Make 'em laugh until they choke

It was a normal, intimate night between the two of you. You rocking rhythmically on his lap while his hands gripped tightly beneath your jeans, fingers pressing into your ass hard enough that it would 200% leave a mark in the morning.

He slipped out of your pants to drag up your shirt slowly, hissing appreciatively through his teeth at your bra choice, " jesus, it's like you're tryin' to kill me."

You giggle breathlessly against his lips, leaning back to tease him, " dunno what you mean baby," your finger slips coyly past your unbuttoned waistband and into the lace band of your thong, the pretty blue peaks out behind the denim, just enough for Logan to bite his lip and glance up at you from below his lashes.

"yea?" He grips your wrist and hooks the elastic under his thumb, snapping it against your abdomen- laughing when you jolt and moan under your breath, "y'sure you have no idea what I mean?"

you shake your head and slink off his lap, "not a clue." you planted your knees onto the carpet and lay your cheek against his thigh, pushing your elbows together and boosting your tits up, presenting a shameful image for him to admire.

Logan threads his hands through your hair, "what d'ya want pretty? hmm?" he strokes your face, pushing the odd strand away from your eyes and tucking it behind your ear.

you shuffle a little beneath him, biting your lip.

Logan grins down at you, "you thinking about something baby," you nod your head slowly, "you can let me. it's just us here."

"wantyoutoslapme" you mumble, your fingers playing with the zipper of his fly, barely noticing the obvious tent brushing against your nose- more occupied with the sudden dryness of your throat and the burning of your cheeks.

Logan tilts his head, squinting at you, "might need you to enunciate a little darling." his index finger taps your pouted lips, pretending to not enjoy your embarrassment, he definitely didn't feel his head swim at the way your chest heaved with the weight of his stare and he swears that the sight of your pressing your thighs together didn't make his dick even harder than it was.

You glare at him, but there wasn't any heat behind it, "I said it clearly enough."

"I dont think you did baby," He leans down to peck your mouth, holding himself back from licking into your mouth and devouring that sweet, peachy taste of your lipgloss.

you whine and almost bury your head into the crook of where his thigh meets his pelvis, ignoring how he stifles a laugh, eventually you sigh. What did your mother always say? closed mouths dont get fed.

You don't really want to be thinking about your mum right now, but she always had words of wisdom that were multi-faceted.

"I want you to..." you blink up at him, "slap me."

Logan pauses above you, the hand that was playing with the ends of your hair and running along your shoulder froze.

"what?"

"see I knew you'd do that-" You huff, noncommittally shrugging your shoulders "it's fine, take off your pants, I'm more than happy-"

Your fingers are held in place with his, "let a guy buffer for a bit baby. It's not everyday your girlfriend asks you to slap her."

"yea but not in like a weird way" you justify, "in like a kinky way. you don't need to full palm bitch slap me, just like. a little one."

"a little one?"

"yea, try it"

"now?"

"babe start acting your IQ and slap me"

Logan huffs, and against every single nerve in his body, against his rational judgement, against his brothers parenting and beatings into his brain that under no circumstances do you ever lay your hand on a woman, jackass.

"okay..." he brings his hand up and pulls back very slightly.

well to him it was.

but you jerked back as you watched him bring his hand out, further and further like a rubber band and you weren't prepared to feel snap against your face.

"woah!" you grab his wrist and place it, maybe 4 inches away from your cheek, "the fuck you winding up for?"

"I'm not" he jumps, "babe I dont want to hurt you, I dunno how I feel about hitting you."

you cock your head at him, "I get that, but you're not hurting me, its more like.." you chew your lip racking your brain for an example, "oh."

you slap his thigh.

Logan hesitates, staring at the spot that you slapped, "huh..." he nods slowly. It wasn't so much of a slap than a firm pat against his skin, sure his muscles tingled a little beneath his jeans, but the area warmed just as quickly. maybe he could see the appeal.

you rush to interrupt his thoughts, "sorry- that probably was so random. and I won't force you to do anything you dont want to, I'm more than happy with what we do right now plus we can find other things."

"no..."

"no?"

"no- I mean yes- no." He shakes his head and wraps his hands around your shoulders, "I'll slap you."

What a weird sentence, and whats weirder is that your panties flooded almost instantly.

"yea?"

"yea ill slap you."

"ok, but don't like warn me before, it's the surprise that-"

you swallow the rest of your words with a gasp, your cheek burned deliciously and Logan's hand hovered by the area in question. Slowly you returned back to your position, your breathing stutters and fingers quake as red, hot pleasure burns through your body.

"like that?" Logan's cocky smirk makes you want to simultaneously stick your fingers down his throat and beg him to fuck the living daylights out of you.

"yea, just like that. do it again. m'dont care that it hurts"

He does it again, gaining confidence- instead of hovering and waiting for your approval his hand forms a choker over your neck, his fingers bracing against your jaw, "pretty baby doesn't care that it hurts huh? Just wants me to slap her" He brushes his knuckle against your face, "So fucking gorgeous, fuck, you wouldn't think that you're such a filthy girl from your face darling."

You whimper, barely noticing that your hand had started to slip under your panties and rub slow circles over your clit.

"turns y'on? never would've thought that you're into this, not in my wildest dreams." Logans eyes flutter from your face, where moans slip from your puckered lips to your fingers that begin to quicken.

He tsks, watching your hips roll into your palm, "naughty girl," He slaps the other cheek. Not letting you register the tingles blooming through your face before he manhandles you onto the bed.

You laugh, sitting up onto your shoulders as Logan kneels between your legs, dragging his arms backwards to slide off his t-shirt, gripping the neckline and throwing the article somewhere onto his floor.

