Summary: While visiting King's Landing with your father, you become separated from your ladies in the city and are rescued by Ser Luthor Largent, the Commander of the Gold Cloaks. After safely escorting you back, your grateful father invites Ser Luthor to dine with your family to give his thanks. Where after you realize you've fallen for the commander. But a few days later, the two of you unexpectedly meet again in the Red Keep.
A/N: What can I say I see a tall man with dark curls draped in gold and I go awooga! lmao. I mean that man is nice to look at so I thought I would give it a whirl and try to write for him. Now I haven't watched episode three yet so I kinda took some liberties on how Ser Luthor works so hopefully they align well enough. And I really hope this wakes me out of my writing slump! But i hope you enjoy!
Tags: no use of y/n, fem pronouns, damsel in distress, knight in shining armor, they both fell first, getting lost, small kissing, a little mutual pining and yearning
Word Count: 3.6k
The streets of King’s Landing were nothing like the songs.
The minstrels sang of glittering towers and noble courts, of silks fluttering from balconies and knights in polished armor. No one ever sang of the smell. The smell of smoke, fish, and horse dung.
Thousands upon thousands of people packed into winding streets that seemed determined to twist back upon themselves until every alley looked the same.
You had only meant to look. Just for a moment.
One little stall selling painted glass birds had caught your eye while your fellow ladies chatted amongst themselves. You had wandered only a few paces, stopping to admire how the afternoon sun caught the tiny wings.
When you turned your ladies were gone.
“So strange…” you murmured to yourself, standing on your toes to try and get a better look. There were too many people.
A fishwife shoved past you carrying two buckets. A butcher dragged a squealing pig through the crown. Merchants shouted over one another.
“Fresh bread!”
“River trout!”
“Fine Dornish silks!”
You hurried in the direction you thought your party had gone. Only to find yourself somewhere entirely different.
“…Gods.”
Your heart began to pound. Every street looked the same. The towering walls hid the Red Keep from view, and the city swallowed every landmark you’d thought you’d remembered.
You stopped beside a fountain, turning slowly. “I was just…” you whispered helplessly. “It was this way… was it not?”
A whistle echoed somewhere nearby, then shouting.
“Move aside! Gold cloaks coming through!”
The crowds parted almost immediately.
Men in dark armor trimmed with gold strode though the street with practice confidence, their golden cloaks billowing behind them.
At their head rode a broad shoulder knight atop a dark bay horse. Even seated in the saddle he looked imposing.
His armor was immaculate despite the dusty streets, polished until it caught the sunlight. A trimmed beard framed a stern face weathered by years beneath the sun, while sharp brown eyes swept over the bustling marketplace with quiet authority.
The commander. You know him at once from whispered conversations, you’d overhead since arriving.
Ser Luthor Largent. Commander of the City Watch.
He noticed you almost immediately. Perhaps because every other noblewoman hurried from the streets with their escort.
You stood completely alone.
His horse slowed and the men behind him halted without question. Ser Luthor studied you for a long moment before speaking.
“My lady.” His voice was deep and calm. “You appear rather lost.”
Heat rushed to your cheeks. “I…” You attempted a smile that quickly faltered. “Perhaps only a little.”
“A little?” he questioned.
“I do know I am somewhere in King’s Landing.”
One corner of his mouth twitched upward. “That is quite the remarkable deduction, my lady.”
You couldn’t help smiling despite your embarrassment. “I became separated from my fellow ladies.”
“I gather as much.” He responded. He swings easily from his saddle. Up close he seemed even taller if that was even possible. His cloak settled heavily behind him as he approached, removing one leather glove. “You are no common merchant’s daughter.”
“No.”
“The embroidery on your gown gives you away.”
You glanced down. Your traveling gown bore your father’s sigil stitched in silver thread across your sleeves as typical of a daughter of a noble house.
“I am the daughter of Lord—”
He nodded before you finished. “I know of your house, my lady”
That surprised you, “You do?”
“Your father arrived yesterday.” He replied.
“Do you mayhaps remember every visiting lord that comes to King’s Landing?”
“I tend to make it my business.”
Of course he did. He commanded the safety of the entire city.
“You are fortunate.” He paused looking around the crowded streets. “There are worse place in Flea Bottom to lose one’s way.”
Your stomach dropped at hearing where you were. You heard the tales of Flea Bottom and were told to stay far from there. “This is Flea bottom?”
He raised an eyebrow. “You did not know?”
“I thought I was near the Street of Silk at least.” You said sheepily.
One of the Gold Cloaks behind him let out an unmistakable snort. Ser Luthor cast him a look. The man immediately found the ground suddenly fascinating. Luthor returned his attention back to you.
“The Street of Silk is several turns away.”
“…Oh.”
“You wandered quite far it seems.” He spoke.
“Yes. I noticed.”
Another faint smile touched his lips. “So, you did.”
For a moment neither of you spoke. The noise of the city rushed around you. Finally, he inclined his head. “If you permit it, my lady…”
He offered his arm to you. “I shall return you safely to your father’s apartments.”
You looked at the offered arm. At the commander standing so patiently before you. “I would be most grateful.”
Your fingers rested lightly against the leather covering his large forearm. His armor was warm from the afternoon sun.
Without another word he began guiding you through the city and up to the red keep. His men followed several paces behind.
You discovered quickly that Ser Luthor knew every inch of King’s Landing. Every alley, every shortcut, and every merchant greeted him with respectful nods. He acknowledged each with a brief inclination of his head.
“Do you know everyone?” you asked.
“Not quite everyone.”
“It certainly seems that way.”
“I know enough or who matter.”
A little boy darted between them carrying stolen apples. Before anyone else could react, Ser Luthor reached out, caught the child gently by the shoulder, removed two of the apples from beneath the boy’s tunic, and handed them back to the furious fruit seller.
He looked towards the boy giving him a stern look, “No more stealing today. Do you understand?”
The boy nodded miserably and Luthor released him from his grip. With that the child sprinted away.
You asked, “You let him go?”
“I did. He was hungry.” The fruit seller grumbled but accepted the two silver coins from the commander in exchange for a couple of the apples.
“Why did you pay for them?”
“The city is quieter when hungry boys become honest ones.” He replied.
You stared up at him with that answer. “You are kinder than your reputation lets on.”
“My reputation?” he asked.
“They say the Commander of the Gold Claoks is stern and does not falter.”
“I am.”
“But they also seem to neglect the fact that he is also generous.”
“I try not to advertise it.”
You laughed softly. His eyes flickered towards you then. It was the first time you saw genuine amusement there.
“You laugh easily, my lady.”
“I’ve always been told that is one of my better qualities.”
“I would agree.”
The words came so simply and so matter-of-factly. Yet they sent warmth rushing to your cheeks that you had hoped he did not notice.
By the time the familiar banners of the Targaryen’s came into view, servants were already searching the street in a panic.
“There she is!” you heard your father say. Your father came rushing through the courtyard before dignity could stop him. “My sweet girl!”
He pulled you into a fierce embrace. “Seven save us! We feared—”
“Do not worry. I am well, Father.” You looked toward Ser Luthor. “The Commander found me.”
Your father’s expression transformed immediately. He released you before bowing respectfully. “Ser Luthor.”
“There was no harm done to your daughter, my lord.”
“You have spared me a terror I shall never forget.” A Lord though he was, your father clasped the commander’s forearm with heartfelt gratitude. “I owe you and thank you greatly.”
“No debt exists, my lord. It was my duty to make sure she was brought back to you safely.”
“Nonsense. There most certainly does.”
Your father looked towards the keep up to where your apartments were located. “You must allow me to thank you properly.”
“There is no need.” Ser Luthor said.
Your father was not having it. “But I insist.” He smiled broadly. “You will dine with us tonight and I will not have any more disagreements about it.”
Ser Luthor hesitated, “My duties—”
Your father cut him off before he could finish. “They can survive for one evening. I will ask Prince Daemon to approve this.”
At this point you found yourself speaking to the large knight standing next to you. “I would very much like to thank you as well. Please.”
For the first time since meeting him Ser Luthor looked almost uncertain, but only for a heartbeat. Then he inclined his head.
“I would be honored.”
Dinner passed in easy conversation. Your father asked endless questions about the city and Luthor answered each patiently.
“The crime has lessened this year.”
“And the prince supports your patrols?”
“He supports results. Prince Daemon was the one who gave me this Gold Cloak and I do not try to disappoint him.”
“And the people? Do they also agree?” your father asked.
“They tend to complain less when they feel safe.”
You watched him far more than you contributed. How carefully he listened before speaking. How respectfully he addressed your father despite their different stations. How his laugh—rare though it was softened his entire face. At one point he caught you looking.
Your eyes met then. You looked away first.
Gods… how embarrassing.
That night, long after the candles had been extinguished sleep refused to come.
You laid there staring at the carved canopy above your bed. Your maid thought you restless from the fright. She was wrong. Every time you closed your eyes you saw golden cloaks sweeping through the marketplace. Brown eyes meeting yours.
“You laugh easily.”
“I would agree.”
You remembered the warmth of his arm beneath your hand. The quiet confidence that followed him like a shadow. The way everyone in the city seemed to trust him.
You smiled in the darkness. It was ridiculous, you had known the commander for scarcely half a day. And yet… The handsome commander of the Gold Cloaks had become the only thing occupying your thoughts.
Somewhere beyond your chamber window, the bells of King’s Landing rang in the late hour.
You wondered if Ser Luthor was still awake. Whether he had already returned to patrolling the streets. Whether he had already forgotten the young noblewoman who had gotten hopelessly lost amongst painted glass birds and winding alleys.
You rather hoped he had not.
The Red Keep was infinitely easier to navigate than the street of King’s Landing. That did not make it any less lonely though.
Your father had spent nearly the entire morning preparing for his audience with Queen Rhaenyra. Every ribbon upon his cloak had been straightened twice over, every word of his oath rehearsed until even you could have recited it to her.
“It should not be long,” he’d assured you.
It had nearly been two hours at this point. You had watched squires hurry through corridors carrying messages. Lords in rich velvets passed one another with carefully measured smiles. Ladies whispered behind jeweled fans while servants moved as silently as ghosts.
You had explored nearly every gallery that was open to visitors over the last few days. Admired tapestries depicting Aegon’s Conquest. Paused before narrow windows overlooking Blackwater Bay. Counted the dragons carved into the stone columns simply to pass the time.
By the time you reached one of the long galleries overlooking the inner ward, you rested your forearms upon the stone balustrade with a sigh.
“I should really have brought a book.”
Below, knights crossed the yard. Stableboys hurried after horses. Gold Cloaks entered through one of the gates.
Your attention drifted lazily across the courtyard until one familiar figure appeared.
Black armor edged with gold and a heavy golden cloak. His broad shoulders that seemed impossible to mistake. Ser Luthor.
Your heart gave an entirely unreasonable leap. He crossed the courtyard with purposeful strides, disappearing through one of the council entrances.
“He’s here…” You smiled to yourself before quickly looking away, as though someone might accuse you of staring.
It had been four days since you saw him last. Four days since he’d escorted you safely back to your family. Four days of finding entirely too many excuses to wonder what the commander of the Gold Cloaks might be doing.
You wondered whether he remembered you at all. Surely, he met dozens of noble ladies. Surely you had been nothing more than another duty for him.
You sighed softly, “Foolish girl.”
Not terribly far away, Ser Luthor emerged from a chamber, the heavy oak door closing behind him. His conversation with Prince Daemon had been…productive.
Daemon has wanted additional patrols around the harbors after rumors of the greens coming in by ships. Luthor had given his reports. The prince had argued and Luthor argued right back.
The meeting had ended precisely as most conversations with Daemon did—with mutual respect from decades of friendship that was hidden beneath sharp words.
He rolled one shoulder as he walked the corridors. Then he slowed.
Something made him glance toward the gallery above. A familiar laugh, one that was soft and warm. His eyes lifted to the sound.
There you stood near the balustrade, sunlight spilling through the tall windows behind you. You were the vision of the Maiden herself, he thought to himself.
You were looking out over the courtyard completely unaware he’d seen you. For reasons he couldn’t entirely explain and yet his feet changed direction.
You had nearly convinced yourself to continue wandering when a familiar voice sounded behind you.
“My lady.”
You turned so quickly your skirts swirled around your ankles.
“…Ser Luthor?”
He inclined his head. “It is good to see you again, my lady.”
“And you!”
Gods. Was that too eager? Judging by the faint smile that touched his lips…perhaps not.
“I trust you’ve managed to avoid becoming lost again?”
You laughed then. “Sadly, I have remained entirely within the Keep to avoid such things.”
“A wise precaution.” He said with a smirk.
“I thought it would be.”
For a moment neither of you spoke. It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence, but merely quiet.
“I hope,” he said at last, “That your stay has been pleasant.”
You nodded, “It has.” But then you hesitated. “Although I confess I have grown rather bored as of late.”
He looked a bit confused by that. “Bored?”
“My father has attended meetings nearly every day.”
“The affairs of lands and kingdoms are rarely exciting for those waiting outside of the room.”
You realized you nodded in agreement a bit too quickly. You tried to change the subject hoping you haven’t proved yourself boring to him as well.
So, you blurted out, “I’ve begun naming the ravens.”
One of his eyebrows rose. “You’ve named the ravens?”
“Yes. There are six I see most often lately.”
You two slowly began to walk down the hallway relishing in each other’s company.
“I should like to know what you named them.”
You wrung your hands together before you spoke, “Well there is Lord Peck.”
Ser Luthor blinked. “…Lord Peck?”
“Yes. He is the one who seems to carry himself most importantly. There is also Lady Feather. She is a very distinguished bird.” You couldn’t help but giggle then. You drew another rare smile from him.
“You truly do laugh easily.” He spoke.
“You remembered.”
“I remember many things. Especially the sound of a lovely lady’s laugh.”
The words settled warmly inside your chest.
He looked toward one of the open archways leading outside. “Have you had a chance to visit the gardens?”
“No, I have not actually.”
His gaze returned to yours then. “If it would please you?”
He offered his arm once more. “I could show them to you.”
Your answer came before propriety had the chance to interfere. “I would like that very much.”
The gardens were unlike anything in your father’s lands. Stone pathways wound through flowering hedges. Roses climbed up white trellises. Lavendar swayed in the breeze while bees drifted lazily from blossom to blossoms. Somewhere nearby water trickled from a marble fountain.
“It is beautiful.”
“Many princesses from prior years favored this place.” Ser Luthor said.
“I can understand why. I would too if I had a garden like this.”
You both walked side by side beneath flowering trees. Neither of you felt rushed to fill the silence. It surprised you how comfortable the quiet could be when enjoying someone’s company.
Eventually curiosity won.
“May I ask you something?” you asked.
“You may.”
“Were you always commander or did it take years for you to get to?”
A soft chuckle escaped him. “No. I have only been commander over the last few years.”
“Huh. I cannot imagine anyone else doing it.” You admitted.
“I began as any other gold cloak, but I have the pleasure of having Prince Daemon to be the one to give me this cloak nearly twenty years ago.”
“I’m sure that was an imposing sight a younger you with Prince Daemon.”
“One could say that. I was also considerably less patient then.”
“I find that difficult to believe.” You jested.
“I assure you, it is true.” He spoke.
“Well, you are patient now.”
“So, I’ve been told.”
“By everyone?” you asked.
He looked sideways at you.
“Only by one lady in particular.”
Heat blossomed across your cheeks hoping he was meaning you. You lowered your eyes with a smile trying not to make it obvious.
The gardens eventually gave way to a stone overlook. The wall overlooked the cliffs below. Far beneath, waves crashed against black rocks. Beyond stretched Blackwater Bay, glittering beneath the afternoon sun. Ships dotted the horizon with various colored sails.
The sea breeze tugged gently at your hair.
“It feels…” you searched for the words. “Peaceful here.”
“It is.” He agreed.
You rested your hands upon the weathered stone. “I think this may be my favorite place in King’s Landing.”
“It is mine as well when I can get the chance to see it.”
You looked up to him. “Do you come here often then?”
“Not usually. Being commander, I do have more time to patrol all over King’s Landing. So, whenever I get a chance to come see the gardens I try to. Just for a few moments of quiet. King’s Landing truly never sleeps.”
For several moments you simply watched the sea together. Then, quietly you gave yourself enough courage to finally admit your thoughts.
“There is something I’ve wished to tell you, Ser Luthor.”
He turned towards you. His brown eyes are fixated on you now. “What would that be?”
You swallowed. “I fear it may sound terribly foolish, but I believe I must get this off my chest.”
“I do not think it would be possible for you to sound foolish.”
You laughed nervously while wringing your hands together. “I’ve scarcely stopped thinking about you.” You blurted out.
There was a long stretch of silence between you two.
Gods. Perhaps you should not have said it, but you only continued. “I know we have met only briefly.”
Your words tumbled over one another again. “And perhaps it is terribly improper and perhaps I ought not say such things. But after you found me and after dinner and now seeing you again…”
You looked down at your hands. “I simply wished you to know how grateful I am.”
Before you could continue, he broke the silence. “You’ve been thinking of me?”
You nodded once right away. “I have.”
A long silence followed this time. It wasn’t awkward or uncertain. Only thoughtful.
When he finally spoke, “I had hoped I was not alone in my feelings.”
You looked up quickly. Almost shocked that he said that. “What?”
“I’ve though of little else these past four days.” He admitted.
Your breath caught. “You have?” you asked taken aback.
“I have found myself wondering whether you had returned back to your home.” He smiled faintly. “And whether you’d become lost again.”
You laughed through your surprised “I have not thankfully.”
“I wondered whether I’d imagine how easily conversation came between us and I wondered whether inviting you to see the gardens today was inappropriate.”
“I am glad you invited me.” You said with a smile on your face.
“So am I.”
The breeze stirred between you. He took one step closer as if the breeze was pushing him towards you. It was close enough that you could see the flecks of gold hidden in his brown eyes.
“I am no prince,” he said quietly to you.
“I know.”
“Nor am I some great lord and my life belongs largely to this city.” He added.
“I know it is.” You said reassuringly.
“And still…” his gazed searched yours hoping it would reveal what he was looking for. “You’ve occupied my thoughts from the moment we parted.”
Your heart felt impossibly light now.
“So we have both been equally distracted.” You quipped.
“It would seem so.” He agreed.
For a moment neither of you moved and then very gently he lifted one hand. Not to seize yours, but only to brush a loose strand of hair back behind your ear that the wind took. His fingers barely grazed your skin.
“If this is unwelcome, my lady you must only say.” He said comfortingly.
“It isn’t.”
His eyes searched yours one last time. Giving you every opportunity to step away.
You didn’t. Instead, you closed the small distance left between you. You stood on your tiptoes to reach up to his face and as he leaned down, he kissed you and it had been impossibly soft. Barely more than a brush of his lips against yours.
When he drew back, you found yourself smiling before you even realized it.
“So…” you whispered.
“So.”
“I believe,” your smile widened. ‘I shall be thinking of you even more now Ser Luthor.”
A quiet laugh escaped him. “I am afraid the feeling is mutual my lady.”
Behind you, the sea continued its endless song against the cliffs, and for the first time since arriving in King’s Landing, the great city no longer felt quite so overwhelming.
It felt, somehow like the beginning of something wonderful.
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Summary: Thailand was the perfect location for a petty criminal like her. Tourists could be the most delicious of marks, but a girl has needs. Sometimes a pretty boy with a shaved head and a nice body wasn’t the perfect mark, but he could be a lot of fun to play with.
Author’s Note: Happy Summer Everyone! Or summer vibes depending on where you are. Reader in this is absolutely diabolically fun. Semi crossover with White Lotus, but you don’t need to have seen the latest season to enjoy the story. Little easter eggs if you have. Enjoy!
There was an art to the perfect distressed whine.
Too needy could sound appallingly fake.
Not quite desperate enough could get a girl ignored or God forbid pitied.
It needed to sound low and airy all at once. Almost like a mating call.
The face was just as important. A good pout never hurt. Sad large eyes were helpful, but not entirely necessary. A sag of the shoulders and a pouty lower lip were a beacon to any man with lingering eyes and a savior complex.
It was especially helpful if all these attributes were matched with isolation. Was it dangerous to look distressed and be utterly alone? Only to someone who didn’t have a handle on what they were doing.
She was in control of the situation.
It would play out exactly how she wanted.
Her tits were out. That was a very important factor to this delicate equation. Her bikini was the best one she had brought with her. She had taken such care with her selection of bathing wear to bring to Thailand. The country was filled with bald rich men who wanted nothing more than to find a thin waisted big breasted young woman and spoil her rotten.
She hadn’t wanted anything permanent.
Only a rich man to latch onto.
Permanency was definitely not something she hoped for.
Not with what she enjoyed doing. A quick in and out, bye fellow, hope to never see you again was golden.
Her feet sunk deep in the sand, nearly stamping, but not quite. Stamping was for bratty teen girls and she was a woman thank you very much. She pulled on her lobe slightly to indicate why she was so distressed.
“Oh,” A bite of her lip should do the job as well. Her eyes scanned the crowd quickly before gazing down at the truly marvelous sandy shore. “Where is it?” Her big toe delicately kicked the sand. It was lighter than she had imagined, especially on such a hot day.
Thailand was truly a gorgeous place with gorgeous people.
Even a quick scan of who was paying attention to her little fit allowed her to gather that intel. There was a group of three blonde women spread out on beach chairs. She could have sworn the one looked like one of the actresses that had been on the tv the last night she had sex with a dude. It had been background, but the acting had been better than the sex.
God she needed to get laid.
There was a teen boy and a young woman chatting on hammocks. The teen had looked over then quickly away. She adjusted her top to making sure her girls weren’t spilling out. All she needed was another indecent exposure to her rap sheet.
The one that was actually moving slightly toward her was a young guy.
Shaved head, not bald.
But young.
He looked like he was wearing something one of those monks in the temples she had visited would wear.
He probably had no cash.
It would be a waste of her time.
The whine came out more desperate now.
Her eyes cast up and . . . wait . . . fuck . . . he was kind of good looking.
“You alright?” He had honey in his voice, British frickin’ honey. Fuck. She couldn’t be this horny.
She did her thing.
Her eyelashes fluttered. She had on extenders that made them look longer, thicker. How many times had guys told her she had stunning eyes? Too many to count. She could see he got lost in them, surprised by the flutter and the sweetness there she suspected. Her little painted peachy pink fingernails tickled to adjust the straps of her bikini as if in a nervous gesture.
Her thumb and forefinger again squeezed her empty ear lobe.
“My earring.” She let out her little whine a bit more pleading now. “I can’t find my diamond earring!” There was a sad hopelessness in her throaty sultry tone. She watched him stare for a moment. Had she bounced her chest too much? Had she sounded too baby girl?
She let her eyes watch him. Her hair lightly flung over her shoulder. His eyes darted like a dog in need of a bone. He was looking at her other lobe clad in what she knew was a delicate diamond earring.
It was a very very good fake.
“Have you retraced your steps?” He was trying his hardest to pry his greedy little eyes away from her shiny ear lobe. If he were a cartoon there would be a cash register noise and money symbols in his eyes.
“Not yet.” She fluttered her eyes again. “I didn’t even go in the water. I was on my way to the bar and . . . shit . . . those were my grandmother’s and I didn’t want to lose them.” Her fingers tickled her lips pretending to be modest and perhaps slightly embarrassed by her little curse. “I’m so sorry for cursing. I’m just . . .” Flutter. Flutter. Little spark of wetness. “They were really important to me.”
There always had to be a sliver of truth in a lie.
It helped a person remember.
Helped in not getting the details wrong.
They were her grandmother’s earrings.
They were important to her.
If she didn’t find them how could she pull this scam again?
“All right. We’ll find them, love.” She fiddled with her straps this time not in a flirtatious gesture that was intentional. Love? Oh, she adored the British and their little sayings. American men were never elegant speaking.
“You think?” She wondered, remembering to push her chest forward.
Her tits bounced a bit letting his eyes fall from the sparkle in her ear to those tanned rounded breasts just hiding under the thin piece of fabric. She was glad he found interest elsewhere. It’d be easier to manipulate him if he wanted to fuck her.
“Yes, of course, now,” His eyes looked at her. They were a pretty blue she wanted to be rolled back white with ecstasy soon. “Where were you sitting?”
She knew exactly where she had been.
She knew exactly where she had “dropped” her earring. Her eyes could trace the pathway in the white sand from her current position to the lounge chair she had been spread out on. Her fake Marc Jacobs quilted bright blue hand bag was casually left open on the elongated chair. Her play was to look like the rest of the obtose, dumb, rich snots lounging on the beach closest to the luxury hotel. Her fingers traced the trail for him walking close to where the little earring caught the light.
It was easy for him to be her knight in shining armor.
He dipped his hands down brushing the sand away to find that perfect stone in the sand.
“Oh GOD! You found it!!!” She didn’t care for his personal space. The need to feel that fine body against hers was enough to let her inibitions loose. Her arms swung around him crashing her over exposed body to his very tasteful rock hard body.
Seriously? Did this wanna be monk work out?
Did they have gyms in the monastery?
He pushed her off slightly.
How incredibly rude! Especially when she looked this hot.
He placed the little earring in her open palm.
“Thank you.” Little seductive whisper as she placed it into her ear, trying not to look at him. “Sorry. I was just so -”
“No, I understand. It can be thrilling to find something you lost.” Oh, his eyes were scanning her body. Did he suck in his lip? At least he was still on the hook. “We just . . . I’m just . . . not supposed to . . . be tempted.” Eyes still followed down every curve of her body as if taking it in for memory.
Celibacy?
That was a thing in many religions.
Oh this would be more fun!
“Didn’t mean to tempt you.” Her hand lovingly stroked the missing earring back in place. “That must be very hard for you. Especially coming to a beach with so many gorgeous people.” She admired the buffet of in shape bodies laid out and frolicking in the water.
“I come here to test myself.” He said with a nod of his head looking around as she had. “And to try to get others to feel the enlightenment that brought me inner peace.”
“I couldn’t imagine a life without sex.” It was the most honest she had been during this trip. She was still playing with her earring. “It feels too good.”
“There are plenty of other ways to make yourself feel good.” He said as if he wasn’t undressing her with his eyes. “Prayer. Meditation. All bring inner peace and understanding.” Sounded fuckin’ boring.
“I am sorry for hugging you.” It was her cue to begin a plan to break this stubborn monk’s exterior. “Maybe I can make it up to you with dinner tonight?” She swayed back and forth letting her breasts really move, really bounce. He decided to focus on eye contact.
“I could not ask that of you.” In that moment she saw hope on his face.
She had felt his ribs under the toned exterior.
Maybe he really did need a good meal.
“Buddha teaches compassion, right?” She knew some things. A little about a lot in order to make her way in life how she pleased. “Let me help you with a warm meal. Let me thank you for helping me in my time of need.” She didn’t know if she could count finding a little rock in the sand as a big thing, but to the girl she was pretending to be it was so important.
His eyes settled on hers with a soft ghost of a smile.
Maybe of the sexual deviant he had once been, maybe still was.
“A meal for kindness and compassion? I can manage that.”
***
She found herself trying on several different outfits for dinner tonight.
Her bungalow had cost an arm and a leg, but it was so very well deserved considering the various ordeals and people she had to put up with. Not only was staying at one of the most expensive resorts in Thailand an absolute delight to her, it was on the bill of someone else.
She was such a hard worker.
Absolutely deserved.
She wasn’t sure if she should go for something casual and long or short and sexy. The array of clothes thrown on her bed would have given housekeeping a heart attack. It was nearly covering the unmade California king. She touched the silk fabric hoping to imagine the sexually frustrated British monk furiously ripping the fabric from her body.
She fanned herself looking in the full length mirror.
Fuck.
She needed to get laid.
She decided on a casual leopard print wrap dress with no bra. She was young enough that her tits had yet to sag like some older elitists on the beach. Clearly they were too full of themselves to get a breast lift. She pinched her nipples underneath to make them stand to attention.
There was no way he was going to resist her in this get up.
She tossed the rest of her clothes into the walk in closet.
The clothes barely mattered to her if they weren’t doing the job tonight.
She hiked down the long winding steps on the beautiful nightly pathway. Ugh she could live here! It was the most beautiful of the White Lotuses she had stayed in. Just the perfect mix of everything. She was entranced by the humming of insects and the soft cry of the wildlife. She loved a location that felt more alive in nature than with the people around her.
She arrived at the guard post happily.
“Hi Gaitok!” She made sure to know most of the hotel staff’s names wherever she went. Especially the ones who seemed unimportant. They were always the most helpful and most appreciative when push came to shove. The guard, who was only a little handsome, was speaking with his superior, a quiet conversation in Thai. She knew enough to get by, but never let on. She pushed up her sunglasses as the night had fallen into dark. “Has my guest arrived yet?” She had informed the guard house upon her return to the hotel that an outside guest named Genyen would be joining her for dinner.
“Yes, Miss.” Sometimes she hated being called that, but in places like this that suffix made her feel important. “He is standing over there.” She saw that her friend was standing beside an ancient wilting tree toward the front of the building.
She could not help frowning seeing he was dressed in the same maroon tunic she had seen him in hours earlier.
“Hello there, friend.” She let her electric pink lips greet him with the friendliest smile she could imagine. His own smile told her that he appreciated her appearance.
“Hello. You look absolutely stunning. If that is not too forward.” His eyebrows shot up as she stepped forward.
“No it isn’t. I don’t get complimented enough.” She sighed as they walked to the resturant.
“Why do you feel that is?”
Feel?
That sort of language raised her flags. He might have been trying to convert her, but she was doing the same.
“Not sure if you noticed, but I am a bit of a loner.” She tried her best to move closer to him as they walked, but the little bastard kept stepping away.
“Why is that?” At least he didn’t add feel.
“It’s easier to be on your own. Nobody to run plans by. Nice and comfy in a room all alone. I don’t need anyone. I’m very self-sufficient.” She let a sweet expression creep in.
“You must get lonely.” There it was. Especially with his eyes noticing she was not wearing a bra. Her perked nipples were coming in very handy at this moment. He’d probably pop a boner at any moment.
“I do. But that is what making new friends is for.” She linked her arm with his watching his face to see if he grew uncomfortable. He didn’t. Maybe he had resigned himself to a little discomfort in order to “teach her the path of enlightenment” or whatever.
His smile was so very nice. It was true that she liked to make new friends. It was a nice challenge from time to time, falling into a role that most pleased her chosen companion. She could play the innocent spoiled rich girl, lonely and craving company. He seemed to be focused on getting her to find that inner peace that all those material things couldn’t give her.
“The earrings go lovely with your dress.” She instinctively touched them as they sat at her reserved dining table. A waiter retrieved another chair.
She saw some frequent diners at the resort smile seeing her with added company.
