters like a glass hitting the floor.
When you reach the fork in the corridor — individual dressing rooms to the left, the collective hair and makeup bay to the right — Finn finally looks back again.
His eyes meet yours, and you see it.
You see the want that's still there, latent, burning beneath the surface of the professional performance you're both trying to maintain. His pupils are blown, even under the harsh corridor lights. There's a flush in his eyes that isn't from the red body paint, and you feel the same heat rising up your own face, the same tightness in your chest, the same almost unbearable urge to touch.
He turns and goes into his dressing room, the door closing with a soft click. You stand in the corridor for a second longer than you should, your fingers gripping the belt of your robe, your heart beating so hard you can feel the pulse in your throat.
Then you go into your own dressing room, close the door, and lean back against it with your eyes shut.
The dressing room is small but comfortable. A makeup table with LED lights around the mirror, a clothes rack with costumes hanging in protective plastic bags, a small sofa covered in a grey throw, a table with a tray of snacks and bottles of water. The air smells of hairspray, liquid foundation, and the sweet perfume of the soy candles the makeup team lights to "create a relaxing atmosphere".
You push yourself away from the door and walk to the table, letting the robe fall from your shoulders as you go. There's a darker patch between your legs, visible through the modesty pouch, and you feel your face catch fire when you see your own reflection in the mirror.
You're a mess, you think. A complete mess.
Before you can do anything — before you can even think about cleaning the stain or changing clothes or doing anything to salvage your dignity — someone knocks on the door.
"Costume," a woman's voice calls from outside. "Can we come in?"
"Yes," you reply, and your voice is strangely steady, professional. "Come in."
The door opens and two women walk in carrying makeup cases and hair kits. They're the same ones who were on set during the shoot, the same ones who ran in to touch up your blush and lipstick between takes.
"We'll do a full body check first," one of them says, already opening her case. "The director wants close-ups of your neck and shoulders, so we need to cover all the marks."
All the marks.
"God," the same one murmurs, and you look at her reflection in the mirror. An older woman is examining your body with professional eyes, but there's a blush in her cheeks. "Finn went overboard, didn't he?"
You look down and see what they're seeing.
Marks. Bites.
On your neck, below your right ear, there's a dark purple bruise where his teeth sank into your skin. On your breasts — both of them — there are red circles around your nipples, fingerprints where his hands squeezed harder than necessary. On your hips, there are dark finger-shaped marks, five purplish blotches on each side, where he grabbed you during that final on-all-fours sequence.
And on your arse...
You don't need to look to know. You can still feel the tingling, the gentle sting of each slap he gave. She turns you sideways and lets out a low whistle.
"That'll take a week to cover," she says, but she doesn't sound annoyed. Just... impressed. "What were you two doing in there, exactly?"
The other one laughs.
"We thought we were watching actual porn," she confesses, picking up a pot of corrective foundation and starting to apply it to your neck with a damp sponge. "Seriously. For a moment, we looked at each other and said 'are they even acting?'"
Your face burns. You keep your eyes fixed on a vague spot on the wall, trying not to show how those words affect you, how they hit the centre of your guilt dead on.
"You were so intense," she continues, picking up a smaller brush to work on the marks on your hips. "The way he looked at you, the way you looked at him... It looked like you were actually making love."
"We're good actors," you say, and the excuse comes out automatically. "Finn's a great scene partner. Very generous. Very... present."
Present. It's a safe word, professional, something you could say in any behind-the-scenes interview. But she raises an eyebrow and lets out a little "hmm" that could mean anything.
"Present," she repeats, running the sponge over your shoulder. "That's one word for what happened in there."
You wonder if they know, if they saw. If they noticed the way your nipples hardened before Finn even touched them. If they saw the fluid that ran down your thigh during that last take. If they heard the moan that escaped your throat that you tried to pass off as acting.
"Honey, we've been in this industry for twenty years," she says. "We know the difference between good acting and... that."
"That?"
"Chemistry," she finishes, applying translucent powder to your neck to set the foundation.
You don't know what to say. You don't know if you should deny it, or thank her, or just stay quiet and hope the subject changes. So you do the only thing you can think of — you change the subject.
"The costume," you say, your voice a little louder than necessary. "Do I need to put the dress back on?"
They exchange a quick look but let it go. The older one steps back a little and nods toward the clothes rack, where the torn dress is hanging on a padded hanger.
"The director asked for you to wear it," she confirms. "He wants to redo the adjustments for the requested scenes. The light was different on the first take, and he wants to make sure the fabric's texture is visible in the close-ups." She pauses, examining the dress with a critical eye. "We'll have to fix the wig too — it's all out of place after the scene."
She's already picking up the lace front from a mannequin head on the counter. It's a long, silver wig with loose waves meant to resemble Valyrian hair but which now look like a bird's nest. You wore it throughout the whole scene, and Finn pulled your hair at least four times — once to turn your face, another time to arch your back, and twice during that final sequence that still makes your stomach turn just thinking about it.
"I'll brush it out," she decides, already pulling a natural-bristle brush from her case. "Sit down."
You obey, sitting in the makeup chair while she starts detangling the wig with careful strokes. She goes back to working on the marks on your body, applying layers of foundation and powder over every bite, every scratch, every fingerprint Finn left on your skin.
The silence is almost comfortable now, filled only by the sound of the brush going through the synthetic fibres and the occasional click of makeup pots being opened and closed. You close your eyes and try to relax, try to let your body soften into the chair, try not to think about how the hand pressing the brush against your hip is almost too gentle, almost as if she's stroking the marks another man left.
"Done," she announces after a few minutes. "The marks are covered. But you'll have to be careful with sweat during the close-ups, otherwise the foundation will run."
You open your eyes and examine yourself in the mirror. The marks are still there — you can see their outline through the makeup, darker patches under the foundation-covered skin — but they're disguised enough for the cameras. Your body looks intact, untouched, as if the last forty minutes never happened.
But you know they did. You can still feel the tingling, the gentle sting where his teeth bit down, the sore muscles from the position you held for too long.
"The wig's ready," Clara says, placing the piece back on your head carefully. She secures it with glue, adjusts the fit, brushes a few strands over your shoulders. "Perfect. You look like you've just stepped out of Lys."
You manage a smile, but it doesn't reach your eyes.
"Thanks."
The older one starts packing the pots and brushes back into the case.
"The dress is over there, whenever you want to put it on. We need to see how it hangs after the adjustments, so call us when you're ready, alright?"
You hesitate. The dress is hanging on the rack, the fabric torn at the shoulder exactly as Finn left it, as if it was ripped off violently. You remember the feeling — the sound of the fabric tearing, his hand pulling, the cold air kissing your bare skin — and a shiver runs down your spine.
"Actually," you start, and your voice comes out weaker than you intended. "Can you leave me alone for a bit? I just... need some quiet. To relax. And go over the script."
They exchange another look, but nod without questioning it.
"Of course," she says, packing the last thing into the case. "We'll be back in half an hour to look at the dress. Try to rest a bit, alright? You seem... tense."
Tense. It's such an inadequate word that you almost laugh. Tense is what you feel before an interview. Tense is what you feel when you forget a line. Tense isn't enough to describe what's going on inside you right now — the heat still pulsing between your legs, the wetness that still hasn't dried, the thoughts spinning in a loop in your head like a film that won't stop playing.
"Thanks," you repeat, and the two women leave, the door closing with a soft click behind them.
The silence in the dressing room is deafening.
You sit in the chair for a long minute, just breathing, trying to convince yourself that you're in control, that you can handle this, that it's just physical attraction, just on-set chemistry, just nothing.
But then your eyes land on the script on the table.
You pick up the script with trembling fingers. The pages are marked with coloured Post-its — blue for your lines, yellow for scene directions, pink for the moments of physical contact. You flick through to the scene you just shot, reading the words you've already memorised, the dialogue you rehearsed dozens of times.
She kneels before him. He grabs her hair. She moans.
He turns her over. He presses her against the mattress. She arches her back.
He fingers her. She screams.
The script doesn't say she feels his body shake. It doesn't say she almost comes. It doesn't say she wants him to keep going even after the showrunner yells cut.
You drop the script on the table and bury your face in your hands.
What are you doing, you ask yourself. What are you feeling.
But you know what you're feeling. You feel it now, stronger than ever — the echo of his touches on your skin. His hand grabbing your hip. His fingers squeezing your neck. His mouth sucking your nipple.
You can still taste him on your tongue, still smell him in your hair, or maybe that's just your imagination, but you swear you can feel his warm, human scent wrapping around you. You feel the heat between your legs, insistent, painful, unbearable.
You look at the mirror and see yourself — the silver wig perfectly brushed, the flawless makeup hiding all the marks, your naked body. You look like a doll, a puppet, a Valyrian courtesan ready for the next take. But despite being an actress, you're just a woman. A woman who's wet. A woman who's alone. A woman who can't stop thinking about Finn.
Your hand goes down.
You don't decide to do this. It just happens, your hand sliding down your stomach, your fingers finding the wetness between your legs. You're so wet. Your fingers slip without effort, finding the spot that's been throbbing, pulsing in anticipation since he whispered that last line in your ear. You press, slow, gentle circles, and a moan escapes your throat.
"Finn," you whisper, and his name leaves your mouth like a prayer.
You close your eyes and let yourself fall back into the chair, your legs opening wider, your fingers working faster. In your mind, it's not you touching yourself. It's him. It's his hands, his fingers, his mouth. You imagine Finn kneeling between your legs, the platinum-blonde wig askew, his pale eyes fixed on yours as he leans down, and the moan that escapes now is louder, less controlled. You bite your lip to quiet yourself, but the sound keeps vibrating in your throat, mingled with his name: Finn, Finn, Finn.
Your other hand squeezes your own breast, and you imagine it's his hand. You remember his strength, the way he squeezed you there, the way his fingers dug deep into your flesh and left marks that the makeup is still trying to hide.
Your fingers slide faster, finding the rhythm he used against you, that hip movement that mimicked penetration with obscene precision. You arch your back in the chair, and your other hand squeezes your nipple harder, not as hard as he squeezed it, but enough to hurt, to remember.
You're so professional, the thought comes like a whip, but you can't stop. You can't.
The guilt comes in waves, mixed in with the pleasure. You should be going over the script. You should be resting, drinking water, getting ready for the next takes. You should be the actress who signed the contract, the professional who delivers the work and goes home without leaving anything on set except the performance.
Instead, you're here, your fingers stuffed inside yourself, thinking about your scene partner.
He's just your scene partner, you repeat, while your thumb presses your clit and a moan escapes through your parted lips. He's just the actor playing Aerion. This is just professional chemistry. This is just...
You open your eyes and see yourself in the mirror.
The image is obscene. You're naked in the makeup chair, your legs open, your hand shoved between them, your fingers glistening with how wet you are. Your lipstick is smudged, the makeup that was meant to hide his marks can't hide the blush rising from your chest to your face. You look like a degraded version of the Lysene courtesan you're meant to play; a woman who wants to be fucked by a man she can't have.
"Finn," you moan again, and this time you don't hold back the volume.
In your head, he's behind you. His large hands on your hips, his warm breath against your nape, his body pressing yours against the chair. You feel his weight, feel his erection against your arse, feel his uneven breathing in your ear.
"You're so beautiful," he whispers in your memory, and you don't know anymore if he actually said it or if you made it up. "You're so beautiful, and I want..."
What did he want? What was he going to ask when he stood staring at you in the corridor, his eyes wide, his lips parted?
You don't know. But you want to know. God, how you want to know.
Your fingers plunge deeper, and you imagine it's him inside you. You imagine his cock — you want his cock inside you — thick and hot and hard the way you felt it pressing against your thigh. You imagine him properly fucking you, without the bloody modesty pouch, without the cameras, without the showrunner yelling "cut". You imagine him throwing you onto the set bed, tearing off the rest of your dress, shoving his face between your legs and...
This is wrong, the thought comes like a punch. This is so wrong.