He lowers himself, staring up at you predatorily, his lips dragging up from your stomach, biting the skin until you fall back with an appreciative hum- head bouncing on the soft pillow beneath you. He lifts again, one palm pressed to where his lips were teasing you, the other caressed your neck, pushing your hair away.

"this," he murmurs lowly, pointer finger ghosting from your throat down to your cleavage and circling your nipple through the flimsy fabric. The bud hardened and you arched into his touch- gasping softly, "off." he flicks the puckered nub.

You struggle to contort your arms to your clasp, shoulders straining against the stretch.

Eventually it falls limp and you graciously throw it in the general direction of where his shirt was carelessly thrown on the floor.

Logan hums from above you, "hmmm, this is the perfect view, in fact.." he trails off, grabbing your jeans and tugging them harshly down your legs, contributing to the pile on the other side of the room. You moan when he presses a finger against the ruined fabric of your panties, "there she is..my pretty girl."

You blush and attempt, albeit pathetically, to whine against his arms placing your legs wide apart, bending at the knee so he can slot comfortably between them, still rubbing and teasing you over the lace of your underwear.

The protests die on your tongue when he pulls the barrier to the side and delivers another slap, this time to your pussy, which clenches hopelessly around nothing. Logan brings his hand up in awe, fingers glistening under the yellow glow of his lamp.

"oh my god" he glances at you, grinning when he sees you nearly at the point of tears, "you are so into this. The whole tough guy, dominant thing really does it for ya?"

You shield your face from his teasing, "I didn't fucking know asshole," you peak at him between your fingers, "and don't act like you dont love this." you angle your knee to grind into his bulge.

"you play dirty, baby," he punches out, gripping your knee in place while he taps against the hand covering your mouth.

You lower your palm hesitantly and startle against his fingers that bury themselves into your mouth, the taste of your arousal bursts over your tongue, and you delicately hold his wrist, keeping the two digits firmly in place as you coat them with a thick layer of your saliva.

he hisses, watching you intently make a show out of sucking his fingers, tongue swirling and weaving in between the knuckles. Logan chuckles to himself when you try to force more into your throat, barely gagging when your swollen lips meet the webbing of his hand.

"what's got you so worked up pretty?" you roll your eyes and discreetly shift your hips towards him- the answer is pretty obvious, but Logan decides to toy with you a little bit more.

Maybe he really is loving this whole dominant thing.

He takes his fingers gently from your mouth, skimming them down your body and into your underwear.

"fuck! Logan," Your hand shoots down to grip his forearm, eyes rolling back and fluttering shut when he rolls your clit between his soaked fingers.

"nuh uh baby," He breathes against your lips, arm bracketing over your head to hold himself up, "look at me. wanna see your gorgeous eyes." his fingers drum against your temple until you meet his gaze.

You jump forward and bite his lip, not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to drag him closer to you while free hand snakes under his arm, digging your nails into his back.

Logan swears against your mouth, "or you could do that." You laugh at his surprise, but it turns into a guttural moan when he delves into your face, mouth devouring yours whilst his tongue strokes and licks any inch of you he can reach.

"please" you whisper when you break apart for air, breathing into each others mouths, "Logan, you gotta do something- pleaseeee," you whine and buck your hips when his fingers stop circling your clit and tease your hole.

"patience baby," He snickers, thoroughly enjoying watching you suffer.

"fuck you, and fuck your patience." you grit out, squeezing your eyes shut when he barely breaches you with the tips of his digits, "fuck you more than your patience, ohmygod, god I'm going to kill you logan. As soon as we're done fucking, and we fuck a little bit more, I'm breaking up with you. How humiliating is this, I'm so wet baby- please come on."

Logan nods along, almost condescendingly to your babbles, eyes widening in the right places and pouting his lips at the better ones. But when your voice breaks into that breathy whine, his resolve shatters along with it and he can't help but swallow the gasp you let out when he sinks in, knuckles deep.

"fuckkk" you both say in unison, granted yours is more muffled because you've arched so far back that your mouth is in the pillow, but Logan compensates, his voice is significantly deeper than when you started and the obscenity is breathed against your sternum- where his mouth is peppering kisses whilst watching your chest bounce with each hard thrust of his wrist.

Your moans are choppy and sound more like sobs when Logan sits up onto his haunches, staring at where his fingers disappear inside of you, a wet trail left along them every time he pulls back.

"You're doing so well baby," he bites his lip, angling the hell of his palm into your clit, so with each push the bundle of nerves is bumped with the calloused skin, "look at you, doing so well f'me." he leans down briefly to kiss your pussy, but stays longer when he feels how wet you are against his lips.

"Logan," you whimper warningly, both hands scratching his scalp as you fight against the momentum to trap his head between your thighs, "Logan m'gonna cum if you do that."

He glances up at you, almost as if he forgot you were present whilst he got lost in your pussy, the lower half of his body now bent along and off the bed- it seems he took you with him, your knees now hooked onto his shoulders.

"I mean I'm not complaining," He shrugs, huffing in amusement when you roll your eyes, which widen comically when one of the hands that was wrapped around your thigh and rested on your hip came down in a harsh smack.

You let out a broken moan when his head dips again, this time working in tandem with his fingers. The sounds are lewd and you feel inexplicably sorry for whatever poor soul was getting the free show- but it was overshadowed by the overwhelming amount of pleasure that spiked through your entire body.

Logan slurped and nipped at your pussy, tongue lavishly stimulating your clit with harsh sucks that ended in debauched pops, making your head spin and cheeks flush.

"what were you saying pretty?" he mumbled against you, removing his mouth to kiss the inside of your thigh. You whimpered in response, barely able to bring your head up to meet his gaze, "what?"