Those looks would add to her persona of a lonely young thing with too much money to spend.
“Thank you. You are very kind.” Her eyes trailed over the menu as if she would be getting something other than her usual.
“I was hesitant to come here. I feel out of place.” Her eyes did not look up from the menu. “Feel as though everyone is staring at me.”
“Their opinions shouldn’t matter.” Again, too truthful. Too close to her real self. “They will barely remember seeing you in the morning too absorbed in their own lives.” Fuck why had she admitted that?
Luckily the heavily accented waiter was there to take their drink order.
She ordered a coconut mojoito.
He asked for water.
“Was alcohol a temptation in your former life?” She wondered balancing her chin on her hands. He sheepishly looked away. It was a bit over dramatic.
“I was tempted by many vices before coming to the monastery.” His water came before her drink. He slowly sipped it.
The conversation was easy enough for two people who came from different walks of life. He had been committed to this lifestyle for nearly ten years now. He had found enlightenment after tumultuous university years of yes drinking, yes sleeping around, and yes a hit of a stray drug or two. He found saying no to temptations extremely difficult.
She found it off putting he only talked about himself.
At a certain point she stopped listening, focusing on taking in her mojito as he discussed potential alcoholism in his family. He watched her lips sucking down the clear frothy liquid in the wide straw. When she saw him noticing she pushed her lips down further wondering if he was imagining it was his dick like she was.
“Is it your first time in Thailand?” Finally she could talk about herself!
“Yes.” She lied. Well, not entirely. No it wasn’t her first time in Thailand. She had been at least six times in the last decade, either on layovers elsewhere or staying with girlfriends when she had them. Yes, it was her first time at the Thai White Lotus. “I absolutely adore it here. I don’t want to leave. I’ve been here a few days and it already feels like home.”
“Where is home?”
Oh that was a hard hitting question.
She was in truth a nomad given her lifestyle of stealing, scamming, and all around lying her way into pleasant experiences. Once upon a time she had a home, a place to hang her hat as the saying went.
“New York.” Big state. Easy to lose someone. Or not find a girl you only knew the first name of. She had littered her accent with it. On purpose or accident, one may never know.
“You come from money?” Oh now she was missing when he only talked about himself.
It’s okay.
She had prepared for this.
She had a whole story for this trip.
Luckily she didn’t need to share much promptly.
Their waiter was there for their order.
She ordered the Gaeng Poo Bai Cha Plu, again. Her words still stumbled over the pronunciation even though she could have said it perfectly if she wanted to. He ordered the most basic item on the menu, vegetable pad thai. She ordered another mojito before they were abandoned. Somehow drinking more made her a better liar.
“Are you a vegetarian or vegan?” She knew the noodles were vegan friendly. She desperately wanted to change the subject away from her “backstory”.
“Vegetarian. Five years now. You didn’t answer my question.” Fuck. She saw a slight change in his eyes. Anger? “Do you come from money?”
“Like family?” She could play dumb.
“Yes.”
Simple enough response.
“Well, yeah, I’m too young and dumb to be able to afford all this on my own.” The tactic of lowering her worth always seemed to work on pretty boys. They never knew what to do with a girl with low self esteem who in reality was probably the most gorgeous woman he’d ever lay his eyes on.
“I’m sure you aren’t stupid.” There wasn’t pity as she suspected. He was looking at her body though. “You are taking care of yourself on your own. That is a rarity in our generation.” She huffed out. She hated when people noted “our generation” as if they came from the same tribe or something. “Did I say something wrong?” Fuck he noticed.
“No just . . .” She sucked down the rest of her drink making sure he saw how much of the straw she could take in. “We seem very different.”
“Yes, you are gorgeous and rich and I’m -”
“Genyen, you are gorgeous.” She let her hand slap his lightly. His eyes looked down at her flesh touching his. Got him. “If you weren’t a monk . . . well . . . there would be so much fun we could have tonight.” Her finger traced his knuckle expecting him to move away.
He didn’t.
“I . . . I . . . can’t.” It didn’t sound like he couldn’t. It didn’t feel that he didn’t want to. She could nearly feel his pulse quicken. “I shouldn’t.”
“Doesn’t Buddha teach forgiveness?” Her tits bounced forward. Unlike all these other women here her body was au natural. D size tits brought to you by genetics. Praise worthy curves courtesy of squats and lunges. A flexible frame thanks to yoga and years of gymnastics. “One night of bliss can be forgiven.” Her bottom lip pouted out just as their meals came.
She thanked the waiter. She loved her food maybe just as much as reeling in a good looking young man away from his tradition of a decade. Their conversation turned one sided with her gushing over the food, how it was her favorite dish, how much she loved curry. She gabbed on and on watching as he silently nodded and ate his noodles.
“Penny for your thoughts, Genyen.” She was licking her spoon seductively. His fork clattered against the dish.
“I can’t.” She thought he was going to stand and leave the way he said it. Instead he sharply looked at her.
“Can’t what?” Her innocence was so frighteningly good she nearly convinced herself.
“I can’t pretend I’m not attracted to you.” His eyes ran over her again. “I shouldn’t have come here.”
“But you did. For a reason, I hope.” She went to reach for his hand. He pulled away.
“If you touch me again I fear I will have to fuck you on this table.” The way he spoke was so dark and different then the Genyen she had met earlier today.
She swallowed very VERY turned on by his words.
Was it suddenly hotter?
“Do you . . . want that?” She wondered. She sucked on her thumb, lightly splattered in crab curry.
“No.” She blinked. “I prefer to be intimate in private.”
She was only a little disappointed.
***
He had her pinned to the window as soon as they entered her bungalow.
His lips were devouring hers as if starved for attention. She didn’t even mind the aggressive nature of his tongue ramming into her mouth. This is what she had wanted since she had landed in Thailand.
“Genyen!” She said between kisses.
“It’s Shaun.” He corrected.
Who cared!
He lifted her thighs so her legs could easily wrap around his waist. He had a raging hard on that made her squeal.
Nice, thick cock.
At least if she was feeling him through his dry humps correctly.
“God, I’m so sweaty and gross.” She giggled only a little tipsy from two drinks.
“No, not at all. So fuckin’ hot.” He was biting her neck.
“Fuck me in the shower?”
“Where is it?” She could now see his lust hungry eyes were daring her.
Her hands anchored to his shoulders hopping off of him. She dragged him to the large bathroom that was nearly the size of her old dorm room. Her hands crudely undressed him.
Fuck, yes! She was right. He was toned.
God his arms were gorgeous and strong and so so yummy.
Jackpot.
Cha-Ching!
Whatever other noises could signify her delight were in her head and apparent on her face.
“You are wearing too much.” He told her. With little effort he undressed her with the ease of a sexual fanatic. His hands played with every curve, breasts, torso, hips, ass, thighs. “I could worship you from now on.”
“I’m not a god, Shaun.” She giggled letting herself pretend to be drunker than she was.
“You okay?” He wondered, letting his hand tangle with her hair. “I’m not doing anything you don’t want me to? You aren’t too -”
She cut him off with a kiss.
“The only reason I asked you to dinner was because I wanted to fuck you.” She admitted, a little too truthful.
“Even though I said I was abstinent?” He raised a brow, not angry at the honesty, but curious by it.
“Boosts a girl’s ego to get a hot celibite monk into bed. Or a hot steaming shower.” She walked over to turn on the water in said shower. “What can I say? I’m a sinner.”
She grabbed him, taking him into the beautifully stone tiled shower that nearly took up the entire room. He wasn’t an excellent kisser, but he made up for it in the way he touched her body. Shaun knew a woman’s body. It was very clear by the way he was grabbing her ass and nipping at her nipples that he was an expert at this in his former life.
Maybe the whole celibacy bit was a lie because there was no way he could be this good without having sex for -
Fuck he was fingering her!
Without warning he had eased two curled fingers inside her.
She was gasping and nearly collapsing.
“Were you this wet all night?” He was thrusting inside her without abandon. Her knees were nearly shaking. “You like it rough don’t you, Leah?” She had thrown the fake name at him earlier in the day. Even though it wasn’t her real name her body still tingled at the bass in his tone against her ear. “You are a naughty girl.”
Oh she could be naughtier.
“Stop fingering me and let me suck that cock.”
His attempts sputtered a bit at her being in fact naughtier than he thought. He released his fingers from inside her watching her drop to her knees. The stones would make indents on her knees, but that oral fixation wasn’t gonna go anywhere without her taking care of it herself. He leaned against a bar in the shower presenting his erection as if it were a gift to her hungry mouth.
“I’ve been thinking about this all night.” Base to tip in her hands sighing at the fact it was literally in her grasp.
“I know. I got hard watching you suck down those drinks.” She loved watching his lust hungry eyes. Something seemed to change in him the moment they crossed her threshold.
Fuck if she cared what that change was.
She was getting what she wanted.
“I was thinking about this.” Her tongue swirled around his tip. She watched him lean back, close his eyes, and curse deeply at the sensation. “Getting you off. It must be so painful to abstain from temptation.”
“Yes. So painful.”
Little kiss at his tip.
“You are so very brave.”
A pout and her lips wrapped around his tip sucking and pumping him a few times.
“So brave.”
He was panting as she took him in further letting the shower, warm and wet, soak her hair and lubricate his cock. Her hands worked easily on his balls squeezing them while her other hand massaged what she couldn’t fit in. His cock wasn’t monstrously long, but enough that if she wanted to she could take all of it in her mouth and throat without a problem.
It was much more fun to tease him.
His hand was quick to position itself at the back of her head pushing her down.
“Fuckin’ slut.” He whispered, not meanly, but with a biting tone. “You love sucking dick, don’t you? FUCK.”
She did. But not because she was a slut. She was a slut, maybe. She loved sex. She loved sucking cock because she literally had a man under her control. His pleasure was in the palm of her hand. Sure he could thrust into her and fuck her face, but she could also bite his dick off.
Her eyes gazed up at him. He wasn’t looking down. Fuck, was he looking at his reflection in the glass door? She thought about biting him, instead she squeezed his balls. His knees shuttered nearly falling. Shaun’s face looked down at her watching as she deep throated him. His entire cock disappeared into her mouth. She held it there feeling pre cum in the back of her throat.
“Holy shit.” It was a soft whisper. “Holy shit. Holy shit.” His hands moved away from her to steady himself. She squeezed his balls again, but not very much. They were already close to his body.
She got what she wanted.
The desperate cry of a man cumming was such music to her ears.
She swallowed every bit of him.
He was jelly when she released him. She opened her mouth to take in some water from the shower. She moved it around in her mouth before spitting it out. Shaun was so fuckin stunned by the whole ordeal he looked frozen, though his cock was soft now. She casually grabbed a bottle of shampoo from a shelf inside the shower massaging the liquid into her hair.
“Why do you look so stunned?” Her grin was so wide.
“You . . . I . . .” She laughed as he struggled to find the words.
“Yes?” She let the water wash the soap free from her hair.
“Leah,” His eyes looked at her lips. “You swallowed?”
“I don’t have a gag reflex.” She shrugged. Shaun was still searching her face, then her body. “Yeah, I’m a slut who swallows. You want to give me a medal?” She offered her palm as if waiting for said medal.
“No,” He looked down at her palm then at her face. Those hungry eyes screamed with lust. “But I do want to fuck you.”
Good.
***
She barely had time to dry off.
Her giggle erupted as he threw her on the bed.
Her body bounced. He growled pinning her there, arms over her head. The kiss he gave her was less hungry and more thankful, passionate. It was the kind of kiss a boy gave to a girl when they were so young they were thankful for lustful moments like this. She had felt that way once so it was easy to live it again.
“You are really good at sucking cock.” Did that sentence break the sweetness a bit? Sure, but she could see how grateful he was.
“Lots of practice.” She tapped the tip of his nose.
“Don’t have to say it like that.” He laughed defensively.
“Oh why? You jealous of all the cocks before you? All the cocks after you?”
“Maybe a little.”
Huh.
He couldn’t hide the bashfulness in his face.
“Don’t think about that.” Her arms pulled him closer wrapping around his neck. “Think about pounding my pussy so hard I can’t remember anyone else’s cock.” He watched her face. He could have been put off by her crude honesty.
“Knew you like it rough.”
His lips found hers. The hungry, desperate kisses were delicious. Shaun was incredibly handsy, but that was to be expected if his story was true. She always doubted anything anyone told her.
Especially men.
His hands were on her hair, her ears, her cheeks, her neck, and further down, down, down her very naked body. Her hips bucked at his cock which was rising to the occasion. She pulled him closer, running her hands over his shaved prickly head.
His face was buried in her tits. God he was slobbering all over her. It would be endearing if his saliva wasn’t so warm. He was like a dog in heat panting over her. She might have regretted the entire ordeal if he hadn’t sucked on her nipples so hard she saw stars.
She cursed loudly watching her ceiling fan spin.
One leg anchored him closer.
“Please just fuck me.” She was panting now.
“I’ll fuck you when I’m ready.” It was nearly a growl. He bit and sucked at her other breast.
Fuck.
Stars again.
She barely had the effort to force herself to take control.
All the same she flipped him on his back.
His grin told her he wanted it this way.
Her on top.
His hands behind his head.
“Go on then.” His chin nudged at her. Her eyes followed down the muscular structure of his torso. “Ride my dick. Got it all hard and ready sucking those pretty tits.”
Oh he was starting to think like he deserved all this.
He didn’t.
He didn’t deserve her or her perfect body.
But fuck if she wasn’t so horny that she obeyed like a puppy dog.
She bounced on his dick making sure to roll her hips in the way that she liked. He looked too smug enjoying the show with his hands behind his head. He lazily would grab one of her tits giving it a squeeze before going back to enjoying the sensation of being inside her. He barely thrust up.
She misjudged him.
He wasn’t desperate enough to satisfy her.
Her hand held him down between his pecs baring down hard. Though she knew his cock wasn’t long enough to hit the spot it needed to.
“Can you, like, rub my clit or something?” This was going nowhere if she kept on like this. She could have done it herself, but she shouldn’t HAVE to. Shaun should want to satisfy her.
“Why? I’m enjoying myself.” He said as if that was the only thing that mattered.
What was the point of him if he wasn’t going to make her cum?
“Oh my Gawd! Really?” She was about to get off in order to get herself off. She had some toys she could play with that were a hundred of times better then riding a mediocre dick with a man that put in zero effort.
Instead he flipped her on her back and started barreling into her.
It took her by such surprise that her cunt grew wet.
He spit aggressively into his hand before rubbing it hard against her clit while he fucked her.
Shit.
Shit.
Shit.
She couldn’t help it. Her moans grew into screams as he thrust himself deep and angled into her cunt. There was no time to shout out she was cumming or say anything else. Her back arched at the stimulation of her clit and the deep angles of his cock inside her.
He didn’t stop.
Not after her second orgasm or third or fourth or - fuck she lost count.
He fucked her until he was satisfied and creaming on her inner thigh.
She had trouble catching her breath holding onto her chest.
Was she going to die?
She had never been so overstimulated in her life.
“You’re fine.” He said, seeing her hand on your chest. “Don’t be so dramatic.”
She only looked at him. He grabbed a tissue from the end table wiping his cum from her body.
Was it more than just on her inner thigh?
“Where did that come from?” She finally said when she wasn’t gasping for breath.
“Told you. I haven’t done that sort of thing in a very long time. Buddha forgive me.” At the last sentence he almost rolled his eyes. He laid back naked, exposed, and looking very comfortable. “Have you never been over stimulated before?”
“Yeah, but not like THAT.” Another fact she let slip. Her clit felt sore. Walking tomorrow wasn’t going to be very fun.
“Rich fellows don’t know how to fuck a girl raw and proper.” In her experience that might have been true. Men with money were always given yeses. God forbid they go down on a girl. “Why don’t you go to sleep, rest?” He played with her sweaty hair. Ran his hands over her hip dips and curves. “You’ll feel a lot better in the morning.” The kiss on the forehead was a bit much. “Thanks again for indulging my sin.”
There was a soft wink.
She was rather sleeping from all the sex and maybe the drinks too.
He wouldn’t be there in the morning.
She knew that.
But she got what she needed out of the whole thing.
***
Why hadn’t she noticed the earrings had been taken last night?
Probably from the diatraction the hopelessly bad sex before he fucked her into the mattress.
She had to admit it was a good tactic. Feeling her up all the way to her ear lobes to grab what he probably suspected were 5k a piece diamond studs.
She gazed at herself in the mirror noting the “extra” set of diamond studs her grandmother had gotten her “just in case”. Grammy always knew best when it came to that sort of thing. She had about a dozen of these pretty pairs, each one looked a little more real then the last.
Her encounter with Genyen or Shaun or whatever his real name was had cost her those earrings, her “fake” passport, forty thousand forged thai bahts, and some cheap costume jewelry she thought looked real. He hadn’t taken the purse probably because it was too suspicious looking.
She had another passport for her current identity in her safe.
She wasn’t a moron.
In total she was probably out maybe a hundred dollars at most.
The earrings pissed her off the most because that was a petty little trick he had pulled during a passionate moment of love making.
She couldn’t really call it that, but still a trick was a trick even if it cost nothing to her.
She examined her ass in the mirror. The pink bikini bottoms with the silver rings attaching the sides were more than drool worthy. It would attract real money and not just a pretty face.
It was a pity.
She had to admit last night may have unlocked a new kink in her.
She enjoyed the overstimulation so much she had fingered herself in the shower to the memory of it.
But now it was time to move past her little petty criminal with his monk get up and sob story.
Time to get back to work.
She slipped on her largest shades. Touched up her makeup making sure her winged eyeliner was perfect and so were her hot pink lips. The fabric of her bikini top was stretched, a little too small for her ample chest.
She looked incredible.
Perfect even.
The sandals were something he should have stolen. She always made sure to wear one thing on her body that was real. The Saint Laurent sandals literally had dollar signs on them, a gift from a sugar daddy or a theft she completely forgot about at the White Lotus in Italy.
She strolled out to the pool as if she owned it.
Her mark was easy to find.
She had seen him around, but he was always latched to the one British babe with the older boyfriend and the fashionable gap in her front teeth. She’d be latched to her too if she swung that way. But alas she was stuck wanting dick.
He was around her age.
Plus.
With hair.
Double plus.
With a banging body.
Cha-Ching.
She slipped into the lounge chair beside him. She made sure to toss her hair away from him so he could get a good look at her neck and tits. She slipped a delicate hand into her bag ignoring that his eyes were lazily following those tipped pink finger nails. She squeezed some sun tanning lotion into her hand making sure to rub her thighs slow and easy.
“Aren’t you a smoke show.” Bingo.
“Huh?” She asked innocently blinking in his direction.
He grinned.
“Admiring the view.” He sucked on his lip, unable to hide his immediate attraction to her. “I’m Saxon.” He offered his hand. She pushed her sunglasses up watching as he made that sweet eye contact that told her immediately he was entranced with her.
“Leah.” Her eyes took him in too. “Aren’t you a pretty one?”
summary: Life in your apartment has always been peaceful—until you realize you have a neighbor. A neighbor with a love for blaring music. One thing sure: you’ll loathe him until the very last day of your coexistence.
a/n: I can’t believe it’s time to say goodbye to this oneshot. Martin really grew on me, and writing this story brought me so much joy. I hope it brings you the same! <3
I JUST DIED IN YOUR ARMS
The deafening blast of music slams into your chest, rattling your apartment walls and vibrating straight into your skull. Your knife slips, nearly slicing through your finger.
The music cuts off immediately. For a brief, hopeful moment, you think the owner of the sound system has finally realized they were one bass drop away from committing homicide by decibels.
Then, just as you let out a breath—
IT MUST HAVE BEEN SOMETHING YOU SAID
The music roars back to life.
You pause mid-chop, staring blankly at the diced tomatoes as if they, too, are reeling from the sonic whiplash.
That day, you learn two things:
a) There has, in fact, been a neighbor living next door this whole time (despite your landlady’s firm insistence that the apartment was empty).
b) You are bound to hate him.
Living in a residential area has its pros and cons. The biggest con? The one-hour commute to the city center, which means dragging yourself out of bed at an ungodly hour and, ideally, crashing into sleep just as early. You’ve debated moving closer, but unless you plan on surviving off instant noodles and wearing the same two outfits on rotation, you’d rather keep the cheaper rent.
You had gotten used to this lifestyle—almost. Until him.
At first, the music is an occasional inconvenience. But slowly, it morphs into something else—something personal. A vendetta, a battle of endurance, a psychological torture experiment. You’ve started tracking his habits, waiting for the moment he dares to break the 11:00 PM noise ordinance so you can legally ruin his life. But, much to your utter frustration, the asshole always stops at 10:40 PM —just enough to remain technically within the law.
For the past two weeks, you’ve developed a series of elaborate theories about him, all based on his bizarre music choices.
At first, it was exclusively club music. Loud, bass-heavy, the kind that rattles the windows and makes you wonder if he moonlights as an underground DJ. Then, suddenly, he shifted to metal. Not just casual rock—hard metal. The kind that sounds like a possessed washing machine being thrown down a flight of stairs.
He’s either a maniac or a cult leader. You even bought pepper spray, just in case.
And then, as if that wasn’t bad enough, there were the love songs.
Very occasional 80s and 90s power ballads. A full, heart-wrenching playlist.
You sit there one evening, listening to "Total Eclipse of the Heart" blasting through your walls, squinting at the ceiling.
Oh God. Is he going through a breakup?
A small, fleeting flicker of pity sparks in your chest.
Then, the music switches to death metal again, and all sympathy evaporates.
No way. Fuck him.
One morning, a door slams shut.
Your instincts kick in immediately. You sprint to the peephole, heart hammering with anticipation, as your coffee spills on your bare feet. Luckily, it’s lukewarm.
Time to know your enemy.
But the hallway is empty.
Either he moves at the speed of light, or it’s your hallucination.
Still, you know it’s a he.
Why? Because no girl would be this inconsiderate. This level of auditory terrorism is purely boyish behavior.
Later that evening, you lean back against your couch, glaring at your book before tightening your grip on the spine. It’s impossible to grasp the meaning of a single sentence while the music is on.
I bet he’s a slim, pimple-faced little gremlin. A pasty basement-dweller with zero social skills. A virgin for sure. There’s no way a single girl—
The music stops.
You blink, realizing your knuckles have gone white from strangling your library book, which certainly doesn’t deserve this abuse.
10:16 PM.
Huh. Much earlier than usual.
And then—
B O O M.
The techno music kicks in.
A strangled, primal scream escapes you, muffled into your pillow like the cries of a dying animal. You fucking hate techno.
On the bright side, you apparently have 20 whole minutes to cry and tear apart furniture before anyone hears it.
You curl up on the couch, hair sticking up in all directions, eyes locked on the clock. Your feet are tucked close to your hips as you will the hands to move faster.
Come on, asshole. Just a little longer. Just five more minutes. Give me a reason. Give me a fucking reason.
The second the clock hits 11:00 PM, you press dial.
The number is already on your screen.
“Police department. What’s your emergency?”
“Hi! My psycho neighbor has been blasting his shitty techno music for three hours straight,” you say, pacing the room like a rabid animal. At this point, you probably look like the unhinged one. “It’s already past 11:00 PM, I really need someone to come over.”
There’s a short pause. Then:
“Have you tried talking to them?”
You stop dead in your tracks.
“Who?”
“Your neighbor.”
You blink. “What? No. Why would I do that?”
“Perhaps ask them to turn it down a bit?”
“…A bit?” You let out a hollow, manic laugh. “This isn’t a bit. This is a nightmare club. Can you hear that?” You shove the phone against the door, pressing it so hard the plastic creaks.
“Miss, I understand your frustration, but—”
“Frustration?” Another laugh bubbles up—high-pitched, deranged. “This has been going on for two weeks!”
“We’d appreciate your cooperation and understanding so that our officers don’t have to respond to minor nuisances—”
“I need the police. NOW.”
“If you could just try a polite conversation—”
“I FUCKING HATE HIM.”
“Miss, your language is inappropriate. We may have to—”
“KISS MY ASS!”
You hurl the phone onto the couch and storm out of your apartment, Hello Kitty pajamas flapping as you stomp across the hall with your bare feet—something you would never do in your right mind. Your fist is raised, prepared to pound on the opposite door.
And then—
Silence.
The music cuts off.
You freeze.
Footsteps. Approaching.
Your breath catches.
Your fight-or-flight instincts slam into overdrive, and before you can even process it, you’re back inside your apartment, door locked, back pressed against it.
Your heartbeat pounds in your ears, still matching the faint techno beat lingering in the air.
You gulp.
I fucking hate him.
Hauling two weeks' worth of groceries up six flights of stairs is a mistake. You know this now. But knowing doesn’t ease the burn in your arms or make your fingers feel any less numb. The bags dig into your skin like vengeful little beasts, your grip slipping with every agonizing step. You barely even see where you're going, your vision blocked by a precariously stacked pile of food.
Halfway up, just as you’re questioning all your life choices, a low voice from behind nearly sends you sprawling.
“You need help?”
You nearly misstep.
“Not really, thanks,” you reply quickly, biting your lip. You manage another step, wobbling under the weight of your groceries.
“Looks like you need a hand.”
You shake your head, even though he can’t see it. “Nah, I’m good.” Even though the part of you, particularly your hands, screams that the help is indeed crucial. But you’ve already said no once, and changing your mind now feels weirdly humiliating.
And as if the universe is personally offended by your stubbornness, the top package—a flimsy plastic bag stuffed with herbs—starts to slip.
“No-no-no—” You desperately shift the load to the side, which only makes things worse. The package of waffles teeters, preparing for its grand escape—
Then, before disaster can strike, a broad hand snatches it midair and tucks it back into the pile.
You freeze for a second, blinking at the unexpected save. Then, swallowing your pride, you mumble, “Thanks.”
He doesn’t acknowledge it. No nod, no hum—nothing. Instead, as if taking your pause as an opportunity, he moves past you, squeezing by in the narrow stairwell, like someone who’s very, very done with being stuck behind you at your snail’s pace.
The first thing you notice is his hair—long, crow-black, and tangled at the ends like he just got out of bed. Messy, but not in a way “shit, where is my comb?” but more like “fuck. a. comb.” He’s dressed in all black, the kind of outfit that practically screams some subculture. Goth? Emo? Whatever it is, it suits him.
Then, the metal catches your eye. A curved barbell through his eyebrow. A spiked leather armband. He looks like the kind of guy who owns an unreasonable number of band T-shirts and walks into coffee shops ordering his drink black, like his soul, you can hear barista’s whisper.
You’re still analyzing him when you finally reach the landing. The table on the wall says Floor 6—your floor. Relief floods you. You’re about to come up with an idea of what the best way is to fumble for your keys when—
The guy stops. Right in front of the flat next to yours.
You freeze like a cat seeing a bird. Groceries threatening to slip from your grip, but they no longer the object of your attention or worry.
There’s no way. There is no way.
Your brain still refuses to connect the dots. He could be visiting someone, right? A friend? A— Then he pulls a key from his pocket.
He turns slightly, catching your deer-in-the-headlights stare. His expression shifts into something vaguely suspicious. Does he think you’re a stalker or what?
“Any problem?” he asks, lazily spinning his key between his fingers.
Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
“You’re my neighbor,” you say, almost breathless. Somehow your surprised statement comes out as a question.
“Apparently.”
You blink at him, feeling heat rise to your face—not out of shyness, but out of sheer, boiling anger. After weeks of suffering through his nightmare club music, after countless passive-aggressive pillow screams, after nearly calling the police—you’re just now meeting your mortal enemy?
“I live next door,” you say, bluntly, as it should set clear the way you feel about him and his music.
His gaze flickers to your overloaded arms, then back to your face—or rather, the part not obscured by a rebellious head of lettuce. He doesn’t look particularly impressed. And the irritation bubbling in your voice is clearly lost on him.
“Okay,” he replies. A single, indifferent okay, before he turns the key and pushes open his door.
“Hey,” you blurt out before he disappears. “Your music. Are you out of your mind playing it that loud?”
He tilts his head slightly, considering. “Most likely.”
And then, without another word, he slips inside, shutting the door with an infuriating click.
You stand still, like you've been slapped. You expected your conversation to end in a long fight, with him calling you names for not understanding his precious taste in music. Gods, you’ve envisioned dozens of scenarios and witty replies for each of those. But not this.
Seething, your fingers tighten around the grocery bags—
And that’s when the universe decides to have its final laugh.
A sharp, unforgiving tear.
Your arms lighten as one of your overfilled bags gives up on life, sending apples, onions, and goddamn tomatoes rolling across the floor and bouncing down the stairs.
A strangled noise escapes your throat.
Your grunt of despair is probably heard three floors down.
A few evenings later, you’re banging on his door like it personally wronged you. If he can blast music at ungodly decibels, surely he can hear this.
The moment the door swings open, you nearly stumble forward, hands almost colliding with his chest. It takes all your effort to resist inertia and not crash into him.
Regaining your composure, not that you particularly care about keeping a friendly face, you demand, “Could you at least play something remotely cheerful?”
His gaze flicks downward, taking in the flour smudges on your shirt and the streak of dough on your sleeve, like you just wrestled a sack of flour—and lost.
For the last thirty minutes, you’ve been attempting to bake a cake while blasting your own music through your headphones, only to realize, much too late, that his relentless emo soundtrack drowns out everything. And since your weekend plans got rained out, you’re left alone with your misery and his depressing playlist rubbing salt in the wound.
“Seriously, I want to take a rope and fucking hang from my chandelier to your music.”
He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, his sleeveless shirt revealing strong biceps—which puzzles you. So, he not only listens to soul-crushing music but also works out? The contradiction irritates you for no logical reason. Despite his build, he doesn’t look particularly intimidating—just tired.
“Me too,” he says bluntly.
You pause. Blink.
Wait—what?
For a brief, disorienting moment, you try to gauge whether he’s being sarcastic or if you’ve just wandered into a much heavier conversation than expected. He does look perpetually grumpy—borderline brooding—but now you wonder if you should tread carefully, or you might end up witnessing the headline, “The guy who’d been reported playing loud music found dead in his apartment.”
“Uh… why exactly do you wanna hang?” you ask hesitantly.
His eyes flick over you, assessing. Then—
SLAM.
The door shuts in your face so fast that the air shifts.
“ASSHOLE!” you shout at the wood, your voice echoing through the hallway.
You stand there for a full minute, seething, before you remember the cake.
When you return to the kitchen and see its charred edges, you conclude that if one of you were to get hanged tonight, it might actually be an improvement.
You're fighting with the office printer. It has eaten your paper and refuses to let go. No matter how many pieces you pull out, more seem to be jammed inside, like some cursed, endless void of shredded documents.
Then—BANG.
Loud, persistent.
Your boss. He needs those documents now, and you’ve only managed to print three out of ten pages.