You're an actress. Are you in a relationship? No, you're not. But that doesn't matter. What matters is professionalism, the contract, the clauses about on-set conduct, about not harassing colleagues, about maintaining strictly professional relationships.
You're not harassing anyone, part of you argues. You're alone in your own dressing room. You can think about whatever you want.
But the guilt doesn't disappear. It wraps around the pleasure like a rope, squeezing, suffocating. You think about Finn and you feel dirty. You think about how he trusted you to do that scene, how he said it was "easy" and "natural" working with you, how he covered you with his tunic.
He was kind. He was professional. He was respectful.
And you're here, wanking to thoughts of him.
This is a breach of trust, you think, but your fingers don't stop. If he knew...
You remember his erection against your thigh. You remember the hot, wet fluid that escaped through the fabric. You remember the muffled groan he let out when his whole body tensed against yours.
The pleasure builds, a hot wave rising from your belly and spreading through your chest, your arms, your throat. You're almost there. So close. If you press a little more, if you squeeze harder, if you close your eyes and let the image of Finn completely overtake you...
The door opens.
Your eyes shoot to the reflection in the mirror, and your heart stops for a full second before racing into a desperate tachycardia.
Finn is standing in the doorway.
He's still in costume — the platinum-blonde wig, the dark makeup around his eyes that makes him look more threatening, more Aerion than himself. He's wearing a different robe from yours, black and fluffy, and there's a cup of coffee in his hand, as if he came to offer it, as if he knocked and you didn't hear, as if...
Your eyes meet his in the mirror.
You pull your hand away from between your legs so fast you nearly hurt yourself, your wet fingers glistening under the dressing room lights. Your face is on fire, your heart is beating so hard you're sure he can hear it, and for one long second, no one moves.
You want to die. You want the floor to open up and swallow you. You want to go back in time five minutes and simply not do this, or at least lock the door, or at least...
"Sorry," Finn says, but he doesn't leave. He doesn't turn around. He just stands there, in the doorway, his pale eyes fixed on your face in the mirror, the coffee cup forgotten in his hand. "I knocked. You didn't answer. I just... brought coffee. Thought you might want some."
Your hand is wet. You wipe your fingers in a quick, ashamed motion, but he saw. He knows.
"Finn," you start, and your voice comes out strangled, broken. "Finn, I... this isn't... I was just..."
"Relaxing," he finishes, and there's something in his voice — something low, something rough — that makes the heat between your legs, which had started to fade, come back full force.
He puts the coffee cup on the table by the door. Closes the door behind him. And walks toward you.
"Coffee," he repeats, as if he's explaining. "I thought you might want some. After the scene. You seemed... tense."
The same word the makeup artist used. But in Finn's mouth, the word sounds different. It sounds like wet. It sounds like ready. It sounds like me too. He stops a metre away from you, too close to be professional, too far to be intimate. His eyes travel over your body in the mirror.
"You don't have to stop," he says. "You deserve it."
You hold your breath. "What?"
"You deserve it," he repeats, taking another step closer. "I did it too... after the scene. As soon as I got into my dressing room." His hand rises, his fingers touching his own nape, where the wig meets his skin. "I thought about you. About how you looked... how you moved... how you moaned..."
"Finn…"
"Let me finish." His voice is firm now, but gentle. "I had a wank thinking about you. I thought about what it would be like to actually be inside you, without the clothes, without the cameras, without the script." He crouches down, coming to your level, his pale eyes now level with yours. "And you deserve to do the same. You deserve to feel real pleasure, not just the simulation we did out there."
You're trembling. Your whole body is trembling, and it's not from cold.
"Finn, we can't…"
"We can." He interrupts, and his hand finds your knee. Just rests there, light, a permission rather than an imposition. "We can do whatever you want. But I need you to know that you don't have to hide from me. Not after what happened on that set."
His knee is touching yours. You feel his warmth through the fabric of his robe, and your breathing goes uneven.
"You can call me Aerion, if you prefer," he continues, and now there's a small smile at the corner of his mouth, a smile that isn't entirely innocent. "If that helps. If it's easier to pretend this is just... a continuation of the scene."
"Finn," you whisper, and his name leaves your mouth like a plea.
"Keep going," he asks, and his fingers move from your knee to your thigh, one centimetre, two centimetres. "Keep doing what you were doing. But now... while my face is buried between your legs."
The air leaves your lungs as if you've been punched.
"What?" you manage to say, and the word is barely audible.
"You heard me." He kneels down. Actually kneels on the floor of your dressing room, his knees pressing into the cold floor, his face now level with your waist. His hands find your knees, gently pushing them apart.
"You're going to fall apart in my mouth. And you can call me whatever name you want. Aerion. Finn. Both. It doesn't matter. I just want to hear you."
The pose is one of pleading, but his eyes — God, his eyes — are pure fire. The platinum lace front is slightly out of place, a few strands escaping the glue at his temple, and the dark makeup around his eyes has smudged a little at the corner, giving him a wildness that's entirely Aerion.
"Finn," you whisper.
"Can I?" he asks, and his voice is hoarse. His hands squeeze your knees, and you feel the heat through the thin fabric of the robe. "Can I taste you, darling? Can I make you feel what you deserve?"
Darling. It's not Aerion calling a Lysene whore that. It's Finn… or maybe it's both, merged into one, the actor and the character so tangled together you can't separate them anymore. The man who's been inside you in every way the script allowed, and some the script didn't plan for.
You nod, unable to form words. Your hand's still wet from what you were doing, and you hide it in the robe, embarrassed, but his eyes follow the movement, and he gives you a small, warm smile that isn't judgement but want.
"Show me," he says, and his fingers travel up your thighs. "Show me what you were doing. Show me how you touched yourself thinking about me."
You obey. Not out of obligation, but because you want to, because you've never wanted to be seen by someone this badly. Your hand goes back down, finding the wet heat between your legs, and you moan when your own fingers touch your clit — already sensitive, already throbbing.
"That's it," Finn murmurs, and his eyes are fixed on your hand, on the movement of your fingers. "Keep going. Don't stop."
He leans in and his mouth finds the inside of your thigh — a light kiss, almost chaste, so different from everything that's happened on set. His lips are soft, warm, and they trace a slow path from your thigh to your cunt, kissing, licking, teasing.
You arch your back against the chair, your fingers still moving between your legs, but the rhythm falters, goes uncoordinated, because all you can feel is his mouth getting closer, his warm breath against your skin, the promise of what's coming.
"Finn, please," you moan, and you don't know if you're asking him to stop or to keep going.
"Finn or Aerion?" he asks, and then his tongue finally finds your clit — a light touch, just the tip — and your whole body convulses like you've been shocked.
"Both," you gasp, and the word comes out strangled. "Both, both, please…"
He laughs against your skin, a low sound that vibrates through you.
"Greedy thing," he murmurs, and then his mouth is on you for real.
There's no hesitation now. His tongue presses against your clit with exactly the right amount of pressure — not too soft, not too hard, perfect, as if he knows what your body needs before you do. His lips suck, and your vision blurs, and the fingers that were moving between your legs are replaced by his — one finger sliding inside you so easily it makes you moan loud.
"You're so wet," he murmurs against you, and there's pride in his voice. "Is that because of me? Was it the scene? Or was it what you were doing just now, thinking about me?"
"Everything," you confess, and the words come out in fragments, between moans. "The scene, you, what I was doing… everything."
He pushes in a second finger, and you feel the stretch, the fullness. His fingers are longer than yours, thicker, and they find a spot inside you that makes your legs shake. His mouth goes back to your clit, his tongue pressing, sucking, while his fingers move inside you in a rhythm that's exactly like the simulation from the scene, only better, because it's real, because there's no fabric between you, because you can feel the heat of his mouth, the rough texture of his tongue, the way he moans against you like he's devouring you.
"Your cunt is perfect," he says, and the word sounds obscene coming from his mouth, erotic. "Sweet. Tight. I could stay here forever."
You grab his wig — the platinum lace front that's supposed to be Aerion, but now it's just Finn, because Finn is the one on his knees between your legs, Finn is the one with his fingers buried inside you, Finn is the one taking you to the edge with his mouth and hands. Your fingers tangle in the synthetic strands, pulling, and he moans — a low, guttural sound that vibrates against your cunt.
"Pull harder," he says, and his eyes meet yours over your belly. "Make it hurt. I want to feel it tomorrow."
You pull, and the wig slips a little, revealing his dark hair underneath. The sight is strangely intimate — the character coming undone, the man showing through underneath. You pull again, and he lets out a moan that's almost a growl, and his fingers inside you speed up, his mouth presses harder.
"I'm close," you warn, and your voice is more desperate now. "Finn, I'm going to…"
"Go," he orders against you. "Come in my mouth. I want to feel you fall apart."
The orgasm comes, building slow and then sudden, violent. Your body arches in the chair, your back lifting off the rest, your head thrown back. A moan tears from your throat — too loud, too obscene — and you feel your muscles clenching around his fingers, feel the hot wetness running down your vulva, feel his tongue licking up every drop, every spasm, every tremor.
He doesn't stop. His mouth keeps going, softer now, licking you through the orgasm, prolonging each wave of pleasure until you're so sensitive that any touch is almost pain. Only then does he pull back, his lips shining, his chin wet.
"Get up," he says, and his voice is as hoarse as yours. "Get on the chair. I want you sitting in my lap."
You obey because your body's so limp you can't do anything else. He stands up, and you see his robe — his erection pressing against the fluffy fabric, so obvious it hurts to look at. He sits in the chair you just vacated, pulls you into his lap, and you feel his cock against your cunt through the robe — hot, hard, so close.
"I want you," he murmurs, and his hands grip your hips, grinding you against him. "I want to feel you. But not here. Not now. Not like this."
You moan in frustration, your hips moving against him in a slow, unconscious rhythm.
"Then how?" you ask.
"With your mouth," he answers, and there's something in his voice that's more Aerion than Finn. "I want you on your knees. I want to feel your mouth on me. But I don't want you to pretend. I want you to want it."
You slide from his lap to the floor, your knees meeting the cold stone where his were just moments ago. Your face is level with his waist, and your hands find the knot of his robe, untying it with trembling fingers.
The robe falls open, and you see.
His cock is beautiful — there's no other word. Thick, slightly curved upward, the head pink and glistening with pre-come. There's dark hair at the base, and you want to bury your face there, want to smell him, taste him, everything.
"Touch it," he says, and his voice is so vulnerable all of a sudden, so little like Aerion. "Please."
Your hand wraps around the base, and he moans — a low, rough sound that makes your stomach flip. You slide your hand up, slow, feeling the texture of his skin, the heat, the wetness at the tip. Your thumb rubs the pre-come, spreading it over the head, and he throws his head back, eyes closed.
"Like that," he whispers. "Exactly like that."
You lean in and run your tongue over the tip.
The taste is salty, slightly bitter, strangely addictive. You lick again, slower, and he moans louder, his hands gripping the arms of the chair like he needs the support.
"Your mouth," he murmurs, and his eyes open, meeting yours. "Your mouth is a sin."
You smile against him — a small, wicked smile — and then you take him in your lips, sliding over the head, feeling the pressure against your tongue. He's big, thicker than your fingers, and you have to relax your jaw to fit him.
"Really slow," he says, and his hand finds your hair, not pushing, just resting there. "You set the pace."
But you don't want the pace. You want what he did to you — total surrender, the loss of control. So you slide deeper, feeling the head of his cock hit the back of your throat, and your eyes water, and your body fights the gag, but you don't stop.
"Fuck," he growls, and his grip slips. His fingers curl in your hair and he pulls. "Like that. Exactly like that."
You start to move, your head bobbing up and down, your tongue pressing against the underside of his cock with every motion. Then you look up. His eyes are dark, his pupils blown wide, and there's a flush on his neck that climbs to his cheeks. He's biting his lower lip, and you see the moment his control finally breaks.
"I need to," he says, and his voice is broken. "I need to… please, let me…"
You nod your head as best you can with your mouth full.