"that," His fingers sped up and mouth parted when you jolted, gripping your breasts whilst gaping at him, " 's soon as we're done fucking, and we fuck a little bit more,' " his voice is pitched slightly higher, mimicking you, breaking at bits when he leans down to spit on down onto your hole where his fingers disappear, "what was the end bit? I cant seem to remember."

His fingers slow, much to your dismay, as he waits for your response,

"No! nono, baby," you words are slurred as you blindly reach for his wrist, "baby," you coo at him, stroking his hair, "I don't even remember, you know what they say, bitches be crazy. all that jazz."

He snorts at you, "really?"

"yea, but I'm bitches. please make me cum."

"You're not a bitch pretty," He kisses your cheek.

"John," You grind your hips down into his fingers, "Can we talk about the feminist meaning of the phrase and the wider effect on society. after you make me cum."

"Oh so I'm John now?" He pecks your hip, curling his fingers slowly.

"No," You stroke his face and whisper, "Logan."

He hums happily, increasing the pace slightly whilst crowding over you with his body, "And?"

Your chests brush together as you grind out a deep groan, hands limply hung from his shoulders.

You hook your ankles over his hips, welcoming him into your space, "Baby," You murmur, noses brushing together. Logan speeds up, plunging fast inside of you, the promiscuous sound of your wetness makes you arch your back.

"Anything else?" He prompts, breath fanning over your neck- you moan and bury your finger in your hair,

"F-fuck" You legs quiver around his torso, "I don't fucking know, daddy? sir?"

Logan nips at your throat, "Not what I was looking for, but I'll take it." He takes a nipple into his mouth, sucking harshly and rolling it between his teeth.

"Shit," Your hands fly to cradle his face against your breast, "cumming, yes Logan, don't stop" You sob into his hair, body convulsing against his.

A silent scream parts your mouth as wetness gushes onto Logan's fingers, you twitched and writhed as he continued to fuck you with slow thrusts- his fingers making hollow and wet sounds against you.

Only when your orgasm subsided is when he removed his fingers, eyes glistening as he sucked off your arousal. You watched, heavy pants still billowing out between your lips.

"So..." He slumped next to, already moving to grab a wet wash cloth, "You got any other requests for me?"

He loved you, of course.

He never let you forget it.

You were the last of his children, his nineteen-year-old baby girl who still had one foot in college seminars and the other in state dinners. The press loved to compare you to your late mother—same eyes, same smile, same tilt of the head when you were unimpressed during photo ops. 

To him, you were her ghost and his soft spot all wrapped up in one.

And that, in his mind, made you a liability.

Every news cycle, every threat briefing, every social media meltdown about his latest policy decision ended up circling back to you:

What if someone tried to get to him by going through you?

What if a protest turned violent while you were there?

What if some extremist decided the easiest target wasn’t the man behind the podium, but his kid leaving a coffee shop?

What if — yada, yada, yada.

That was why Aemond Targaryen happened.

On paper, he was a Secret Service director’s wet fucking dream.

Immaculate training, glowing recommendations, a record clean enough to eat off. Your father had been almost giddy after the vetting meeting, grinning over his tablet as he scrolled through Aemond’s file on his iPad.

(Your older brother and sister looked at him funny, a little . . . uhhhhh. You, on the other hand, were much too busy, distracted by Animal Crossing with your other sister.)

Two tours in the army as a sergeant and sniper.

Honorable discharge.

A Purple Heart.

A thick stack of commendations that made even the old career agents raise a brow.

The story that followed him around the Pentagon and Capitol Hill had already made the rounds by the time he stepped into your life. According to a few loose-lipped staffers and a very dramatic Republican congressman, there’d been an ambush during his second deployment—confusion, dust, screaming, the usual nightmare.

His younger nephew, a Private Lucas Strong from Vermont, had been there, caught in the open when the bomb went off. Aemond threw himself over the boy without thinking, took the shrapnel that should have gone straight through the kid’s skull.

Doctors saved his life. 

They couldn’t save his left eye.

The military offered him a custom glass eye, top-tier reconstructive surgery, a quiet desk job, and a tidy little payout if he accepted all of it and went away nicely. The rumors said he turned down most of the package with a bored sort of politeness, accepted the medal because that’s what you did, and then did something that made every PR team in D.C. grind their teeth.

He had the socket fitted with a sapphire.

Not a discreet prosthetic designed to disappear on camera. No, a sharp, polished stone that caught every flash of every phone and every overhead light. When he looked at you, it glittered—icy and unreal, framed by old scar tissue that cut from brow to cheekbone like a lightning strike.

And he made people look.

That was the worst part.

Or the coolest, depending on who you ask.

Aemond Targaryen had a reputation before he ever set foot in the White House residence. “Sergeant One-Eye,” half-whispered by agents who’d seen him at the range. The man whose hand never drifted far from the small of your back in a crowd, whose gaze swept over rooftops and windows while the rest of the world tried to get a blurry TikTok of you ducking into a black SUV.

He was terrifying in the way a loaded gun on a table is terrifying—silent, still, but making the air feel thinner just by existing. Deadly was the word the Secret Service guys used when they forgot you could hear them.

Maybe that was why it didn’t take long before he was the one you trusted most.

Maybe that was also why it didn’t take very long before your legs ended up thrown over his shockingly broad and pale shoulders.

You’d never had a boyfriend. Not a real one, anyway. There’d been a couple of awkward almosts back on campus—boys who wilted under the glare of your security detail, boys who wanted selfies more than they wanted you.

It was easier to focus on your coursework, your side projects, your carefully curated little bubble of normalcy inside the most watched house in the country.

Then your father assigned Aemond to you, and “normal” went straight out the fucking window.

It started stupidly, as most bad decisions you never regret do.