I’m going to get fired, you think frantically, making one last-ditch attempt to yank the paper free, pulling it with all the force you have.
But the banging grows louder. And louder. And—
Your eyes snap open.
You're in your apartment.
Relief crashes over you as you take in your room. The morning sun slicing through the tiny gap between your navy curtains.
BANG. BANG.
The sound makes you flinch.
The knocking is real.
Dragging yourself out of bed, still groggy and dressed in a stretched-out t-shirt and Hello Kitty shorts, you shuffle to the door. A glance at the clock. 8:45 AM. Saturday. No guests expected.
Peeking through the peephole, you see a blonde woman, somewhere in her… fifties? You’ve never been good at discerning age. But what’s even more important – you’ve never seen her before.
Who the hell…?
Before you can think further - BANG. You flinch again. For such a petite lady, she’s surprisingly strong.
Does she want to knock the damn door down?
“Who’s there?” you call out loud enough for her to hear.
“Hi! I’m really sorry to disturb you.” She sounds sincerely apologetic. “I hoped you could help me! Can we talk about your next-door neighbor?”
You frown. What is that even supposed to mean? Then—Eureka.
Finally! Another neighbour got fed up with him!
Flicking the lock open, you greet her with a grin.
“Morning! Finally!” you say in a rush, delighted. “I was waiting for this day!”
“Really?” She raises her brow. “So you know what’s going on?”
“Of course! For over a goddamn month!”
She sighs, placing a hand over her chest almost dramatically. “You have no idea what a relief it is to hear that!”
“Believe me, ma’am, I share your relief just as much! I even called the police, but they told me—”
“Oh no!” she gasps, suddenly alarmed. “Martin got himself into trouble again?”
Her sudden concern startles you. But only for a second.
“So this asshole has a name…” you mutter without thinking.
“It was my father’s name,” she says matter-of-factly.
You blink at her, unsure why the information is even relevant.
“They didn’t listen to me. Anyway,” you push on, “how about we go to the police together, join forces, and make sure he kisses the large fine and never blasts his awful music again?”
Now she’s the one giving you a weird look, clutching her purse to her chest as if worried she might get robbed at any moment.
“Police? Oh, no! I think you’ve misunderstood. I’m here to check on Martin. I was hoping you could tell me if he’s been around, if he seems alright.”
Your brain lags, processing her words like an ancient computer about to overheat. Why would anyone check on this ass—
“I haven’t spoken to my son in over a year,” she adds, shaking her head. “My husband and I are so worried.”
And just like that—the puzzle clicks.
Your son? The words echo in your mind like a scream in a vast tunnel.
Your adrenaline spikes. You’re no longer looking at a petite woman you can join forces with, but the very person responsible for him coming into this world and making your life miserable for the past month.
“Your son has been blasting his deafening music every single evening and ruining my life,” you hiss through gritted teeth, each word punctuated with fury.
The woman takes a few steps backward, almost losing her balance, startled by the change in your face.
“The fucking concerts happen every night, right on schedule, around 8 PM. Care to join?” you snap, crossing your arms.
“Oh…!” She opens and closes her mouth, looking for the right words to come out. “It’s just… Martin was such a nice kid.”
You let out a short, disbelieving laugh. Oh, for the love of— Please don’t pull out baby pictures.
“As a teenager, he fell in love with that girl,” she says, the words laced with a kind of disdain that makes her sound like a self-proclaimed prophet condemning the sin. “He got his eyebrow pierced, grew out and dyed his hair, started dressing differently… And then, about a year ago, they broke up.”
Well, at least you got one thing right about his playlist.
“Then we said a lot of terrible things to each other, things I regret and… he moved here. I haven’t heard from him since.”
She pauses. And when you catch the shimmer of unshed tears in her eyes, you suddenly feel… awkward.
Because you’re standing in front of a mother talking about her kid.
Shifting on your feet, a little voice in the back of your mind whispers that maybe—maybe—you should’ve thought twice before unloading all your pent-up frustration on her.
“If you see him,” she says, almost pleading, “please tell him I came by. That I really wanted to talk to him. And that I’m sorry.” She hesitates. “Tell him he can call me whenever he’s ready.”
Would he even listen?
You give her a curt nod, and in return, she showers you with thanks.
With that, her figure turns away, and your discomfort melts away with her fading footsteps.
You let out a long, tired sigh. That’s certainly not what you expected at 8 o’clock in the morning.
Before shutting the door, you cast a glance at the apartment across from yours.
What are the chances the asshole heard the entire conversation and just pretended not to be home?
You let the mystery stay in the staircase and shut your door.
Later that evening, right on schedule, his music starts blasting through the walls again.
“I fucking hate you, Martin,” you whisper, staring up at the ceiling.
Weighing all the yeses and noes, you decide you’ll only mention his mother’s visit if you happen to run into him by sheer chance in the next few days. After all, you’re not an owl, watching over his life, and his mother must have his number or some way to reach him. If he ignores her, that’s on him. That’s what the universe wants.
And yet… your actions betray you.
The next few days, you find yourself pausing before stepping out of your apartment, glancing through the peephole as if you’re being hunted instead of living your normal, peaceful life. On the staircase, you stick your head out slightly, scanning for any sign of him. You tell yourself this is all just caution, totally rational. It has nothing to do with your promise to tell him about his mother.
Even if you do run into him, you can just ignore him. Maybe you should wait for an apology first? Yes, that’s fair. A perfectly reasonable plan. But deep down, you know—Martin will never apologize to you.
The thought puts you in a sour mood as you get ready to meet your best friend, but eventually, excitement takes the edge off your irritation. You swipe on a deep shade of red lipstick, so caught up in your buzzing energy that you go slightly beyond the contour of your right mouth corner.
Then, the buzzer rings.
Grinning, you rush to the door—only to stop short, nearly dropping the lipstick.
Martin.
The shock hits in two waves. First, that it’s him, standing on your doorstep like some kind of glitch in the universe. Second, the way he looks. His left eye is bruised, an angry red-purple bloom smearing across his skin. A scratch runs along his nose, dried blood still clinging to it, and you suspect the eye hidden beneath his bangs looks just as bad.
“What the hell happened to you?” you blurt out.
He looks at you, unnervingly calm, as if those injuries are nothing more than just a figment of your imagination. His gaze drifts downward.
“Your lipstick…” he says, pointing to the right corner of your lip.
You don’t process the words at first, only belatedly, realizing what he means. Mirroring his movement, you swipe the corner of your mouth.
“Yeah, I know,” you say, though your mind is still yelling, SOS. What the hell is happening? Million question marks.
Then, very casually, he asks, “Do you have some sort of ointment?” Almost as if you were discussing the weather.
You blink. “I—uh—yeah. I guess so. I’ll check the kit.”
The words come automatically, and before you know it, you’re turning away, heading to the bathroom, giving your inner hand a quick pinch just to test the plausibility of the moment. You hiss as the pain rushes through you.
Not a dream then, you think, tossing the lipstick onto the sink as you stretch up on tiptoes to grab the first aid kit from the top shelf.
Rummaging through it, you sift past unknown pills and bandages. Was it a gang from a different subculture who did this? Cool guys? One of the neighbors who had also tried calling the police? Finally, you stumble across a small tube of ointment. You pop the cap and take a sniff—herbal, vaguely medicinal. Probably safe. Grabbing some cotton pads just in case, you make your way back.
The door is almost shut.
For a split second, your stomach twists—did he leave? But when you open it, you see he’s still there, hands in his pockets, gaze fixed on the floor.
“I don’t know if this is what you need, but…” You hold out the ointment, and your fingers brush for a single moment, causing you to nearly jump. You pull back quickly, clasping your hands in front of you. Totally not awkward.
Martin takes the small box, his lips moving slightly as he reads the label.
The question lingers on your tongue: Who did this to you? But you don’t ask. And maybe you don’t want to know.
“I’ll Google the instructions,” he mutters, lifting his gaze.
His eyes—blue with hints of green—stand out sharply against the bruising. The red beneath them only makes them more vivid. Like twin galaxies caught in the aftermath of a collision.
“Have you been to a doctor?” The question slips out before you can stop it. Not that you should care.
“Yeah,” he nods. “And then the pharmacy gave me some useless stuff.”
“Don’t they know better?”
He looks at you blankly.
“In the pharmacy,” you clarify, clearing your throat.
“Google is more reliable.”
Your mouth almost falls open at how much further his idiocy has climbed in your mental rankings. Or maybe he bashed his head too?
“It’s a joke,” he adds, and you wonder if a trace of a smile flickers on his face.
“Oh. Nice to know,” you mutter, nodding like a fool.
The silence between you threatens to stretch into something unbearable. Before it does, he lifts the ointment slightly. “I’ll return it.”
“No problem,” you say, as if this entire situation isn’t ridiculous. As if this isn’t him.
He turns toward his apartment, and before the ironic thought of of course, there’d be no gratitude makes you mutter something sarcastic—
“Thanks,” he says quietly, just before he disappears behind his door.
You have nothing to say.
Again.
“It stings,” Martin mutters, stretching out the ointment toward you. It’s still painful to look at him.
“As any other healing stuff does.” You take it back, shrugging. This time, no physical contact.
His lips press together. “Better without it.”
“You need someone to blow on it.”
He looks at you as if you just suggested murder.
Your brain catches up a second too late—of course, he lives alone. Facepalm.
“Or, you know, you can take a notebook or a piece of paper and do this.” You mimic the motion of fanning your face, as if that somehow erases the awkwardness.
But Martin doesn’t answer. He just stares at you, as if caught in a trance.
“Martin?” You snap your fingers in front of his face. “Are you okay?”
His pupils contract slightly. “How do you know my name?”
Oh. Shit.
The realization slams into you like a freight train. You totally forgot about his mother.
“Your mom,” you say, dropping your gaze to the floor for a second. “She was here. She wanted to know how you’re doing and—”
The words barely leave your mouth before he turns his back to you, strides into his apartment, and slams the door shut.
The sound echoes down the hall.
You stand there, feeling weirdly winded. What are the chances he's got a pot on the stove, so once he turns it off, he’ll return?
Zero.
Then, with an annoyed huff, you stomp back to your flat, tossing the ointment onto the table.
Whatever.
A few hours later.
Music rips through the thin walls.
LOOK AT ME
I'M ON THE WAY TO THE PROMISED LAND
I'M ON THE HIGHWAY TO HELL
HIGHWAY TO HELL
You groan, stuffing a pillow over your head.
Whoever he got into a fight with, it clearly wasn’t your neighbor.
You’re going to get fired.
That thought, along with the excruciating turbulence in your head, follows you all the way home.
Your boss had one hell of a day, which meant you had one hell of a day. And, of course, he took it out on you.
Each step up the stairs drains what little energy you have left. Your legs feel leaden, barely lifting high enough to clear the next step. The tips of your shoes scrape against the floor.
Are you pointless?
Or is your boss just a raging moron?
Gods, you just want to crawl into bed and forget the world exists.
You make it to your floor, eyes half-lidded, and—of course. There he is.
Martin stands there, a trash bag in one hand, seemingly on his way to toss it out. The dim hallway light highlights the faint blue and green smudges left behind by bruises that are finally healing. They look like watercolors blending into his skin.
His eyes flick to you. “You alright?”
The words come out sincere, but you’re too exhausted to decipher the tone.
“Never been better,” you deadpan, digging through your bag for your keys. Where the hell are they?
Your fingers fumble against your wallet, your phone, a handful of receipts—everything except the damn key. Your shoulders sag.
From the corner of your eye, Martin shifts. He’s still standing there, still watching. Not in an intrusive way. Not even expectant. Just... there.
You don’t have the energy to care what he’s thinking.
Finally, your fingers brush against the key. You grip it, yank it out, and step left to pass him—only for him to move the same way.
You both freeze.
Then you both step the other way. Another near-collision.
The day has wrung you dry, and this stupid, clumsy little dance is the final drop.
A bitter laugh breaks from your lips. Not because it’s funny. No, if you were just a little more rested, if your head weren’t pounding, if your body weren’t screaming at you to just stop, maybe you’d find it amusing. But right now? Right now, it’s the kind of laugh that comes out before tears.
Martin gets the hint. He presses his back to the wall, making space for you to pass.
“If you need anything—” he starts as you go by.
“The only thing I need from you,” you cut in, snapping your head up, your words simmering with venom, “is for your goddamn music to stop blasting through the walls for two hours straight every day, making everything in my apartment vibrate like it’s a damn earthquake.”
Your chest rises and falls, demanding a breather, demanding rest. But now that you’ve started, you can’t stop.
“Of course, you won’t do that,” you announce it almost like a sentence to both of you.
You struggle with the key as you try to shove it into the lock. You miss. Again. Your hands are shaking now. You’re so pissed not just anyone but him witness you in the moment like this.
“You know what, Martin?” You try to steady your voice, the way an exhausted parent might when talking to a particularly frustrating child. “I had a really shitty day today. It’s not just some imaginary, made-up crap I came up with in my free time. So now that you know, go ahead. Finish me off with one of your damn playlists.”
The key finally slides into place. The lock clicks.
“To simplify your life,” you add, forcing a smile, “I’m gonna admit—techno is the worst.”
You push the door open.
"Go ahead," you mutter, just before slamming it shut.
Sheer surprise flickers across his face—then something shifts. A shadow of disappointment. Recognition. Like before, his eyes flash with the memories of all the assumptions people have thrown at him, all the times he’s swallowed the urge to argue, to say, This is not who I am. But the realization comes just as quickly. It doesn’t matter. They’ve already written him off.
Through the gap, you catch that fleeting look—just for a second.
What was meant to be a satisfying blow lands wrong, leaving a sour taste in your mouth. The tasteless vengeance drains the last bit of energy you had left.
Perfect. Now he thinks you’re a hysterical bitch.
Stripping off your work clothes, you throw on your softest t-shirt and collapse into bed, cocooning yourself in the blanket like a human burrito. If you can’t fight this world, you’re going to hide from it.
Maybe you’ll get some sleep before he starts his next live concert from hell.
When you wake up the next morning, the first thing you notice is the quiet. The unusual, comforting stillness of the city, still asleep.
Your eyes adjust to the golden sunlight streaming into your room. You’ve forgotten to shut the curtains, and now dust particles drift lazily in the glow, almost like astronauts in space. Your body feels lighter, your mind clearer, even the pressing feeling in your chest has vanished. As if the world has finally decided to be kind for once.
And then it hits you. The realization is akin to the splash of cold water to the face.
He didn’t play music last night.
You feel odd, even though everything you said was true. You aren’t the one causing discomfort, and yet, the thought lingers—maybe I went too far.
The phrase I’m sorry for lashing out at you circles your mind like an annoying pop-up ad, but you swat it away before it roots itself too deep.
No. Apologies are for people who deserve them. And Martin does not.
Especially not after he generously granted you a single day of peace, only to resume his usual torment the next evening—loud, unrelenting, and spanning three goddamn hours instead of two.
You clench your jaw as the bass pulses through your walls while you scan the tech online store. The temptation to call the police fades quickly, since you’re pretty sure you’ll be advised to talk kindly to him again.
No thanks.
Click “Purchase.”
You’re done being the victim. Time to fight back.
RING. RING.
The delivery arrives earlier than expected.
You sign the receipt with a distracted nod, barely processing the delivery guy’s cheerful, “Enjoy the music!” as he hands over the package.
Stepping back inside, you lug the heavy box into your living room, nudging the door shut with your hip. The weight alone makes you wonder if you accidentally ordered a subwoofer powerful enough to shatter glass.
Attempts to connect your phone to the music center are in vain, and you disdainfully look at the instructions you discarded earlier. Seems like the intuitive approach doesn’t work, and now you have to read them.
“Connected,” a cheerful robotic voice announces through the speakers, nearly making you jump.
You huff, triumphant. Finally.
A glance at the clock: 4:45 PM
Two hours before Martin starts his sonic warfare.
One hour before you strike first.
You smirk. Let’s see how he likes a taste of his own medicine.
And you’re not talking about his kind of music. Oh no.
Sabrina Carpenter. Taylor Swift. Dua Lipa.
Not once has anything remotely bubblegum blared from his speakers, but you’re betting he’ll hate it as much as you hate whatever demonic screaming he plays every night.
…Unless.
A disturbing thought slithers into your brain as you scroll through your playlist.
What if he’s a secret pop fan? What if, for eight hours a day, he’s privately jamming to "Espresso" like the rest of the world?
You shake your head. Impossible.
Still, you hesitate for half a second before pressing play.
Three things you learn in three days:
a) Martin might, in fact, be a secret pop fan.
b) You might have started developing an aversion to your own music.
c) When both pop music and metal play at full volume, metal always wins.
Unfortunately.
HALF-PAST TWELVE
AND I'M WATCHING THE LATE SHOW IN MY FLAT ALL ALONE
HOW I HATE TO SPEND THE EVENING ON MY OWN
Maybe your devious plan needs more time.
Maybe it ain’t gonna work at all.
Maybe you should play more diverse songs.
GIMME, GIMME, GIMME A MAN AFTER MIDNIGHT
WON'T SOMEBODY HELP ME CHASE THE SHADOWS AWAY?
You flick the damp strands of your hair over your shoulder, shoving your hair dryer—which seconds ago was a microphone—into the drawer. Abba’s concert is in full swing: loud, relentless, victorious.
And then—a noise.
At first, it barely registers over the music—a faint, foreign disruption. Your brow furrows as you glance toward the speakers. Did the bass just crackle? Is something wrong with the system? A vision flickers in your mind: you, struggling to lug the heavy music center to the nearest shop, cursing under your breath, while Martin watches victoriously—either through the peephole or, worse, from the stairwell.
You lower the volume. The noise sharpens.
Your doorbell.
Your heart nearly jumps out of your throat.
Almost like a thief in your own apartment, you creep to the door, moving on your tiptoes. Your fingers hover over the peephole before you even dare to check.
Martin.
Fuck.
A fresh bolt of panic shoots through you, and the first thought is to back out of the game. BUT it’s too late to pretend you’re not home. You either can crank the volume up and let him stew in the hallway, questioning his life choices, or open the door and have an assertive talk so he learns who’s in charge now.
Squaring your shoulders, you take a steadying breath, check your reflection in the mirror.
Acceptable.
Despite your hair still drying.
You look down.
Pink socks. With giraffes.
Fucking perfect.
Still, it’s too late. You’ve already flicked the lock. Already pulled the door open.
And now—there he is.
Standing right in front of you. Martin’s shirt has The Scream printed across it—Edvard Munch’s ghostly, contorted figure frozen in eternal horror.
And the first thought that hits you is: If this doesn’t work, that painting might as well be the mood for the rest of your life.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” you echo, plastering on a look that (hopefully) conveys what the hell are you doing here? in one single, withering glance.
Silence stretches between you. Again.
It’s always like this with him. Either the walls quake with his music, or there’s nothing at all. No middle ground. No mild thing in between.
The staring game continues, and your eyes begin to sting from the effort of not blinking first.
For a moment, his face shifts—not in reality, but in the place where memories and possibilities blur together.
A vision: Martin’s brows drawing together in confusion, lips parting just slightly, like he’s about to say something—right before—
Right before you slammed the door in his face last week.
You gulp, your fingers twitching nervously. The phrase “I will listen to my music whenever I want” is activated on your tongue, waiting for the right moment.
And just as he opens his mouth to say something—
“IWILLLISTENTOMYMUSICWHENEVERI—”
He spoke at the same time.
And whatever he just said? It short-circuits your brain.
“What?” you repeat dumbly.
Martin shifts, rubbing the back of his neck. And for the first time, you notice something—something that doesn’t quite fit the version of him you’ve conjured up in your head.
“Wanna listen to music together?” he repeats his question again, almost... shyly?
A glitch in the universe.
You always thought of him as the smug, arrogant guy who plays loud music to irritate the essence of his neighbors. The attitude: “I give no shit about you.”
But something about your last encounter must have shifted something.
Because now, standing here, looking at his tall, broad-shouldered figure, you don’t see a cocky jerk with a speaker fetish.
You spot a guy who doesn’t mind being the small spoon.
And for some reason—that unsettles you.
Your expression must be terrifyingly unreadable because Martin fidgets, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans.
Like it’s the most casual, normal suggestion in the world.
But it’s not. It’s the exact opposite of normal.
Because you are supposed to be winning this war. And he’s supposed to be suffering.
Not standing at your door looking strangely awkward.
Not asking you to listen with him.
And you should definitely say NO.
“Why?” you blurt out instead, your arms crossing like a strict teacher expecting an explanation from a back-row student.
His weight shifts from one foot to the other, like he was bracing for a clear yes or no. Not... this.
“This is the first time you’ve played something decent.”
Your jaw clenches.
There it is. The asshole is back.
You huff. “Says who?”
“Not a fan of Sabrina Carpenter.”
Either the bluntness of it or the ridiculous sense of victory—not a secret fan of Sabrina after all—your lips threaten to sprawl into a grin. You bite down on it, fight it, but nothing helps.
The flashbacks of him slamming the door, nearly making you kiss it, boil under the surface. And you could do the same. Fuck him. Slam the door. Pay him back in kind. Do it. Do it. Do it.
A second. A single second.
And Martin will turn away.
Shuffle back to his apartment, muttering “idiot” under his breath.
He’ll play his music just as always.
You’ll move out sooner or later.
Someone else will move in.
And Martin—Martin will stay Martin.
He’ll climb the stairs, and for a split second, he’ll remember walking behind you once, watching the way your grocery bags nearly split open under the weight of green sour apples—an unpopular choice, but his all-time favorite.
A small, stupid thing. An invisible thread.
But today?
Today will be your last conversation.
Because the universe doesn’t give infinite chances. Quite a few. And if you don’t take them, they don’t show up again.
It all flashes between you and him, more vivid, more deafening than any music he’s ever blasted through the walls.
Your breath hitches.
And before you know it—before you can second-guess yourself—some invisible force (no one but you, actually) pushes the door open wider.
Martin’s brows lift slightly, caught off guard.
“You coming in or not?” you ask, a smirk tugging at your lips—because he definitely didn’t expect this.
And after a beat—
He steps inside.
If anybody thought your conversation would flow and thrive, boy, were they wrong.
“Would you like something to drink?”
Black coffee. No sugar. Come on.
“No, thanks,” he says.
You shrug and turn toward the window, settling against the windowsill. The sky is painted with orange and purple hues, the beautiful farewell of the day. In just 20 minutes, the silhouettes of people moving in the streets below will barely be visible.
Martin, meanwhile, has taken the plush chair, his attention seemingly absorbed by the plant left behind by the previous tenants. His fingers trail idly along its leaves, tracing their shape, their edges. Is he counting them? Studying them like they hold the meaning of life?
His profile is sharp under the dim lighting of sunset, but the bruises still mark his skin, dark smudges beneath his eyes that haven’t yet faded. They look painful.
Abba fades into the Bee Gees, then Blondie, then Boney M.
When the darkness finally settles over the city, you shut your curtains close.
Martin sits suspiciously straight, his fingers tapping against the chair’s arm in quiet rhythm, in sync with the music.
When he catches a rather scanning gaze of yours, he raises a brow in question.
“You use anything for it?” you point at the skin around your eyes.
“A few days ago.” His reply is somewhat elusive.
“You need to do it more frequently. Unless you want to keep them for good.”
He hums thoughtfully, as if promising to consider your words but not committing to them.
Neither of you speaks again.
Two days later and he drops by again. Kicking off his shoes, he notices the ointment lying on the small table. Its cap slightly askew, like it’s been waiting for him.
“Use it.” You nod toward it.
Surprisingly, he doesn’t argue.
Minutes later, the sound of running water and muttered curses echo from the bathroom.
“What happened?” You rush there like a lifeguard ready to get the man out of the sea. Only to witness Martin hunched over the sink, splashing water onto his face like a man possessed. Droplets scatter across the mirror, the counter—his shirt is already damp.
“It stings,” he grits out, wincing as he dabs at his skin again. “Like hell.”
“Can’t be,” you say stepping closer. “It’s almost healed.”
“I’m telling you.” He flinches and throws another handful of water against his face, this time droplets get over your shirt too.
“Stop! If it gets in your eye, it’s gonna sting even more.” You reach past him to shut off the tap, your hand brushing his in the process and he steps instinctively back.
The bathroom isn’t big—far from it. And in a space this small, he’s just there, all broad shoulders and height that makes the room feel even tinier. So it’s a matter of seconds before his head meets the towel rail with a solid thunk.
“Ouch.” His other hand flies to the back of his head.
Before you can stop it, you burst into laughter, so crystal clear and genuine.
“Not funny,” he mutters, rubbing the sore spot.
“Oh, it absolutely is.” You cross your arms, biting back another laugh.
He huffs, rubbing at his eye next—but you quickly swat his hand away.
“Don’t,” you chide.
“Do you have some kind of—I don’t know….?” He waves a hand, mimicking the same motion you had used some time ago for a fan.
You shake your head. There’s nothing. No fan, no paper to wave, not even a magazine.
All you see around are lotions, creams, and towels.
“Just… come here,” you say finally.
Martin looks at you, wary, still pressing his hand to the back. “Come where?”
“Sit,” you say, pointing to the edge of the bathtub. He hesitates only for a moment, before doing as you say.
“Close your eyes.”
“Gonna take revenge on me?”
It’s the first time you’ve seen him smile. And it’s real. Not a smirk, not a half-laugh. Just a small, genuine thing that catches you off guard.
“Sure,” you deadpan. “Get ready. It’s gonna be terrible.”
His smile lingers, but he closes his eyes anyway.
You lean in, careful, hesitant, and blow softly against his skin.
It’s a gentle thing, barely a breath. You don’t dare push back his bangs, even though you can tell he hasn’t applied ointment to the other side. Unexpectedly, this moment lets you better explore his facial features. Long nose, powerful jaw, prominent cheekbones. Even the piercing seems to compliment his appearance.
His breathing slows.
“You ate something spicy,” he murmurs.
Your face heats instantly at the remark. “Shut up.”
You did have spicy pasta for lunch, and you regretted it then. Now you regret it even more.
A few more moments pass. His nose no longer scrunches. His lips no longer twitch. The tension in his face eases.
“Is it better?” Your voice comes out as a whisper.
When he opens his eyes, the proximity between you is more evident than before. Much more. The bathroom space is growing smaller, more confined. Your knees brush against his, and it wasn’t until now you realized that.
This time, you don’t just notice that his eyes are blue—you notice the ring of green around the pupils. The way they darken in the dim light. The way they look at you.
Martin doesn’t say much.
Just one word.
“Better.”
When you find the crumpled paper on your doormat, you instantly know who’s left it.
His handwriting is a mess of sharp angles and inconsistent sizing with big spacing between the letters, like someone who once learned to write neatly but later crossed out calligraphy out of his priorities. You smooth out the paper, eyes narrowing as you decipher the scrawled message.
"mind if i come over with my buddy? he won’t drop a word, just don’t wanna leave him alone."
Your brain immediately fires off a dozen theories, none of them reassuring.
Should I prepare to meet another emo? A junkie?
Lately, you’ve almost convinced yourself Martin isn’t into that kind of shit. No, if anything, the only thing he overdoses on is music.
Still, the phrasing—"won’t drop a word"—sounds sinister.
As you head downstairs, you debate whether it’s too late to slip a note under his door, something along the lines of actually, I do mind. But that would be ridiculous. By the time you get home, it’ll already be evening.
You really need to exchange phone numbers.
Though now that you think about it… you’ve never actually seen Martin use a phone in your presence.
Does he even own one?
Everyone has a phone. Everyone. But Martin? If anyone were to defy the natural order of modern life, it would be him.
Later that evening, when the doorbell rings, you have butterflies in your stomach. As you’re walking toward the door, your legs inexplicably heavy. Peering through the peephole, you scan the narrow hallway.
There’s no one there except Martin.
Your brows knit together.
Did his buddy ditch him?
You exhale, shoulders loosening slightly as you unlock the door. Maybe the mysterious junkie (he's not a junkie, but until you learn more about him, the nickname stays) had a moment of good judgment and decided to bail.
But then you open the door.
And your mouth falls open.
“This is Steve,” Martin says, deadpan. “Steve, this is Y/n.”
He stands there, shoulders a little too squared, grip firm but careful around the lizard nestled in his hands. Steve is small but not too small, his textured skin patterned in shades of beige and hazel. Its head tilts at a slight angle, beady eyes blinking up at you as if assessing you.
You blink. Then stare at Martin. Then back at Steve. Then at Martin again.
Martin clears his throat, shifting his weight. “He’s, uh—chill. Doesn’t bite.” He hesitates, eyes flicking to yours before looking away. “But he gets nervous around new people. He doesn’t… meet them often.”
What might seem like a casual comment bears the meaning so much deeper underneath.
Then Steve, as to show off, flicks out his tongue—quick, electric blue.
You let out a small gasp, not out of fear but surprise, and then—without meaning to—you smile.
Martin exhales. His shoulders, tense from the moment the door opened, finally ease.
Two things you learn:
a) You definitely need to exchange phone numbers.
b) You are absolutely, undeniably bound to love Steve.
“No, no.” You shake your hands, backing away, but Martin easily keeps up. “I can’t hold him.”
“Scaredy cat.” His smirk is a little too satisfied, teasing but assured, like he already knows you’ll cave. Steve rests in his hands, smooth scales catching the light.
“I’m not,” you counter quickly, skirting behind the kitchen counter like it’s some kind of shield.
Martin tilts his head, unimpressed. “Then hold him.”
You hesitate. “What if I drop him?”
“You won’t.” He steps closer, cornering you between the counter and the wall. The only escape now would require some dramatic ninja move over the counter—so, yeah, not happening.
“Come here.” His voice dips lower. “I’ll show you.”
You exhale sharply, swallowing hard as you finally let him place Steve into your hands.
He’s heavier than you expected, solid and cool, his belly pressing against your palms. Tiny, clawed feet test your skin, gripping, adjusting. You freeze, afraid to move, but Steve merely flicks out his vibrant blue tongue in a lazy motion.
“Support his whole body,” Martin instructs, his hands brushing yours as he adjusts your grip. His fingers are warm, a quiet contrast to the coolness of Steve’s scales, and the touch sends an odd little jolt up your arm. “There. That’s better.”
You do your best to hold still, but when Steve shifts, his stubby legs tickle against your skin, and a startled giggle slips out.
“You can pet him,” Martin continues, like this is perfectly normal, like you’re not seconds away from combusting over the fact that he’s still standing so close. “Just not over the head. Try his chin or down his spine.”
Hesitantly, you run a finger down Steve’s back. His scales are smoother than you expected, cool to the touch. He doesn’t seem to mind—if anything, he settles into your hold, blinking slowly, his tongue flicking out again.
“How old is he?” you ask, voice softer now, as if you might disturb him.