He thrusts his hips.
It's a small movement at first, almost shy, like he's testing. His cock slides deeper into your throat, and you feel the gag rise, but you don't want to stop. He thrusts again, a little harder, and your eyes water, and you swallow around him, and the moan he lets out is so loud you're sure someone outside must have heard.
"Like that," he groans, and now his rhythm's faster, his hips pushing against your face in a movement that's almost brutal, almost desperate. "Like that, like that, like that…"
You relax your throat, open your mouth wider, and let him. Let him use you. Let him drown in the heat of your mouth, the tightness of your throat, the way your tongue presses against him with every thrust.
"I'm going to come," he warns, and his voice is so close to the edge, so close to breaking. "Where do you want it?"
You don't answer with words. Instead, you slide your hand up the base of his cock, squeezing gently, and moan — a low sound that vibrates through him.
That's enough.
His body tenses, his hips pushing one last time, deeper than before. You feel the hot rush at the back of your throat, feel the salty, bitter taste spreading through your mouth, and you swallow, keep swallowing, while he shakes above you, his hands now loose in your hair, his breath coming in sobs.
You pull away slowly, your mouth still wet, your eyes still watering. You wipe your lips with the back of your hand, and the gesture is so mundane, so human, it contrasts with everything that just happened.
Finn's looking at you with an expression you've never seen before. It's not Aerion, all pose and arrogance. It's not Finn, the professional actor, polite and distant. It's something in between — a man who's just been unmade by you, who's just given himself over.
"Come here," he murmurs, and pulls you into his lap.
You go without resistance, feeling his cock now soft against your thigh, his robe all dishevelled, the sweat on his forehead.
"You're incredible," he murmurs, and his fingers trace a slow path from your waist to your neck, stopping at your jaw, tilting your face so he can kiss you.
The kiss is different from the ones you've shared on set. There, it was choreographed, measured, professional. Here, it's uncoordinated and deep, your tongues meeting with an urgency bordering on desperation. You taste yourself in his mouth — the salty, slightly sour taste of your own orgasm — and your lower belly clenches in response.
"Finn," you whisper against his lips, and the name is a question.
He understands.
"No," he answers, and his hand drops to your hip, squeezing. "We're not stopping. Not yet."
"But the crew…"
"We've got time." He bites your lower lip, a gentle tug that makes your eyes roll back. "An hour, remember? And it's only been…" He glances at the clock on the wall — a thing that doesn't even work properly — and laughs. "I've no idea, but we've got time."
You want to believe that. You want to believe you can stay here, in his lap, with your makeup smudged and your wig askew and your body still trembling from the orgasm he gave you, and just… exist. But there's something burning inside you that's hunger, it's need, it's the demand for more.
"I want you in a certain way," you begin, and your voice comes out steadier than you expected. "Not the way we just did. The way I imagined."
His eyes darken.
"What way?"
You get up from his lap, and he lets you, his eyes glued to every move you make. You walk to the centre of the dressing room, where the small sofa sits against the wall opposite the mirror. It's a simple piece, upholstered in grey velvet, with wide arms and a low back — nothing luxurious, but functional. You sit down on it, your back straight, your legs open, your arms resting along the back on either side.
"As Aerion," you say. "Rough, cruel, but still being you."
Finn stays still for a second, just watching.
"Are you sure?" he asks, but you don't answer.
He hesitates for another second, his pale eyes searching your face for any sign of doubt. And then, slowly, something in him shifts. His shoulders straighten. His chin lifts. His eyes — God, his eyes — lose that human vulnerability and fill with something far more dangerous.
Aerion Brightflame is standing before you.
Your body responds before your brain processes it. A shiver runs up your spine, and your nipples harden, and you feel a fresh wave of wetness between your legs.
He walks toward you. Each step is slow, the soles of his feet — he's barefoot, you realise now, his feet broad and his toes long — pressing against the floor with a feline stillness. The robe is open, revealing his chest, his stomach, the line of dark hair that runs from his belly down to his waist.
He stops in front of you, so close you can feel the heat of his body. His hand rises and grips your chin, forcing you to look up.
"You teased me," he says, and his fingers tighten, firm enough to hurt. "On set. With your moans. With the way you looked at me. You knew what you were doing."
It's not a question. You shake your head as little as possible, your eyes fixed on his.
"Yes, my prince."
"And now?" His hand drops to your neck, his fingers wrapping around your throat in a gesture that doesn't squeeze — not yet — but promises to. "Now you're going to pretend you don't want it? That it was just acting?"
You swallow hard, feeling his fingers against your windpipe.
"I want it," you whisper. "I want everything you want to give me."
"Everything?" He repeats the word as if he's savouring it. "You don't know what you're asking for."
He pushes you back against the sofa. It's not a violent movement — it's precise, controlled, his shoulders blocking any attempt at escape. One hand is still on your neck; the other drops to your waist, his fingers hooking onto your hip bone.
"Lie down," he orders. "On your back."
You obey, your back meeting the cool velvet of the sofa. He positions himself over you, his knees either side of your hips, his weight resting on his forearms. His cock is hard again.
You lift your hips, and the cool air of the dressing room kisses your exposed cunt. You're so wet you can feel the fluid dripping down your thigh, leaving a damp trail on the velvet of the sofa.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, and for a second, Finn shows through underneath Aerion. "You're so beautiful."
But then the moment passes, and he leans in, his mouth finding your neck with a ferocity that makes you moan. He bites — but with teeth, with intent — leaving marks no makeup artist will be able to hide.
"Finn," you moan, and the name escapes before you can think.
"Wrong," he growls against your skin.
"Aerion," you correct.
"Better."
His mouth travels down to your breasts, his lips latching onto one nipple while his hand squeezes the other. He's not gentle — he pulls, bites, sucks with an intensity bordering on pain — and your body arches against his, your hips lifting in search of contact.
"Please," you beg, and you don't even know what you're asking for anymore. "Please, Aerion, please…"
He pulls back, leaving your nipples sore and wet, and sits down on the sofa, pulling you into his lap.
"You want to ride me?" he asks, and the suggestion is obscene. "You want to sit on a dragon's cock?"
You don't answer with words. Instead, you position yourself over him, your knees either side of his hips, your cunt pressing against the base of his cock. You're so wet you slide without effort, the head of his cock brushing against your entrance, and you both moan at the same time.
"Ride," he orders, and his hands grip your hips. "But I'm not going to let you come. Not until I say so."
You sink down onto him, slow, feeling every inch of his cock filling you. He's thicker than your fingers, thicker than any toy you've ever used, and the stretch is almost painful, but the pleasure is greater — a warm wave spreading from your centre through your whole body.
"Fuck," he groans, and his control slips for a second. "You're so tight. So hot."
You start to move, your hips rising and falling slowly. His cock slides out almost completely, then back in, each thrust deeper than the last. Your hands find his shoulders for support, and you throw your head back, your eyes closed, just feeling.
"Look at me," he orders.
You obey, your eyes meeting his. They're dark, almost black, his pupils blown so wide they've swallowed most of the pale iris.
"Faster," he says, and his hands squeeze your hips, guiding your rhythm. "I want to feel you bouncing on me."
You speed up, your movements growing more erratic, more desperate. Each downward stroke drives his cock deep into you, and you feel the pleasure building — slow at first, then faster. You're so close. So close.
"Stop," he orders.
What?
"Stop," he repeats, and his hands grip your hips, stopping your movement.
You freeze, his cock buried inside you, your breath coming in gasps. The orgasm was seconds away, and now it retreats, leaving you with a feeling of emptiness, of almost, of frustration. You feel your cunt clenching, begging to get there.
"I said I wouldn't let you," he reminds you, and there's a smile at the corner of his mouth. "Not yet."
You groan in frustration, your hips trying to move against his hands.
"Please," you beg. "Please, Aerion, I need…"
"What you need," he interrupts, "is to learn patience."
He lifts you off him, his cock sliding out of you with a wet sound that makes your face burn, and turns you around so you're facing away from him. Your belly meets the velvet of the sofa, your breasts pressing into the upholstery, and you feel his hands on your hips, pulling you back.
"On all fours," he orders.
You position yourself, your knees on the sofa, your hands braced on the arm. The mirror is in front of you — you can see yourself, can see the image the two of you make: you on all fours, your silver wig askew, your makeup smudged, your body covered in marks; him behind you, his robe open, his cock hard and slick with wetness, his eyes fixed on your exposed cunt.
"Look," he orders, and his hand grabs your hair, pulling your head back so you've no choice but to stare at the reflection. "Look at what you do to me."
You look. You see your wide eyes, your open mouth, your breasts swaying with every breath. You see him behind you, his body tense, the muscles of his stomach clenched, the expression on his face a mixture of desire and hunger and something darker.
"You're mine now," he says, brushing your cunt with the tip of his cock. "Tonight. This hour. Whatever happens tomorrow, right now you're mine."
Suddenly, he moves his cock up to your arse. You feel your body shiver; you press yourself harder against him, trying to beg him to shove his whole cock inside you, to explore both your holes, to make you feel like he's fucked you entirely.
"You like that?" he asks, brushing his cock against your arsehole, pressing the head against your opening. "You want me to go in there?"
You do, but there wasn't time for that — you'd need patience, you'd need to be relaxed — but all you want is for him to fuck you.
He settles himself with his cock at your arsehole, pressing just enough for you to let out a little squeak when a tiny bit of his tip threatens to enter, when you clench and then relax, wanting to receive him.
Then he lowers himself to your cunt and pushes, and his cock enters you all at once.
The moan you let out is so loud it echoes in the small dressing room. He's deeper like this, on all fours, hitting an angle that makes your legs tremble. He starts moving immediately, his hips slapping against your arse, exactly as you asked.
"Like that," you moan, the words coming out in fragments. "Like that, like that, like that…"
One hand grips your hip; the other drops down and finds your clit, his fingers pressing in circles that match the rhythm of his thrusts. The pleasure comes back, faster now, building from where it left off.
"You're close," he observes, and it's not a question.
"Yes," you confess, your voice broken. "Yes, please, let me…"
"No."
He feels you clench around him, and then he pulls his cock out of you quickly, shoving three fingers into your cunt all at once, masturbating you fast, making you grip the sofa and moan without being able to stop yourself. You feel a pressure in your lower belly, and then when you push, you squirt, gushing as his fingers slip out, and he slaps your cunt.
"There," he appreciates, and shoves his fingers back in. "All of that for me?"
You nod, and a few seconds later he pulls his fingers out again and you squirt again, receiving another slap to your cunt. Then he shoves his cock inside you, and when he feels you're almost there, his hand on your clit stops. His hips stop too, his cock buried inside you, motionless. You want to cry from frustration. Your body is shaking, your muscles clenching around him, begging for the orgasm he keeps denying you.
"Why are you doing this?" you ask, and your voice comes out weaker than you'd like.
"Because I can," he answers, and there's something wrong with his smile in the mirror. "Because you asked me to be rough. And because…" He leans in, his mouth finding your ear, his breath hot against your skin. "Because when I finally let you, you won't remember your own name."
He starts moving again, slower this time, each thrust deep and deliberate. His hand returns to your clit, but the movements are soft, almost teasing, bringing you to the edge over and over without ever letting you go over.
"Please," you beg, and you've lost count of how many times you've said that word. "Please, I can't take any more."
"Yes you can," he answers, and his voice is shaking — he's at his limit too, you realise. He's holding back too. "A bit longer. Hold on a bit longer."
He speeds up, his hips slamming into you with a force that makes the sofa creak. Your vision blurs, and you grip the arm of the sofa so hard your knuckles go white.
"Now," he orders, and his hand on your clit presses firmly. "Now, now, now…"
Your body arches, your back curving, your head thrown back. A scream tears from your throat — his name, Finn or Aerion or both — and you feel your muscles clenching around his cock, once, twice, three times, each clench stronger than the last.