Two months into his assignment, your schedule had finally cleared enough for something that resembled a normal afternoon. No fundraisers, no speeches, no required appearances where you had to stand there and smile while old men in expensive suits tried not to obviously stare at your legs.

Just a Saturday. Just you, your bodyguard, and the illusion of freedom.

He’d stood in the doorway of your room that morning, black suit crisp, white shirt open at the throat, earpiece coiled against his neck like something alive.

“You have a free block,” he’d said. “You should get out.”

“Wow,” you’d replied, sprawled on your bed in an oversized college hoodie while doom-scrolling, “what a subtle way to tell me I’m rotting.”

His mouth had twitched, which, from Aemond, counted as a full-body laugh. “Get dressed, little star. There’s a mall fifteen minutes out where people are more interested in whatever’s on sale at Sephora than your last name.”

So you’d gone.

The motorcade had been scaled down, just a couple of SUVs and a driver who pretended not to notice your music choices. The second you stepped out into the parking structure, the air smelled like car exhaust, old gum, and fryer oil from the food court. Normal. Ugly, commercial, fluorescent-light normal. You f u c k i n g loved it.

Inside, the security team hung back in a loose net while you and Aemond walked side by side. He was in plain clothes now—dark jeans, black tee, bomber jacket—that somehow made him look even more like a threat.

People glanced at him, then at you, then did a double-take when they realized who you were. Phones came out. He shifted closer.

“Eyes forward,” he murmured. “They can’t get what they want if you don’t give it to them.”

“And what do they want?” you asked, playing a little dumb.

“You,” he said simply. “Or whatever version of you fits in their feed.”

It wasn’t until you dragged him into a makeup store that he actually looked faintly out of his depth. Rows of lip glosses, highlighters, foundations, palettes—neon signs, loud music, aggressive sales associates. You made a beeline for the display of new releases, hand closing around a sleek little Glossier tube with “chai latte balm dotcom” printed in block lettering.

You’d been testing it in the small mirror, smudging the doe-foot applicator along your lower lip, when you caught his reflection behind you. Arms folded. Head tilted. Watching.

“Well?” you asked, blotting. “Too much?”

He considered you like you were a mission briefing. “No.”

“That’s very detailed feedback, thank you.”

The corner of his mouth lifted again. “It suits you.”

You rolled your eyes (you learned he had a . . . slight thing for your brattiness) and turned toward him fully, lips pursed. “It’s supposed to taste good, too. Seasonal vibes, fake autumn, all that.”

“How do you know it tastes good?” he asked.

“Marketing said so.”

“And you believe marketing?”

“Sometimes.”

He studied your mouth for a beat too long. The store was loud, the world beyond it louder, but for a flicker of a second, it was just the two of you, your heartbeat and his breathing and the low hum of the air conditioning.

“Let me be the judge of it,” he said quietly. “The lip gloss.”

You felt your pulse stutter. “You want to… what? Do a taste test?”

“That’s what you said, isn’t it?” His voice didn’t change, didn’t dip into anything overtly suggestive. But the way he looked at you—at your mouth, at the soft shine there—made something curl low in your stomach. “Unless you’re all talk, little star.”

You should’ve laughed it off. You should’ve made some crack about HR and ethics, and the front-page disaster this would be if anyone saw it. You should have remembered that your father had handpicked this man to take a bullet for you, not to take your first kiss.

Instead, you said, very softly, “No one’s watching.”

You weren’t sure if that was actually true. There were cameras, there were surely people peeking down aisles, and there were probably three agents pretending to be interested in bronzer. But Aemond stepped in anyway, big hand curving lightly around your jaw, sapphire catching the overhead lights.

“Wrong,” he murmured. “I am.”

Then he kissed you—slow and deliberate, like he had all the time in the world to decide whether this was a mistake. And it is not, it seems he’s immediately decided, as he starts to lick around the inside of your mouth. 

The flavor hit him first: sweet spice, vanilla, something warm and faintly smoky like the memory of coffee shops you were never allowed to sit in alone.

You felt him taste you, felt the almost imperceptible shiver that ran down the line of his shoulders, and the slight bulge pushing against your hipbone. 

“Chai latte,” you whispered against his mouth.

“Mm.” His breath fanned over your lips. “Acceptable.”

You huffed out a laugh that sounded a little too much like a gasp. “That’s it? Acceptable?”

His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth, wiping away a smear of gloss that hadn’t quite dried. “You want detailed feedback, little star?” His gaze then dropped . . . before slowly rising to meet yours again, twin flames—one violet, one sharp, cold blue.

“You’re going to have to give me more than a fifteen-second test.”

A fifteen-second test soon turned into him being buried between your thighs near a week later. 

Tuesday. 11:23 PM.

She shouldn’t be doing this. 

She knows she shouldn’t

“Stop it—! Aemond! My daddy might walk in!” She sobs, tossing her head back against the soft, satin-pillowcased pillow while biting down on her bottom lip to (pathetically attempt) to stop the moans from tumbling out.

It was all in stupid, so fucking stupid, vain. Her bodyguard had her putty in his scarred hands. Anything he wanted, she would happily serve him on a gold platter, encrusted with ridiculously rich Swarovski crystals—herself included. 

Which is how she found herself in this . . . uh . . . predicament. 

Sprawled out on her floral bleedsheet, trembling, thighs spread wide and hoodie still halfway up, sleeves bunched up under her sweaty back. Little cotton panties pushed to the side, tummy all warm and fluttery, and her hand clamped over her mouth as she tried so hard not to make a single sound. 

Ha!

“A-Aemond—!” 

How could he even entertain the idea of stopping? Not when his little baby sounded oh-so-fucking pretty, so sweet and yummy, his newfound favorite meal to dine on anytime he felt that familiar ache down in his tummy.