“Around seven.” Martin shrugs, filling a glass with water and sipping as he watches the two of you.
Your face hurts from smiling, but you can’t stop, murmuring little compliments to Steve like he’s some kind of cat or dog. And suddenly, you’re well aware of Martin’s intense gaze. Before you get a little bit too conscious of how silly you must look right now, Martin leans his back against the counter, near you.
“He likes you.”
Something about that phrase settles deep in your chest. Maybe because you know Martin wouldn’t lie. Maybe because you never expected the evening to unfold like this.
He reaches out, dragging his fingers beneath Steve’s chin. The lizard leans into the touch ever so slightly, eyes half-closing, content.
Martin’s fingers drift from Steve’s chin to his back, brushing your hand. It’s nothing. A second of contact. But it lingers.
God, why is this so—
You cut off the thought with a hard swallow, trying to refocus on the lizard in your hands, yet perfectly aware of every little movement of his.
For the first time, the silence between you isn’t awkward. It’s warm. Easy.
You don’t even realize how much time has passed until your gaze flickers toward the corner of the room. The music center sits untouched. No music.
Your lips part as if to say Wow, we totally forgot, but somehow, that feels like it would break whatever this is.
Just a little longer, you think, holding onto the warmth in your chest.
But then, out of the corner of your eye, you see Martin’s gaze follow yours, flicking toward the music center.
It leaves you no choice but to say, “Let’s turn it on.” Again, your voice sounds more like a question than a statement.
Martin glances at you, then at Steve, still perfectly comfortable in your hands.
“Right.” But he doesn’t move right away.
Neither do you.
And suddenly, you’re not sure if that’s what your meetings are really about anymore.
To say the last meeting freaked you out is an understatement.
For more than a month, Martin has made sure to make your life unbearable. When he appeared on your doorstep with his weird proposal, you agreed out of curiosity—nothing more. Just one time wouldn’t hurt, and perhaps it would even calm down the minefield you were living on.
But somehow, one meeting turned into another. And another. And one more. There are days when you don’t see him, of course. You have your own life. Friends. Work. And Martin—whatever he does when he isn’t lingering in your doorway—has his own business to tend to. Business he never explains. And yet, a question has been forming in the back of your mind, no matter how hard you try to shove it away.
Why?
Why do you keep seeing each other?
Why do you find yourself thinking about him when you shouldn’t?
Why, after your last meeting, did you spend the night tossing and turning, smiling like an idiot, feeling lighter than you had in weeks?
The following days make it worse. Martin doesn’t drop by.
And that should be a relief. It should mean you can get back to normal.
Except—every evening, as you walk up the stairs to your apartment, some ridiculous, pathetic hope blooms in your chest.
Maybe tonight.
By the fifth day, it’s driving you insane. You can’t even focus on your book, your thoughts unraveling into increasingly absurd scenarios.
He’s gotten bored of me
He’s moved out and didn’t tell me.
His music center is broken.
Someone else found one of the notes he left for you and threw it away.
Then comes the worst thought. The one that makes your stomach lurch and your fingers tighten on the pages of your book.
What if he’s gotten into another fight? What if he’s lying in his apartment right now, ribs cracked, bleeding, alone?
The book slams shut.
Shit.
Before you can overthink it—before you can stop yourself, change into something other than Hello Kitty pajamas, or do anything that might give hesitation time to creep in—you’re already shutting the door to your flat.
A traitorous part of your brain screams at you to stop. Since when do we check up on Martin? He hasn’t played music—isn’t that exactly what we wanted?
But your feet are already moving.
And somehow, the word asshole has fallen out of your vocabulary.
Now, standing in front of his door, you hesitate.
You press your ear against the wood, straining for any sound, and—
“Oh.”
A startled noise escapes you as you jerk back, eyes locking with the middle-aged man climbing the stairs.
Shit. You must look insane.
“Good evening,” he says, eyeing you curiously.
“Hello,” you reply—too fast. With an awkward smile that practically yells, It is what you think and even worse!
He hesitates for a second, then continues up the stairs. Hopefully not about to call the police.
The only reassuring thought is that if he does, they might just tell him, Did you try talking to them first? before actually coming over.
You exhale sharply and turn back to Martin’s door.
There’s noise inside. Faint. The low hum of music.
Not blasting through the walls like usual. Just… playing at a reasonable volume.
Which is unlike Martin.
Your hand hovers over the doorbell. Just press it and get it over with.
The chime rings sharp and jarring, mimicking the anxiety within your chest.
Nothing.
You press it again.
Your heartbeat pounds in your ears, drowning out any noise from the apartment.
Bad idea. This is a bad, bad idea.
Your brain latches onto a horrifying realization.
Isn’t this the kind of music they play in movies when two characters are about to have sex?
A nauseating thought curls in your stomach. You’ve never seen him with anyone, but that doesn’t mean anything. He could have a girlfriend. Some stunning, emo woman. Or the exact opposite of him, wearing Barbie pink, someone who doesn’t get flustered over lizards or lose sleep wondering, Why the hell am I so drawn to him?
Your feet twitch. If you leave right now, maybe he won’t even—
The lock clicks.
And then, the door swings open.
Oh.
Reality—of course—surpasses all expectations.
Martin stands before you, wearing nothing but loose gray sweatpants, hanging low on his hips, and a very questionable transparent cape, splattered with what looks like black dye. The fabric clings oddly to his skin, damp in places, a strange mix of ridiculous and—dear God—unfairly attractive.
His hair is clipped up at the top, exposing the full sharpness of his cheekbones, deep blue eyes, and the faintest crease of surprise on his forehead. This is the first time you see him without bangs covering the side of his face. The bangs that now feel like a crime against humanity.
He’s been dying his hair. Right. You noticed the lighter strands at his roots days ago during the bathroom accident. But that small, logical observation is quickly drowned out by the absolute disaster of this moment.
Have you ever thought he was just a nerd who’s never seen anything apart from his couch?
Because, clearly, you were wrong.
His biceps are ridiculous. Defined. Tensed as he leans lazily against the doorframe, one forearm resting above his head, completely unaware of the crisis he’s just set off inside you.
Your mouth goes dry.
If, before this moment, you could write off your strange attachment to some external, magical force, now it’s something else entirely.
You’re drooling, says your inner voice. Signal red.
“Are you unwell?” he asks, his gaze flicking toward your burning cheeks. His brows furrow slightly, like he’s trying to assess whether you’re actually about to faint. It’s not even warm—rather the opposite—in the hallway.
“I’m alright.” You shrug, as if that could shake off the eerie, disturbing feeling within you.
Liar.
Your fingers curl against your palms, tingling, itching—to grab something, to do something with all this restless energy simmering beneath your skin. You’ve walked in on something intimate. Like you weren’t meant to see him like this.
Why are you suddenly acting so weird?
“I just wanted to…” You clear your throat. To see if you’re alive. Or with someone else. “Make sure all is good.”
Martin lets out a thoughtful hum, his head tilting slightly. The flicker in his eyes reveals he knows you’re holding something back—the only hope is that he’s oblivious to what exactly.
“All is good,” he eventually confirms, playing along with your script.
“Good,” you echo immediately.
More silence.
Should you ask when he’s going to drop by? No. That’s desperate.
You should leave. Now. Right this second. Before you do something you’ll regret. Before things get worse.
“Well,” you say, jabbing a thumb toward your apartment like it’s some kind of emergency exit. “Then I’ll go.”
“Okay.”
Okay. What else did you expect?
You shift on your feet, ready to turn, to move, to end this—but before you can, Martin shifts, too. His arms drop, like he’s about to shut the door or—no, like he’s about to follow you. There’s something in the way his body leans just slightly forward, a telltale sign of motion halted at the last second. His throat bobs.
“Can I drop by tomorrow?”
The words tumble out too quickly, like they weren’t meant to escape just yet. Like he debated saying them at all.
It takes a moment to process.
Warmth spreads across your chest at the expression on his face—slightly… worried.
You bite the inside of your cheek, trying not to expose the smile that wants to come out.
“…Sure.”
His face softens, chest falling with a slow exhale—like someone only now realizing they’d been holding their breath.
He nods. “See you ‘morrow.”
“Till tomorrow.”
You walk toward your door, eerily aware of the gaze lingering on you. You can feel it—tracing the curve of your back, the bare stretch of your legs. Or is it just your vivid imagination?
There’s only one way to know for sure—to glance back.
It’s stupid to.
But you do.
And—oh.
Martin is staring.
His gaze is lower, fixed on your legs with an intensity that makes your stomach flip. There’s something so satisfying about it until… realization slams into you with the force of a truck.
Oh, God. Your silly Hello Kitty pajama shorts.
He probably thinks you’re mentally a seven-year-old.
Heat rushes to your face.
Martin’s gaze flicks back up, lips slightly parted—as if he’s been caught red-handed. He’s watching you, trying to gauge your reaction, to estimate the damage done.
But all you can think is—Why didn’t you wear jeans?!
You practically hurl yourself inside your flat, slamming the door shut at the speed of light. Your palms press to your burning face as you sink against the wood, pulse roaring in your ears.
Two things are crystal clear.
One—Martin has missed you, too.
And two—you are in so much trouble.
Over the next week, you and Martin settle into an easy rhythm, meeting so often that it no longer feels like an event—just part of your routine. And—what a wonder—you finally exchange phone numbers. (Mystery unlocked: he has a phone!)
Soon, it feels perfectly normal to get a message around 11 PM, him asking if you’re still awake. Your no phone after 11 rule abandoned without hesitation. He sends you video clips of iconic songs, curating playlists like it’s his life’s mission—determined to introduce you to music he deems part of humanity’s cultural heritage.
And never—not once—does he mock you for not knowing what seems obvious to everyone else. Instead, the next day, he shares more insights, more behind-the-scenes stories, as if guiding you through an entire world he can’t wait for you to love as much as he does.
And you?
Something inside you melts at the sight of Martin coming out of his shell.
More meetings. More conversations that stretch far longer than planned. More effortless moments shared. And, consequently, more accidental touches.
Fingertips grazing as he passes you the remote for the music center. Shoulders brushing when he tilts his phone for you to watch another video. Knees colliding under the table. Hands lingering just a moment too long before pulling away.
You tell yourself it means nothing. That you’re imagining things. That you’re reading too much into something so innocent.
You stand on your tiptoes, stretching to reach a mug from the top shelf when suddenly—he’s there.
Martin steps in behind you, reaching for the mug before you can. His broad frame looms close, warmth radiating off him, so near that you can actually feel him. The proximity is… pleasant. Familiar, like someone you’ve known forever. Leaning into him would be the most natural thing in the world.
But you don’t.
Instead, you take the safe route. A rushed “Thanks,” as you take the mug and step back, letting the appropriate distance in. Your attention is utterly devoted to the tea preparation, too afraid of what you might find if you look into his eyes.
A reflection of your own chaotic, consuming feelings?
Or just a calm, steady stare saying, We’re just hanging out.
Months ago, you used to wake up relieved that there were still hours before evening. Before he’d play his music.
Now, you keep checking the clock, watching in agony as the minutes crawl by.
And on the way home, you’re the happiest person alive.
Which is a good thing.
But also terrifying.
Tonight feels different the moment you step into Martin’s apartment.
This is only your second time here, and you bite back a smile when you catch him stuffing a hoodie into the wardrobe—clearly not bothering to fold it. As if he suddenly cares about making a good impression. A few months ago, he wouldn’t have.
That means something… right?
And yet, you quickly sense that something is off.
A subtle tension lingers in the air, like a draft from a window that appears closed, yet the chill creeps up your skin.
He seems brooding. Distant.
It’s only a matter of time before your curiosity wins out.
“Something happened?”
“What do you mean?” He turns his head slightly, his broad back still facing you as he prepares a snack for Steve, who’s currently chilling in his cage after soaking up a ton of attention from you.
Maybe I should get a lizard at some point, too.
“I don’t know,” you say, stepping to his left to get a better look at his face. “You seem… deep in thought.” Also, I’m goddamn worried.
“Maybe,” he drawls, a mysterious smile tugging at his lips. “I’m just thinking about what other songs I can surprise you with, or…”
The pause steals your breath.
This time, it takes everything in you not to look away because—if this is what you think it is—
“I wonder if you’ll get scared by one of these,” he finishes, plucking a bug from a small container.
You recoil instantly, as if the thing might lunge at you. Your nose wrinkles. “Ew, Martin! That’s disgusting.”
No matter how much you love Steve, you still can’t believe his diet consists of these things.
“Don’t freak out, they’re smashed…”
And yet, as if by some cruel miracle, the bug comes back to life, slipping from Martin’s fingers and dropping to the floor. You don’t see where it lands, which makes it worse.
When its tiny legs skitter toward you, your scream is probably heard across the entire apartment complex. You practically vault onto a chair, refusing to set foot on the ground until Martin personally confirms that the bug is gone.
“Don’t you dare play tricks on me like that again!” you sulk, scrolling through the songs on his playlist, your fingers mindlessly trailing over the endless titles. Every so often, your gaze flickers around his bedroom. As expected, the walls are a shrine to rock legends—worn posters tacked up haphazardly, their edges curling. A few anime posters—neater, more intentional—break up the monochrome of his décor. The apartment mirrors yours in layout, but Martin’s feels different. Darker. More lived-in. More him.
“I bet you’d still win in a fight,” he teases, leaning over your figure to see what song you’ll choose. Again, he’s coming close enough that if you move even an inch, you’ll brush against him. Close enough that his breath is somewhere near the shell of your ear when he tilts his head to glance at the screen.
“Not funny,” you mutter, but your fingers falter over the screen, and it seems like words are just numerous letters, bearing no meaning.
He rocks back onto his heels, as if not knowing whether to keep his distance or invade it completely.
“Let’s go with Electric Light Orchestra?” His voice drops lower, and you wonder if he’s doing so intentionally—to make your toes curl from the proximity, and his slightly raspy voice.
You shake your head. “Too cheerful.”
He only hums, as if letting you win this one. You keep scrolling through his countless playlists, though a part of you knows you’re prolonging the search just to enjoy this moment a little longer. Proximity sets you ablaze, making your heartbeat race—so fast, it feels like you’re being chased by a panther—but you gladly let yourself be trapped.
No chances against the panther, anyway.
Finally, you tap on the song by Nat King Cole. An unconscious (or not?) way to reveal what’s on your mind.
UNFORGETTABLE
THAT'S WHAT YOU ARE
Jazz spills through the speakers—larger than yours by nearly a meter tall. Now you understand why his music always floods through the walls, impossible to ignore. His setup is meticulous, the sound quality pristine. You suddenly wonder why he’s never mocked your own pathetic excuse for a music center. He must have noticed the difference.
“You know what was funny?” Martin’s voice pulls you back. He extends his hand—one that could cover yours completely—waiting for you to give him back his phone. You don’t even realize you’re gripping it a little too tightly. His head tilts slightly as he watches you.
You arch a brow. “What?”
“Your oinking.” Ouch.
You clutch the phone to your chest as if mortally wounded. “You’re comparing me to a pig?” Your voice rises a few pitches higher.
But Martin only shakes his head. “You said it, not me.”
And then—there it is again. That smile of his. Quiet. Shy. Hesitant.
And you forget how to breathe. All the possible retorts coming to your mind are silenced.
He’s been smiling more these days. You’ve noticed.
You hate that you’ve noticed.
And yet, every time he does, it chips away at the walls you’ve built.
Sensing your hesitation, he wins the phone from your grip, his fingers brushing yours for just a heartbeat before he turns away, back to his music center. He makes some minor adjustment—his beloved, treasured music center, which, according to him, is perfect for jazz—and you see your opportunity.
It takes no effort to pluck a pillow from his bed. Dark blue sheets, neat but slightly rumpled. You bite back the urge to bury your face in it, to inhale the scent of him.
Logic tells you: enough embarrassments for one day.
The pillow is sailing through the air and lands against his back with a thump. He stills for a moment, his shoulders stiffening slightly, clearly not expecting this.
When he turns, your vengeful smirk is already in place.
“An oinking, huh?”
A moment passes between you. A part of you wonders if you’ve overstepped—until you see it: a playful glimmer sparking in his eyes. You recognize it instantly.
Because you know what’s coming next. And so does he.
In the same breath, you both lunge for the pillows.
He snatches up the one from the floor, and you grab another from his neatly tucked bed.
The fight begins.
To level the playing field against someone taller, stronger—him—you scramble onto his bed, taking the high ground. He lunges; you dodge, breathless laughter breaking free as the pillows collide with muffled thuds.
In the background, Nat King Cole croons—
L IS FOR THE WAY YOU LOOK AT ME
O IS FOR THE ONLY ONE I SEE
A well-aimed swing nudges your hip. You retaliate, your pillow meeting his shoulder. His grin widens, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you let yourself be reckless. Let yourself feel.
You move, duck, spin. He follows, adjusting, reading you like the lyrics of the songs he’s been listening to non-stop.
V IS VERY, VERY EXTRAORDINARY
E IS EVEN MORE THAN ANYONE THAT YOU ADORE CAN
Miscalculation.
A particularly forceful hit sends Martin stumbling back, knocking over a few Lego figures. The tiny blocks scatter across the floor in a chaotic clatter.
Your mouth falls open. Then—his eyes meet yours, glinting with surprise, and suddenly, the laughter bursts free again, crashing over you like a tide.
And seeing Martin laugh?
It does something to you.
Even if nothing ever happens between you, even with the nerve-wracking nightmare concerts you had to endure—this moment, this, is worth everything.
LOVE IS ALL THAT I CAN GIVE TO YOU
LOVE IS MORE THAN JUST A GAME FOR TWO
Your heart stumbles, skips, misses a step.
And he notices.
Martin sees the flicker in your expression. Sees the way your breath catches in your throat. His smirk softens—just barely—before he surges toward you, taking full advantage of your distraction. His next move lands against your waist, and you let out a sharp shriek, nearly losing your balance. You catch yourself just in time, countering with a fierce swing—
A loud rip.
Time slows.
The pillow gives way beneath your hands, splitting open with a dramatic, almost cinematic tear.
And suddenly...
You’re transported into a snowfall on Christmas Eve. Feathers, like fluffy snowflakes, swirl in slow, lazy spirals, catching the dim light, floating between you, around you, wrapping you in something ethereal.
It feels miraculous. Like stepping into another world—somewhere softer, somewhere safer, somewhere where only the two of you exist.
You blink through the flurry, your pillow slipping from your grasp and landing soundlessly on the floor.
You don’t know who moves first. Maybe it’s him. Maybe it’s you. Maybe it’s inevitable.
He tosses aside his pillow, using the expectancy to his advantage—because of course he does—and before you can react, his hands are at your waist. Warm. Solid. Real.
A half-second later, you’re falling. With him. For him. Deep down in the feeling Nat King Cole sings about. The mattress catches you both, pulling you deeper into its hold.
Feathers settle in his hair, along the curve of his jaw. You reach up instinctively, brushing one away, your hand grazing his skin in a fleeting touch. He leans into it—just a bit. Your gazes meet, and for once, neither of you are hurried to turn away. You see his Adam’s apple bob slightly, as if he’s just as nervous or… scared of this as you. But maybe you shouldn’t be scared of it. Not when it’s him. Not when it’s you.
Then, the mischief sparks in his eyes. A flicker, a warning—one you catch too late.
Before you can react, his fingers dart to your sides, pressing into your ribs.
A squeak rips from your throat, and then follow uncontrollable giggles. “No—don’t you dare!” you shriek, twisting beneath him as the tickling spreads through you.
He must've noticed that this is one of your Achilles' heels during your interactions with Steve.
He grins—wicked, triumphant. “Too late.”
And it is.
The laughter spills from your lips, breathless and helpless. His fingers skillfully find the weak spots, tracing over your ribs, ghosting beneath your arms, dancing at the curve of your waist.
“Stop—stop!” you gasp between giggles.
He’s relentless, laughing himself now, his shoulders shaking as he watches you squirm. “Not until you admit defeat.”
“Never!” you manage, bucking against him. Your knee nudges against his hip—harder than intended.
“Ouch,” he huffs, pausing just enough to shift. “Playing dirty now?”
“Says who?” you pant, trying to regain control. Your face feels hot, and you feel like you’re going to burst. You attempt to kick him off you, but of course, that wouldn’t work.
He has you pinned. His weight is above you, his right hand firm around your wrists. The fight is over.
He brushes a few strands of hair from your face, and that’s when you realize how precarious your position is. How close he is. How warm his grip feels. Your shirt has ridden up slightly, baring a sliver of skin to the cool air. How the rise and fall of your chest matches his, breath uneven, not just from the fight, but from something else entirely.
Looking into his eyes—the color of the universe, as you call it—you feel weightless. Like an astronaut drifting through space, suspended in something vast and infinite, witnessing the most extraordinary constellations.
And him—he memorizes you. The way your smile lingers, the sound of your laughter, brighter than any melody he’s ever heard. The way your eyes dart away when the moment becomes too intimate. And the way, right now, they hold his gaze—bravely, challengingly.
This? This is something out of this world.
His grip loosens—just enough for you to break free.
But you don’t.
And he knows.
His thumb ghosts over your skin, making you want to purr.
Somewhere in the background, the music stops. Neither of you notices.
“Can I kiss you?” His voice comes huskier, laced with deeper craving, long suppressed—like another piece of clothing he stuffed into a wardrobe to create the illusion it’s never been there.
His eyes drop to your mouth. Then back to yours. Waiting. Patient.
You want to ask, “Don’t you know the answer?” but you’re tired of playing games.
Your “yes,” it’s barely more than a whisper. But he hears it.
It’s been yes for a long time now.
His lips hover above yours, inches away—close, but not close enough. Just prolong the moment, like that breath before diving into deep water, when there’s no way back. You smile as a stray lock of his hair brushes against your cheek. And when the two words finally collide, nothing else matters.
You hum a melody, hoping the rhythm will settle the restless beat of your heart. The hand of the clock torturously slowly moves up to 6:57 PM. Three minutes until Martin is at your doorstep.
Your previous meetings stretched into hours of quiet bliss—long, lingering kisses, healing like a peppermint tea with honey during the flu. Who knew you could be on cloud nine simply by lying in bed with someone, fully clothed, whispering silly jokes in the dark? His hands mapped the curves of your body, yet never crossing that invisible threshold. Not yet. As if telling each other, There's nowhere to hurry.
Two hours passed? Four? Six?
Back to your apartment, you clutched a pillow to your chest all night, trying to mimic his warmth. You hadn’t showered. His touch still clung to your skin, seeping into your soul, curling into the deepest parts of memory. A sacred imprint of him. Always there. Always with you.
The doorbell rings once. Then twice.
Don’t rush. Don’t hurry, you tell yourself. But your body betrays you, wired with the urge to move—hurry, hurry, it’s him. Crossing the hall, you smooth a hand over your dress, as if to reassure yourself.
It’s a summer dress, light and airy despite the season. Beige, speckled with a floral print of tiny pink blossoms. Balloon sleeves, a delicate slit at the left leg. Maybe impractical for the season, but for tonight—for him—it feels right.
You open the door.
And for a breath, for two, you can only stare.
Martin stands there. In his hands, he holds a pot of pink orchids. Blooming in full beauty, tall and proud, yet incarnating the essence of delicacy.
He lifts the pot slightly, offering it to you. “I didn’t want flowers that would wilt too soon.”
Your fingers grazing his, the touch is familiar, yet feels exciting like for the first time.
“Martin, they’re …. beautiful,” you say, as a smile spreads across your lips.
Your eyes trace the delicate petals, their rich pink hue, the way they stand so effortlessly alive. But Martin? His gaze never wavers. He isn’t looking at the flowers.
His awe, his thoughts, his world—lie entirely around you.
His touch is different now. No longer cautious, no longer as if you might slip through his fingers, dissolve into air if he holds too tightly. He used to touch you like you were something fleeting. Now, he touches you like he knows you’re real. The most real thing in his life.
You straddle his lap, shifting until your thighs cage him in, relishing the way his hands roam your body—lowering to your upper back, pulling you closer—until you’re not sure where your body begins and his ends. Your kisses are messier, deeper, like a relentless storm finally reaching a distant shore it never had the strength to claim before.
When he pulls back, his lips are swollen, red, and kiss-drunk—just like yours. A thin line of saliva glistens between you.
“May I?” His fingers hover where two thin threads intertwine between your breasts.
A nod.
The first thread gives with ease, then the second. The fabric slackens, sliding down your shoulders, pooling at your waist. His thumb traces the line of your collarbone before circling over the peak of your breast, hardened from both the cool air and the fire of his attention.
Heat replaces the chill as his mouth closes around you. Lips enveloping, gently sucking—getting used to the sensation—before his tongue flicks over your nipple. A harder suck sends a sharp pulse of need straight between your legs. He hums, satisfied, indulging himself even more when he draws a deep sigh from you.
Your fingers tangle in his hair, the strands slightly coarse from repeated dyeing. He groans against you as you tug at the nape of his neck. His other hand finds your breast, kneading, learning where your pleasure lies. A sigh melts from your lips as he sucks deeper, his touch seeking more of your response. A sharper graze of teeth. Another moan. A soothing lick. A deep exhale.
Martin, you realize, can be both your salvation and your undoing.
His touch is both reverent and unhinged—one moment cherishing, the next consuming. If one part of him worships, the other devours. The contrast makes your head spin, your body sing.
Now that you’re giving him more—more sounds, more movement, more of yourself—it unravels something in him. Loosens him. A man who has spent his life drowning in music now has his utmost attention devoted to you. Now your moans are the songs he’s willing to drown in.
His hands slip lower, dragging over the curve of your waist, the swell of your hips. Your dress is still bunched around you, an unnecessary barrier. He grips your waist, as you shift over him—once, twice—aligning yourself where the attention is most needed.
His breath stutters against your neck. His cock is hard beneath you, thick and aching, the damp spot on his underwear proof of just how much he wants this. Wants you.
You once accused him of being out of his mind. Perhaps madness is what you share together now.
“I want more,” you whisper, lips brushing against his ear.
His fingers tighten at your hips. “How much more?” His words are a puff against your neck, a gentle breeze.
“All of you,” you murmur, rolling your hips again.
His head tips back slightly, exhaling a curse through gritted teeth. “You’re a menace.”
His shirt is gone, cast somewhere into the abyss of the floor. Your fingers skim over him—muscle, warmth, the curve of his shoulder where you’d once traced only in passing thoughts. He catches your chin, tilting your face to his, pupils blown wide, like a galaxy collapsing into a black hole.
“You weren’t very subtle back then, you know?”
The memory crashes back—the day you came to check on him, the way your gaze lingered longer than it should have. Of course, he noticed.
“Neither were you,” you murmur, feigning confidence.
His chuckle reverberates against your skin, and that’s all the proof you need to know where his attention lay that day.
“You looked cute,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your throat, “in those tiny pink shorts.”
“Want me to wear them again?”
“Only if I get to take them off myself.” His teeth scrape your jaw, and you shudder. “They gave me some bothersome dreams.”
“Something cute, I hope?”
“Do you find the idea of me between your thighs cute?”
Your breath hitches. “Fascinating.”
Your nose nudges against his collarbone, seeking refuge in the depth of his warmth. You’re not hiding from him—no, never—but from the sheer weight of his attention, the way his gaze strips you bare before his hands even do.
Finding the hem of your dress, he finally pulls it away. The fabric lands with a soft thud. His hands don’t move immediately. Instead, his eyes roam first—devouring, like a child watching their birthday cake being carried into the room, candles glowing, knowing that with one breath, they’ll finally get to savor each bite.
He traces you like a map he intends to memorize by heart. Fingertips ghost from your collarbone to the soft swell of your breasts—barely there, yet enough to make your breath hitch. Downward—his knuckles brush over your ribs, over the dip of your stomach, tracing the faint hollows beneath your solar plexus. Lower still, until his hands find purchase at your hips.
Then, he shifts, reaching into his pocket. You think you know what he’s searching for.
“I’m on the pill,” you say.
A flicker of surprise passes through his eyes before his phone screen flares to life.
A string of numbers, a long, unpronounceable name, and a very official-looking document.
Your brows furrow.
“So you know my test is negative,” he says, as if he’s just announced the weather.
Your breath catches—then, before you can stop yourself, you're laughing.
“That’s what we were waiting for?”
He shrugs, his fingers resuming their path along your skin, unwilling to be distracted by the teasing notes in your voice.
“Maybe,” he says. “Or maybe we can pretend we have all the time in the world.”
Your breath stutters, as his mouth brushes just beneath your ear.
“That’s what you want?” you ask, quieter now.
His answer is immediate. “Only if you’re there with me.”
And then, there are no more questions. No more pauses. Just heat—lips meeting, hands slipping, laughter dissolving into gasps as mouths find skin.
His pants are discarded, fabric pooling forgotten on the floor. Heat blooms along your inner thigh as he kisses his way up—unhurried, not giving in to the desperation clawing between you. Not yet.
Your knee finds its place against his shoulder, his palm pressing against your thigh, tilting you further, spreading you open like a feast offered to a man who’s been starving for years. Your head falls back against the pillow as his tongue traces a slow path from your knee toward the pulsing heat of your core, licking the wetness slicking your skin, his eyes never leaving yours.
And if you thought you had shed all shyness, if you thought there was no room left for coyness here—oh, how wrong you were.
“Watch me,” he murmurs, lips brushing against the crease of your thigh. “Watch me drink you dry, till the last drop.”
Like a raindrop breaking the surface of a river, pleasure ripples through you. Your fingers are quick to find their place, tangling into his hair, pulling, needing something to ground you as he works.
His name spills from your lips like a prayer, praising him. And Martin—Martin is relentless, growing more enthusiastic. He studies your reactions as diligently as he has studied his favourite music genres, adjusting as though you are his most precious instrument, in need of just a bit of fine-tuning to sound even better.
His fingers join the dance, slipping through your slick folds, stretching, filling—adding the final, perfect note.
Your thighs tremble as the avalanche builds, just at the brink of eruption. He feels it—the way you tighten, the way your body quivers on the precipice. His groan is deep, driving you mad.
Your body jerks, thighs clamping around him, hips rocking into his mouth as he greedily takes it all—never stopping, never slowing, prolonging your pleasure until you are nothing but wreckage in his hands.
Even as you tremble, breathless, he licks you through it, drinking you in, taking exactly what he promised.
What happens next feels inevitable.
His length presses against your entrance, hot, throbbing, waiting to satisfy the deep hunger within you both. A gasp catches in your throat as he stretches you—inch by inch—the burn melting into pleasure as he fills you completely.
His head drops, forehead pressing against yours. He stills, looking into your eyes, letting you both grasp the sensation of bodies locked together, seamless, perfect.
Like the tide reaching for the shore.
Like fire meeting air.
Like this was always meant to happen.