He keeps moving, guiding you through the orgasm, and when the waves finally start to ease, he buries his face in your neck and groans.
"Where do you want it?"
"Inside," you answer, without thinking. "I want to feel it."
He obeys. His body tenses, his fingers digging hard into your hips, and you feel the hot rush inside you, filling you in a way no performance ever could.
For a long moment, no one moves.
His breath is warm against the back of your neck, his body heavy on yours. You feel his cock softening inside you, feel the fluid dripping down your thigh, feel every place where his body touches yours.
"Finn," you whisper.
"I'm here," he answers, and his voice is his now, only his, with no trace of Aerion. "I'm here."
He pulls back slowly, his cock slipping out of you with a wet sound. You feel the loss immediately — an emptiness that's both physical and emotional. He turns you over, pulling you into his lap, and you go without resistance.
The mirror is still in front of you, but you can't look. You can't face the sight of what the two of you have become: the smudged makeup, the marks on your skin, the fluid running down your thighs.
"Look," he says softly, and his hand finds your chin, guiding your face toward the mirror. "It couldn't have been better."
You look. And for the first time, you don't feel ashamed.
You see a woman who was desired. You see a man who desired her back.
"Are you alright?" he asks, and the concern in his eyes is genuine.
You nod, unable to form words.
He holds you tighter, his face buried in your hair. And for a long time, you just stay there — two naked bodies, sweaty, exhausted, curled into each other on the small sofa in a dressing room.
"We need to clean up," he murmurs after a few minutes. "The crew'll be back."
You laugh, almost hysterical.
"How?" you ask. "How are we going to explain this?"
He pulls back just enough to look at your face.
"We don't explain," he answers. "We just… go back to set. Finish the takes. And then…" He hesitates. "Then we talk. If you want to."
"I want to," you answer, before you can think. "I want to talk."
His smile widens, and he kisses you — almost chaste, so different from everything that came before.
"Come on," he says, pulling you to your feet. "There's a sink over there. And towels. We'll manage."
You follow him to the little sink in the corner of the dressing room, and together, you clean each other. He takes a towel and wets it, running it gently between your legs, and you do the same for him.
When you're done, you look in the mirror again. The marks are all on show — bites, scratches, purple fingerprints on your hips. Your makeup is completely ruined.
"It'll hurt tomorrow," he comments, touching one of the marks on your neck.
He smiles, and you feel your heart tighten.
Outside the door, you hear the crew coming back, the production assistants calling the actors back to set. The real world is out there, waiting, with its cameras and its reflectors and its script that needs to be finished.
"Ready?" Finn asks.
"Ready," you lie.
He opens the door, and the two of you step out into the corridor, his hand finding yours for a second before letting go.
Note: Sorry this came out a week late. Something came up and I wasn’t able to finish it in time. It also turned out super fluffy, which I was not expecting. I hope you all enjoy it. Please let me know if you do, if you have an idea of your own, or if you’d like to be added to a tag list. (And if you’d like me to start a Dolph list.) Happy reading!
Naomi directed your attention to Jimmy and the group of guys presently screaming at this year’s Madden tournament. “We work with children.”
You snorted. “I just work with them. You’re actually married to one.” You shared a good-hearted giggle. You went back to discussing the changes coming to Total Divas and some plans for the days off. Just girl time. The gamers reacted again.
“Not to be that girl,” she said, sliding closer to you, “but when are you gonna get your man? You a beautiful woman, hun. Most of those guys are spoken for, but the others must be blind if they’re not checking on you.”
How could you tell her you already have one?
She read your face. “Who is it?” When you clenched your jaw into silence, she nudged your arm. “Don’t be like that. Spill.”
Still, you were nervous. “Promise you won’t judge?”
“Honey, I am married to one of the dorkiest men on the rosters. It can’t be that-“
“Dolph.”
“What now?” Here it came. “I figured you go for someone like… a bit…”
“Someone younger.” You nodded as she scrunched up her face in agreement. “That seems to be the general consensus, yes.” She spun her hand to tell you to continue. “I know he’s a little older than me… but for all his bluster and shallow charm in the ring… outside… with me? He’s got a maturity I haven’t been able to find before.”
Naomi sat back and focused on her phone again. “You do you, hun, but if he breaks your heart he better know I’m coming for his kneecaps. Right?”
“Oh. He knows.”
***
“Naomi has officially threatened your kneecaps,” you said, crawling into bed. Dolph chuckled while shedding his shirt. “Are you still sure you want to date me?”
He slid under the covers, just in his boxers. You both hummed into the kiss he gave you. “That makes how many threats now?” He started to count on his fingers. “Becky. Asuka. Nia. Ember. How’d she take not being the first to know? You know much she hates you ladies holding out on her.”
“What she doesn’t know won’t kill her. I’m surprised it took this long, with Becky’s usual spoiler-puns.” You snuggled into his chest. “How’d you do in Madden today?”
“Stupid Rollins.”
You giggled. “That well, huh?” As he turned off the side lamp, you had an idea. “Would you like to be the champion of something else?” He turned the light back on, making you squint.
“What did you have in mind?” Stradling his chest answered his question. “Don’t champions get to be on top?”
I'm not used to writing Itachi with anything but obsessive love for the one he's shagging so this will be quite interesting :)))
hate sex
NSFW - Minors do not interact
Warnings: hate sex, reader and itachi get into a scrap, itachi's not that serious, otherwise reader would be dead, humiliation, praise (derogatory), conflicting feelings, fingering, vaginal sex, choking, dom Itachi, creampie, Itachi is a bit mean (as he is when he’s acting)
You parried a kick to your stomach, but the force of the impact still made your arms burn, and you had no time to think about it as he switched to a punch to your face. You ducked, aiming low with a kick to his calves, but he was quick to step back and aim to grab you by the hair. A low move, you thought, but to be expected from someone such as him. You would have never expected to find the Uchiha Itachi in this empty house, one you thought had only been put to use for missions recently. Evidently not, because you had almost been caught in an arm lock as soon as you had entered.
The orders were clear: you had to either retreat or die in the futile attempt to kill him as the traitor he was. Retreating did not seem to be an option, because he kept pressing you with taijutsu, perhaps not wanting to ruin the hideout he was obviously using; killing him wasn't either, because he was Uchiha Itachi, and you were only a normal jounin out of her depth.
He grabbed onto your arm, throwing you against a wall several feet away. You coughed, your back burning and aching, but you were quick to get back on your feet in the narrow corridor as Itachi approached you, not a hair out of place, not even out of breath. You didn't look him in the eye, of course, but the slight smirk on his lips was enough to let you know the bastard would have a smug glint in his crimson irises.
The Gods had been cruel in granting him everything: he was cunning, powerful, came from the most powerful clan in the world, and to top it all off, he had good looks, too.
You had grown slower after he had landed that hit on you, though, and it was easy for him to grab your wrists and twist them behind your back, blocking your movements with an iron grip.
'Your stunt ends here' he said evenly behind your head, his voice calm and collected. He was soft-spoken, and despite you putting all of your strength into thrashing to get out of his hold, he did not budge an inch.
So you put all your strength into stomping on his foot and headbutting him in the nose. He let out a soft groan, his grip slackening for a split second, one you did not waste. You used all your strength to throw him to the ground, straddling his torso and preparing to punch him in the face. But he caught your fist in his hand, twisting underneath you and throwing you off your balance, until you found yourself in his position, your leg pinned down by his knee, the other by his hand. Panic gripped you as you closed your eyes, hearing him let out a soft scoff.
'You think that will stop me from putting you under genjutsu? I could have done so from the beginning. I wished to test the strength of Konoha's jounins these days. Regrettably, I am disappointed' he said. You lowered your gaze to where you thought his torso might be and opened them, swinging your fist towards his face. He slammed it against the floor, above your head, doing the same with your other hand and pinning them with one of his. You started getting more and more panicked, primal fear taking hold of you, suffocating you as you resorted to thrashing like a wild animal.
'Let me go, you prick' you yelled, your eyes meeting his for the first time. You were rooted to the spot immediately, not by genjutsu, simply by his stare. His eyes were... hypnotising. They were terrifyingly beautiful, the colour of fresh blood, framed by long, dark eyelashes.
'Why would I do that?' he asked simply, almost curiously. You gritted your teeth, wondering how quickly he would kill you if you spat in his face.
'I'm not sure what to do with you' he mused, his eyes scanning you, as though you had the answer he was looking for written on your body. You tried to fight against his grip again, this time with your legs, and perhaps by chance, you managed to kick him in the hip, which again, made him groan as his hand shot to your throat. His fingers tightened around it, cutting your airflow, and your eyelids grew heavy, his features blurring. A small moan managed to escape you, and his fingers slackened ever so slightly, his palm lifting a little, allowing you to breathe. You did not know why he hadn't just suffocated you, but you counted your blessings and breathed in sharply, still hazy, but in a different way.
One that made your body oddly warm.
'Did you lose your fighting spirit already?' he asked, and you ground your jaw, snapping out of your trance and starting to writhe again.
This time, he pinned you down with his whole body, to the point where you could not move an inch. It was then that you felt it. It was faint, but it was there. A hard bulge between your thighs, pressing insistently. To your horror, your hips twitched against it, your eyes shooting up to him when you heard his breath hitch.
His jaw tightened, and you wondered if there was indeed a way to get out of this. An extraordinary man he was, but he was still only a man. And he clearly liked you in some way. If you used it to your own advantage, maybe there was a way you could still save yourself.
Your lips parted, and you meekly rolled your hips against him, the whimper you let out not entirely planned as you felt his erection against you. His own hips jerked towards you, and you could not hold back a little smirk. One he caught, unfortunately.
'Oh? You think I don't know what you're trying to do? You think if you seduce me, I will let you leave? Foolish, wishful thinking' he said, a hint of longing in his voice as he leaned against your ear, breathing in, making shivers run down your spine, 'I could indulge you. But it will not go as you think'
His breath tickled your ear, and his lips brushed it, making your whole body tense and hypersensitive. You were quickly losing the sliver of control you had gained, because unfortunately, you were not immune to his charm, and two could play that game.
'Fuck- you' you hissed, pushing against him. The soft, dark chuckle he let out made your lower stomach warm, and two of his fingers lifted from your throat to grip your face. Before you could react, his lips clashed with yours. He was not particularly kind in his movements, but he was good. Unbearably good. His lips were so soft, his tongue demanding as it licked your bottom lip and pressed against yours. You could not help but rut against him, moaning in his mouth as he angled his head and deepened the kiss.
Your whole body felt on fire. You hated it. Hated what he was doing to you, how your body was betraying you for a simple kiss with someone so vile. How easily he had regained control over you in your own plan. How you had ended up being his prey.
'Much better' he murmured when he pulled away, lifting his hand off your throat and pushing two of his fingers in your mouth.
'Suck' he commanded, and to your surprise, you obediently wrapped your lips around them, twirling your tongue around the pads of his fingers, sucking like he'd asked. He smirked slyly, pulling them away with a filthy pop and slipping his hand under your shorts and underwear. You could not even fight back, because the first drag of his fingers was like heaven. It tore a breathy moan from you and another scoff from him.
'I suppose you had no need to suck my fingers. You're drenched. What does that say about you, little one?' he taunted, but you were hardly capable of coherent thoughts as his middle finger circled your clit, making you whine in a needy voice.
'You're hard... too' you hissed, arching your back when his fingers slipped inside you, curling sinfully, making the pleasure unbearable. Why did you have to love this so much? Why did you want him to continue? Why couldn't you show any restraint?
'Mhm. Well, you are being such a good girl for me. So compliant' he crooned, voice smooth and mocking, and the smirk plastered on his lips when you clenched around his graceful, sinewy fingers made you burn with humiliation.