Fuck no.

Aemond shook his head. “I don’t give the tiniest shit, baby girl,” he muttered, sucking a little bit harder on her swollen little clit like a gas-station lollipop, only pausing every few seconds to kiss her soaked pussy. 

Asshole. 

He had to be soft as well, soft and a good ass pussy-eater too. 

Big hands continue to hold her hips down, nose nudging against her freshly waxed mound, tongue lapping slow and deep like he’s got nowhere else to be. Every moan she tries to stifle down just bubbles up louder, leaking through all five fingers, soft little gasps and hiccups, and “—eek—eek—eek—!” as her back arches off the bed. 

She’s stupidly soaked like most virgins are whenever they get to experience that sweet, sweet release for the first time in their life. So sweet.

Aemond swears she’s made of sugar and cream.

He cannot get enough. 

The poor bastard could still catalogue every way he’d seen her before he ever laid a hand on her.

On the muted TV in some anonymous base rec room, while the news anchors gushed over the First Family’s holiday charity event. In glossy tabloids at the PX, where grainy paparazzi shots tried and failed to do her justice as she ducked into black SUVs. In the carefully staged White House Christmas card, where she stood just off her father’s shoulder in a white dress and soft smile, the picture of untouchable perfection.

Later, after the job offer, it got worse. Her Instagram posts were all saved to a private folder on his phone, to be later worshipped when he wasn't twenty seconds from death. Clips of her speaking at campus panels. Blurry fan photos of her at coffee shops that he pulled from X threads at three in the morning.

No one would ever really understand how badly he wanted her, or the quiet, obsessive lengths he’d already gone just to orbit her world before he was allowed inside it and her.

And maybe—just maybe—she should’ve thought twice before walking into the room in that dress.

The short, sinful, royal-blue slip that hit mid-thigh and rode higher whenever she moved just an inch. Backless, the delicate straps framing her spine, leaving the soft line of her waist bare and begging for his hands . . . lips . . . tongue.

The kind of dress that made her look less like the President’s daughter and more like something he should’ve already bent over a kitchen counter months ago, skin warm and fat diamond glittering on her left ring finger.

She looked, in that moment, exactly like what he wanted her to be: perfect to knock up and keep, his pretty little housewife who’d trade state dinners for his last name and a baby on her hip.

Perfect. Made for him. 

He kept her legs shoved wide and licked her through every whimper, every twitch, every buck of her hips as he feasted on her tight little cunt, happily ignoring her desperate (but, honestly, adorable) attempts to push him away.

She’s shaking, thighs clenching around his head, much too oversimulated from her last two orgasms, fingers curling in his hair like she’s holding on for dear-fucking-life. 

And her hand—her tiny hand—is trying so hard to stay firm over her mouth, like she can stop the desperate, whiny little sounds she’s making. But it’s useless. She’s a mess. Every swirl of his tongue has her muffling another squeak, another plea, another—

“mmfplease—please—”

He just groans, tongue diving deeper, and the vibration makes her thighs clamp around him again. Her tummy flutters, muscles tight with the tension of a girl teetering right on the edge of that high she’s never felt before.

Because this? This is just soooo new for her.

He’s her first. First kiss. First touch. First orgasm that’s about to ruin her life.

And God, when he finally slides a thick finger inside her—just one—curling it slow as his tongue flicks that perfect spot—

Her hand slams over her mouth as she sobs out the softest, most desperate sound imaginable. She’s trying so hard to be quiet, to be good, to be the President’s innocent little daughter—

“—And what did I say to call me?” before he gave her ass a hard spank, watching the plumpness jiggle deliciously beneath his palm.

She whimpers, already on the verge of full-out sobbing; fat tears streaking down her fine cheekbones. “I-I’m sorry . . . s-so sorry, daddy!”

Now she has her ankles pinned up by her ears, bent in half with her back arched, and her tummy all exposed. Vulnerable. Perfect. Her soft little belly trembles with every thrust, jiggling just slightly where he’s pressed so deep inside her she can barely breathe. Her hand toys with his damp, white-blonde hair. 

[A common genetic mutation in his family, according to him. Some of the politicians mocked it as the ‘new Habsburg jaw’. You thought it made him look all the sexier.]

And Aemond? Aemond’s got this look on his face like he’s losing his mind.

She’s so fucking tight, soaked and fluttering around him like her body was made only for this—for him. For his cock. For his baby. He can’t stop groaning. Can’t stop gripping her hips, her knees, the plush backs of her thighs.

Every thrust makes her squeak, and it’s so loud, too loud—

So he slaps a hand over her mouth.

“Shhh, baby,” he whispers against her ear, breath hot and heavy. “You gotta be quiet, you hear me? Your sister’s right downstairs.”

Her eyes roll back.

Her body clenches at the reminder.

And he feels it.

“Ohhh, fuck,” he growls, hips stuttering as she pulses around him. One hand shoves her hoodie up, finding and palming a tit, tweaking the nipple between two fingers. “You like that, huh? Gettin’ stuffed full of cock while your sister’s watchin’ Love Island ten feet away?”

She whimpers against his palm, tries to nod, but she’s barely coherent. She’s shaking, her legs trembling in his grip, tummy all tight and fluttery like she’s gonna snap.

And then he fucks her even deeper, slow and punishing and deliberate—watching the way her soft little body gives under him, how her eyes water, how her tits bounce with every push. Sometimes, his head leans in to suck on one, lips sealing around a nipple to nipple and teeth at it. 

He’s breeding her, there’s no other word for it. Pinned down and filled up, thighs trembling, brain melted, ready to become a mommy. Fucked silly and full. 

“You gonna let me put a baby in you, star?” he murmurs, voice thick and strained, hand still pressed over her lips.