His hips begin to roll into yours—slow at first, watching every flutter of your eyelashes, every soft gasp, the way your lips part in helpless surrender.
“All of it?” he asks, his voice hoarse.
“Yes,” you breathe, sinking your nails deeper into his shoulders.
His hands find your hips, grip tightening—and then, it’s more. Rawer. His thrusts grow urgent, each one coaxing another broken moan from your lips.
He shifts, angles, learns where you need him most. Your bodies move in tandem, sweat-slicked and fevered, lost in the rhythm of need. He grips you, pulls you closer—chasing that edge together, deeper, until there is no space left between you.
The music that once played from the speakers fades into something else: the lewd symphony of bodies colliding, moans and gasps intertwining.
Until you’re both undone. Wrecked.
Until you’ve taken all of him. And he—all of you.
“Are you sure?” you ask Martin for the final time, voice laced with hesitation.
Leaning back against the washing machine, he crosses his arms over his chest—biceps flexing just enough to look effortless. He’s wearing a sleeveless white shirt, your favorite one, and you can’t shake the suspicion that he wore it just to be more persuasive.
“Absolutely,” he says.
Your fingers fidget at your sides. “I’ve never done this before.”
“I trust you.”
You swallow. Hard. Your eyes flick between him and the array of tools sprawled out on the washing machine—the bottles, the gloves, the plastic mixing bowl. This feels way more serious than you expected.
“Alright,” you relent. “But if I ruin anything—”
“You won’t.” He winks, too pleased with your agreement.
Your throat still goes dry when he drags the hem of his shirt up and over his head, tossing it aside without a second thought.
Your pulse kicks up. Okay. No big deal. Totally normal.
His freshly cut hair is mussed from the movement, shorter now, the strands falling into his face—the new trim framing his sharp jaw.
You perch on the edge of the tub, watching his every move like a curious cat. The way he peels open the package, dumping the fine white powder into a jar before adding the developer. The chemical scent curls through the air, making you wrinkle your nose. But all you can focus on are his hands. Large, broad-palmed, veins trailing up his forearms, the ones you love tracing when you two lie in bed naked.
He catches you staring. Smirks.
Your stomach tightens. Flashes of last night flood your mind—the weight of his palm at your throat, the nod you gave him, the slow, teasing pressure of his fingers. The thrill that follows, the intensifying, dizzying rush of pleasure.
Martin mutters something under his breath, raking a hand through his hair. “You got a claw clip?”
You scramble to the cabinet, grabbing the first one you find—a dusty rose-colored clip. “This good?”
He barely glances at it before plucking it from your hands. “Perfect.”
Then, he hands you something folded.
You unwrap it slowly… Gloves.
“It’s not like you’re about to do brain surgery,” he teases.
Rolling your eyes, you snap the gloves on as he sits on the edge of the bathtub, stretching his long legs.
“Right. Time to dye my boyfriend’s hair,” you announce almost solemnly.
His grin is like the Cheshire Cat’s. “You’ve got no idea how awesome that sounds.”
“Be honest—that’s how you got those biceps,” you say, combing through his hair. “I imagine it’s not convenient to hold your hands up all the time.”
“Now I’ve got something else to hold up, don’t I?” His tone sends a shiver down your spine, making you bite your lip.
The Turtles explode from the speakers, blasting through the apartment walls, filling every corner with their love promises.
This will be the first time a different neighbor (not you!!) loses patience and calls the cops.
The phone is yanked off the receiver, buttons stabbed with righteous fury.
RING.
The officer picks up instantly.
“What’s the emergency?”
“THESE LUNATICS BLAST MUSIC ALL THE TIME!”
IMAGINE ME AND YOU, I DO…
“Have you tried talking to them?”
“Talking?! I don’t negotiate with terrorists!”
I THINK ABOUT YOU DAY AND NIGHT, IT’S ONLY RIGHT…
“Technically, it’s not past 11 PM—”
TO THINK ABOUT THE GIRL YOU LOVE AND HOLD HER TIGHT…
“Otherwise, they’re FUCKING LIKE CRAZY!”
Pause.
“Sir, with all due respect… are you eavesdropping on your neighbors’ personal lives?”
“FOR FUCK’S SAKE!”
SO HAPPY TOGETHER…
BEEP.
End of the line.
Meanwhile, you work the dye through his hair, watching as the light brown roots surrender to an inky black. Each careful brushstroke followed by the smooth drag of a comb, ensuring the color seeps into every strand.
“You’ll show me a photo of your natural hair color, right?” you ask, dipping the brush back into the jar.
Martin taps his fingers against the counter in rhythm with the music, his head tilted slightly to make it easier for you to work. The activity, much to your surprise, is almost therapeutic. “I’ll think about it.”
You narrow your eyes. “If you don’t, I might miss a few strands…”
He raises a brow, unimpressed. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“By accident, of course.”
He hums, contemplative. “I might move awkwardly and, oops—get dye in your hair. By accident, of course.”
You shoot him a sharp look in the mirror. “Don’t you even think about it.”
“Don’t spur me on.”
You squint at him, then grin. “I demand the photo, or I’m calling your mom.”
His shoulders tense slightly, but only for a moment. You’d been trying to talk him into calling his parents—or at least his mother—for a while. Not because you promised her, but because you knew he needed it just as much. So when, a few days ago, he told you they talked, you felt relieved. But then, a moment later, he casually announced, “She’d like to have us at their place.” And dread washed over you.
You didn’t make a particularly nice impression last time.
“Martin…” you say, trying to sound menacing.
The second his name leaves your mouth, Martin jerks his head, flinging damp strands over your arm like an overenthusiastic golden retriever.
“Hey, stop!” you yelp, stumbling back. Not that there’s anywhere to go. “Or I’m definitely calling your mom!”
You lift the brush in warning, and a few rogue drops of dye flick up—right onto your chin.
Martin stills. His lips part. “Shit.”
“What?” you ask, blinking in confusion.
He taps his own chin. “I think… you have dye.”
Your eyes widen. “WHAT?!”
You lunge for the mirror. The creamy splotches darken along your chin, trailing down to your neck like war paint.
“Oh, no. No, no, no—” You rub at it frantically with your gloved fingers, only to realize, too late, that you’re making it worse.
Martin, now openly amused, barely fights the upward tug of his lips.
“Let me,” he says, stepping closer—
Only to immediately bash his head against the towel rack.
THUNK.
A dull, pitiful thud.
He groans, pressing a hand to the side of his head, and you—of course—lose it.
“You okay there?” you manage between helpless giggles.
“I might have a concussion…” he mutters.
“Oh, please. I barely heard an echo this time.”
His scowl deepens as he rubs his head, thankfully in a dye-free zone.
"I'll give you a kiss so it heals faster," your voice is syrupy-sweet. "But you ought to help me."
The offer sounds way too delicious to resist.
“Come here,” he says, grabbing a bottle of makeup remover.
Here, meaning closer. Which you always gladly obey.
He tilts your chin up, fingers warm against your skin, the pad of his thumb grazing just beneath your jaw. But you can’t stop shaking from the giggles.
Your neck and chin resemble a dalmatian's coat, half of Martin's hair pinned with a pinkish crab claw. Looking at both of you in the mirror, you can’t imagine a more perfect couple.
A shiver dances along your spine as he pulls you in by the neck, dabbing a cotton pad at the stain, his brows furrowed in quiet concentration. Warmth spreads through your chest when you catch him stealing a glance at your lips.
“All the time in the world” echoes in your mind.
You stand perfectly still, hands held up like you’re under arrest.
His lips twitch.
IMAGINE ME AND YOU, I DO…
“What?” you ask.
Martin frowns. “It’s… not coming off.”
NO MATTER HOW THEY TOSS THE DICE…
You blink. “What do you mean?”
He dabs a little harder. The stain remains.
IT HAD TO BE…
“I don’t know why—”
THE ONLY ONE FOR ME IS YOU AND YOU FOR ME…
“MARTIN.”
SO HAPPY TOGETHER.
A reminder to all readers: every kind comment you share matters, as it fuels the writer's inspiration and passion. ♥️
Summary: After putting in the effort to create the perfect romantic night, your plan comes crashing down like a house of cards when your boyfriend dumps you for games.
How far will a girl go before she takes matters into her own hands?
Rated: Explicit (+18)
(Bjob, semi-public sex, praise kink and others)
Word count: 6k
Dividers: @cafekitsune
Enjoy!
English is not my first language, I apologize for any mistakes you may find.
You snort for the tenth time as hear a bored laugh coming from down the hall.
Fingers drum impatiently on the edge of the bed, a fat pout projecting on your lower lip. Having long since given up on the purposefully suggestive pose on top of the soft silk sheets, you now find yourself sitting upright and very sullen amidst the romantic decor of the room.
With each muffled word coming from your boyfriend's office you feel your mood sour further, the irritation in your nerves increasing to worrying levels.
Aemond wasn't the kind of guy who played games regularly; God knows he's too selfish and perfectionist to be a decent team player. And he barely had any free time to indulge in hobbies and vices anyway. Despite having a complete setup in his personal office with everything a gamer could dream of, he spent very little time cultivating such a habit. Usually only indulging when he was feeling too stressed about work or his family, or when he was absolutely bored.
He didn’t usually care for games. And that’s why you feel even more frustrated by the second. Of all the nights he could have had the unexpected urge to play, did it have to be the night you had planned something special for the both of you?
The soft, delicate lace of your new pastel pink lingerie set teases your skin almost mockingly at this point, the long stockings on your thighs rubbing against each other as you swing one leg over the other in exasperation. The high heels were thrown haphazardly into the corner of the room during the little bout of impatience you had a few minutes ago.
The scented candles you had chosen for the night still burn softly in your peripheral vision, illuminating the room with warmth and romance, the delicate scent of vanilla permeating the air like a seductive invitation. On the bedside table was a bottle of his favorite wine, two glasses neatly arranged next to it.
This was supposed to be a romantic night.
As soon as you saw him casually enter the office a few hours ago, presumably to privately answer some video call from a work client, you ran and locked the bedroom door, preparing everything as quickly as you could to surprise him. Excitement ran freely through your veins, heating your skin to moisten the valley between your legs with anticipation. When you finished arranging everything as best you could, you opened the door invitingly and threw yourself on the bed, acting out what you hoped was a sensual and innocent pose at the same time.
But time passed and Aemond didn't show up.
It was only when you heard the first muffled murmurs of 'all right, I'll cover your left' and 'are you stupid or what? How hard can it be to hit that damn target?' that you realized what he was really doing in the office. But despite the small wave of disappointment, you tried to be level-headed about it. Playing games wasn't something that bothered you at all, but tonight you felt a specific need that only Aemond could fulfill.
You decide to be patient, though, after all he wasn't in the habit of playing games - maybe he just needed a single round to de-stress from the day.
But the minutes passed and what was a single round became two, three; each lasting an average of 30-40 minutes. And here you were, almost two hours later, still waiting.
You had enough!
This was absolutely ridiculous. No one in an adult relationship should spend that much time waiting for some attention - especially when they were losing attention to a damn game.
With a frustrated sigh, you rise from your position on the bed and march towards his office, determined to give him a piece of your mind. Your steps are deliberately heavy as you walk through the living room and into the hallway until you reach his door, where you listen for a few seconds, breathing enough to control the worst of your nerves, but after hearing the same regular tapping on the controller and grumpy responses, you slowly push the door open.
Peeking your head into the room, you see him in front of his setup, playing what looks like some kind of first-person shooter.
The room, as always, smells of cigarette smoke and clean leather, the soft hum of the air conditioning welcoming you - the familiarity enveloping your body in a blissful way that you didn't want at the moment. Your eyes try to focus on surroundings, as the only illumination comes from the purple and blue hues emanating from the sophisticated setup. With his back to you, in his big, comfortable chair, your boyfriend was sitting as if nothing else in the world mattered, with the joystick in his hand and his eye glued to the monitor, mumbling lazily here and there to the chaotic chat of the server.
And seeing him there, carefree and oblivious to all the effort and expectation you had put into this night - into him - made you rethink your course of action for a minute. A thought suddenly crossed your mind.
You were still hurt and frustrated, but maybe giving him a piece of your mind wasn't your only option at the moment.
You walked across the room slowly, but stopped before did what you were thinking.
You mean, were you really about to do that? What, were you really going to act like a hormonal teenager now?
Your body suddenly started moving on its own, mind screaming at you to stop.
Your irritation eases slightly as you admire the outline of his toned, bare back (why the hell is he shirtless anyway?) looming in your line of vision, the way his muscles flex as he leans forward in his black gaming chair, pale, smooth skin illuminated by the purple and blue lights of the setup. He’s wearing only a pair of grey sweatpants and black socks on his feet, and the sight of his broad shoulders and long, muscular arms completely exposed makes your mind wander in a sinful direction.
Maybe your night wasn’t wasted.
Your steps are almost catlike as you advance slowly, silent and focused, taking in his furrowed brows, his devastatingly handsome face with that serious, focused expression, silver hair pulled back into a half-bun — smoke curling up from the cigarette resting in the ashtray on the table.
Aemond hums a vague acknowledgement as you enter his line of sight, his bored gaze flicking from the monitor to you for just a second before returning to the game - but quickly returning to you when he actually notices what you’re wearing.
It’s hard not to get a little carried away when that turquoise blue eye slides across the planes of your body like melted butter; greedy over the thin, nearly sheer bralette on your breasts, the curve of your waist, your cute panties and the lace stockings that come up to your mid-thighs.
“Baby, what the—” he breathes hoarsely, lips parted and brows heavy over his gaze - even his thumbs stop twirling over the buttons on his controller. But you’re both interrupted by a sudden stream of complaints and curses coming from his headset, the volume clear and loud enough for you to hear clearly. Aemond growls. “Fuck, shut your mouth - I’m still here.” And just like that his attention slips from you to the game again, his expression returning to those same disinterested, serious lines from before - but you notice a stiffening in his shoulders that wasn't there before, as if he's on alert now.
You hold on tight to it so his lack of attention doesn’t shake you, trying to solidify your plan as you move. Your hands grip the sides of his chair, using the wheels to help you push it back a few inches. He sends you a sharp, narrow look, shifting between you and the screen, as if he knows exactly what’s on your mind. With a mischievous smile and more determination now, you ignore his warning, slipping innocently into the space between the chair and the table, kneeling between his legs.
“No, the shooter’s on your right.” He mumbles into the mic, sounding more sullen now that his attention has been compromised, but still stubbornly trying to stay focused on the game. You lean forward with a naughty smile, gently sniffing the bulge of his cock trapped in his sweatpants, a whimper rising in your throat when you realize he’s already hard — no doubt an instinctive reaction to understanding your intentions. God, how did this man make you so heated with so little effort?
Your teeth tug playfully at the drawstring of his pants. The muscles in his stomach contract beautifully in response and you sigh, turning your head to rub your cheek against his cock, like a kitten begging for attention.
He’s fully hard now and there’s a thrill in your belly, warm and dark, knowing he’s this way for you — just by you being there, breathing near him, barely touching him properly.
Your lashes flutter heavy over your eyes as you stare without qualms; the soft seam of his sweatpants over a bulge that makes your body tremble with anticipation, burn so much that you’re not sure if you’re breathing anymore.
His cock is thick and hard beneath the gray fabric, big and — stupidly big — so big — over his hip.
“Don’t do that,” he warns in a low tone.
You smile innocently. “Do what, love?”
He growls in his throat, your attitude clearly coiling inside him, making his cock throb beneath your touch. “You won’t be able to walk properly for a week, girl.”
You hum softly, pretending you didn’t hear his threat as untie the laces of his sweatpants to pull the waistband down. Aemond makes no move to help you, stubborn as he's, but you don’t need it. Your grin deepens, glad to be able to lower the elastic enough to free his cock.
“Does it look like I spoke to any of you idiots?” He’s actually more impatient now, dishing out rudeness in the server chat when they question his latest suspicious statement.
You sigh, salivating for him more every time you see his cock — all long and thick, outlined with prominent veins and a shiny flushed head, dripping with precum. Your eyes meet for a moment of distraction from the game, you sugary and full of malicious intent and he suspicious and grumpy - but the anxious twitch in his cock deflates any possible claim that this isn't turning him on in some way.
Let him pretend all he wants, you think with an innocent smile and a slow bat of your eyelashes, sliding your fingers down the hard, pulsing length, slick with the arousal dripping from the tip; a small fist clenched, down and then up, twisting over the head - and then your mouth comes close, spitting a glob of saliva right over it. Pre-come, sweet, warm, sticky saliva as you drag your fist down the tip to the base before repeating. More pre-come.
He shifts in his chair, teeth biting into his lower lip, large, beautiful hands gripping the controller so tightly that the stupid thing squeaks between his fingers. And then you come close; the heated puff of your breath against the base of his cock, your eyes watery and lazy, face flushed and teasing.
And the first swipe of your tongue over him has his abs clenching like a vise, a sharp growl from his chest as you suck him, a little unsteady from the position but so fucking eager that he’s physically incapable of not noticing your effort.
You chase the head of his cock with your mouth as he tries to tilt his hips, your knees shaking as you sink a little to reach him, to close your mouth around him and suck him. One hand instinctively relinquishes its grip to tangle in a fistful of your hair, hips bucking upward as he huffs a ‘fuck baby’; your eyes fluttering and your chest shuddering with a little groan of own, like it’s as good for you as it is for him.
And it is.
'Shit, what's going on man?! I can't believe you missed that one!' Someone complains loudly in the chat.
He just grunts in response, realizing he can't play with just one hand, so he reluctantly puts it back in control. You let out a small chuckle at the length between your lips, happy to see him struggle so much, your right hand resuming the slide of his shaft that your mouth can't reach.
You pull out until only the head of his cock is in your mouth, tongue sliding over it; hand sliding your fist over the spit sheen on his shaft, slick and slow, pushing your lips back until he's nudging the back of your throat and you're breathing hard as keep thrusting and swallowing, keep trying so hard to relax more.
You've never particularly enjoyed giving blowjobs in your previous relationships, but Aemond has elevated the act to something almost sacred; you loved having this kind of power over him, feeling him get harder and harder on your tongue, making him go crazy with desire until he couldn’t control himself anymore. Your pussy clenches in response, the cute panties absolutely ruined by now.
“Can you guys just shut the fuck up for a second? Like I haven’t been carrying this team on my back since the beginning anyway. Fuck all of you.” He growls into the chat, breathing hard between words, undulating his hips discreetly into your mouth - pushing his cock an inch deeper and deeper into your mouth. His gaze is icy and electric as he looks down at you, a dangerous warning shining there, an implicit threat that you’ll regret pushing him this way.
The server chat erupts with denial and curses, but you barely listen, too focused on continuing teasing him; especially now, feeling how his restraint begins to crack and tremble. You pull away with a sticky strand of saliva still connecting you to the head of his cock, using his knees as support to stand up and sneakily settle yourself on top of his legs.
"You're acting like a spoiled brat." He breathes at the corner of your lips as you bring your face closer, anxious and trembling body falling into his lap.
"I don't know what you're talking about." You mumble back, heart racing at the darkness in his turquoise gaze, the other half of his face torn and eternally marked by the jagged scar only adding danger to that warning bite in his expression. With almost too eager fingers you smooth the muscles in his abdomen, moving up to feel the hard ridge of each one until you reach his shoulders.
He breathes heavily, but keeps his eye on the monitor as he violently presses the poor buttons on the joystick, waging a proud war to keep himself away - but you are nothing if not determined.
It takes just a second to admire the milky, soft expanse of his neck, the Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows, and then your warm, wet lips are there; covering his skin with soft kisses and bites, sucking slowly between your teeth and licking it afterwards, making him gasp softly and bite his lip, reluctantly tilting his head to offer you more of him.
You breathe out a smile before leaning back on his knees, letting his gaze slide greedily down your body. To the soft peaks of your breasts half-visible in that thin bralette, the valley of your belly to the dip of your little belly button, and finally to your hips beginning to undulate sensually over his. His cock, as hard and wet as it is, leaves a trail of arousal and sticky saliva on his lower belly and you blush at the sight of the mess he’s making.
You shiver as you feel that same thick wetness of his cock drag against your pussy through your lacy panties, pushing and pushing the swollen tip against your clit until you let out a series of short, sharp gasps. With eyelashes flutter and your eyebrows furrow at the sensation, teeth sinking into your bottom lip as you continue to grind your clit against his throbbing cock.
'Wait, wait, what’s that?' you hear someone ask through his headset, but your mind is too far gone to stop now. Little fingers hook into the soft crotch of your pantie for just a moment before you pulls it aside, letting your scalding, drooling pussy rub directly against his hard shaft. Your moan is louder this time, more brazen too. 'What the fuck—are you watching porn while you play, your fucking pervert?' A player in the chat asks with a mocking, mischievous laugh, and in the middle of pushing your needy folds onto his cock, you watch Aemond smile back - sharp, icy, dangerous.
“Much better than that, fucker.” His voice changes to something rougher, something demanding and wicked, and you push yourself against him a little harder, your temperature rising, and you moan. “My girl is needy tonight.”
The chat becomes chaotic again, bursting with dirty laughter and snide comments that would offend you any other time — and maybe Aemond thinks the same, because you see his jaw clench once, his eye cold and his lips pressed together in that way he does when he’s not satisfied with something.
But something keeps him going, keeps him pushing harder.
Quietly he drops the controller to the table, relinquishing his participation in the game, sliding his headset down to hang loosely around his neck. And you can’t breathe. Your heart is pounding, so hard you’re surprised you can’t see it when look down at your chest.
“You wanted my attention, baby. Well, now you have it. And theirs too.” He smiles teasingly at you, his gaze dark and intent on yours, even though the game is still going on the monitor right behind you. "How about we put on a little show for these fucking losers?"
The chat seems to fall into a deliberate silence as he speaks, as if everyone is waiting to hear the outcome of this bizarre and absolutely wild situation.
"I can smell your pussy," he continues when you don't respond, his voice a growl. "I can smell how wet you are." He leans down to nibble on your earlobe, sucking on the lobe before nuzzling into the soft hollow just below it. You think he's exaggerating, he couldn't really smell you, could he? But the room is filled with colored lights, smelling of cigarette smoke and leather, and his cock is brushing against your clit and you really don't know what to think. "Hm, what do you say...want to give these horny nerds something interesting to jerk off to, princess?"
You shouldn’t agree, but you’re moaning before you know it, nodding as your cheeks explode with heat.
“That’s my babygirl - take this cock then,” he whispers to you, filthy and shameless, picking up the cigarette resting on the ashtray to draw slowly. Aemond slides his other hand up your thigh, stroking the soft lace of your stockings. “Fuck yourself on it until you cum,” he tells you, and only the sharp gaze locked on yours keeps you from rolling your eyes back in, not even the acrid puff of smoke near your face distracting you at this point. “Make me open you up, brat. Make my cock all sticky and heated with your pussy.”
He sounds so honest when he says it and yet so rough around the edges, like he’s punishing you somehow — though you don’t quite understand how yet.
Your fingers are shaking as you grip him by the base, lifting your hips to start thrusting him inside.
You keep it slow and steady, the first few inches aching and too tight as always; staring down between your bodies, his thick, glistening cock stretching you open as you suck him inside. He continues to smoke his cigarette leisurely, watching you from beneath one half-lidded eyelid, leaning back in the chair like a king as you work your pussy into him, inch by tight inch. Feeling the tremble of your thighs, the shiver in your body; those first few inches that always feel like he don’t fit, like you’re stretched too much, like you’re too small—
He runs his other hand down your side, down over the tightness of your stomach, hearing you gasp, moan at the stretch, the ache, the way he sinks deeper and deeper. Watching the heave of your breasts, the exasperated, rising intake of breath that turns into something else when your hips finally press against his. Buried so deep and thick inside your walls that he can’t hold back his own noise; hoarse and broken, escaping his lips along with a swirling hiss of cigarette smoke.
You exhale his name, the softest, shakiest Aemond — as your body inevitably begins to relax, as if it doesn’t matter the stretch, the pain, the depth…because just having him inside you, embedded so deeply, is exactly what it needs.
Your delicate palms rest on the broad planes of his chest and he sighs — his hips pulse inside you, just a small push upward, a small movement and you tense, a sharper noise falling from your lips. He tilts his head to the side with lazy interest, grinding his hips against yours again, enjoying the sounds that come from your mouth, the way it opens to suck in a garbled breath.
“You know, I never knew you had it in you, baby…an exhibitionist streak like that,” his heated murmur is dark and full of depraved promise. “I’ll give you that, though, you really know how to get a man’s attention.”
Your breathing is rapid despite your best efforts. He presses his palm to your throat, curling his fingers slowly, squeezing just enough to hear a small hiccup of inspiration, your toes curling against the sides of his thighs...
“Where’s that smart mouth now? My pretty baby girl’s gone so quiet all of a sudden.” He murmurs with a mischievous grin, clamping the cigarette between his teeth to grip your hips, pulling your body to his in obnoxiously slow undulations.
Even though it’s draped around his neck, the voices coming from the headset are still loud enough for both of you to hear; a cacophony of whistles and disbelieving laughter.
“Come on,” he says, picking up the cigarette again to toss it into the ashtray. He pulls you closer and wraps both hands around your hips, staring into your glassy eyes. “Go ahead and ride me.”
You bite your bottom lip, leaning more firmly against his chest as you begin to grind against his cock, little mewls escaping your lips, ass slapping rhythmically against his hips.
'Holy shit, are they really doing this?' Someone ask shrilly in the chat, your cheeks heating up in embarrassment — your movements stuttering for a moment. This — this wasn’t right, was it? You couldn’t just fuck while these strangers listened. This wasn’t right.
“Don’t stop,” Aemond growled, pulling your chin up so you could look him in the eye and see that he meant business. “Keep riding my cock like a good girl. Let them hear you. Let them fuck their own pathetic dicks while they listen to me fuck your pussy until you cry. Let them be so fucking envy of me, because I have the cutest and naughty girl in the world. Can you do this?”
You look up at him with beautiful doe eyes, lashes fluttering as you nod yes, leaning in to kiss him. Aemond takes you in immediately; soft, warm lips on yours, wet tongue sliding across yours and you taste cigarettes and mint gum. You moan louder as he plants his feet on the floor, thrusting up into you roughly, tangling his hand in your hair to keep you pressed against him even as the impact makes you bounce on his lap. It’s so damn hot in the room, the two of you electric and heated. Your whimpers and sobs grow louder and louder, matching the rhythm of your hips undulating more and more into his.
‘Oh shit, she sounds so fucking good…’ you barely hear the comment through his headset, eyes rolling back in pleasure with each deep thrust of his thick cock into your pussy.
"Yes, she does." Aemond hums, gripping your hips tighter, guiding you easily, and you feel yourself getting closer, but there’s something missing — an incentive to push you over the edge.
You rest a hand on his thigh, fisting the soft sweats of his pants, tilting your body and head back as the pleasure becomes almost too much to handle. He watches you hungrily, leaning back in his chair — though he looks like he wants to jump on top of you. The purple and blue lights illuminate you both in a flattering, almost artistic way; highlighting his silver hair in that messy half-bun, the soft planes of your breasts, the definition of the muscles in his arms and abs — your pussy swallowing his cock with wet, greedy sounds…
Your hips roll at a feverish pace, the head of his cock slamming perfectly into your soft walls and you moan as the hand on your left hip moves slightly until he’s flicking his thumb over your clit.
Fuck yes. He knows you so well.
“Oh f— fuck. You feel so good, you feel so good...” You mumble, hips moving faster, the chair audibly creaking with the force of your thrusts.
“Yeah? It must be really fucking good if you can barely wait a few hours before acting like a brat for that cock, huh?” Aemond runs his tongue over his teeth, taking his time to tease your clit as you bounce up and down, sending you a hooded, hungry look as he continues, “But I can’t deny that you look so cute when act like a little slut for me, when you let me use you however I want, drunk on my cock and hungry for cum like the good whore you are. I fucking love it. Come on, take me, fuck me, show me how much you want this.”
Moaning loudly, your widened knees nipping at his hips, you nearly come at those words alone — eyes rolling back with an open mouth.
“Greedy brat…”
“Y-your greedy brat—”
“My brat.” He growls approvingly, thrusting his hips deep into yours, steadily building that tension in you again, knotting your belly.
Your head falls forward and you watch him smile and bite his lip as thrusts into you again and again and again. Your own hips struggle to keep up with his punishing pace, even though you’re the one on top. His thumb moves as ruthlessly as his cock — a quick, easy rhythm at times, a drastic shift into a languid thrust at others; a torturous pace that somehow wipes all thought from your eternally thoughtful brain.
By now, your mind is so clouded and focused on the pleasure he’s giving you that you no longer understand anything the other players are saying over the server chat. But you know they’re still there. A staticky blur of what sounds like compliments to you, declarations of envy to Aemond, and even a few muffled sounds of pleasure. None of it matters, though. Nothing but the man beneath you.
“That’s it, beautiful. Are you going to cum on my cock, baby?” He whispers, his voice thick with lust as you grind against him relentlessly, head thrown to the side and mouth open, letting sweet sounds fall from your lips.
You can feel the heat emanating from him, the intensity growing by the second.
“Aemond…so close…” You gasp, body shaking uncontrollably.
“Cum for me, baby…scream my name, let them know who’s fucking you, who’s the only one who can fuck you.” He demands, his cock and thumb never stopping their relentless assault on your most sensitive spots. Every inch up drags his cock against those nerves inside your walls. Every inch down keeps you full and exploding with him, there’s no release, no edge to be found, it’s just pleasure, cigarette smoke and the heat of his body.
"Aemond!"
You build so stellarly, so intensely, it almost feels like you’re building up in your mouth, that sticky, warm sweetness. The sensation burns behind your belly button, sinks between your hips, tingles in your pussy, pulses in your clit against your stomach, until your fingers are shaking, white and slick on his shoulders and his mouth is on your neck as you fall forward, writhing and moaning.
And still, he keeps working you, well past that limit, keeping you so full of him, so focused on him, that there’s nothing else in the world but his skin, his cock, his voice in your ear.
“That’s it, that’s it. Come on, pretty girl.”
And you do. Choked sobs into his skin. A toe-curling, thigh-trembling release, clenching around the thickness of his cock.
As he promised, tears flash in your eyes at the sheer intensity of this orgasm, and you sniff pathetically into his neck.
“Mmm, such a crybaby…” he scoffs, but still wraps his arms around your body, hugging you tightly as he pounds his hips into yours, panting wetly into your shoulder and neck. “You’re gonna make me cum so fucking hard with that cute little cry and that pussy squeezing my cock over and over…”
A strangled moan escapes your throat.
“Y-yes, please—inside Aem, cum inside me, please, I need it!” You can feel him shudder in response, his tip buried against your cervix.