'You cannot hide your reactions. I can tell just how much you need me to fuck you' he breathed against your throat, his tongue following the path of your artery, making you squirm as he pumped his fingers inside you. Knowing you would not even attempt to fight him, his hand left your wrists to yank down your shorts and drenched panties, and you slipped out of them, gasping when his fingers curled around the hem of your top and yanked it down too, exposing your naked breasts to his eager mouth. He hummed in self-satisfaction as he sucked on your nipple, tearing strained moans and whimpers out of you as easily as he had overpowered you.
Your shame was flickering out and dying with each drag of his slender fingers along your walls, each curled motion that pressed against your g-spot, each movement that brought you closer and closer to the best orgasm of your life. You felt drunk on his touch, and though you should have been repulsed, you could only think of how damnably good he felt, how every derogatory praise made you throb with need.
Your fingers rose to clutch his shoulders, and you desperately tried to close your eyes to escape someplace else, somewhere where you weren't being so whorish for a traitor who seemed to have you wrapped around his finger. But he stopped, cruelly dragging his lips down your throat, nipping at the sensitive skin.
'That will not do. Open your eyes. Look at me, or I will stop. I want to see how disgusted you are by the fact that you are moaning like a slut for me' he said in a mellow voice, making your cheeks heat up with shame once again as you opened your eyes, because you needed him to keep going, needed to cum so badly it hurt.
He looked so damn pleased with himself as he rewarded you with a third finger and another curl of his fingers, until you were sobbing and trembling underneath him with an orgasm that left you seeing white and unable to hear anything but static for several seconds.
'That's a good girl. You can take another, can't you? You're not that weak' he crooned, lifting his fingers and sucking them clean, letting out a groan as your chest heaved with sawed breaths. He took off your top, unfastening his cloak and taking off his own shirt. He was... beautiful. With jutting collarbones, long dark hair tied in a low ponytail, faint abs and a lithe body, he seemed to be carved by an artist's hands. He hooked his fingers under the elastic of his trousers, pulling them down and freeing his cock. Your mouth watered at the sight: he was long and fairly thick, with a reddened tip already leaking with precum. You were entranced as you watched him stroke it, until your thoughts were cut off by his cock dragging along your labia, making your hips jolt.
'This is what you were planning, yes? Is it just as you had envisioned it?' he teased, pushing the tip in, his lips parting, a soft moan that sounded so hot you could barely breathe pouring out of his pretty lips. As he pushed in more of his thick cock inside you, you couldn't help but whine for it, so far lost in the pleasure that you could not even think about how much you were supposed to hate that man. When he was filling you up so well, when his cock rubbed against your g-spot so fucking well, when you had never felt pleasure like that before.
Your fingernails dug into the skin of his shoulder blades, leaving marks in your wake as you raked them across his back. He groaned, dipping his head to suck on the curve of your neck.
'Good girl. You take my cock like you love it, mh? So this is how a Konoha jounin behaves when she's faced with an enemy. Like a greedy slut' he taunted, bottoming out and thrusting back in, making you tear up and moan filthily.
'You're so tight and wet for me, little one' he continued, his fingers digging into your ass, probably leaving marks that would not let you forget him any time soon.
'I-tachi...' you could not restrain yourself from moaning his name, which only seemed to egg him on as he started thrusting inside you, lifting your legs around his waist. His necklace dangled against your jaw, strands of dark hair tickling your cheeks every time he pushed inside you and tore another moan from you. You were struggling to keep your eyes on him, knowing he would stop if you didn't. And it was too good to give up on it.
'That's right, little slut. Moan my name like that' he breathed, his hand going back to your throat and pressing on the sides, making your head light and heightening the sensations in your body.
Tears glided down your temples, disappearing in your hair, and you tried to keep yourself from screaming for him, but he was too good. And when he slipped out and flipped you on your stomach, lifting your hips and sinking back into you, his hand fisting and pulling your hair, you lost the strength to even think about fighting back. You were lost in that heady feeling, in the sensations he could stir from you, in the way his cock seemed to press against all the right places.
'Fuck- please...' you babbled incoherently, pushing your ass into him, your voice almost lost in the loud squelching sounds.
'Please what? Use your words. If you can still manage' he said relentlessly, and you moaned, clenching around him, glad that you could get away with closing your eyes, but it was too late. He was the only one in your mind now.
'Please- need to cum' you managed to say, and he must have been feeling merciful, because his hand slipped underneath you to rub at your clit, until you were sobbing his name and trembling with an even more violent orgasm than the first one.
'Fuck-' he grunted, his pace growing sloppy as he pulled you up by your hair and wrapped an arm around your torso, securing you in place as he continued to pound into you.
'Going to leave you with a reminder of how you sobbed for my cock' he breathed, pressing on your lower stomach, moaning against your ear as he pushed deep inside you and came, filling you with warmth.
You were panting, covered in a light sheen of sweat, a pleasant ache between your legs, a sense of both satisfaction and shame lingering in your fucked out mind as you collapsed on the cool floor, catching your breath.
He handed you a towel and your clothes, getting up and putting his shirt back on, slipping into his cloak and staring at you. He cocked his head as you stumbled to your feet, still hazy from pleasure.
'We may meet again if you forget this place is occupied' he said, a sly look in his red eyes. You swallowed, licking your dry, swollen lips. But before you could come up with a reply, he had vanished.
Unsworn Protector ( Gwayne Hightower x Targaryen Niece! Reader )
Summary: The reader is sent to Old Town with Daeron, however, is left in an uncomfortable situation when her uncle finds her with a pillow.
Warnings: explicit smut under the cut minors do not interact, incest, age gap, reader has a pillow princess moment, oral (female receiving), penetration, Gwayne is giving sub vibes.
Word count: 3,728
The journey to Old Town was arduous and slow, a monotonous trek that seemed designed to drain one's spirit. Few things could be more disheartening than being sent to Old Town, a place that felt like exile. Your mother, the queen, insisted that sending you and your younger brother Daeron there was for the best, claiming it would build character—whatever that meant. Yet, you couldn't shake the feeling that she simply preferred not to deal with you. Sending you and Daeron away made it easier for her to focus on Aegon. Despite her intentions, you were frustrated by being uprooted from your home, all in the name of this so-called character building.
When the carriage finally arrived in Old Town, your eyes took in the sights as you traveled swiftly through the city. Having spent your entire life in King's Landing, Old Town seemed exceptionally small. You noticed the tall walls surrounding the castle, some sections near the gate clad in ivy.
"Finally, we're here," Daeron exclaimed as he rushed to the carriage door, eager to free himself from its confines.
With a mix of frustration and disgust, you pushed at your brother’s back as he deliberately blocked the carriage door, trapping you inside. "Daeron!" you shouted, your hands shoving at the coarse fabric of his shirt. "Let me out, you fool!" You struggled against him as he laughed, his mirth only heightening your irritation.
Suddenly, another voice cut through the commotion. "Come now, my prince. Let your sister out," it urged. Reluctantly, Daeron relented and stepped down the few stairs, finally freeing you from the confined space of the carriage.
As you finally freed yourself from the carriage, you realized the voice belonged to your uncle, Gwayne Hightower. Though many years had passed since you last saw him, you recognized him instantly. Stepping forward, your feet now firmly planted on the ground, you shot a sharp glare at Daeron, resisting the urge to shove him, before turning back to your uncle.
"Thank you, Uncle," you said with a small nod.
Daeron, looking bewildered, finally noticed Gwayne. "Oh—Uncle Gwayne. I didn’t recognize you," he replied, prompting you to narrow your eyes.
"I’m not surprised," you said. "You were but a babe the last time he visited."
"Indeed you were," Gwayne said with a warm smile. "I'm surprised you recognize me, Princess. You've grown as much as your brother."
He stepped forward, extending his hand toward you. You raised yours to meet his, and he took it gently, bringing it to his lips with a delicate kiss that conveyed a soft, caring warmth. Your eyes fluttered slightly as you looked at him, appreciating the affectionate gesture.
"You've grown so much," he remarked, turning his attention to Daeron.
"I'm certain I haven't grown that much," you insisted with a modest smile.
Daeron glanced at you, a mischievous glint in his eyes, and snorted. "Oh, trust me, you’ve grown—just not in height, sister," he mocked. Unable to restrain yourself, you gave him a small shove in response.
Your uncle watched the exchange, a faint smile playing on his lips, and shook his head with a soft chuckle at your sibling rivalry.
Gwayne shook his head with a gentle sigh, his gaze shifting to Daeron. "Now, nephew, I understand why your mother insisted on sending you here. One day, you'll realize the value of your sister's presence. Treat her with the respect she deserves," he urged, his tone firm yet compassionate. You cast a sidelong glance at your brother, a small smile playing on your lips now that your uncle had come to your defense.
Daeron responded with an eye roll, his demeanor defiant. Gwayne cleared his throat, his expression turning more serious. "I'll have your cousin show you to your room, Daeron," he declared, nodding towards him. "As for you, Princess," Gwayne continued, extending his arm toward you. "I will personally escort you to your chambers." You took his arm promptly, grateful for his support and guidance in this unfamiliar place.
Gwayne escorted you up the stairs and down a hallway to your assigned room. As the door swung open, you couldn't shake the feeling of entering a stranger's room. Though the space was well-appointed and fair, it lacked the personal touch of home. Sensing your unease, Gwayne spoke up as the two of you entered.
"This will be your chambers. My quarters are just next door," he explained, his voice reassuring. "Consider me your protector, close at hand." His words were accompanied by a small, comforting smile.
In that moment, you realized Gwayne's striking presence: his piercing blue eyes, chiseled jawline, and eloquent speech. His demeanor offered a sense of security that eased your nerves, prompting you to return his smile warmly.
"You are to be your sworn protector then?" you questioned, eyebrows knitting together as you stood somewhat puzzled. Gwayne couldn't help but chuckle softly as he shook his head.
"No, sweet niece. There's no need for that here," he reassured you gently, "but I promise to watch over you." His words carried a comforting assurance.
You nodded in understanding, your hand still linked with his arm. "Did my mother explain why she sent me here?" you asked, recalling her vague answers and insistence that leaving the Red Keep was in your best interest. Gwayne sensed your unease and took your hands in his with tender care.
"Niece," he spoke softly, "Your mother didn't want to send you away, but you're soon to be married—or at least betrothed. She thought it would be easier for you not to be uprooted from your home like many maidens are." His explanation caused you to look away, a mixture of emotions stirring within you.
"I don't want to be betrothed to a stranger," you confessed to your uncle, your hands still held in his. "The thought of belonging to a man I don't know, who doesn't know me—it frightens me."
Gwayne's expression softened at your confession. He released one of your hands and gently cupped your chin, guiding your gaze to meet his. His blue eyes held a depth of understanding as he listened intently to your words.
"Your feelings are valid, my dear. Many women share your apprehensions—I know your mother did," Gwayne said soothingly, hoping to bring you comfort. "Besides, not every lady finds herself betrothed to a stranger. Try not to let fear cloud your judgment until you've had the chance to know your intended," he urged gently, sensing he had eased your nerves.
"I'll leave you to rest now," Gwayne added, seeing your nod of approval. With that, he quietly exited your chambers.
As night descended upon Old Town, you tossed and turned in your sleep, consumed by an unrelenting yearning. The unfamiliar blankets and sheets, devoid of your scent, offered no comfort. Frustrated, you reached for a plush pillow, sitting up and clutching it tightly between your thighs. Slowly, you would rock your hips back and forth, pushing down your core with some friction to alleviate this frustration that burned between your thighs. Your eyes fluttered closed, your night gown slipping from your shoulder as your hips desperately humped the pillow beneath you. You thought of your uncle, you knew you shouldn't, and yet- you could not help but to think of how kissed your hand, the blue of his eyes, how he smelled of sage.
On the other side of the door, Gwayne awoke to a plaintive sound that he initially mistook for a cry. Even through the stone walls, the soft echo of his niece's distress reached him. With concern driving him, Gwayne rose from his bed, the urgency of his duty as her uncle compelling him. He slipped into a pair of pants and quietly left his room.