“—that what you want, baby? Wanna get knocked up like a good fucking girl? Make daddy an actual fucking daddy? Make the entire fucking world mourn ‘cause you got your legs thrown over my shoulders?”

She sobs something against his hand—desperate and needy and yes in every language possible.

And he loses it.

"Oh, fuuuuuck yeah, you do."

He buries himself to the hilt, groaning her name like a prayer as his cock throbs deep inside her, pumping her full with thick, hot cum until it’s leaking out around him.

And all she can do is lie there, trembling and ruined and held together by the warm weight of his hand over her mouth and the soft, loving way he kisses her forehead like she’s the most precious thing in the world.

Again, your poor father had no idea.

No idea that while he slept behind reinforced doors and layers of security, his youngest daughter fell asleep every night with her bodyguard’s hand wrapped around her bare hip, his breath hot against the back of her neck, his voice rough in her ear as he rutted against you.

As he told you exactly how long it would take before you made him a father for real.

He talked about it like a promise. 

Like a plan. 

Like fate.

“Soon,” he’d murmur, pinning you to the mattress in mating presses and free nelsons, holding you there like you were something he’d caught and refused to ever let go of.

“Soon you’re going to be fucking full of me, little star. Belly round, tits fat, carrying what we made. Can you picture it?”

It was insane, reckless, and dangerous.

It was also the easiest thing in the world to want. The least you could give in return, really, when the same man who pressed you into silk sheets and fucked you silly was also the one stepping between you and every threat in the world with his own body. 

Your days blurred together in a dizzy loop. Morning classes, pretending to be just another stressed college student sneaking coffees between lectures. Afternoon meetings, smiling politely through briefings and interviews, and charity events your father needed you at. Evenings full of banquets where you wore pretty dresses and mind-numbing heels and let senators’ wives compliment you like you weren’t counting the minutes.

And then there was after.

After the last handshake, after the last posed photograph, after the last “Goodnight, Mr. President.”

The moment your bedroom door clicked shut behind you, Aemond’s whole demeanor shifted. The polite, professional mask he wore like armor fell away, and the man underneath stepped forward: possessive, starving, utterly sure that you belonged to him.

Sometimes he’d catch you halfway through undressing, still in whatever ridiculous gown the protocol team had shoved you into. Big hands on your waist, mouth at your neck, that low, familiar rumble in your ear as he shoved down your damp VS panties, readying to shove them in your mouth.

“Been watching you all night,” he’d tell you, guiding you toward the nearest surface—a chaise, a dresser, the edge of your desk cluttered with textbooks and half-finished essays. Cock hard and weeping, the tip already leaking pre-cum 'cause holy fuck, he needed to be inside you.

“Do you know what that fucking does to me, seeing you smile at other bastards when I’m the one who gets you like this? Bent over the most random shit, ready for my cock?”

He was always careful and always greedy, tugging soft little sounds from you until you were clinging to him, your thoughts scattered like confetti.

Sometimes he’d brace an arm across your middle to hold you firmly in place, sometimes he’d press his fingers to your glossy lips to quiet your moans, and sometimes he’d just bury his face against your shoulder, teeth scraping lightly over your skin as if he wanted to mark you everywhere at once.

You were his.

Not in the way the public thought—the President’s daughter, the polished First Family princess with the practiced wave and curated feed.

No.

You were his in the way that mattered: heart, body, future.

His pretty baby. His sweet, soft-mouthed almost-wife. The girl he’d once only been allowed to watch from a distance—on flickering overseas televisions, in crumpled magazine clippings, on a little printed photo he’d kept tucked into a vest pocket during deployment, worn and creased from his thumb rubbing over your smile whenever he needed a reason to come home alive.

Now that you were within reach, he had no intention of letting go.

One afternoon, a few months into his assignment, your father pulled him aside in the West Wing hallway. You’d been whisked off to yet another prep meeting; Aemond had been on his way to shadow you when the President’s voice stopped him.

“A word, son?”

It was always “son” with your father. A familiar, heavy thing, meant to put people at ease. Aemond turned, back straight, hands folded neatly behind him.

“Sir.”

Your father looked . . . tired, in that way only men who run countries do. But his eyes were warm, genuine as they took in the tall, scarred man in front of him.

“Truth is, you’re doing such a damn fine job with her,” he admitted, clapping a hand to Aemond’s shoulder. “I don’t worry nearly as much as I did before you came along. We couldn’t ask for a better protector for my girl, Sergeant.”

My girl. Aemond’s jaw flexed, but his posture didn’t break.

“Thank you, Mr. President.”

“I’m serious.” Your father’s smile went a little softer. “And I meant what I said about compensation. Is there anything you’d like? A vacation? A bonus? Some proper time off to see your family? I know you miss your mother very much—my daughter mentioned as much.”

The offer hung between them, heavy and sincere: money, time, distance. An exit ramp, if he wanted one.

But Aemond just shook his head once, precise and calm. “Sir, with all respect,” he said, voice even, “your daughter feels like my family now. Given how close we’ve grown these past several months, and my duty to keep her safe, I’d prefer to remain at her side if you’ll allow it.”

Your father’s brows shot up, then he huffed out a chuckle, the corners of his mouth curling into something teasing. “Should I be worried, Sergeant?”

The question might have rattled another man. Might have made him flustered or defensive. Aemond didn’t so much as blink.

“Of course not, Mr. President,” he replied smoothly. “I adore your daughter—but only as a brother would his little sister.”

Your father laughed at that, apparently satisfied, and clapped him on the back again before heading down the hall.

So it was true, then: for all his power and all his intelligence briefings and all his staff, your father really could be such a spectacularly foolish and idiotic man.