“That’s my greedy girl.” There’s a ghost of a kiss on your neck. “I fucking love this, baby. I fucking love you.”
You sob and he thrusts into you again, his hips slamming into your thighs with so much impact you’re sure you’ll bruise. He grips you flush against his body, stopping inside you with one deep thrust, slowly spilling hot streams of thick cum into your pussy as he pants harshly in your ear. Your body feels like it’s vibrating, wracked and claimed.
You’re panting, chest rising and falling against his, bites and hickeys beginning to bloom across your exposed skin. You’re pleasantly gorged on his seed, high on the rush of endorphins and satisfaction that washes over you.
“Hey losers,” Aemond mumbles into the mic after a while, a ghost of a smile on his lips and a wicked glint in his eye, “try not to jerk off too much to the memory of this in the next few days.”
And before the chat can explode into a flurry of dirty comments and sharp retorts, he reaches over to end the call and close the game window.
You sigh wearily, distantly aware that he’s rising from his chair with you in his arms. You hold him tighter, face in the crook of his neck, breathing in his comforting scent, and he nuzzles you back. And for a moment, you think he’s taking you to the bed or the bathroom, to clean you up. Your face scrunches up in sleepy confusion when he sets you down on his desk instead.
He runs the pad of his thumb over your swollen lips, smirking at you before he lowers himself. His tongue suddenly slides into your mouth and you accept it obediently, one of his hands running through your hair, pulling your head back, changing the angle of the kiss. Your mind is confused by the smell of him suffocating you in the best way, but before you can get too deep into it you feel him pulling away a few inches, enough to slide his cock out of your pussy.
You grunt a sound at this, but Aemond ignores, positioning himself better in front of you with a suspiciously amused glint in his eye - even though his other, mutilated and missing, lends him a look of constant danger.
“Spread your legs wide for me, baby.”
Even though you were suspicious about the meaning of that look, you did as he said, parting your legs slowly for his view.
“Why do you want to — oh ,” you close your mouth the moment you understand why he asked for it. Your cheeks burn as feel his hot cum slowly spurt from your pussy, dripping down between your thighs and onto his desk.
His gaze darkens until there’s nothing blue left in him, just that animalistic darkness and desire that makes your core throb with anticipation once more. You blink down at his hard cock - even after so much time together you’re still genuinely surprised at how long he could last.
You could have sworn he growled when you tried to close your legs, sending you a sharp, narrowed look before reaching his fingers down to your pussy, gathering the cum that was already on your thighs and pushing it back into your quivering entrance.
“A-Aemond, I don’t know if I can...if I can keep going with this—”
“Hmm...really?” He hums, lewdly watching his fingers sink into your pussy with an absolutely embarrassing squirting sound, his other hand casually stimulating his hardening cock with languid pumps. “But you tried so hard to get my attention before — a needy little slut on a mission...”
His voice is dangerously low, purring as he closes the distance between the two of you, a few strands of ice-blonde hair slick with sweat around his face.
“I really hope this bratty behavior of yours was worth it. Because you’re only leaving this fuckin room when I’m completely satisfied.”
And with that he pushes himself lazily to the hilt inside you once more, so slowly that you feel every veiny inch of his thick cock stretching you — pushing his cum into you again until your eyes roll back in your head.
Smooth and easy and relentless as he draws back to the tip and thrusts to the root, and then again, and then one broad hand is smoothing down your side and curling under one thigh to flick you up and open and the angle is so much better.
Aemond shivers with a guttural groan, nuzzling into the shell of your ear, and you sob again, so heated and so turned on by how completely your boyfriend has you wrapped around his fingers.
And oh yes. That was a phenomenal idea that certainly worth for you. And you can’t be humble about it — the credit is all yours.
Heat blooms in the center between your legs. You turn your head to the side, resting your sweaty temple against his. Your breath is shared between you, slow pumps of his cock into your sticky pussy.
“You bet it was worth.” You murmur, with a sugary little smile that is equal parts mischievous and shy.
Aemond snorts in amusement, though his brows are heavily slanted over his gaze, and he’s blinking at you hungrily, the way he weaves just a trace of fear into the lust that curls inside you, heavy as smoke.
“Greedy brat.”
And as you stand there; panting wetly against his lips, feeling the hard planes of his body against yours, his thick cock inside your walls, his hands on your skin like an amalgam of possessiveness — welcoming his dark hunger like it’s your sole mission in life…
Yes, as you can already feel the slow burn of your orgasm building, tingling and warming you from the inside out, you think he might be right. You are a greedy brat.
Summary: He’s gorgeous and silent. The perfect patron. But the underlying mystery of why this mysterious silver haired stranger spends entire days seated in the library fascinates the staff. One librarian takes it upon herself to see who this mystery man is and what exactly he desires.
Week 4: Free Space - Wanted to write another Modern AU. Besides, ever since Ewan answered with the library as what Aemond would love about modern society I was itching to write him in a modern library setting. This really got away from me.
The Academic
“He’s back again.”
She turned to look at her co-worker. Her dark haired co-worker was slowly sipping her coffee while tilting her head in the direction of the he in question. The librarian adjusted her glasses higher on the bridge of her nose as her light eyes fell in the direction of him.
Their silver haired frequent researcher had a decent looking spread across one of the library’s wide tables. She held a series of poor condition large print titles that were due to be recycled. She plopped them on the dark book cart hearing the hardcovers echo against the howl metal.
He remained concentrated. His long curtain of white blonde hair did not even deter him from his studies. He scribbled notes before flipping one page then two pages in another book. She could definitely see a range of atlases and maps he had somehow found within the public library walls.
“The Academic.” Her co-worker nearly chuckled in a posher than normal voice.
“A nickname just because he is doing a research project?” She said with a sigh. Her fingers tickled the edges of the cracked veiny spines. She slowly shifted the titles to be in alphabetical order.
“Yes, but you see the assortment of books he has piled up, maps, business proposals, history books, and I am pretty sure he’s found every title older than seventy years old not in a glass case.” She gave her coffee a loud sip again. They both looked toward their mystery researcher.
Still very concentrated.
“He’ll come looking for one of those titles in the historical room one of these days. I’m sure of it.” There was a soft smile on her co-worker’s face that nearly looked dreamy.
“You just think he’s attractive.” She whispered in a hiss. Her hands gripped the metal handles of the book cart.
“Oh please,” She settled the cardboard coffee cup beside her desktop at the reference desk. “I see the way you make eyes at him. I’ll turn on the fan for you.” Her fingers clicked on their small fan at the desk.
The librarian huffed pulling the cart away. One wheel spun out as she moved it across the carpet. It echoed softly hitting bumps every so often. Her french tip nails clicked against the cart. There was a slight pause in her pathway when she realized she would have to pass “the academic” to get to the back office.
The library was nearly empty on the creeping autumn mid afternoon. The trees had just started turning that crisp orange with yellow veins along the leaves. The large framed windows let in the shadows of oranges that made her feel cozy to be inside. Her eyes lingered on him for a moment.
He had his hair half up in a small ponytail. He wore a soft green sweater with two navy stripes nearly hidden beneath the fluff of the sweater. She could see white cuffs peeking through the cuffs on the sweater. He had before him an array of different colored pens and highlighters lined up in a nearly perfect line.
Her lips settled into a soft smile seeing it.
There was an appreciation there in seeing organization.
She loved seeing how he had lined them up, placing them back in order as he went.
Not as if she were looking.
Slowly she pushed her cart past the front of his table. Her soft heels settled on the hard carpet making an easy click as she moved.
He looked up.
She saw him then.
The librarian wasn’t sure why she hadn’t seen the eye patch, leather and etched with an embroidery of leaves along the edges. The design work was actually quite beautiful. His soft violet eye slowly blinked at her.
She felt caught somehow as if she were doing something wrong instead of her job.
Her throat rolled out a quiet whimper. She winced, feeling her covered big toe knock against one of the wheels. She nearly tripped. Their mystery researcher began to stand. Her hands pushed the cart further until she passed his table.
He was standing, watching her go.
She didn’t want to look back.
Her mind wandered to imagining that he was looking at her behind in the long skirt skating at her ankles.
In the window of the office she could see, he was doing just that.
He was outside before they opened almost every day now. She always thought the silver haired researcher looked dashing in every outfit he came in with. Her co-workers would swoon with curiosity at what exactly he was working on.
Librarians were always up for a good mystery.
He never spoke to a single employee. His long fingers and brilliant mind seemed to navigate the shelves with great ease as if he had been here since the building opened and had not just appeared two months before.
She noticed the things her co-workers seemed to ignore in favor of his physical traits.
They, of course, had noted the eyepatch, but she had noticed how he seemed to not touch it as if it were an old wound he was used to when the world seemed too silent around him.
She noted what kind of bags he came with. A green leather briefcase and a canvas messenger bag always accompanied him to his table. His table was nearest to the non-fiction materials. She noted he remained close to the history section. He never took too many steps from his table to what materials he needed.
While her co-workers continued to be curious what the handsome stranger was researching, seeing him devoted to taking every copy of the history section on The Conquest to his table to study and topical maps of the surrounding areas of Westeros, she had been curious how he researched.
He did not come in with a laptop, but instead a smattering of over used notebooks that were dog eared and sticking out papers at the edges. There was organization there. She could tell as he maneuvered between each notebook with ease pulling out different writing utensils with each different book.
There was no doubt he remained very concentrated about his work.
“How does he know where it all is?” Her co-worker had asked while in the break room. She was looking between the blinds at him.
There were only the two of them in the break room. While her co-worker was nearly glued to watching the handsome researcher, she continued to eat her tuna fish sandwich shrugging slightly.
“He seems intelligent enough to figure it out.” It was an obvious statement. She heard the blinds snap closed. “What?” Her co-worker stared at her rolling her eyes.
“Why do you do that?”
“Do what?” She picked at the crust of her bread looking down.
“Pretend like you have some special bond with him. Like you know him.” Her eyes narrowed as if trying to decide if her words might be true.
“I just appreciate how self-sufficient he is. It’s rare.”
That seemed to be the end of the conversation.
She had the night shift that evening. It was always quiet toward the end of the night. This was the time she could do her displays. She was pulling some titles for non-fiction ghost stories as autumn continued to linger into the spooky season. Her short list of titles was nearly finished, but she was missing one.
Her feet padded over to the section, checking the early 100s for about the fifth time. Her fingers wiped over the empty spot which should have held, Most Haunted Places of Westeros. It was a loose spot with several titles leaning into each other for support. She didn’t know why she was so keen to find the title. Perhaps it was because the records said it was checked in and it was not exactly where it was supposed to be.
It frustrated her when things were out of place.
She clicked her nails against the wooden shelf. Her eyes wandered beyond that spot to the other side. Her eyes caught the side profile of a curtain of silver hair as he stood looking over a title. Her eyes caught his eye for a sharp moment staring a bit caught in the moment. She saw the twitch of a smile on his face. Her fingernails scratched the wood watching him walk away.
Maybe . . .
Her body moved automatically putting the books on display at the end cap of the non-fiction shelving unit. She smoothed out the display sign indicating what kinds of titles were on display, a black inky paper filled with white cartoon ghosts flying out of a white lined Victorian house. There was that missing spot though. It made her lips twitch a bit. She turned the corner to look for the title thinking it may have been mishelved.
She wasn’t sure how long she was looking or when she had gotten on her hands and knees to obsessively check the bottom shelves. Her hand caught her sneeze hearing the tail end of a clearing of a throat.
“Sorry,” His voice was not familiar to her, but it was higher than she imagined it. She sniffled, turning to see the silver haired stranger holding out exactly what she was looking for. “I took one of your books for your display, didn’t I?”
Her mind blanked for a moment looking up at him from on her knees on the hard carpet. She sat back on her ankle booties. Her glasses, silver framed completely on purpose since she had to stare at his silver hair all day and every week, slid down her nose. When she adjusted them she could see he was wearing a black button up with every button fascinated tight. So tight in fact she could see that his biceps and pecs were straining.
She nibbled at the side of her lips before realizing his words.
“Oh it is no trouble I can -”
“No, please. I’m finished. Besides, you are closing soon.” He nodded his head curtly holding out the thick yellowed paged book. She could smell the age of it from here, but it was a perfect addition for her display which she desperately needed.
She shifted upwards, unable to stop herself from witnessing the way his violet eye seemed to follow her. His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. Gods, he was tall! Nearly a foot taller than her, but she could have imagined that by the way he was slumped over his studies.
There was more she could say, but instead she mumbled a soft thank you letting her fingers grasp the book from his hand. She pressed it to her chest letting her feet take her back to the end cap.
He watched her.
She felt that soft eye on her making sure the book returned to where it needed to be.
“You know we close in fifteen minutes. Don’t you, Sir?” She said merely so she could break his little stare. She was aware he knew this information.
“Oh yes, right. I should start packing up my things. Apologies again for the book.” He nodded awkwardly before returning to his table where he did in fact have a large spread of items.
While he packed up she looked up at the cover of the book they had both been desperately clinging to.
She wondered what a man like him could need a book about supernatural locations for.
He had finally checked out a book.
It was the gossip of the day among all the curious library workers. He had come up to the circulation desk with one paperback fiction title tucked at his hip. It was before he went on his two hour lunch break to the local coffee shop. Upon handing his library card, everyone now knew the name of the silver haired patron who graced them with delicious eye candy for months.
Aemond Targaryen.
It wasn’t long before everyone knew quite too much about the no longer stranger. She had sat back and listened as they listed his accomplishments and failures. The Targaryens were nearly celebrities, but the silver hair while hereditary wasn’t exactly an indication of a true Targaryen. Many people dyed their locks to look like the semi celebrity royals of Westeros.
It didn’t bother her much that they were searching for juicy gossip about the long haired Aemond Targaryen. That was simply human nature. People were curious when strange people came in. Aemond was an interesting fellow. She could admit that.
What bothered her most was when they discussed his eye.
It was no secret Aemond Targaryen was missing one eye.
She had never been curious about the cause of it.
What good was knowing the nature of his disability?
Her co-workers seemed obsessed over knowing how the eye was lost.
When they were discussing she had taken to leaving the room or planting herself on the large circular reference desk in the middle of the library that always faced him. Everytime she did she saw him catch her with his one good eye.
She was beginning to notice it more and more ever since the first day she spoke to him.
Aemond Targaryen was curious about HER.
Her co-workers were so wrapped up in knowing him more that they had not noticed that they had now taken to exchanging soft smiles. It was a small gesture, but one she seemed to look forward to. She had also taken to going to lunch around the same time as him. She would whisper her request for an early lunch knowing he would softly gather his things before heading to the coffee shop within walking distance. It may have been her imagination, but when she lifted herself from the squeaky wheeled chair at the desk he’d look up and begin to pack up as if on an automatic timer.
There was an unwritten rule not to scold him if he came back with his flat white latte with the lid firmly on. Now that they understood he was a Targaryen the rule was very widely known among patrons and the staff.
She had settled herself at the desk beginning her desk shift for the day. Her items were always well placed beside her. Her notebook containing her to-do list was open on her left while her cold brew with a light pink reusable straw was settled to her right on top of a tissue in an attempt not to make a stain on the ancient desk. She was typing her password in the computer when she felt his warm shadow.
“I was looking for a book.”
Aemond Targaryen liked to wear black and green. It had something to do with the heraldry of their house in Old Valyria. Not that she had scrolled on her phone late one night to discover the reason. However today he was dressed in a rather plain looking mock grey turtleneck and dark jeans. His eye patch however was a faded olive green leather bordered with little vines at the edges.
“Oh, of course,” His question caught her off guard. He never came looking for a title. Aemond Targaryen was used to navigating the library on his own. It seemed to function as a second home to him. She suspected if he could sleep here he would. “Do you know the -”
“It says it is in special collections.” He answered as if seeing the curiosity on her face. She saw his head tilt slightly. “It’s on The Conquest.” Her brain worked to guess what he was talking about. There was a small smile peaking at the corners of her lips as if he were enjoying seeing her mind sort through all the titles.
“We have many titles in our historical archives on The Conquest. Did you have a specific one in mind?” She hated to give up and not give him an answer, but -
“How many titles?”
“Twenty six.” Her eyes nearly widened at her own memory.
His lashes fluttered as he chuckled softly.
“You know the collection quite well, Miss . . .”
She spoke her name. Her voice cracked a bit at the letters.
Gods was he handsome.
She hated that.
“Perhaps you can show me the collection?” There was a softness in his voice as he asked, a politeness she rarely heard in the few times they spoke.
She simply nodded shifting to put up the sign at the desk signifying she was off desk. Her fingers shuffled for the keys to the private room and various locked cabinets in the drawer. He waited and watched her as she moved. She momentarily thought to break the silence of the soft echo of their heels by asking him of his research, but slowly thought it was none of her business.
The historical archives room was a space on the opposite end of the library. Individuals rarely went in there, but there was the occasional reporter or request that came in from across the country asking for a scan of a record. Generally civilians didn’t ask too much for the room unless they were doing family research.
“Conquest.” She muttered under her breath a few times in a sing-song tone.
She noted he was leaning against one of the shelves before she turned to give him a stern look.
“Please be careful. That is original furinture.” She hadn’t meant to sound so harsh. It appeared to work though. Aemond Targaren acted as a caught child straightening up, folding his hands behind him. “Now as I said we have a number of titles on The Conquest.”
“Twenty six.” He repeated her own words.
The high ceilings seemed to echo those words.
“Yes,” She swallowed, moving to tap her fingers along the first of several glass cases that bordered the room. “Most are in these cases, if you want to -”
“I know what I am looking for.” Aemond said.
He scrolled confidently over to a small cabinet near the exit of the room. It held many titles that were distinguished as being from two hundred years ago. She hesitated before going to the cabinet to join him. She followed his line of sight to see that he was eyeing the only spine with no title.
“These are rarely looked at.” The librarian started out loud. “There is a procedure if you wish to look at them.” She started to move to the small drawer underneath the cabinet pulling out supplies. There was a small pink plastic bin she settled on the table. The brunette could feel his eyes watching her. She adjusted her glasses hoping he did not notice they were fogging.
“I’ll need your id.” She shifted the little card bin brushing off some dust from infrequent use. “You’ll need to wear these gloves to look at the item.” Her finger shifted the small pump of hand sanitizer and box of tight blue latex gloves. “Put the sanitizer on your hands before the gloves.” She lined the items out in the order he needed to use them. Her eyes fluttered up to him. Aemond slowly turned his head toward her, eyeing the items. “The item must remain in this room. Any damage -”
“I will not damage the item.” He stated coldly.
“Any damage to the item will be noted. There are cameras in this room.” That last line was one she should not have stated yet she still pointed them out to the man. He did not follow her finger, but instead remained looking at her. His focus made her cheeks hot. “Do you have any questions?”
“Will you be watching me the entire time I read?” There was a cheekiness there in his tone.
“Only if you would like me too.” She wasn’t sure where her own flirtation had come from.
“Hmmm . . .” He wondered if he wanted that. “I should not keep you. I will not be long. I simply need to make some notes.” His hand patted his jean pocket where she could see the spirals of the notepad sticking out.
The librarian shifted her keys hating how close he leaned to her, hating more how she could very much see how her fingers trembled as she opened the door. She could smell his cologne on him, something she had not noticed before. It was soft and musky like a forest after a very heavy rain when every pine was fresh and wet. She shifted to put the gloves on herself retrieving the delicate item from the cabinet.
He did as instructed. Aemond Targaryen placed his driver’s license in the bin. He wet his hands with a slow spurt of santizer rubbing it between his two hands while watching her. He slipped the gloves on with ease.
“I will come check on you in fifteen minutes.”
With that she left him to his business fully aware that his eyes trailed after her when she left.
Her mind could not focus on the tasks she had left. Her emails remained a blank white screen. Her voice trembled slightly as patrons came to the desk asking computer based questions and looking for titles. One young woman even asked if she was alright.
Gods, what was this man doing to her?
It had been exactly sixteen minutes when she had a chance to go check on him.
He was maneuvering from the table of contents to numbered passages. She was fully aware that was what he was doing as she noticed the gesture. Aemond Targaryen did that often with other books at the library.
“A minute late. Tsk, tsk.” Her heart jumped at the disappointment in his tone before she noted his little smile.
“Patrons can be quite needy.” What was she saying?
“Am I a needy one?”
“No. You are quite self sufficient. It is very much appreciated.” She shifted on her heels before deciding to approach him. “Did you need more time or . . .”
“Hmmm . . .” He looked down at his small notepad. “Perhaps another five minutes. That should give me enough time to take my final notes. Would that be sufficient?” When he looked at her she felt her heart in her throat. His hair was perfectly laid back across his toned shoulders.
“Of course. Please let me know if you need anything.”
She walked out fast knowing if she lingered too long he may say something cheeky.
The librarian settled at the desk noting the time. She wrote one email in those five minutes that she immediately erased seeing how it almost read as nonsense.
“He asked for a book?” Her co-worker wondered as their shift was beginning to change.
The librarian explained what had transpired, noting the title.
“He checked out a fictional recount of The Conquest. I saw he’s getting a dual master’s in history and philosophy.” When she inquired how her co-worker knew that she simply winked.
“I’m going to check on him then go to lunch.” The librarian shifted up the pink bin containing his id to bring back to him.
When she entered the room he was not at the table. The book was left abandoned. He was looking through the shelves at other titles, hands behind his back.
“All finished, then?”
He simply nodded. She handed him back his id. He reached for his wallet, putting it back inside. She could not help seeing the wads of large bills sticking out from there. Yes the Targaryens were quite well off, but it was one thing to have the knowledge and another to see the cash in his wallet.
“Did you find everything you needed?” She couldn’t help herself. She wanted to talk to him more.
“I did. Have a good lunch, my dear.”
With that he left, letting his dress heels echo in the room. The librarian began to put on the gloves to return the book when she found the edges of a ripped out spiral piece of paper sticking out.
Surely this didn’t belong.
She pulled it free seeing that hand writing was not only beautiful, but the message caused her cheeks to flush.
If you are able to get away please meet me for lunch today. I suspect you know the spot. - Aemond Targaryen
She rubbed the message between her fingers lingering over the thought that he knew that she watched him so closely.
Dare she answer this request?
Her heart fluttered widely at the thought of it. Her mind raced thinking that she could not get a coffee as she had already had her caffeine for that day. Why was she focused on coffee when Aemond Targaryen had asked her out to lunch?
Instead she let her mind focus on the task at hand. She put the book away. As she ripped off the gloves she felt unsettled on her feet.
How long had it been since she had been asked out?
How long would it be if she rejected this request?
Soon she found herself by her locker contemplating exactly what she should do.
“I’m going out to lunch today. Be back in an hour.” She told her co-worker at the desk before heading out the front doors into the chilled November air.
She shifted on her feet in line unsure what exactly she expected when entering the small cafe. It smelt of fresh coffee and cream with the steam of the espresso machine calling out to her. The clattering of plates settled on the counter for bussers to shift freshly pressed pannis and bowls of over grown gourmet salads to tables.
Her eyes raked over the scene spread before her. It was a small smattering of people in business suits mixed with friends chatting over wide brimmed cups of hot coffee. Despite it being a short five minute walk from her library she had never been inside. It felt cozy and warm, especially on such a chilly day.
“You came.” She barely noticed as he settled next to her in line.
The librarian only nodded.
“I’ve never been here.” She mused.
“I’m as much a regular here as the library. Let me buy you lunch.” His hand seemed to hover behind her back as if wishing to touch her.
“No, please, I couldn’t -”
“But you will. Let me. Please.” The sparkle tangled in that violet eye making her sigh aloud. She blinked letting strands of her brown hair fall into her eyes clouding her sight as they settled on her glasses.
Aemond started small talk about what he had liked and disliked so far in his several months coming to the location. He pointed out his favorites. She noted he settled on healthier menu items, turkey sandwiches or salads with fresh fruits. They were in a bit of a heated discussion on whether fruit belonged in a salad when it was their turn.
“The usual Mr. Targaryen?” The young woman with a nose piercing and big bright eyes asked him. Her eyes looked curious at his lunch companion.
“Yes, but I will also be getting lunch for my date here.”
The noise of the place roared silent in her mind, though she suspected the world continued around them.
Date?
Date?!
Date . . .
“My dear, what would you like?” He asked it as if he had asked her several times.
“Oh, um . . . caesar salad, no croutons, add avocado.”
It was her go to with any location, though avocado was not usually something many cafes could accomedate. This place seemed able to provide her with it. When asked for her drink she had ordered a tea. It seemed like the correct beverage for a location such as this.
Aemond found them a table. One that she suspected was another regular spot. It had an amazing view of a small garden outside. She tugged at her coat as she prepared her tea seeing that they had quite an assortment of flavors. She tried not to focus on how nice he looked with the sun shining in his long silver locks. She certainly wasn’t watching his lips against the cardboard cup sipping at his latte.
She settled her tea on the table before removing her coat. His eye watched her every movement as if taking in each small gesture to memory.
“I’m so glad you came.” She swallowed at the words looking at him. “I really didn’t think you would.”
“Why’s that?”
“You are . . . hmmm . . .” He hummed into his cup before taking a deep sip. She watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. “Very professional. I did not think dating a patron would be something you would consider.”
It wasn’t.
She sipped at her fruity tea without saying those words.
“Why did you come to lunch with me then?” He scratched at his cup.
“Curiosity.” She hummed with a shrug.
“Is that all?” He nearly laughed at the notion.
“I would not have come if I thought I wouldn’t enjoy myself.” It was true. Why would she waste her time on a boring person? Aemond Targaryen was intriguing. She could not deny him that.
“You are so kind to say that. Not many people would have taken the offer.”
They watched as their food was settled on the table. Another young girl seemed to let her eyes linger on him as she placed his roasted turkey sandwich with kale chips in front of him. Her salad was nearly a second thought.
“You see.” He told her motioning as the bus girl let them be.
“See?” She positioned her utensils beside her just as she liked.
“Do not play dumb with me, my dear. I know you see.” His voice was lower, harsher, filled with a feeling she could not put her finger on.
“You do not need me to tell you that you are intimidating and handsome.” Her fork stabbed at her salad as she used her knife to cut it into smaller pieces.
“Handsome?” He cooed.
“Don’t get a big head about it. I am aware you know everyone at the library is nearly falling over themselves to bask in your presence.” She was nearly bitter about it as she spoke.
“Not you.”
“No, I’m just better at hiding it.” She was. She had taken the time to hide any feelings she had, bury them deep until she could not feel them any longer. Many of her therapists called it unhealthy, but it never stopped her from doing it.
“What else are you hiding, my dear?” He hadn’t touched his food. Aemond Targaryen was looking at her with a bewitched look as if he could fall in love with her at any moment.
“Keep taking me out on dates and maybe you’ll find out.”
He did just that.
Aemond Targaryen, the more she thought about it, seemed to be enchanted by her presence. They had taken to going out to lunch twice a week. Occasionally they would hold hands on line as they ordered, but it was nothing more than that. Aemond was a true gentleman letting her guide every touch and subject they settled on.
She learned his father had recently passed on leading to a fight within the family for the wealth he left behind. Aemond wanted nothing more than to continue his education. He was in a very intense dual master’s program with a hope to someday become a professor or work in another program in his field. They discussed their favorite museums and topics they both loved.
She was surprised how easy every conversation was.
It was as if they were good friends rekindling their friendship into a romance.
She told him how much she adored every aspect of her job. Organization and learning were her favorite things in the world. His organization was something that caught her eye long before his beauty.
As December approached, he began to ask her out for dinner and cozy outings. As Christmas approached she could very much feel that Aemond Targayen was more than a friend and rather a boyfriend. It was made very apparent when they walked hand in hand in the Christmas market. He had given her a kiss, their first, before letting her drive off home.
They hid their relationship well as he still came to study in the library. He explained he could not resist being close to her, but also he still had much to study. She never truly hid the relationship from her co-workers. Right before Christmas some of her co-workers seemed to figure out her and Aemond were dating.
They didn’t say much.
They could be as coy and silent as her.
On Christmas when she visited her family she received texts from him wishing her well and wistfully waiting to see her again. After Christmas he began to come into the library less though they continued their dates after work with dinners out. He explained his absence due to the fact that he was dealing with the inner workings of his family’s estate due to the sudden inability of his elder brother, Aegon to handle manners.
On New Year’s Eve, Aemond Targaryen took his girlfriend out to a bar, Storm’s End. It wasn’t a typical location they went out to. He usually took her to historical locations buzzing to discuss the history behind the restaurant or museums with elegant restaurants attached. Storm’s End was a bit seedy with shaded lights and a smoky atmosphere.
He had picked her up after work not telling her this was where they were going.
Aemond had pulled out the bar stool and ordered for them. He knew her drink order by now. She loved a fruity martini after a long day. That night she sipped on a mango martini and watched him order a very expensive scotch that made the bartender’s eyes widen. He repeated the price several times before believing that the Targaryen man actually wanted it. Her hand traveled up Aemond’s thigh as the liquid in the glass seemed to disappear at her lips.
She could hear his breath grow a bit heavier as she squeezed his toned thigh.
Alcohol always loosened her inhibitions.
They had not done anything quite sexual as of yet, but it did not mean she didn’t want to.
The opportunity had never truly arisen.
The hottest they had gotten was making out in his car before she decided she needed to go inside and his lips were bright red with her pretty lipstick.
“You keep that up and I’ll have to take you into the bathroom.” He teased brushing his fingers along her knuckles.
“What if that’s my goal for the evening?” She leaned forward feeling tempted to tease him further. “Have you fuck me against a dirty wall in a seedy bar? Is that why you brought me here, Aemond Targaryen?” It was only a tease as she kissed under his ear.
Before anything further could settle between them, a large order of chicken wings settled between them. She was starving. Her fingers pulled apart the wings eager and hungry not caring if hot sauce coated her fingers. He couldn’t help himself watching her. He was glad when she offered her dirty fingers to him to suckle. The way his lips moved made her twitch a bit under her skirt.
It wasn’t a foreign feeling. She wasn’t a prude. Her sexual history was wrought with playful exploration and deep desires. Aemond had occasionally squeezed her thighs as they kissed. His fingers would gently stroke her sex as well. Nothing more had come of it which had been a bit of a disappointment.
She suspected tonight they could take their relationship further.
It was especially true when Aemond seemed to take her chin in his hands. He began to kiss her right there at the bar letting his tongue explore her. The martini was empty by now, giving her a pleasant buzz that allowed her arms to wrap around him to settle into the pleasure of feeling him. Her breath was hurried as her fingers pulled at his long locks. Aemond didn’t seem to mind how enthusiastic she was being. His hands anchored her hips to the stool even as she tried to lift up to crawl into his lap.
“You are so fuckin needy.” He said between kisses. “You want me so bad don’t you, beautiful?” She licked her lower lip at his words. “Come on now. Let’s get you home, my dear.”