It was his responsibility to care for and protect her in this unfamiliar place, in the absence of their family. Moving with cautious steps, Gwayne approached her door. Normally, he would have knocked, but in his haste and concern, he bypassed this customary courtesy. He gently pushed the door open, making as little noise as possible.
What Gwayne had come face to face with made him freeze, his entire body tensing up as he looked to the figure of you, the princess, feverously humping a pillow. Your shoulder exposed and hard nipples showing through the sheer of the night gown. Your eyes were still closed as your hips rocked against the pillow. Eyebrows pushed together as soft cries left your lips. Gwayne was more than aware that he should not be there, that he should not be witnessing this, and yet he could not tear his eyes away.
Then you said it, "Gwayne." His name left your lips like a melody and it took one hush of his name to make him impossibly hard. To the point in stung and bulged from his trousers. It was then your eyes fluttered open, and in a few blinks they widened realizing that your uncle stood in the doorway. In a panic your hands grasped the pillow and brought it up to cover yourself.
"Oh, Gods. Princess, I'm -I'm sorry -" Gwayne barely managed to gush an apology as he had went fleeing the room, closing the door behind him as he went rushing back to his room. In the midst of his embarrassment he had been sweating, his heart racing as he stayed in the confides of his room.
He was still hard. Gwayne tried not to think about you. He tried not to think about how you cried as you humped your pillow or how sweetly you spoke his name but he could not.
Gwayne would wrestle with himself for nearly an hour, but at the agony of his own groin he could not contain himself. Gwayne would still be standing as he pulled his pants down, freeing his length as he took it in one hand.
This was wrong, this was so wrong.
And still, he began to pump himself to the thought of you pleasing yourself with a pillow.
I shouldn't be doing this.
He wondered how it would feel to be between your soft thighs, to have you be humping him.
He was almost there.
To have you scream his name instead of whisper it.
Gwayne would soon spill his seed onto the ground as his hand feverishly pumped himself to the thought of you. Gwayne would attempt to find sleep that night but had been unable to do so.
When the next day dawned, you anticipated a conversation with your uncle about the events of the previous night. However, it soon became apparent that Gwayne was actively avoiding you. He didn't join you for breakfast or supper, and your cousin took it upon themselves to entertain you with a tour of Old Town, while another cousin kept you occupied with needlepoint throughout the day. Despite your efforts, the entire day passed without a glimpse of him.
Returning to your chambers in the evening, a growing discomfort settled within you. You couldn't shake the feeling that Gwayne's absence was deliberate. Did he feel embarrassed for having found you in distress? Was he ashamed of you? These thoughts churned in your mind as you lay on your bed, staring up at the canopy for what felt like an eternity.
Finally, unable to endure the uncertainty any longer, you threw off the blankets and stormed out of your chambers. Determined, you strode purposefully to his door, bypassing the courtesy of knocking—after all, he hadn't extended the same courtesy to you last night. You entered his chambers with your face flushed with agitation.
Inside, Gwayne was not asleep. He sat up in bed, bare-chested with the blankets draped over his hips, revealing that he wore nothing underneath either.
"Princess, what are you doing?" Gwayne asked abruptly, his gaze flickering to the sheerness of your nightgown, which left little to the imagination. It was evident that your attire was not quite appropriate for a princess, but after what Gwayne had witnessed the previous night, your choice of clothing was the least of your concerns.
"You walked in on me last night and now you avoid me all day?" you questioned boldly, lifting your chin as you approached his bedside. Gwayne's hands tightened on the blanket, his discomfort palpable as you drew nearer.
"You should go," he insisted, attempting to avert his eyes from you.
"Why?" You questioned sharply as he approached. "Are you ashamed of me now?"
Gwayne shook his head, you had not yet noticed, and he had hoped you hadn't as he looked away.
"It's not that." he insisted quietly.
Your eyes looked down the look of anger seeming to melt from your face as your eyes noticed the bulge beneath the blankets. He was hard, trying to hide it, but failing to do so.
"Please leave." He was begging with all restraint he had. Gwayne could not even look you in the eye as he kept the blankets around him.
You stood there for a moment unsure how to approach but desire beginning to burn between your legs as you looked to him.
"Do you desire me, uncle?" You questioned moving closer to him as a hand gently touched his thigh grabbing a handful of the sheets he was using to cover himself.
"It is wrong- I should not." He said, answering your question without actually answering your question. It was enough for you, his grip tightening to hold the sheets in place as you carefully slid one leg up on the bed, allowing it to rest on one side of him. Gwayne showed restraint, but only little.
"Who says?" you questioned, eyes staring into his as he finally had enough gull to look at you.
"The Gods." he declared. "Common law-" he tried to say with some reason, the one thread of restraint still holding on within him.
"Fuck the Gods," You declared as your hand gave a gentle pull at the sheets. "Fuck Common Law-" He continued to hold on as you pulled. "And fuck me." you said nearly pleading.
Gwayne held the blankets for a moment longer as his eyes looked to you. "You are a maiden, are you not?" He questioned unsure in this moment based on your behavior.
"I am." you declared honestly as you looked to him.
"I can not deflower my own niece." He said allowing a moment of pride to shield him.
"I do not want my first time to be with some lord that I am married off to as a bargaining chip." You insisted nearly pleading. "I desire you, uncle and you desire me." You declared, his grip on the sheet loosening.
Gwayne battled with himself for a moment, but only for a moment, for his strong hands would reach for your face, pulling you gently to meet his lips. Your body pulled onto him as your lips met his. Gwayne kissed your lips with the hunger of a starved man, his hands moved to your night gown and pulled it up, parting his lips to discard it from your body leaving you exposed to him.
He wasted little time in pushing you down onto the mattress, allowing himself to rest above you. In the moon light he took in your bare figure, soon peppering kisses between the valley of your breast and down your body to your cunt. His lips would kiss down to your bud before he grabbed onto your hips. Pulling your thighs to rest on his shoulders as his face pushed into your cunt in a way a pillow never could. It was by this that you were already squirming, back arching at his touch.
Gwayne would not hesitate to allow his tongue to lay flat against your flushed sensitive bud, your hips pushing down slightly as he tried to keep you in place with his grip. Gwayne would lick slowly, tasting your virgin cunt as if it was a delicacy, something he was determine to savor.
Soft moans left your lips as his tongue continued to work against your dripping cunt. Gwayne was carefully when he inserted a finger inside of you. He did not dare to put more than one for with just one finger he could feel how incredibly tight you were. a realization that caused his cock to ache.
Gwayne would slowly pump his finger in and out of you as you moaned loudly, your hands becoming entangled in his long locks, and your thighs pushing shut against him. Gwayne wanted to question you, to ask how you were so sensitive, why you tasted so sweet- but he could not bring himself to remove his tongue if the king himself demanded it.
There would be a hot coil inside of you that would form, growing tighter, as your wet cunt clenched around his finger, and within a moment the coil snapped. A warm orgasm flushing over you as your thighs squeezed his head without mercy, soft tears fell from your eyes as you came down from your high. You were panting as your thighs loosened, Gwayne would pull his finger from you before sticking it in his mouth to suck in clean of your sweet juices.
The two of you locked eyes as you stared at one another for a moment. His hard cock pushed against the inside of your thigh as he debated if he should go through with this.
"We shouldn't." Gwayne gave a small fight once more for the sake of his honor and your own.
"Who would know?" You offered a simple excuse, hoping he would not declare the gods again.
"Who would know . . ." he repeated before he nodded. "You're right. Who would know." Gwayne reasoned as he grabbed his cock as he had carefully begun to move it against the wet folds of your cunt.
"You could drink moon tea after." he suggested again as you nodded in response.
"You're sure?" he asked again his blue eyes looking to you with tender concern but also the last bit of restraint he had in him.
"I am." You said as you pushed yourself down on him slightly causing him to groan.
Gwayne could wait no longer and therefore he lined himself up at your entrance and gently he begun to penetrate you, sliding into your wet cunt slowly.
Your back arched at the feeling of him filling you, he stilled, with only part of himself in you.
"More." You whined out in a demand as you waited for him to fill you completely.
"Patient, princess. Please- I do not wish to be spent so soon." Gwayne insisted, he had slowly begun to push into you. Your legs would soon tighten around his waist, forcing him to put the rest of himself in. A moan came from the both of you as he would soon begin to move slowly.
"Gods, you're so tight." He groaned as he slowly thrusted in and out of you at a slow rate, doing his best not to spill himself inside of you this early.
Gwayne would allow his thumb to return to your swollen bulb, rubbing it softly as he continued to fuck you at a slow and passionate rate. Despite the slow thrust he pushed deep into your warm velvet walls each time, enjoying the feeling of you squeezing his entire length.
Gwayne would continue at this slow rate as you cried out, soon lewd sounds of your wetness would fill the room mixed with your moans.
"I want to be on top." You pleaded, his hips stilled with hesitation. "Please." you begged.
Gwayne hesitated, but even he could not resist. He pulled out of you slowly before allowing his body to fall onto the bed. You wasted no time climbing on top of him and taking his length in your hand. Carefully you lowered your hips onto him.
"Fuck." Gwayne would groan at the sight of you above him. The vision of a Targaryen princess nude above him, as your hips begun to feverishly bounce on his cock. It took everything in him to not spill himself in you at this very moment.
"Princess, please." He pleaded his hands grabbing on your waist to try and slow you down but it was no use, you used him. Moving your hips quickly as you looked to him.
"Hold on, uncle. I'm almost there." You would insisted in a moan as you continued, the feeling of him throbbing inside of you as you fucked yourself on him was enough to let out a cry of pleasure.
"Please get off . . . "He begged, "I shouldn't . . . not inside of you." He insisted more as he tried to steady your hips, though as you moved he relented.
Gwayne could not hold himself back any longer, his fingers dug into your flesh as he came deep inside you. You continued as he filled you with his warm seed. Allowing yourself to fuck every last drop inside of you, peeking your own orgasm that caused Gwayne to grit his teeth. You would roll your hips over him, riding out your high before falling helplessly on the bed next to him. His seed spilling onto your plush thighs.
Gwayne panted as he had looked over to you with soft affection. "I'll have the maester make you moon tea in the morning." he insisted as you looked over to him with a small smile.
"Perhaps if you seed me with your child mother would be forced to marry me to you." You offered looking to him next to you in the bed.
"Or she would have my head." he offered back.
When morning came you were nearly limping as you joined Daeron at the breakfast table, he seemed somewhat restless as he picked at the eggs on his plate.
"There you are." He declared looking to you with dark shadows surrounding his eyes.
"You look like shit." You declared to him with no one else around, he looked to you with somewhat of a resenting look.
"Yeah, well if you're going to fuck our uncle again could you at least keep it down." Daeron declared.
You froze at his comment, you were going to muster up some kind of denial but Daeron spoke again.
"My chambers are on the other side of Uncle Gwaynes." He informed you.
Unsworn Protector ( Gwayne Hightower x Targaryen Niece! Reader )
Summary: The reader is sent to Old Town with Daeron, however, is left in an uncomfortable situation when her uncle finds her with a pillow.
Warnings: explicit smut under the cut minors do not interact, incest, age gap, reader has a pillow princess moment, oral (female receiving), penetration, Gwayne is giving sub vibes.
Word count: 3,728
The journey to Old Town was arduous and slow, a monotonous trek that seemed designed to drain one's spirit. Few things could be more disheartening than being sent to Old Town, a place that felt like exile. Your mother, the queen, insisted that sending you and your younger brother Daeron there was for the best, claiming it would build character—whatever that meant. Yet, you couldn't shake the feeling that she simply preferred not to deal with you. Sending you and Daeron away made it easier for her to focus on Aegon. Despite her intentions, you were frustrated by being uprooted from your home, all in the name of this so-called character building.
When the carriage finally arrived in Old Town, your eyes took in the sights as you traveled swiftly through the city. Having spent your entire life in King's Landing, Old Town seemed exceptionally small. You noticed the tall walls surrounding the castle, some sections near the gate clad in ivy.