He never noticed the way you gravitated toward Aemond at events, never questioned why you relaxed more easily when your bodyguard was near.

He didn’t see the way Aemond’s gaze softened when it drifted to your midsection more and more, or how his hand lingered protectively there whenever you stepped off a curb or into a car.

And somehow, it did not occur to him at all to connect that conversation in the hallway to the fact that seven months later, his youngest daughter was suddenly wearing looser dresses, ducking out of long evenings early, and doing a suspiciously terrible job of hiding the gentle swell of a baby bump.

If he’d been just a little smarter, just a little less naive, he might have remembered an old joke journalists loved to make about the Targaryens—that for all their polish and power and pedigree, they were still, at heart, creatures of dynasty and . . . really fucking odd customs.

The kind of family people often compared to the Habsburgs of Austria: beautiful, dangerous, and very, very good at keeping their bloodline exactly where they wanted it.

And if you a sked historians, they’ll say the same damn thing:

—those brothers loved their little sisters a little too much.

Domesticity settled with a terrifying ease. You know the weight of his arm draped over your waist in sleep, and he knows you being too quiet during a movie watch means you’re already falling asleep, even if you deny it a hundred times when he asks you about it. In certain situations, words no longer need to be spoken. Quick glances exchanged across a crowded room say ‘get me out of there’ or ‘you look incredible’. Six weeks is enough to make that kind of familiarity start to kick in.

And then, there’s the bedroom.

Inside those more intimate four walls, the practiced cool of the last six weeks tends to evaporate. It’s the one place where the “newness” of it all still feels just as electric and charged. And, occasionally, a little bit clumsy. The breathless “is this okay?” whispered against a collarbone, his hands sometimes hovering a second too long, unsure if he should grip tighter or be gentler. The awkwardness of trying to be sexy while accidentally kicking him in the shin, or a stray elbow hitting the wrong spot.

Neither of you is new to sex, obviously. Bucky had his fair share of it back before the war, even if it’s been a few decades since he’s been properly introduced back into the game; and you also didn’t lack experience, with your list of boyfriends and hookups that never quite made you feel like you do now. But sex with real feelings comes with a whole extra instruction manual that most people don’t talk about. How two very naked people learn to fit their bodies together when hearts are involved, too.

You hadn’t imagined it would be like this, the first time. Or the second. That even Bucky, who usually moves with soldier-like precision, would become a mess of soft sighs and flushed skin, wonderfully undone under you, over you, around you. Every touch feels like a first (sure, many of them are), and there’s a tentative reverence to it, a mutual understanding that you’re both still learning the map of each other’s skin.

Tonight you’re in his bedroom. The lamp on the nightstand casts a soft golden light over the dark vibranium of his left arm, and your fingers are dancing over it to the rhythm of a song that only exists in your mind. Bucky’s above you, weight braced on his forearms as his lips press against yours in a filthy kiss.

Already, you’re both a little sweaty, a little desperate.

He shifts his hips, lines himself up and pushes in, giving you that little pause at the beginning that’s both him waiting for permission and also letting you adjust to his size. Both are a testament to the way he’s always a gentleman to you, even when you’re practically begging him to fold you in half.

You arch, sigh his name… and then his phone starts going off on the nightstand. Unbearably loud and with a very specific, extremely annoying soundbite: a loud air horn.

Freezing mid-moan, it takes you half a second to realize what’s happening before you snort so violently you almost choke.

“Bucky, what the fuck?”

Bucky drops his forehead to your collarbone with a defeated groan. “I’m gonna murder Sam.”

"Why..." You can barely get the words out through the giggles. "Why is his contact sound a literal air horn?"

“It was funny at 3 a.m. last month,” he mumbles. “I was half drunk on your martinis.”

You laugh harder, unapologetically so, and your whole body shaking with laughter does interesting things around Bucky that make his hips jerk involuntarily.

“Fuck, baby, stop laughing, you’re gonna make me…” he cuts off with a helpless sound as you clench on reflex from giggling.

He retaliates by rolling you both so you’re suddenly on top, all the while the sheet is tangled around his ankle like a boa constrictor. He yanks, pulls, then his knee bangs something and his arm hits the bedside table. The lamp on it wobbles and the low, dancing lights on the ceiling make the scene look like it’s out of a low-budget horror flick.

You both stare at it, wide-eyed.

“Don’t you dare fall. We just fixed the trust issues from last week,” you whisper to the lamp. And by trust issues, you mean that one time Bucky decided to throw your bra against the lamp so hard it fell and broke the lightbulb.

Bucky wheezes. “I’m being cockblocked by furniture and my best friend. This is rock bottom.”

You choose that moment to move, a slow grind of your hips that works wonderfully at making his eyes cross. “Technically, you’re cockblocking yourself. You picked his ringtone, Bucky.”

“I was clearly a different man thirty days ago. One who didn’t understand the consequences of his drunken actions,” Bucky gasps, hands sliding down your body and settling at your hips to anchor you, thumbs digging into the soft give of your skin as he helps you ride him. The air horn finally cuts off, and you lean down, brushing your nose against his, hair falling like a curtain around both your faces.

“Think he’ll call back?”

“Let’s not keep talking about Sam,” Bucky murmurs, lips half curled up as he moves with an upward surge, doing his best to drag your attention back to him. It works, because you sink back down, the laughter in your lungs turning back into a shaky exhale. It’s still a little messy, sheets bunched awkwardly between your shins, but nothing really matters anymore when the cool of his vibranium hand fingers your inner thigh, squeezes, then moves up your stomach, crawling over the skin, before it reaches one of your breasts and palms it slowly.