She saw him fish out a single bill from his wallet. Her hands stroked his thigh feeling how toned he was. She would not get used to feeling the muscles on his thigh and under his shirt. He was so fuckin’ toned for a man who seemed glued to old dusty books.
“Gods,” He whimpered. Her cold hands were inching under his now untucked button up. “Relax. I’ll take care of you soon enough.”
It nearly sounded like a threat.
She didn’t mind it. It was very clear how badly she wanted him. She should have been embarrassed. There were whistles across the bar. All eyes on her as she was being quite bad feeling him up in front of every living person in this bar. It didn’t matter to her. She’d never see these people again. If she felt the need she could dry hump her boyfriend here if she thought he wouldn’t spank her later.
Though she wasn’t against spanking.
“Aemond.” She whispered against his ear.
“Fuckin’ don’t,” He cooed. Aemond Targaryen pulled her off the bar stool. “I’m glad I drove. You’re a mess and only from one drink.” She had forgotten what martinis did to her. She had gone out with Aemond having a glass of white wine, but the harder stuff made her a bit handsy.
Well maybe more than a bit.
He drove her back to her place, a small flat not far from the bar.
When he parked she nearly crawled on top of him whispering his name against his pretty lips.
“Do you want to come inside?” There was a lilt of naughtiness in her tone.
“I feel if I don’t you’ll have all kinds of fun without me.” He grabbed her chin looking her over. “Your glasses are all fogged up, silly girl.” He kissed her cheek then down her neck. “So fuckin’ beautiful.” She shivered as he licked and kissed her neck, teasing the fur around the collar of her coat. “Come on. Let’s get you warmed up.”
Her mind at the thought of going inside became more focused. She didn’t want to feel too needy and desperate their first time having sex. She wanted to be able to feel every second of Aemond Targaryen taking control of her body or however he wanted her. She shifted taking the lead to pull him inside. Aemond surprisingly let her take control letting his hand rest eagerly in hers.
The key pushed into the lock with ease.
Her mind floated to the idea that he would be pushing his cock inside her in a similar manner later tonight.
She settled beside the door looking about for a moment. Panic rose in her thoart at the thought that her flat might be a nightmare. There were some piles of books beside the sofa in the living room, but not much else was out of place except . . .
“Samson!” She hissed seeing her lithe black cat hop on the counter in the open kitchen just as she removed her last shoe. “Psst! Get down.” The cat looked at her with narrowed eyes. “Gods!”
She started padding her feet over to the cat who immediately retreated into the living room. Aemond gave a soft chuckle watching the ordeal unfold.
“Oh you think this is funny?” Her grin softened slightly.
“Yes. You are quite adorable when you are a bit mad.” His eye watched the cat slink under the couch. Samson watched him with yellow eyes as his tail swished back and forth. “He’s a bit skittish.” She threw her coat toward the couch, though Samson was so used to the gesture he did not move from under it.
“You aren’t around cats a lot are you?” She took his hand in hers trying to pull his attention away from the suspicious feline. “Let me show you the bedroom. Kitty will be fine.” Her mind thought about saying something lewd about a different kind of pussy cat, but she was too needy for words any longer.
It seemed to work. His eye settled on her following like a lost puppy ready for a delicious treat. She’d give him anything he needed tonight while not compromising her desires. Despite her up tight demeanor she was curious to see what Aemond Targaryen desired in the bedroom. He seemed quite enamored with her thighs, squeezing and caressing them any chance he got.
When she pulled him into her bedroom she did not give him a chance to look around. Her arms pulled him down to crash into her lips. Her tongue was eager to push inside his mouth and whimper small noises against his plush lips. His hands settled on her brown checkered dress pushing her close into him.
She could feel how hard he was for her.
It was pure desperation.
Her arms pulled him down, nearly ready to jump on him.
“Mmmm. . .” He hummed against her lips. “Wait.” She let herself obey even though her body wanted to reject his words.
He pulled from her letting his gaze settle over her. Aemond licked his lips. She could see him breathing so heavily. He was struggling to gain his composure, to obey his own word of warning. He hummed again before licking his lips again. His finger pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. It was then she noticed how hard she was breathing.
“So bloody gorgeous.” He said in nearly a single breath.
“So are you.” She mused with a soft innocent smile trying her best not to touch him again.
“Don’t do that.” He warned. Aemond straightened letting his eye tease across her bright face.
“I’m not doing anything.” She shifted on her sock clad feet.
“Yes, you are.” Aemond tucked her hair behind her ear. “Just standing there with that little smile.” His fingers traced her lips as he spoke. “And your glasses framed silver as if I wouldn’t notice.” He tapped his finger at the corner of the glasses, a reflective silver frame. “You’ve wanted me for so much longer then I realized, haven’t you? I should have noticed sooner. I could have been doing these things,” He moved his other hand up her skirt passed her panties to her wetting slit. “To you so much sooner.” She gasped feeling his finger slip inside her. His palm held her face as he fingered her.
“You are so fuckin wet.” His voice was low and teasing. His nose nuzzled against her cheek. “You want me to fuck you? Hmmm . . . tell me what you want me to do to you.” She couldn’t think as he pumped his finger inside her. “Oh, my dear. Can’t tell me hmmm . . .” She shook out her hair. He tucked it back together into that little tight bun atop her head. “How about I make a request then?”
She nearly cried out when he pulled his hand away from inside her. His hand started to unbutton his black dress shirt. Aemond pulled it off tossing it to the floor. Her eyes raked over his toned chest for only a moment. He was fluid as he undressed taking his shoes, socks, pants, then boxers off until he was completely nude in front of her. He stroked his cock, from base to tip slowly watching her squirm to move under his gaze.
“I want you to sit on my face.”
He moved to her soft white comforter settling on the pillow on her bed.
She blinked for a moment taking in his request.
“Did you not here me, love?” He sat up slightly looking her over. “Come sit on my face, my dear. Let me eat that sweet cunt of yours until you are trembling.” She blinked again before letting her fingers pull off her silk panties. She reached behind her to find the zipper of her dress.
“No.” He said sharply. “Keep the dress on.”
“You don’t want to see me?” It was an automatic reaction of self doubt that bubbled at her lips.
“That’s not it, love.” She started to kneel on the bed as he spoke. He took her hands in his. “I have a bit of a fantasy.” Ah there it was.
“Librarian fetish?” She was no stranger to that sort of thing.
“Not exactly.” His soft blush told her differently though.
“No shame in expressing what you like, my dear.” She used his own words against him. “Tell me. I suppose you want me to keep my glasses on too.” She adjusted said glasses up the bridge of her nose. She watched him swallow. His cock even twitched. It was such a simple gesture and he had nearly creamed himself.
“Please.” He was nearly begging now. “Sit on my face. Let me make you feel good.”
She hiked up her skirt rolling the fabric as she moved over him. She let her pussy lips skate across his cock as she moved. The groan was so low and needy she wondered if she needed to settle on his long hardness right then and there. Instead she settled for lowering on his face.His lips suckled her loudly causing her to gasp deeply.
“Oh, so fuckin’ good. Yes.” She tried to focus on her breathing. The skirt blocked her view from his lovely face, though she could still feel how good his lips were treating her. “Let me know if I’m too heavy or you need a - ahhhhhhh!” She felt her hips moving against his mouth riding his tongue out as it found her clit to suckle.
She had never ridden a man’s face before. Yes she had gotten eaten out, but this was a very different experience all together. Her hands positioned themselves against the plush headboard of her bed. It rocked banging softly against her egg shell colored walls. His hands held her steady and close to his face. She could not help herself in leaning into his mouth that latched onto her. His nose flicked back and forth stimulating her clit that she felt was just as needy as her.
Her breath heaved in and out trying to focus on being able to breath. Her whimpering was a bit pathetic, but the more noises she made the more vigorous Aemond seemed to become. His hands were under her dress holding her hips against his mouth. She could hear the loud suckling against her cunt along with the slobbering mess he was drooling over her cunt. His moans and delicious little noises spurned her on.
“Aemond, I’m close. Aemond . . .” There were no words any longer, but she could feel him move her skirt. Her eyes closed as she felt herself unravel on his mouth.
Her hands laid flat against the headboard. Her hips rutted against his mouth riding out her little high. Her eyes finally settled downward to see he had moved her skirt to watch her face as she came undone. She licked her lips seeing how latched he still was on her cunt. It felt raw feeling her cunt in his mouth, seeing him looking up at her with blown back black eyes.
She started to move, but he anchored her there in his mouth, moaning in protest. He closed his eye, beginning to kiss and lick her cunt then slowly toward her inner thighs.
“Aemond . . . please.” She didn’t know what to say after. He was moaning and licking. She felt her face flush as she could feel her arousal leaking from her. “Let me . . .”
“You are behaving perfectly for me.” He said between kisses on her cunt. “Ride my face again. Just like before.” He moaned into her again.
“Don’t you want me to ride your cock?” She groaned so sweetly as she nibbled her bottom lip.
“Fuckin’ temptress.” He groaned, releasing her. “Go on then. Get on it.”
She pumped her hips a bit over his lips letting his nose tease her clit before maneuvering to where he wanted her. She hovered over his cock. Her hands skated over his toned abs not able to help herself in giving a tone that spoke to her admiration of his body.
“If you liked how my pussy tasted,” Slowly, ever so slowly she lowered herself despite the impatience that screamed across his features. “You’ll love how it feels.”
He cried out with her as she sank on him in one quick motion. Her cunt was used to a slow easy stretch that she wanted to test herself to see how she might react if she let his cock in with a singular motion. It felt unexpected, a bit unpleasant, and incredibly satisfying.
“Gods, you are so full of surprises.” He groaned under her. She saw tears catch at the corner of his eye. He let out a little whimper again. His hands snaked to her hips, so round and canting. “Shit, you feel . . . Gods . . .” She was moving. It was causing him to groan and lose his words. “Please don’t stop.”
One hand anchored her hip while the other moved to knead her breast. She helped him find the right rhythm of squeezing and brushing his thumb over her nipple which was rapidly hardening under her bra and dress. Her hands caressed his torso wanting so badly to feel him inside and out. Her hand occasionally raked through his long silver hair.
“So beautiful.” She mumbled. “All mine.” She loved to be a little possessive when it came to the people she loved. Her mouth pulled close to him testing to see if he would let her say those words to him without wanting to turn the tables on her, possess her fully.
“I’m . . . yours.” He breathed between her kisses.
It prompted her to ride him hard. It allowed him to curse. He let out words in a language she did not understand. The tone of it sent her out of control. His hands were against the small of her back pushing over her clothes harder against him. She kept kissing him, riding him, and calling out his name. Her body skated past an orgasm. Her hand snaked under the skirt nearly crushed by her own movement.
She stroked her clit, but he came before she had a chance.
His softening cock made her whimper.
He hummed as he let himself fall back on the pillow.
Aemond pushed her hip slightly, a gesture for her to dismount from him. She suddenly didn’t feel so in control or sexy rolling onto her back beside him.
“Good?” She wondered nuzzling her nose to his throat.
“We’ll get there.” He chuckled. His eye watched as her face grew near offensive. “I prefer to have my partner orgasm first, but first times are about learning. You are such an interesting subject. I can’t wait to study what makes you tick further.” He wrapped her in his arms, snuggling her.
She felt his lips kiss her forehead.
“Happy New Year, my dear.” He whispered against the shell of her ear. “Let me know when you are ready to go again.” His lips curved against her cheek. She could feel his silver hairs tickle her neck.
“Ready whenever you are, love. This time I want you to see all of me.”
The sex was good.
The sex got better with each passing day.
Every date ended at her place, in her bed. His appetite for her was nearly all consuming. The little brunette was able to put the Targaryen man in place if he came on too strong. It was rare though. Her hunger for him was just as dark and consuming.
She had yet to see his place, which bristled her only when her co-workers mentioned it.
“What’s he hiding over there, huh?” They asked.
Her mind often wandered of what she truly knew about Aemond Targaryen besides the surface level things she saw or read. She knew he was intelligent, but that was clear seeing him study every day or looking at his various professional profiles online. He was well mannered. He loved to touch her any chance he could get. He desired her openly when they were sitting at a bar or in a restaurant or at the theater.
She didn’t mind constantly being touched. There was a sweetness in having a needy man at her heels wanting her so badly he’d do just about anything. It felt a bit possessive at times, but when she told him to stop he was very obedient. She suspected being told what to do turned him on.
Her little dirty talk in the bedroom had kept him coming back for more. Or maybe it was her alone. He made her feel so special. He was beginning to lavish her with gifts besides fancy dinners and mind blowing sex.
Fuck he ate her out so fuckin good.
He never gave her a single piece of jewelry. Every gift was thoughtful and exclusive to her. Aemond had her favorite Jane Austen book rebound and custom made. It was etched in a solid gold cover looking like a glorious piece of art. She had nearly cried when he given it to her. Aemond gave her a small custom set of seeds with men he hired taking over her outdoor garden when he saw her reading over how to grow her own food.
She was waiting until the spring to plant them on her little porch outside her flat, but the landscaping had been a delight.
“He’s too good to be true.”
The words echoed in her head from her mother, her co-workers, and anyone else who seemed jealous of her happiness. Those little words ticked in her brain every time she felt too happy with her silver haired beau. Her heart pounded at the thought she might lose him to her own inability to take happiness at face value.
Her fingers still trailed in her overthinking.
Curiosity itched at her brain, but she refused to let it win out today.
He was taking her to Rook’s Rest, the most exclusive and expensive resturant. On Valentine’s Day no less. She had questioned how he could get in several times. He had simply told her he knew she would love their menu and he wanted nothing but the best for his woman.
Aemond had started out the day sending a delivery of a dozen perfect roses in a hand blown glass vase that appeared as the open mouth of a dragon.
He didn’t spend all day at the library instead letting her anticipate his arrival when he picked her up from her flat.
She wore a long black gown with silver collared jewelry and pearl earrings.
“The things I am going to do to you tonight . . .”
“Don’t threaten me with a good time Mr. Targaryen.”
He did.
Fuck did he know how to show her a good time.
Perfect dinner.
Perfect atmosphere.
Perfect company.
When he pulled up to the high rise penthouse she was surprised. It was gorgeous, tall, and a bit overwhelming in the moonlight.
“Let me show you where I live.”
Her heart pounded as she craned her neck. He pulled her into the elevator finding her lips and hips. He grabbed her, whimpering low and needy. Her toes curled as she perched on her toes. Even though she had heels on she was still so much shorter than him.
She barely had time to truly take in Aemond’s penthouse.
She knew that when the elevator opened it was to his entire room.
Everything else blurred.
There were certain aspects of the night that stuck in her brain.
He had put a red ribbon around her throat requesting that was all she wear.
His hand squeezing and spanking her ass.
His lips eating her out like she was his dessert.
His cock so hard bending her over the bed as he fucked her from behind.
His cum flowing against her cheeks.
It happened over and over again until she wanted to beg him to stop, but didn’t because deep down she felt so incredible.
She felt his hands grip around her waist in a semi possessive, semi comforting gesture. He nuzzled his nose in the crock of her neck where the ribbon met her skin. The librarian took the opportunity to let her curiosity win out deciding to scroll through her phone.
Her mind fell down a curiosity hole going over that strange bar on New Year’s Eve. She researched the bar itself learning it had a nefarious history. Since it first opened back in the 70s there had been an insane number of bar fights and alleged murders that occurred both inside and outside of Storm’s End.
Her fingers halted on the most recent death that had lingered on Halloween night just a bloke away from the bar.
A stabbing.
Lucerys Velaryon.
Aemond Targaryen’s nephew.
Several articles indicated Aemond Targaryen as a person of interest citing a childhood rivalry and -
Her fingers clicked out of the article.
She looked over to the man cuddling beside her.
Did she really know him?
She blinked away that thought. Her eyes settled onto the room. Her mind noted details. It was dark. The walls were coated black. His bed wasn’t high, but low. It was the easiest bed to get on for her tiny frame. He had no doors in his penthouse. Everything was open including the bathroom. She peeked in from the bed, seeing that instead of a mirror above his sink there was a painting of a beautiful landscape of a dark stormy night over a looming castle on a monstrous island filled with mountains.
There were no mirrored surfaces. She could even see from here that his kitchen was so bare. She decided to slowly wander over once Aemond entered REM. She felt his little lashes twitch against her backside. Her hips slipped out of his grasp easily though she could feel his exhale of hot breath at her back.
She ventured into the kitchen, nude and feeling out the rest of the penthouse. The little brunette had suspected his place to be spotless, but she could see now Aemond Targaryen had an organized mess. His books were not on his empty shelves, but instead piled at each side of his love seat. The titles were very much him, textbooks on history, books of maps, of business proposals, and titles on real estate.
On the counter top in his beautiful kitchen were a smattering of menus. Upon entering she could feel a sense of coldness there. Aemond had never been shy about his lack of cooking skills. Now she could see how truly bare the environment was. He had a smattering of greasy take away menus on the counter, folded and unfolded as if he had looked over them too many times. Each drawer she opened showed her the studio penthouse’s kitchen had never been touched.
Every utensil had a newness and shine to it that verged on disturbing. In the refrigerator laid takeaway leftovers, a case of beer, and a bottle of overpriced lemonade. In the freezer were microwaves meals, a stockpile as if he were preparing for an apocalypse. They nearly fell atop her when she opened it.
Her body, nude and slightly vulnerable, moved to the open walk in closet between the kitchen and living room.
No door.
No secrets.
It could be the reason he waited so long to bring her here.
Aemond Targaryen was a bare mess here. Her eyes faltered to his position in bed. He pulled the expensive silk sheets to his sweaty form. Her feet felt warm on the heated floor. He had bragged about installing it letting her mind wonder what it felt like to wiggle her toes on such warmth. Her hand flicked on the light.
It wasn’t the contents of the closet that struck her first.
Those were boring and unremarkable. She had seen his entire wardrobe at this point in their relationship. What she had not seen was the newspaper clippings that pressed firmly against the wall of the closet’s entryway. The articles were of take overs of large corporations from his father. There were articles that mentioned the name Aemond Targaryen, tabloids that talked about the day he lost his eye in a simple minded childhood fight with his nephew, Lucerys. In the middle of it all was a blown up article of the night his nephew died.
Every mention of Lucerys was underlined in red ink, over and over again.
He could not forget.
He could not forgive what was done to him.
“Naughty little girl.” She felt his weight against her back. His hand played with the bow loops around her neck. “Too curious for your own good. Hmmm . . .” His kiss was sloppy at her throat. Her eyes closed on instinct.
“Don’t act surprised.” The librarian was constantly looking for more information. The academic was always looking to learn. It’s what made them good together. It’s what made her terrified and aroused as he pinned her against the looming article on the wall.
“I don’t have to explain myself like some villain. You understand, my dear. You understand what needs to be done to you.”
There were two options.
Another article to the wall for discovering what she knew.
He was responsible for his nephew’s death.
Or . . .
“You can feel my choice right?”
His hand snaked between her legs to her soaked sex.
It didn’t matter what he had done.
She was too curious to find out more.
“Sir, the library is closing.” It was a soft tease on a summer Friday.
Aemond Targaryen looked up from his reading, no more studying.
Graduation was tomorrow.
He had on an expensive gold plated eyepatch. His silver dress shirt and pressed pants showed her he was ready for their evening out. Aemond now spent his time reading books she liked. She had given him a list. He was a fast reader and was nearly done with the several titles of what she deemed as classics. He loved talking to her about them, especially the non-fiction ones though there were not enough to his liking.
Her little mouth still frowned at his short hair, but he had insisted on a shorter look for his graduation.
A new start he had teased.
“I’m aware. I just need some assistance with an item.” He let the thick romance book snap closed.
Gods she hated that he didn’t use a bookmark.
The words were a beacon for her to follow. Her confidence with him had grown enough that she didn’t sheepishly look around her anymore. She followed him with a small spring in her step. He now was used to looking behind him for her, admiring her long pleated blue skirt and button up that had resewn buttons.
Aemond Targaryen loved pulling her little buttons off.
They were in a corner of the library. She instantly aware of why.
No cameras.
He pushed a metal step stool in the corner, never moving his hands.
“Up you go.” She obeyed.
The gesture was unfamiliar, but a fantasy he had spoken so many times. He looked her over for a moment, observing her on the stool. She could nearly hear his heart pounding with desire. They were eye to eye in this position, no longer was she a little meek thing looking up at him.
“You know what I want.”
“But it’s more fun if you take it.” Her response made him started to undo his pants.
The movement was quick as he took his fantasy into reality, fucking her in the corner of the library, no camera, no condoms, just pure desire. It might have taken him a moment or two to get his cock hard, but she barely noticed. She felt his spit coated cock rut inside her perfectly.
“You know what I’m going to do to you?” It was hardly a whispered question against her ear.
“I’m going to cum so hard inside you, you’ll be leaking my cum from your pussy until we get home.” He called his house their home even though she hadn’t moved in yet. “Then I’m going to fill you up again tonight and tomorrow and every night until I get bored. But you know I’ll never get bored of you, my dear.” She held back a whimper.
“Then you’ll move in at the end of the summer. I’ll keep you as my little whore and you’ll continue to be a good little librarian here.” He started to move faster. “I’ll marry you in a year’s time so I’ll truly be yours.” He loved being hers. “Then I’ll fuck this cunt up with baby after baby. I think four would be well within your threshold.” He palmed her belly. The thought of being full of his children made her bite her lip.
“You’ll be so happy. I’ll be so happy.” He grunted as if the thought of their shared happiness got him close to his orgasm. “I’ll work as a curator at a museum, preferably one with ancient weapons and about history. You’ll remain here, my little personal librarian. A mother. My little perfect wife.”
She was so close. She whispered his name.
“You’d like that, my dear. A family, love, discovering new things about each other every day. Would that sate your curious mind?”
“Yes . . .” It was so soft and wanting of the future, the future he imagined.
“Milk my cock then. Let it be the start of our future together.” He pounded into her making lewd noises in the corner.
Her mind felt white as she unraveled around him.
He gave her what he promised.
Not only his cum, but the promise of a future of curious behavior and his utter devotion.
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Contains: more religious nótt, implied smut, couple arguments, hissing, seizures, some violence.
A/N: I believe this may be the last chapter of nótt's story, I don't really know how to go on from here T^T buuut as usual if you hav ideas or requests, it's open all the time!! Hope you enjoyed!
Part 1 part 2 part 3 part 5
Knock knock
"Nótt?"
No response.
"Nótt? Sweetie?"
No response again.
Vessel opened her bedroom door, he found her on her bed, deep in prayer.
"Nótt, baby girl." Vessel kneeled next to her bed and shook her by the shoulder.
"Hm? Oh, sorry, papa. I didn't hear you." She looked up gently, still slightly surprised from his sudden appearance.
"Baby, it's time for dinner." He helped her up, guiding her by the shoulder in the hallway. "How long have you been prayering for?"
She hummed and looked up, trying to remember. "What's the longest you spent praying before, papa?"
"I think, about 5 hours? Even my body has limits, it's still exhausting to pray in the temple."
Her ears pointed downwards at the mention of the temple, she still wasn't allowed inside.
"Well, I still broke your record. 5 hours and a *half!" She giggled, the same cocky smile as her father's plastered on her face.
He smiled and ruffled her short hair, "good job, baby girl. Maybe you could start giving offerings to Sleep now, you're all grown up!"
They reached the dinner table, everyone was already seated and picking at their plate. Vessel sat next to you and kiss your head, he looked at the rest of the table and announced her achievement.
"Nótt officially spent more time praying in one sitting than me. 5 hours and a half." He smiled as nótt flushed with the praise from her uncles and you.
"Oh nótt, that's amazing! But there's more to worship in it for you now, you can start giving offerings!"
"I can open the gates, have you watch as it's put for her." iv offered, remembering that nótt can't go inside. It was an empathetic offer, but nótt still seemed bothered by it.
She sighed, "I guess, there's no other option." In an attempt to lighten the mood, she joked "I better give it to you, if I gave it to uncle iii he'd break it before he even steps foot in the temple!"
"HEY!" iii snapped up at the crude joke.
"who said that..? Wasn't me, must've been the wind..." nótt giggled under her breath.
"Ugh, not the time for this, nótt." iii grumbled, picking at the plate that he didn't even need to eat. "An ugly beast escaped before I could properly finish it off." He mumbled, knowing the mention of the beasts still upset nótt. And a sharp look from you quickly reminded him of that.
At night, nótt laid in her bed, trying to think of an offering she could bring to Sleep.
"Carved trinkets?"
"Baked goods?"
"A cooked flamingo?"
She cringed at the last option, she loves Sleep, but she wouldn't kill her friends for her favor.
She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, maybe she'd get an idea in the morning.
...
...
"Nótt."
She opened her eyes at the call of her name. But she wasn't in her room, and she wasn't even laying down.
She stood in shallow water, water so still it was a perfect mirror of the cloudy sky above. She looked around, there was nothing but still water till her horizonline.
"Nótt."
A voice ahead called. A blurry figure, shrouded in all black clothing, She could see giant antlers sitting on its head,
"It needs you nótt, it's waiting for you."
The voice emerged again, from all directions now.
A loud screech shook the water, breaking the perfect reflection it had.
Another shriek followed, waking nótt up with a gasp. She sat up in her bed, focusing on the noise outside.
It was a more muffled, distant shriek. A beast. She pitied it. But last time she followed a beast at night, her family almost got killed.
"This must've meant something."
She hesitated before getting up, quietly padding down the hall and down to the garden. The creature shrieked again.
She walked and walked to the noise, the forest trees slowly lessened.
She reached the source of the noise, the creature shrieked so loudly it pained her ears.
The creature laid in a field of "flowers" and tall grass, Bleeding out from its abdomen. How it survived for that long, she didn't know. But it still pained her heart to see it.
"Oh Sleep, oh sweet creature!!" She immediately kneeled next to the creature, her hand shaking as it touched it's wounded flesh.
Tears start welling in her eyes, but there was nothing she could do. She did all she knew she could do, she prayed.
"Oh Sleep, please, please my goddess, save your poor creature. Please. Have mercy on them."
She prayed and prayed, tears streaming down her eyes at each pitiful cry from the creature. "Please..."
Nótt didn't know for how long she prayed, but she was tired, her eyes fighting to stay open and throat dry from praying.
"Please, please, my goddess." She mumbled as she felt a movement under her.
She fell, the flowers gently cushioning her fall.
With what little consciousness she had, she looked up.
The creature, fully healed stood at its full height. It extended one of its arms and pet her hair, before disappearing back to the night.
...
...
"Nótt!"
A faint voice called out, her body was shaken vigorously.
"Nótt, baby, wake up!"
Multiple voices called out her name, she finally worked up the effort to open her eyes. She was met with the sight of you hunched over her and crying.
"You scared me!!" You immediately grabbed her and hugged her tightly, burying your face in her neck as you sobbed.
Nótt looked around her, her uncles and her father standing with all sorts of expressions. Anger, fear, relief, confusion.
"Papa...I- I'm sorry-"
"No."
Vessel sharply cut her off.
"You are no longer a child, you don't get a pass on doing this again." He turned away from her, anger seeping from every crevice of his form.
"But, I-"
A loud guttural hiss cut her off.
Everyone's head turned towards vessel.
Nótt's protest died on her tongue right then and there, she'd never heard or seen him so angry he'd hiss at someone before.
After what felt like forever in silence, you tugged your daughter up, "let's go, we'll continue this at home."
The walk home was deathly silent, even iii had a rare moment of void silence.
Vessel walked ahead of everyone, fuming. While you and the others held your daughter close. And it was very clear she was holding back tears.
Vessel closed the door of your bedroom, his shoulders finally relaxing as he pulled you into his embrace.
"Sigh, that kid- Oof!" He was cut of by your pushing him against the door, and keeping your distance from him.
"No! You don't have the luxury of my comfort." You yelled at him, his expression quickly turned to one of shock and confusion.
"Love-"
"Don't "love" me, vessel! You hissed at our daughter, you didn't even give her a chance to explain herself!!" You went on, "and until you go and fix things with her, apologize and let her explain, consider yourself welcome to sleep in the garden!!"
And before vessel knew it you pushed him out of the door and it was shut behind him.
The clarity after your yelling really gave his mind the reboot it needed, now not blinded by anger. He finally saw the error in his way.
And with the threat of banishment from the bedroom, he now has an angry wife and daughter to comfort.
He rushed to nótt's room, taking a deep breath before knocking.
"...come in." Her muffled voice answered, it was slightly cracked so he could tell she was crying.
He opened the door, finding his daughter sitting on her bed, prayer beads resting in her palm. She didn't look up at her father, excepting another lecture she didn't even deserve.
Vessel hesitated to approach, but slowly he moved closer and sat on the edge of the bed. With a deep breath, he spoke in the gentlest tone he can muster.
"I'm sorry, nótt." He glanced at her, she sniffled and looked up at him. "I...I was so scared for you, I didn't even think to ask."
He let himself move slightly closer to her, "It was uncharacteristically immature of me, that anger. And I do not wish for it to become characteristic."
Nótt moved closer, ears pointed downwards. Vessel opened his arms to invite her in an embrace, she hesitantly moved into it like a cub to its parents.
He immediately wrapped his arms around her and she did the same, burying her face in his bare chest and letting a few more tears fall on his chest.
After rocking her for a few minutes, letting her comfort herself again that her father would never turn into a man that would do this regularly, vessel put his hand under her jaw and gently lifted her face up to look at him. All of their six eyes locked onto each other.
"Now, would you like explaining to me? Honestly?" Nótt pulled away slightly, her hands resting in her lap and gaze averted from her father.
"And you'd believe me?"
"Ofcourse, sweetie."
With a deep breath, nótt spoke up. "Sleep sent me a dream. She told me to go to the forest, a beast was wounded there, I- I don't know what she wanted from me, but I prayed and a prayed for her to heal it."
Nótt's voice cracked slightly at the end of it, the memory of the beast's pitiful cries still pained her. "I can't remember what happened after, but it seems like Sleep heard my prayers. The beast wasn't there in the morning."
Vessel's heart almsot stopped beating, hut he had to keep a calm composure. With a still very shocked expression he asked, "D-Did you see her? Sleep? In your dream?"
"I couldn't exactly see her, she was very blurry. Like murky water, but I knew it was her." Nótt's gaze traveled back to her father, studying his worried expression. "Is everything alright, papa?"
"Yes, yes. It's okay. Just please, the next time she speaks to you. Tell me immediately, wake me up." He rested his hands on her shoulders and gave her a kiss on the forehead, "I must go, love."
He had to tell the numerals, and comfort you before telling you. He wouldn't want to add to the heart ache you were experiencing.
Vessel gathered the numerals in Sleep's temple, he told them of nótt's dream. Safe to say noone overreacted.