"Finally, we're here," Daeron exclaimed as he rushed to the carriage door, eager to free himself from its confines.
With a mix of frustration and disgust, you pushed at your brother’s back as he deliberately blocked the carriage door, trapping you inside. "Daeron!" you shouted, your hands shoving at the coarse fabric of his shirt. "Let me out, you fool!" You struggled against him as he laughed, his mirth only heightening your irritation.
Suddenly, another voice cut through the commotion. "Come now, my prince. Let your sister out," it urged. Reluctantly, Daeron relented and stepped down the few stairs, finally freeing you from the confined space of the carriage.
As you finally freed yourself from the carriage, you realized the voice belonged to your uncle, Gwayne Hightower. Though many years had passed since you last saw him, you recognized him instantly. Stepping forward, your feet now firmly planted on the ground, you shot a sharp glare at Daeron, resisting the urge to shove him, before turning back to your uncle.
"Thank you, Uncle," you said with a small nod.
Daeron, looking bewildered, finally noticed Gwayne. "Oh—Uncle Gwayne. I didn’t recognize you," he replied, prompting you to narrow your eyes.
"I’m not surprised," you said. "You were but a babe the last time he visited."
"Indeed you were," Gwayne said with a warm smile. "I'm surprised you recognize me, Princess. You've grown as much as your brother."
He stepped forward, extending his hand toward you. You raised yours to meet his, and he took it gently, bringing it to his lips with a delicate kiss that conveyed a soft, caring warmth. Your eyes fluttered slightly as you looked at him, appreciating the affectionate gesture.
"You've grown so much," he remarked, turning his attention to Daeron.
"I'm certain I haven't grown that much," you insisted with a modest smile.
Daeron glanced at you, a mischievous glint in his eyes, and snorted. "Oh, trust me, you’ve grown—just not in height, sister," he mocked. Unable to restrain yourself, you gave him a small shove in response.
Your uncle watched the exchange, a faint smile playing on his lips, and shook his head with a soft chuckle at your sibling rivalry.
Gwayne shook his head with a gentle sigh, his gaze shifting to Daeron. "Now, nephew, I understand why your mother insisted on sending you here. One day, you'll realize the value of your sister's presence. Treat her with the respect she deserves," he urged, his tone firm yet compassionate. You cast a sidelong glance at your brother, a small smile playing on your lips now that your uncle had come to your defense.
Daeron responded with an eye roll, his demeanor defiant. Gwayne cleared his throat, his expression turning more serious. "I'll have your cousin show you to your room, Daeron," he declared, nodding towards him. "As for you, Princess," Gwayne continued, extending his arm toward you. "I will personally escort you to your chambers." You took his arm promptly, grateful for his support and guidance in this unfamiliar place.
Gwayne escorted you up the stairs and down a hallway to your assigned room. As the door swung open, you couldn't shake the feeling of entering a stranger's room. Though the space was well-appointed and fair, it lacked the personal touch of home. Sensing your unease, Gwayne spoke up as the two of you entered.
"This will be your chambers. My quarters are just next door," he explained, his voice reassuring. "Consider me your protector, close at hand." His words were accompanied by a small, comforting smile.
In that moment, you realized Gwayne's striking presence: his piercing blue eyes, chiseled jawline, and eloquent speech. His demeanor offered a sense of security that eased your nerves, prompting you to return his smile warmly.
"You are to be your sworn protector then?" you questioned, eyebrows knitting together as you stood somewhat puzzled. Gwayne couldn't help but chuckle softly as he shook his head.
"No, sweet niece. There's no need for that here," he reassured you gently, "but I promise to watch over you." His words carried a comforting assurance.
You nodded in understanding, your hand still linked with his arm. "Did my mother explain why she sent me here?" you asked, recalling her vague answers and insistence that leaving the Red Keep was in your best interest. Gwayne sensed your unease and took your hands in his with tender care.
"Niece," he spoke softly, "Your mother didn't want to send you away, but you're soon to be married—or at least betrothed. She thought it would be easier for you not to be uprooted from your home like many maidens are." His explanation caused you to look away, a mixture of emotions stirring within you.
"I don't want to be betrothed to a stranger," you confessed to your uncle, your hands still held in his. "The thought of belonging to a man I don't know, who doesn't know me—it frightens me."
Gwayne's expression softened at your confession. He released one of your hands and gently cupped your chin, guiding your gaze to meet his. His blue eyes held a depth of understanding as he listened intently to your words.
"Your feelings are valid, my dear. Many women share your apprehensions—I know your mother did," Gwayne said soothingly, hoping to bring you comfort. "Besides, not every lady finds herself betrothed to a stranger. Try not to let fear cloud your judgment until you've had the chance to know your intended," he urged gently, sensing he had eased your nerves.
"I'll leave you to rest now," Gwayne added, seeing your nod of approval. With that, he quietly exited your chambers.
As night descended upon Old Town, you tossed and turned in your sleep, consumed by an unrelenting yearning. The unfamiliar blankets and sheets, devoid of your scent, offered no comfort. Frustrated, you reached for a plush pillow, sitting up and clutching it tightly between your thighs. Slowly, you would rock your hips back and forth, pushing down your core with some friction to alleviate this frustration that burned between your thighs. Your eyes fluttered closed, your night gown slipping from your shoulder as your hips desperately humped the pillow beneath you. You thought of your uncle, you knew you shouldn't, and yet- you could not help but to think of how kissed your hand, the blue of his eyes, how he smelled of sage.
On the other side of the door, Gwayne awoke to a plaintive sound that he initially mistook for a cry. Even through the stone walls, the soft echo of his niece's distress reached him. With concern driving him, Gwayne rose from his bed, the urgency of his duty as her uncle compelling him. He slipped into a pair of pants and quietly left his room.
It was his responsibility to care for and protect her in this unfamiliar place, in the absence of their family. Moving with cautious steps, Gwayne approached her door. Normally, he would have knocked, but in his haste and concern, he bypassed this customary courtesy. He gently pushed the door open, making as little noise as possible.
What Gwayne had come face to face with made him freeze, his entire body tensing up as he looked to the figure of you, the princess, feverously humping a pillow. Your shoulder exposed and hard nipples showing through the sheer of the night gown. Your eyes were still closed as your hips rocked against the pillow. Eyebrows pushed together as soft cries left your lips. Gwayne was more than aware that he should not be there, that he should not be witnessing this, and yet he could not tear his eyes away.
Then you said it, "Gwayne." His name left your lips like a melody and it took one hush of his name to make him impossibly hard. To the point in stung and bulged from his trousers. It was then your eyes fluttered open, and in a few blinks they widened realizing that your uncle stood in the doorway. In a panic your hands grasped the pillow and brought it up to cover yourself.
"Oh, Gods. Princess, I'm -I'm sorry -" Gwayne barely managed to gush an apology as he had went fleeing the room, closing the door behind him as he went rushing back to his room. In the midst of his embarrassment he had been sweating, his heart racing as he stayed in the confides of his room.
He was still hard. Gwayne tried not to think about you. He tried not to think about how you cried as you humped your pillow or how sweetly you spoke his name but he could not.
Gwayne would wrestle with himself for nearly an hour, but at the agony of his own groin he could not contain himself. Gwayne would still be standing as he pulled his pants down, freeing his length as he took it in one hand.
This was wrong, this was so wrong.
And still, he began to pump himself to the thought of you pleasing yourself with a pillow.
I shouldn't be doing this.
He wondered how it would feel to be between your soft thighs, to have you be humping him.
He was almost there.
To have you scream his name instead of whisper it.
Gwayne would soon spill his seed onto the ground as his hand feverishly pumped himself to the thought of you. Gwayne would attempt to find sleep that night but had been unable to do so.
When the next day dawned, you anticipated a conversation with your uncle about the events of the previous night. However, it soon became apparent that Gwayne was actively avoiding you. He didn't join you for breakfast or supper, and your cousin took it upon themselves to entertain you with a tour of Old Town, while another cousin kept you occupied with needlepoint throughout the day. Despite your efforts, the entire day passed without a glimpse of him.
Returning to your chambers in the evening, a growing discomfort settled within you. You couldn't shake the feeling that Gwayne's absence was deliberate. Did he feel embarrassed for having found you in distress? Was he ashamed of you? These thoughts churned in your mind as you lay on your bed, staring up at the canopy for what felt like an eternity.
Finally, unable to endure the uncertainty any longer, you threw off the blankets and stormed out of your chambers. Determined, you strode purposefully to his door, bypassing the courtesy of knocking—after all, he hadn't extended the same courtesy to you last night. You entered his chambers with your face flushed with agitation.
Inside, Gwayne was not asleep. He sat up in bed, bare-chested with the blankets draped over his hips, revealing that he wore nothing underneath either.
"Princess, what are you doing?" Gwayne asked abruptly, his gaze flickering to the sheerness of your nightgown, which left little to the imagination. It was evident that your attire was not quite appropriate for a princess, but after what Gwayne had witnessed the previous night, your choice of clothing was the least of your concerns.
"You walked in on me last night and now you avoid me all day?" you questioned boldly, lifting your chin as you approached his bedside. Gwayne's hands tightened on the blanket, his discomfort palpable as you drew nearer.
"You should go," he insisted, attempting to avert his eyes from you.
"Why?" You questioned sharply as he approached. "Are you ashamed of me now?"
Gwayne shook his head, you had not yet noticed, and he had hoped you hadn't as he looked away.
"It's not that." he insisted quietly.
Your eyes looked down the look of anger seeming to melt from your face as your eyes noticed the bulge beneath the blankets. He was hard, trying to hide it, but failing to do so.
"Please leave." He was begging with all restraint he had. Gwayne could not even look you in the eye as he kept the blankets around him.
You stood there for a moment unsure how to approach but desire beginning to burn between your legs as you looked to him.
"Do you desire me, uncle?" You questioned moving closer to him as a hand gently touched his thigh grabbing a handful of the sheets he was using to cover himself.
"It is wrong- I should not." He said, answering your question without actually answering your question. It was enough for you, his grip tightening to hold the sheets in place as you carefully slid one leg up on the bed, allowing it to rest on one side of him. Gwayne showed restraint, but only little.
"Who says?" you questioned, eyes staring into his as he finally had enough gull to look at you.
"The Gods." he declared. "Common law-" he tried to say with some reason, the one thread of restraint still holding on within him.
"Fuck the Gods," You declared as your hand gave a gentle pull at the sheets. "Fuck Common Law-" He continued to hold on as you pulled. "And fuck me." you said nearly pleading.
Gwayne held the blankets for a moment longer as his eyes looked to you. "You are a maiden, are you not?" He questioned unsure in this moment based on your behavior.
"I am." you declared honestly as you looked to him.
"I can not deflower my own niece." He said allowing a moment of pride to shield him.
"I do not want my first time to be with some lord that I am married off to as a bargaining chip." You insisted nearly pleading. "I desire you, uncle and you desire me." You declared, his grip on the sheet loosening.
Gwayne battled with himself for a moment, but only for a moment, for his strong hands would reach for your face, pulling you gently to meet his lips. Your body pulled onto him as your lips met his. Gwayne kissed your lips with the hunger of a starved man, his hands moved to your night gown and pulled it up, parting his lips to discard it from your body leaving you exposed to him.
He wasted little time in pushing you down onto the mattress, allowing himself to rest above you. In the moon light he took in your bare figure, soon peppering kisses between the valley of your breast and down your body to your cunt. His lips would kiss down to your bud before he grabbed onto your hips. Pulling your thighs to rest on his shoulders as his face pushed into your cunt in a way a pillow never could. It was by this that you were already squirming, back arching at his touch.
Gwayne would not hesitate to allow his tongue to lay flat against your flushed sensitive bud, your hips pushing down slightly as he tried to keep you in place with his grip. Gwayne would lick slowly, tasting your virgin cunt as if it was a delicacy, something he was determine to savor.