“You okay?” he whispers, voice dropping into that gravelly register that makes your toes curl every time. You simply nod, unsure that the right words can find you in time before you make a fool of yourself by only babbling some sounds. Your hips roll forward, Bucky meets you by thrusting up as you shift your weight to find that sweet angle again. Doesn’t take for you to find it, hands clawing at his shoulders and nails leaving its usual faint red marks behind. “You’re so beautiful, baby.”

The praise makes your breath hitch in your throat, because it settles just like everything else in your relationship. Sweet, slow, still new, a little bit unexpected. Like you still can’t believe someone like Bucky Barnes would look twice your way, let alone have him under you, in his bed, calling you beautiful. He looks at you with a quiet sort of awe that makes the words land somehow deeper, branding themselves into your bloodstream. His thumb grazes your nipple, and you arch your back immediately.

“Bucky… fuck, you’re gonna make me cum if you keep talking sweet like that.”

He chuckles, and pulls you down until his lips are grazing the spot in your neck where your pulse is hammering. “That is kinda the point of what we’re doing.” The statement is punctuated by a sharp thrust up that steals the breath out of you, and you respond only with a high-pitched sound that is definitely not a laugh this time.

“You always make such pretty noises,” he tells you, vibranium hand sliding up from your breast to cup your jaw, cold thumb tracing the line of your lower lip. His flesh arm fully bands around your waist and keeps you pressed flush against his chest, so tight you can barely move your hips. Six weeks is enough that you recognize this: he’s about to fuck you so good you’ll see stars for an hour after.

The bed beneath you creaks in steady protest as Bucky begins fucking up into you, his movements a little harder, deeper, eyes locked on yours as if he is memorizing the exact way you look every time he pushes home. Your fingers find the sheets under him, bunching the fabric until your knuckles go white, while your lips find his in a messy kiss, tongue, spit, some not-so-sexy teeth sometimes. Every time he hits that specific spot, your toes curl and you moan into his mouth, and his arm around your waist only grips you tighter. To this day, you still wonder how he’s been the first man in your life to find that spot so quickly. And how he sticks to it every time you make love to him, like he’s got a radar in his point pointing directly to it.

“Bucky,” you whimper, the name a prayer into his lips. You try to move, but his arm is solid around you, refusing to let you move an inch.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers back, shifting his legs so they’re bent at the knees, giving him a better angle to slide into your heat. “Just feel me, baby. You don’t need to do anything else.”

The friction builds, an electric coil in your lower belly that’s winding tighter with every thrust. Sweat slicks his chest where it presses against yours, a few drops pooling around his neck. Your eyes glint, and you consider reaching out and licking a stripe over him, but your mind slips. You hesitate for a fraction of a second, the thought flickering through your heat-fogged brain like a dare. Maybe six weeks is too soon to get a bit kinky? Are you still in the “best behavior” phase?

Maybe coincidence, maybe the universe giving you the answer you were looking for, you hear Bucky speak in a quiet tone, right into your ear.

“She feels so good around my cock.”

The words sound more like a thought he couldn’t keep inside than a deliberate statement, the kind of blunt, dirty talk that is too far removed from his polite “is this okay?” that you’re used to. But he doesn’t retract it, and your heart trashes. You hadn’t realized that Bucky, always-a-gentleman Bucky, had this particular gear in him, and it’s a revelation that shatters your “best behavior” hesitation. If he can say that…

You lean up, your tongue darting out to lick a salty, searing stripe from the hollow of his throat up to the edge of his jaw, right where beads of sweat had been pooling before.

Bucky freezes for a heartbeat, then moves his vibranium hand to the back of your neck and pulls you close until he can bury his head in your neck and inhale before his teeth gently dig into the skin. You moan, and he knows enough of you to know how good that felt to you from your sounds alone. A wall is breaking tonight. You like that. He does, too.

His pace changes, no longer steady, just urgent now, with the kind of friction that makes you see colors behind your eyelids, a building pressure that almost sends your heart beating its way out of your chest. The clumsiness hasn’t left the building; your leg cramps once when you move it slightly further away, he yelps when you pull his hair a bit too hard once (before asking you to do it again right after). But it’s part of the heat, now.

“Bucky, please,” you sob into the crook of his neck as the first waves of your orgasm begin to lap at the edges of your mind.

You’d been used to men who thought the word please meant faster, harder. Now you’re in bed with a man who knows a please when you’re right about to cum means keep doing just that.

And oh, he does.

“Look at me,” he commands, his voice thick. “Let me see you cum.”

You’d barely realized you had even closed your eyes, but you force them open anyway, vision swimming, only to find him watching you intensely, face flushed, jaw locked tight. And he keeps that soul-destroying rhythm that has your nervous system screaming until the coil in your belly snaps.

It starts as a low tremor that radiates from where you’re joined, heat that turns your bones to liquid. Your fingers dig into his shoulders and you sob, moan, maybe a mix of both, as a thousand golden sparks dance behind your eyes. All you can feel through it is the solid weight of him holding you tight.

Bucky doesn’t look away for a single second, because seeing you come apart is what does it for him, too. His muscles turn to iron, his entire body shuddering with beautiful force that has the bed frame groaning in protest. He thrusts one last time, buried as deep as he can go, and stays there until the world finally stops spinning.

When he finally rolls your bodies so you're both laying on your side, but still connected with arms wrapped around each other and legs slung over hips, he presses a soft kiss to your temple.

“You okay?”

You nod, still catching your breath. “Best sex of my life. Kinda also the most chaotic.”

He huffs a laugh, nose brushing your hair. “We’re gonna get better at being smooth.”

“Don’t you dare. I want more of this.”

His expression softens, something tender and a little awed flickering across his face.

“Yeah?” he murmurs.

“Yeah.”

He kisses you slow this time. No rush, just the two of you learning what this feels like when it’s quiet too.

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