Soft moans left your lips as his tongue continued to work against your dripping cunt. Gwayne was carefully when he inserted a finger inside of you. He did not dare to put more than one for with just one finger he could feel how incredibly tight you were. a realization that caused his cock to ache.
Gwayne would slowly pump his finger in and out of you as you moaned loudly, your hands becoming entangled in his long locks, and your thighs pushing shut against him. Gwayne wanted to question you, to ask how you were so sensitive, why you tasted so sweet- but he could not bring himself to remove his tongue if the king himself demanded it.
There would be a hot coil inside of you that would form, growing tighter, as your wet cunt clenched around his finger, and within a moment the coil snapped. A warm orgasm flushing over you as your thighs squeezed his head without mercy, soft tears fell from your eyes as you came down from your high. You were panting as your thighs loosened, Gwayne would pull his finger from you before sticking it in his mouth to suck in clean of your sweet juices.
The two of you locked eyes as you stared at one another for a moment. His hard cock pushed against the inside of your thigh as he debated if he should go through with this.
"We shouldn't." Gwayne gave a small fight once more for the sake of his honor and your own.
"Who would know?" You offered a simple excuse, hoping he would not declare the gods again.
"Who would know . . ." he repeated before he nodded. "You're right. Who would know." Gwayne reasoned as he grabbed his cock as he had carefully begun to move it against the wet folds of your cunt.
"You could drink moon tea after." he suggested again as you nodded in response.
"You're sure?" he asked again his blue eyes looking to you with tender concern but also the last bit of restraint he had in him.
"I am." You said as you pushed yourself down on him slightly causing him to groan.
Gwayne could wait no longer and therefore he lined himself up at your entrance and gently he begun to penetrate you, sliding into your wet cunt slowly.
Your back arched at the feeling of him filling you, he stilled, with only part of himself in you.
"More." You whined out in a demand as you waited for him to fill you completely.
"Patient, princess. Please- I do not wish to be spent so soon." Gwayne insisted, he had slowly begun to push into you. Your legs would soon tighten around his waist, forcing him to put the rest of himself in. A moan came from the both of you as he would soon begin to move slowly.
"Gods, you're so tight." He groaned as he slowly thrusted in and out of you at a slow rate, doing his best not to spill himself inside of you this early.
Gwayne would allow his thumb to return to your swollen bulb, rubbing it softly as he continued to fuck you at a slow and passionate rate. Despite the slow thrust he pushed deep into your warm velvet walls each time, enjoying the feeling of you squeezing his entire length.
Gwayne would continue at this slow rate as you cried out, soon lewd sounds of your wetness would fill the room mixed with your moans.
"I want to be on top." You pleaded, his hips stilled with hesitation. "Please." you begged.
Gwayne hesitated, but even he could not resist. He pulled out of you slowly before allowing his body to fall onto the bed. You wasted no time climbing on top of him and taking his length in your hand. Carefully you lowered your hips onto him.
"Fuck." Gwayne would groan at the sight of you above him. The vision of a Targaryen princess nude above him, as your hips begun to feverishly bounce on his cock. It took everything in him to not spill himself in you at this very moment.
"Princess, please." He pleaded his hands grabbing on your waist to try and slow you down but it was no use, you used him. Moving your hips quickly as you looked to him.
"Hold on, uncle. I'm almost there." You would insisted in a moan as you continued, the feeling of him throbbing inside of you as you fucked yourself on him was enough to let out a cry of pleasure.
"Please get off . . . "He begged, "I shouldn't . . . not inside of you." He insisted more as he tried to steady your hips, though as you moved he relented.
Gwayne could not hold himself back any longer, his fingers dug into your flesh as he came deep inside you. You continued as he filled you with his warm seed. Allowing yourself to fuck every last drop inside of you, peeking your own orgasm that caused Gwayne to grit his teeth. You would roll your hips over him, riding out your high before falling helplessly on the bed next to him. His seed spilling onto your plush thighs.
Gwayne panted as he had looked over to you with soft affection. "I'll have the maester make you moon tea in the morning." he insisted as you looked over to him with a small smile.
"Perhaps if you seed me with your child mother would be forced to marry me to you." You offered looking to him next to you in the bed.
"Or she would have my head." he offered back.
When morning came you were nearly limping as you joined Daeron at the breakfast table, he seemed somewhat restless as he picked at the eggs on his plate.
"There you are." He declared looking to you with dark shadows surrounding his eyes.
"You look like shit." You declared to him with no one else around, he looked to you with somewhat of a resenting look.
"Yeah, well if you're going to fuck our uncle again could you at least keep it down." Daeron declared.
You froze at his comment, you were going to muster up some kind of denial but Daeron spoke again.
"My chambers are on the other side of Uncle Gwaynes." He informed you.
hey love! for the acotar smut prompts would u consider 2, 8, and 11 for azriel or lucien <3
Here you go, love! I chose 8 & 11 for Lucien, hope that’s okay. I feel like it went off on a bit of a tangent so I hope you like it lol💋
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The meeting was not supposed to get this out of hand.
You’d promised Rhysand — explicitly promised him — that you’d be on your best behaviour while delivering a message to the Spring Court. And you truly had intended to cordially deliver it to Tamlin and leave.
Until you’d bumped into Lucien — your past love.
Things had been idyllic between you. You’d loved him fiercely, just as he’d loved you. Until after the war, when he’d decided to return to the Spring Court. To return his loyalty to Tamlin — even after everything had happened — rather than remain with you in the Night Court. It had cleaved the two of you apart, and things hadn’t been so idyllic since then.
Six horrible, miserable months had passed since. And you weren’t stupid enough to believe it just a coincidence that Rhys had elected you to deliver his message and risk running into Lucien.
Which was precisely what had occurred. And it hadn’t taken long for tensions to become fraught. You couldn’t bear to face him, to sit in the same room as him and the male who had come between you. Your quick temper may have got the better of you.
You’d made your exit on a particularly colourful parting, and were hurrying back through the house when you heard rushed, thudding footsteps following. You sped up, trying to cross the length of the tea room and reach the glass double doors to the garden, but Lucien was hot on your trail.
“Get back here, Y/N.” He snarled at you from behind. “We’re not done talking.”
“Oh yes we are.” You snapped back, shaking with rage. “I’m leaving.”
You needed to get out of there. Needed to be far away from Lucien and Tamlin and the damn Spring Court before you did something really stupid. Like burn the entire estate down.
Or show Lucien just how much he’d hurt you.
“Hey,” he caught up to you, grabbing your hand. “I don’t want to fight. I just want us to talk.”
You stopped, rounding on him. Ripped your hand away. “I have nothing to say to you.”
“We’ll I have plenty to say to you. I’ve written about a thousand letters—”
“And I burned them all.” You sneered. “Every single one of them.”
Lucien’s eyes flared. He glared down at you, face a picture of fury laced with hurt. “I understand why you’re angry—”
“No you don’t!”
Your voice was hoarse from the shouting you’d already done, but you pushed yourself, loud words echoing through the room. Lucien blinked at you.
“You don’t understand a fucking thing—”
You words were cut short as Lucien grabbed your face in his hands, crushing your lips against his in a passionate kiss and stealing the breath from your lungs. His touch on you was searing, and you faltered, almost lost yourself—
You shoved against his chest, parting him from you. “Don’t fucking touch me!”
“Drop the damn act, Y/N.” His chest was heaving. “I think you’re forgetting how well I know you. How easily I can read you. You may act like you hate me, but deep down, you want me to touch you. You love me and I love you—”
“I can’t stand you!” You screamed, shoving at his chest again.
His jaw ticked, and suddenly he was yanking you against him, walking the two of you towards the huge wall of windows that overlooked the gardens. You were sure the staff could hear your yelling, were probably peeking out from around hedges and trees to see what the fuss was, but your anger made it impossible for you to care.
“Yell at me again,” Lucien hissed, “and I’ll give you a reason to scream.”
You stared at him — gaped at him — and he stared back. Both of you were trembling, breathing heavily. You hated him and loved him and wanted him, and you wished his words didn’t have the power to set you on fire.
But they did. And they had.
The two of you surged forward at the same time, meeting in a hard, rough kiss. Lucien had always had the ability to turn the direction of your moods within seconds. Anger became lust, and suddenly, you couldn’t kiss him hard enough, couldn’t undress him fast enough.
Your back hit the window with a resounding smack, and Lucien’s strong hands ripped your shirt open, buttons scattering over the floor. His lips seared yours as he moved to the laces on your breeches, and he tugged at them harshly, yanking them down as quickly as he possibly could.
“Gods,” You huffed into his mouth, tugging at his hair. “This is a terrible idea.”
His hands faltered. “You want me to stop?”
“No.”
“Good,” he growled. “Because I wanna fuck you against the glass so everyone can see how well you take it.”
His delicious, filthy words drew a moan from your throat, and you ripped at his clothes hungrily, freeing the long, hard length of him.
You hissed between your teeth. You missed this. Missed him. And if you didn’t have him inside you immediately—
“Turn around.” His eyes flashed with need, darting down to your parted shirt, your bare breasts.
You did as he said.
His arms came around you, one kneading your breast and the other sliding between your legs, his fingers sliding inside you. And then he was pushing you up against the window, your cheek pressed to the glass.
“Have you missed this?” His hair tickled your skin as he pressed a soft kiss to your cheek, pumping his fingers. “Missed me touching you? Fucking you?”
“Yes.” You admitted on a gasp. “You’re still an asshole, though.”
He pulled his fingers out of you. And the loss was quickly replaced with the head of his cock, slipping between your folds.
“Be that as it may,” he said quietly, “I’m an asshole who loves you. Who’s missed you. Missed my girl.”
The tip pushed into you, and you sucked in a sharp breath, biting your lip. “I bet you’ve been fucking any female that comes near—”
He slipped further into you, causing your words to die in your throat. He pinched your nipple between his thumb and forefinger. “I haven’t fucked anyone.” He said, pushing and pushing. “It’s just been me and my hand and thoughts of you.”
You couldn’t help moaning. At him, his words, the feel of him filling you. The image of him fisting at his cock whilst thinking of you.
“What kind of thoughts?” You tipped your head back, resting it against him.
As he stilled, allowing you to adjust to him fully inside of you, he released your breast, sliding his hand down to toy with your clit. Your hips jerked at the sensation, both too much and not enough.
“How you feel around my cock,” he growled, pulling out and thrusting back in. “The noises you make. Your facial expressions. How hard you make me cum.”
“Gods,” you moaned, reaching back to thread your fingers in his hair. “Yes.”
His hips picked up, fingers working at your clit harder, faster. “And all the different places and different ways we’ve fucked. Although,” He growled, “we’ve never done it against a window like this. Does it get you off? Knowing that people are probably watching me fuck you?”
Gods, it did. And it got Lucien off just as much, evidently, as he released a gruff sound and began to relentlessly pound into you.
“Fuck, just like that.” He hissed, skin loudly slapping yours. “Feel good? Are you gonna cum for me, my girl?”
You were long beyond the ability to form any more words, only filthy, needy noises escaping you. And when Lucien pressed down on your clit and truly let loose on you, you absolutely fucking lost it.
A scream tore through you, your hands tugging at his hair as he fucked you through your orgasm. You were clenching around him, begging him to fall over that edge with you. You wanted to feel him cumming, to know that he was close behind you—
“Fuck,” He kissed your neck, his voice shaking. “I’m so close. So close.”
You moaned, still clenching around him. Somehow managed to find your raspy, fucked-out voice. “I haven’t…” you gasped, moving your hips perfectly with his, “fucked anyone else either, you know.”
Those very words seemed to be the one that sent him freefalling into utter bliss.
He grabbed at your hips, and managed a few more staggered thrusts before he roared his release into your neck and spilled inside you. He filled you up completely, and he seemed unable to hold himself up any longer as he collapsed against you, pushing you closer up to the glass.
Moments passed of silence. And then he kissed your neck. Your cheek. Ran a gentle hand over your shoulder.
“Neither of us are fucking anyone else.” He said. “Ever.”
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