"Should I cook a flamingo? An Offering for Sleep to keep nótt safe?" iv offered, ii didn't seem to disapprove.
"A flamingo? Cook a whole beast to keep our niece safe!" iii intervened, vessel just sighed and ran a hand down his masked face.
"Noone is cooking anything. We just keep her in the manor for a few days, and iii will patrol more." He waved generally to ii and iv, "ii and iv can make sure she doesn't go near the temple. Thats all."
"That's it? Vessel, this could be the signs you were warned of! And This is all your asking of us?!" ii fought back, "atleast tell her mother, shouldn't she have a say in this too?"
Vessel looked down in shame, reminded of your anger towards him. "she doesn't wish to speak to me right now. But I will inform her."
The numerals fell silent, and with an agreement reached, they all silently got up to go back to their own duties.
Vessel followed soon after, choosing to leave you cool off before trying to make up with you.
Vessel has seen you around the manor throughout the day, in the kitchen, with iv, with nótt, near the temple. But he can tell you were avoiding him like the plague.
After a very awkward dinner where you avoiding communication with vessel at any cost, you receded to the bedroom early.
Vessel followed.
He entered the room, finding you already laying in bed, the room dimly lit by a single candle.
"Love?"
No response from you.
"I apologized to nótt. She explained what happened." He sat on the edge of the bed on your side, hand hesitantly hovering over your calf. That seemed to catch your attention, your eyes glancing to him.
"She had a dream from Sleep. She ordered to her to go to that forest." You finally sat up, the covers sliding off your body, clad in just his (only) shirt and shorts. Vessel was briefly distracted by your body until his eyes snapped up back to your face.
"This may be one of the signs Sleep warned us off. We have to be more careful these days." His hand came to rest upon yours, "and I can't focus with you upset with me."
You sighed and held his hand, rubbing his knuckles with your thumb. "And I can take it his won't happen again? At a time of such change for our daughter, you have to control yourself." Your voice remained stern, devoid of any affection.
"I promise." Vessel confirmed.
He leaned forward, searching your face for any discomfort. Once he saw none, he closed the distance and kissed your cheek.
"I'm sorry, honey." He pulled you closer, smothering your face with kisses. You still tried to keep a stoic facade, but he you've been married a long time. He knew exactly how to break you.
"You still want to play cold?" You can feel him grin against your cheek, "I know what to do." Vessel buried his face in your neck, taking a deep breath of your scent before licking a long stripe over your pulse.
You let out a small whimper, barely hidden under a loud breath. Vessel chuckled and kept going. "You can't stay cold forever, love." He palmed your breast and bit your neck hard enough to leave a mark, that finally broke you, a loud moan escaped your mouth before you can process the pleasure, heat started coiling in your lower belly.
"Give up?" Vessel pulled away, Teasing you with a wink and his tongue stuck out.
You grumbled and grabbed his hair roughly, "you shall reap what you sow." And quickly pushed him onto the bed.
While you and vessel were dead asleep in the night, nótt laid awake in her bed.
She couldn't sleep, she was scared to sleep.
She laid and wondered, why? Why did Sleep choose her to go to the beast? And why did she listen to her prayer so quickly? Sleep wasn't exactly known to listen to her followers immediately, maybe it was her father's blessing. Being born of him maybe gave her some sort of privilege.
She had to know the answer.
She got up, the second night in a row she doesn't sleep in her bed. She grabbed your old shawl that you gave her after her old one got ruined in flamingo food.
After padding quietly across the manor, and narrowly avoiding her uncle ii, nótt reached the temple gates. The heavy metal doors would be locked every night, but conveniently, not tonight.
She pushed open the gates as quietly as she can, luckily they didn't creak or groan like they usually would.
Nótt glanced around, offerings of all sorts lay on the granite floor and surrounding the stage. Furs, fresh fruit, small trinkets of wood and bone. Candles surrounded the alter, they seemed to never dim through all these eons.
"My goddess? Can you hear me?" Nótt spoke, seemingly to noone. She kept her voice low, for the temple's echos can alert someone she's here.
Nótt stepped closer and closer towards the stage, "you called for me last night, to your beast." Out of the corner of her eye, the candles seemed to flicker. "I don't know why, but you listened to me. You heard my prayers and healed your beast."
"But that's not why I'm here. I'm here for answers, my goddess." Nótt bowed her head, kneeling down infront of the low stage steps. "How am I doing these things? Why don't your beasts attack me, why do they listen to me?"
Nótt felt movement around her, winds despite no windows being present. "Why aren't I allowed in your temple? Why do you push me away my goddess?" She held her shawl tighter as the winds grew stronger.
"Please my goddess, please, don't push me out!!" Nótt's voice started to crack, visions of that dream flashing her mind, clouding her thoughts and ability to speak. She hiccuped and tried to hold back her tears, focusing all her energy on commuting with her goddess.
She prayed and prayed, as she felt her body stiffen and jerk uncontrollable, as her stomach felt like it was twisting in on itself, this wasn't right. She wasn't going to let her goddess kill her for asking questions. Right before she felt her mind give out, she managed one scream with all the breath in her lungs, alerting anyone around.
And before her eyes closed, she heard heavy footsteps run into the temple.
"Wake up! Wake the fuck up!" iv banged on your bedroom door, when you stumbled out of bed and opened the door he was quick to grab you by the shoulders to shake the sleep off you. "You, vessel, come on, it's your daughter!"
You and vessel didn't anymore, quickly rising out of the room and running with iv down the halls into ii's apothecary.
You found ii and iii, and nótt laid on a thin mat on the ground. She wasn't moving.
"My daughter-" just as you and vessel were about to rush in, iv held his hand up. ii had work to do first, he didn't want to deal with a terrified mother and father too.
"She slipped past me, entered the temple behind my back." ii anxiously worked around her, preparing some sort of medication to help wake her up. "Had a seizure, she managed to scream to alert me."
iii kneeled next to her, checking that she's still breathing and her heart is still working well. "Clever girl..." He mumbled, hand resting on her pulse to keep track of it. iii looked the most dim you've ever seen him, the light in his eyes snuffed out like a candle.
"Here, make her sit up." ii kneeled next iii holding a cup, iii followed his order, holding her head up as ii put the cup to her lips and forced her to swallow.
iii laid her down again, for a few moments nothing changed. Till her eyes stared twitching under her eyelids, and soon enough her eyes slowly opened.
"My baby..."
Nótt almost immediately started crying, the panic, fear, and pain of all that's happened crashing down on her again. But the comfort of your voice broke her.
You and vessel pushed past iv and sat down to embrace your daughter, she clung onto vessel and you, burying her face in your shoulder as her tears stained your clothes.
"You're safe, baby. You're okay, you're okay." You kept reassuring her, till her breathing slowed and tears thinned.
"I'm sorry, mama." Were the first words she muttered. "I don't know why I thought this was a good idea, Sleep hates me!"
"My child, that's not true. I-" Vessel held back his tongue, still not sure if it's time. He looked around to the other numerals, hoping they encourage him to say it.
"The longer you keep this hidden, the more she's a danger to herself." ii stated sternly, he was still anxious about almost losing her.
Nótt heard and glanced at ii then back at her father, studying his worried expression. "There's something you're hiding..."
"Please, papa, just tell me the truth! Why am I like this!?" Nótt raised her voice, at the edge of crying again.
"Nótt, please calm down. We'll explain everything." You readjusted to sit properly, your hands twitching anxiously in your lap. "Nótt, your father...can't have children, okay?"
While that was news shock on its own, nótt almost immediately looked towards her uncles. You could see the gears turning in her head.
"Neither can your uncles, don't worry." You reassured her.
"Becoming a vessel, requires one to leave behind that ability. Our seed is useless." iv explained, being the youngest, he was more aware and still not at ease with the consequence.
Nótt was still confused, she looked back at her father, was he even her father? You held your daughter's hands, rubbing her knuckles to comfort her.
"When I got married to your father, Sleep heard my cries, she heard me cursing her for taking away such a luxury from him." You giggled at the memory, "she honestly should've struck me down for all that I said. But instead she gave me you."
Your daughter stared at her lap for a moment to process the new information, when she still looked confused you knew you had to be more blunt. Vessel took that as his sign to explain.
"My daughter." He moved closer to her, "you are a blessing from Sleep. Albeit through me, but a blessing nonetheless. An extention of her magic given form."
"I'm...an extention of her. A blessing from her? Why didn't you tell me?" While nótt seemed at peace with the new information, she still didn't know why they hid it away from her for so long.
"Sleep's orders. We were just as upset as you, honey" iii explained. "But she said, as soon as we tell you, you can go in the temple completely fine."
"Really!?" She shot up, excitement flaring in her eyes. You and vessel giggled at her sudden switch.
"Yes, my darling. Do you wish to go now? Have a little praying session with no interruption, or put your own offering there."
"YES!!" Nótt grabbed her father's arm and pulled him up, before the other numerals or you can even catch up she was already leading him down the hall to the temple. Her giggles echoing down the hall.
⤷ During a feast, boredom emboldens you to tease your husband, Maekar, because he's not paying attention to you; you escalate things by smiling at another lord and Maekar has no other choice but to put you in your place.
⤷ 𝐌𝐀𝐄𝐊𝐀𝐑 𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐄𝐍 × 𝐖𝐈𝐅𝐄!𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑.
⤷ explicit sexual content, minors do not engage with this, rough sex, breeding kink, smut, porn with plot.
Eh, what can I say? I am a whore for this man.
The great hall of the Red Keep sweltered under the weight of autumn's last feast, the fire pit roaring at the center of the long room while torches guttered in iron sconces along the stone walls.
The air was thick with everything at once—roasting mutton, dark ale, sweat from a hundred bodies packed onto rough-hewn benches, the smoke that curled lazy and grey toward the high rafters where banners hung in the dim.
You sat pressed against your husband's side, your amber silk gown warm against your thighs where it pooled across the bench, and you were not listening to Lord Harren Blackwood.
You had stopped listening approximately seven minutes ago, somewhere between "barley yield" and "and if you consider the oat rotation, my lord, the true cost is—" and you had not been missed.
Lord Blackwood's attention was fixed entirely on Maekar's face, his ruddy cheeks flushed from wine and earnest desperation, his hands gesturing with the ink-stained cuff of his wool tunic as he charted numbers in the air like a septon casting prayers.
He did not see you.
He did not see how your fingers had begun to trace slow circles on your own knee beneath the table, or how your gaze had drifted from his tedious mouth to your husband's jaw.
Maekar's jaw.
That hard line of it, the close-cropped beard that did nothing to soften the cut of his bone, the muscle that worked beneath his temple as Lord Blackwood droned on.
He was being patient.
You could feel it in the way his hand had gone still around his cup of wine, the way his shoulders had settled into a posture of strained courtesy. He was letting the man finish.
And you were very, very bored.
“My lord, as I was saying,” the elderly lord continued, oblivious, “the western granaries produced nearly twenty percent less grain than expected.”
Prince Maekar nodded once. “Then import from the Reach before winter drives the prices higher. Waiting will only worsen the matter.”
You sat beside him, slowly dying of boredom.
Grain.
More grain.
An astonishing amount of grain.
“My prince is wise,” the lord agreed. “Though transportation costs remain a concern—”
You leaned toward your husband. You shifted closer to him, letting your shoulder press against his arm, the silk of your gown whispering softly against his sleeve. He did not react—not visibly—but you felt the slight hitch in his breathing, the way his chest paused for half a heartbeat before continuing its steady rise and fall.He knew you were there.
He always knew.
“Maekar.”
His violet eyes flicked toward you briefly. “Not now.”
Lord Blackwood continued. “If we could negotiate lower tariffs—”
A rather pleasant thought crossed your mind at that moment, humming beneath your breath as you took a sip of your wine and then smiled sweetly.
“Did you know,” you murmured into Maekar's ear, “that I've spent the last ten minutes imagining how quickly you'd drag me out of this hall if I interrupted your very important discussion about wheat?”
The moment the words slipped from your mouth, Maekar froze, a brief moment long enough for him to send you a scalding glare, “Tariffs,” he said evenly to the lord, staring straight ahead, “can be renegotiated.”
The lord nodded eagerly. “Yes, exactly, Your Grace.”
Your lips brushed the shell of your husband's ear, close enough that your breath was warm against his skin, and you let your voice drop to a low, honeyed purr that only he would hear.
“My lord husband,“ you murmured, your tongue tracing the ridge of his ear just once, featherlight, “I have been sitting here for the better part of an hour, listening to a man describe the moisture content of barley, and I have come to a decision.”
The muscle in his jaw jumped. His eyes did not leave Lord Blackwood's face, but you felt the shift in the air between them—the way his attention, that vast and careful attention he was giving the grain lord, fractured.
“Is that so,” he said, his voice flat, pitched for the conversation he was still technically having. Lord Blackwood, blessedly oblivious, continued talking about soil acidity.
“It is,” you breathed. You hand slid from your knee to his thigh beneath the table, palm flat, pressing through the wool of his breeches. “I've decided that you are paying too much attention to oats and not nearly enough to me.”
The muscle beneath your hand tensed. Hard. His thigh was solid, all dense strength from years of riding and sword work, and you traced the edge of it with your fingertips, a slow exploration that stopped just short of where he would feel it most.
“And I've further decided,” you continued, your lips still brushing his ear, “that if you do not find a way to end this conversation in the next minute, I will slide my hand higher. And I will find out exactly how much of your attention I can claim while Lord Blackwood explains the difference between spring wheat and winter wheat.”
Maekar's hand moved.
It dropped below the table and closed around your wrist—firm, his calloused fingers a band of heat around your delicate bones. He did not squeeze hard enough to hurt. Just hard enough to stop you.
“Wife,” he said, and his voice had dropped. Lower now. A growl that vibrated through his chest and into your shoulder where you leaned against him. “That is not a game for this table.”
“I'm not playing a game,” you said, and you let your teeth graze his earlobe. Just once. Just enough to feel him shiver. “I'm making a point.”
Lord Blackwood took a breath. “—so you see, my lord, the adjustment would only be a few silver stags per bushel, and I assure you the yield increase would—”
Maekar turned his head. Just slightly. Just enough that his mouth was against your temple, his breath hot against your skin, and his voice was a low, rough warning that only you could hear.
“If you do not stop,” he said, “I will throw you over my shoulder and carry you out of this hall like a sack of flour. In front of every lord here. In front of your Dornish friend, who has been watching you since you sat down.”
Your heart stuttered.
A flash of heat, sharp and bright, that traveled from your chest straight down to your core.
You knew that tone.
You knew the weight in it, the promise that was not a threat but a statement of intent. He would do it. He absolutely would do it.
You drew back.
Just enough to meet his gaze, your eyes catching the firelight, and you let your mouth curve into a slow, deliberate smile.
“You wouldn't,” you said, and your voice was a challenge now, a dare wrapped in silk.
His violet eyes held yours.
“Try me.”
You should have stopped there. You knew you should have stopped there. The line was drawn, the warning delivered, and any sensible woman would have pressed her knees together, taken a sip of wine, and waited for the conversation to end with her dignity intact.
But you had never been sensible. And you were not done.
You let your smile widen—just a fraction, just enough to show you knew exactly what you were doing—and then you turned your head.
Across the table, Lord Anders Dustin sat lounging in his seat with the easy grace of a man who had no particular business at this feast and no particular care for who knew it. His dark hair was pulled back from his face, the silver scar on his brow catching the torchlight, and his sharp brown eyes had been watching you for some time.
You had felt his gaze on your skin like a whisper, like a question. And now you answered it.
You smiled at him. Slow. Deliberate. The kind of smile that meant something—or at least, the kind of smile that could be mistaken for meaning something.
Anders's mouth curved in response, a lazy, knowing tilt that acknowledged the game you were playing. He raised his cup to you, just slightly, a salute that said I see you, and I see him, and I am very curious how this ends.
Lord Blackwood was still talking. He had moved on to drainage. Nonsense words, water and silt and percentages that you did not hear because you were still smiling at the Dornishman, and because Maekar's hand had tightened around your wrist.
“That,” Maekar said, his voice so low it was barely a vibration, “was a mistake.”
And then you squeezed his thigh, palmed the visible evidence of his straining cock and grinned.
Hard.
The lord blinked. “Are you unwell, Prince Maekar?”
“No.”
You squeezed once more and feeling quite emboldened by the wine and the fact that your husband hadn't paid you much attention since the feast began, moved your hand higher and slipped beneath his legs, fluttering your eyelashes when your husband quietly groaned beneath his breath.
“You appear tense.”
“I am listening.”
“You do not seem to be listening.”
“I assure you,” Maekar replied through clenched teeth, “I hear every word.”
You rested your chin on your hand. “How impressive. A prince capable of discussing grain and tariffs while wondering whether his wife is about to behave herself.”
Maekar inhaled, slowly, dangerously and you smirked behind your cup, taking another sip as you tried to appear as innocent without making it obvious that you were now rubbing the evidence of his hardening cock beneath—as you promptly deemed it at that moment—too much clothing.
The lord frowned. “Your Grace?”
“The harvest,” Maekar said, voice strained, “was lower than expected.” a hiss tore from his lips as he rolled his shoulders, your fingers squeezing once more over the fabric of his breeches, grinning innocently at him, though he paid you now attention.
“Yes.”
“And the grain must be moved before winter.”
“Yes.”
“And if my wife says another word, I may personally carry her from this hall.”
Lord Blackwood blinked.
You grinned. “Carry me?”
Maekar finally looked at you. The stare promised consequences.
“Be quiet.”
You rose an eyebrow in challenge. “Make me.” The silence that followed was deafening. Across the table, one knight abruptly became fascinated by his wine. Another choked on his drink.
The lord looked between the two of you and wisely decided that perhaps grain could wait until tomorrow. “On second thought,” he said, standing quickly, “I believe we have discussed the matter sufficiently.”
The moment he was gone, Maekar seized your wrist beneath the table.
“Seven hells,” he muttered as his head tilted back, violet eyes darkening as you looked entirely too pleased with yourself.
“At least you're paying attention to me now.”
His jaw tightened.
“Keep smiling.”
“Why?”
“Because in five minutes,” Maekar said, rising from his seat, “you are going to regret reminding me that I have been ignoring you all evening.”
For the first time during the feast, you were no longer bored. “Is that a threat, Your Grace?”
He leaned towards you, lips pulling back and then he did not unexpected—your husband's lips wrapped around your earlobe and then he nipped, “No, sweet wife, it's a fucking promise. Now behave, or else I'll bend you over this fucking table and shove my cock so deep in your cunt that you'll be screaming my name,” and then he leaned back, looking entirely too pleased with himself at the flustered look on your face, “and I am seconds away from doing so.”
You cleared your throat, but his fingers wrapped around your wrist before you could pull your hand away, “I do not think I gave you permission to stop,” and then your lips parted, his violet gaze clashing against your own and then he grunted, “fuck it, we're leaving.”
You laughed.
It was a bright, ringing sound, the laugh you used when you knew you were being wicked and wanted everyone to know you knew it. It cut through Lord Blackwood's monologue like a blade, drawing his attention for the first time in minutes, drawing the eyes of the nearest tables, drawing Anders Dustin's amused gaze and the tilt of his scarred brow.
The lord, who knew better than most than to utter a word, glanced away and took careful interest in the plate of untouched food in front of him, “We will continue this discussion on the morrow, I find that I must tend to far more important matters.”
You did not see the hear the scrape of Maekar's chair. You only felt the air shift, the sudden absence of his warmth at your side, and then his hands were on you—one gripping your arm, the other sliding around your waist as he pulled you up from your seat with a strength that left no room for resistance—
and then threw you over his shoulder, ignoring the several gasps that tumbled from the ladies huddled somewhere in the corner of the hall, gossiping most like, your husband paid them no mind and turned to face his brother, Prince Baelor Targaryen who looked far more amused at the lack of decorum than he had any right to be.
“Maekar,” Baelor murmured beneath his breath, “this is not a fitting image of a prince of the realm to act,” Maekar grunted.
“Fuck off, I've had enough of this fucking feast and talks of grain, now please excuse me, I have to teach my wife some manners,” and then Maekar did indeed keep promise to his words when he carried you the hall.
The world swung upside down, stone and torchlight and gasping faces tumbling past your vision as Maekar's shoulder drove into your stomach hard enough to steal your breath.
His arm locked across the backs of your thighs like iron, your crimson gown pooling around your ears, the silk of your skirts sliding against your face as the hall spun to a stop.
“Maekar,” you gasped, the word punched out of you by the impact, but your husband was already walking, boots striking the flagstones with the unhurried rhythm of a man who had nowhere else to be and no one to answer to.
Behind you, the hall erupted. A lady's shriek, cut short. The scrape of a chair pushed back too fast. And beneath it all, Baelor's laughter—low, silken, utterly delighted—following you past the doors like a ribbon of sound.Your hands found Maekar's back, gripping the leather of his doublet as you tried to right yourself, but the angle was wrong, your weight balanced on his shoulder with nothing to brace against but the broad span of his spine.
Your hair swung forward, strands catching in your mouth, and you spat them out with an undignified huff.
“Put me down.” His hand slid up the back of your calf, callused fingers pressing hard enough to leave marks.
“No.”
The corridor swallowed the torchlight. Damp granite chilled the bare skin of your arm where your sleeve had ridden up, and the echo of Maekar's boots flattened against the narrow walls, footsteps chasing each other into the dark ahead.
You heard the whisper of a servant pressing themselves against the wall to let the prince pass, heard the sharp intake of breath, heard the scurry of retreating feet.
“Everyone is staring,” you said, your voice muffled by the angle, by the fabric of his doublet pressing against your cheek.
“Let them.” His hand was still on your calf, thumb tracing the seam of your stocking, and the touch was deliberate—not absent, not accidental. He was touching you like he owned you, like the corridor was his chamber and your leg was his to map in the dark.
Your face burned. “You made a scene.”
His laugh was a grunt, barely a sound at all, but you felt it move through his shoulder, through the meat of his back where your hands still clung. “I haven't even started.”
The corridor turned. The air changed—cooler, damper, the smell of old stone and something earthier. The tower stairs. You heard them before you saw them, the hollow echo of a space that opened upward into darkness.
Maekar's hand left your calf. You felt the absence like a loss, the ghost of his fingers still warm on your skin. Then his palm landed flat on your arse, squeezing once, hard, and you yelped.
“That's for smiling at the Dornish lord.”
“I didn't—”
“You did.” His voice was flat, matter-of-fact. “Three times. Once when he complimented the wine, once when he said your gown suited you, and once when he leaned close enough to touch your hand.”
Your mouth opened. Closed. “He was being polite.”
“He was being a cunt. You thought I didn't pay attention to you? You grabbed my cock, teased me and now you want to complain? Fuck that.”
The stairs began. Each step jolted through you, his shoulder driving into your stomach with every downward stride—no, upward. He was carrying you up, not down. The tower. The royal apartments. Your chambers.
His thumb hooked the top of your stocking and pulled. The silk snapped against your skin, sharp and stinging, and you gasped.
“You should have thought twice before wearing red,” he said, his voice low, almost thoughtful. “Makes me want to tear it off you.”
Your pulse hammered. “It's the Targaryen color.”
“It's my color. On you. In this light.” His hand slid higher, fingers brushing the bare skin of your inner thigh, and you felt the heat of his palm like a brand. “Makes me want to put my mouth on every inch you've covered.”
You couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. The stairs kept turning, the walls close and dark, and his hand was still moving, fingers tracing the edge of your smallclothes through the silk of your stocking, and you were wet—you could feel it, the slick heat gathering between your thighs, the shameful, aching want that bloomed every time he touched you.
“Maekar.” His name came out wrong, too breathy, too desperate. “I was bored and you were talking about grain.”
He stopped walking.
The sudden stillness was worse than the movement. You hung over his shoulder, your blood rushing in your ears, your cunt clenching around nothing, waiting.
His hand left your thigh. “And you thought smiling at another man, teasing me like you didn't expect this outcome? Oh, no, no. You'll fucking learn, sweet wife.”
You heard the click of a latch. The groan of a door swinging open. Warmth washed over you—candlelight, the smell of beeswax and dried lavender, the familiar scent of your chambers.
He stepped inside. Kicked the door shut behind him. The sound of the lock turning was louder than you expected.
He crossed the room in three strides, and then you were falling, the world righting itself as he dumped you onto the bed, the mattress catching your weight with a creak of ropes and feathers. You bounced once, your gown tangling around your legs, your hair wild across your face, and before you could push yourself upright, he was there—one knee on the bed, his hands gripping your ankles, pulling you flat.
“Stay.”
The word was a command, not a request, and your body obeyed before your mind caught up, your legs stilling, your hands falling to your sides.
He looked down at you. The candlelight caught the silver of his hair, turned his violet eyes to molten amethyst, and his jaw was set, his stubbled cheek shadowed, his chest rising and falling with the breath of a man who had carried his wife through the Red Keep and was not finished with her.
“You're going to learn,” he said, “what happens when you smile at other men.”
So perhaps this wasn't because you had teased him, but rather assumed that he hadn't paid attention to you
Your throat tightened.
“I—”
“Shut up.” He said it without heat, the way he said everything, and then he leaned down, his hands finding the neckline of your gown, and he pulled.
The fabric tore.
Not the careful unlacing of a maid's hands, not the patient work of a husband undressing his wife—a rip, a surrender, the sound of silk giving way to force. Cool air hit your chest, your stomach, the tops of your thighs as he rent the gown down the middle, baring you to the candlelight in your shift and stockings and nothing else.
You gasped. Your hands flew up to cover yourself, but he caught your wrists, pinned them to the mattress above your head, and held you there with one hand while the other traced the line of your collarbone, the swell of your breast through the thin linen of your shift.
“Pretty,” he said, and the word was rough, almost reverent. “So fucking pretty like this. Spread out for me. Waiting.”
Your breath came in short, sharp pulls. “Maekar—”
“I'm going to fuck you," he said, his voice dropping, his thumb finding your nipple through the linen and pressing, circling, watching your face as you bit your lip. “I'm going to fuck you until you forget every man in that hall exists. Until the only name you remember is mine.”
He released your wrists. Stepped back. His hands went to his belt, working the buckle with the practiced ease of a man who undressed in the dark more often than the light, and you watched him—watched the leather fall away, watched his fingers find the laces of his breeches, watched him free his cock.
It was thick.
Heavy.
The head flushed dark, already slick with something that caught the candlelight, and your mouth went dry.
“On your knees.”
You moved before the words finished leaving his mouth, rolling off the bed, your bare feet finding the cold stone floor, your knees pressing into the rug at his feet. The torn gown pooled around your hips, your shift rucked up to your waist, and you looked up at him from the floor, your heart hammering so hard you could feel it in your throat.
His hand found your hair.
Wrapped around the tumbling waves, twisted, pulled until your head tilted back, your throat bared, your lips parted.
“Open.”
You opened your mouth. He guided his cock to your lips, the head pressing against the soft heat of your tongue, and you tasted him—salt and skin and the musk of his arousal, clean and sharp and wholly him. Your lips closed around him, and his hand tightened in your hair, and he pushed deeper.
Not rough.
Not gentle.
The weight of him filling your mouth, stretching your lips, sliding across your tongue until the head pressed against the back of your throat and you gagged, your hands flying up to grip his thighs.
“Breathe through your nose,” he said, his voice steady, his hips rocking forward once, twice, seating himself deeper. “You can take it.”
You tried. Your nose burned, your eyes watered, and his cock was thick in your throat, pulsing against your tongue, and you wanted—gods, you wanted—to please him, to take all of him, to feel him lose control in your mouth.
Your hands found the backs of his thighs, nails digging into the leather of his boots, and you relaxed your throat the way you'd learned, the way you'd practiced in the dark when you were alone and thinking of him, and he slid deeper, his cock filling you completely, your nose pressed against the coarse hair at his base.
He groaned.
The sound was low, guttural, punched out of him, and his hand in your hair tightened, holding you there, holding you still while his cock twitched on your tongue.
“Good girl,” he breathed. “Fucking good girl.”
He pulled back, slow, letting you breathe, letting you gasp against his skin before he pushed in again, setting a rhythm—deep and slow, each thrust pressing you open, each withdrawal leaving you empty and aching for more.
Your jaw ached.
Your throat burned.
Your cunt was dripping, slick and desperate, clenching around nothing as you knelt at his feet and let him fuck your mouth, let him use you the way he needed, the way you needed him to.
His breathing changed. Shortened. His hips stuttered, once, and he pulled out, his cock sliding across your lips, leaving a trail of spit and the taste of him on your tongue.
“Maekar...” you whined in protest.
“On the bed.” His voice was rough, frayed at the edges. “Face down.”
You scrambled up, your knees weak, your shift clinging to your sweat-slicked skin, and you threw yourself onto the bed, face-down, your cheek pressed to the furs, your arse in the air.
You heard him behind you—the creak of the bed frame, the rustle of fabric, the low, rough sound of his breathing.His hands found your hips. Gripped. Pulled you back until you were on your knees, your face buried in the pillows, your cunt bare and wet and waiting.
“Look at you.” His voice was almost wondering. “Soaking, just for me.”
You couldn't answer. Couldn't form words. Your whole body was a prayer, a plea, a desperate, wordless begging for him to fill you, to take you, to claim you until you couldn't remember your own name.
He leaned over you, his chest pressing against your back, his breath hot against your ear. “You want my cock?”
“Yes.” The word was a sob.
“Say it.”
“I want your cock.” Your voice broke. “Please, Maekar, please—”
He pulled back. His hand left your hip. And then he was there, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance, slick and hot and thick, and he pushed.
The stretch was everything. The burn, the fullness, the way your body opened for him, swallowed him, gripped him like it had been waiting for this since the moment you met.
He seated himself to the hilt in one long, slow thrust, and you cried out, your fingers clawing at the furs, your back arching, your cunt clenching around him.
“Fuck,” he breathed. “Fuck, you're tight.”
He didn't move.
Just stayed there, buried inside you, his cock throbbing, his breath ragged, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise.
“You feel that?” His voice was low, almost tender. “That's me. Inside you. Where I belong.”
You nodded, your face pressed to the pillows, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes.
“Say it.”
“You're inside me.” Your voice was muffled, broken. “You belong inside me.”
He pulled out.
Slow.
Almost all the way, until only the head remained, stretching your entrance, and then he thrust back in, harder this time, the slap of his hips against your arse loud in the quiet room.
You moaned.
Lost.
Shameless.
He set a rhythm. “This is what you wanted, isn't it? To fucking tease me, to test my fucking patience? Now fucking take the punishment.”
Hard and fast, each thrust driving you forward into the mattress, your body rocking with the force of him, his balls slapping against your clit with every stroke.
The sound of it—wet and obscene and perfect—filled the room, filled your ears, filled your head until there was nothing but him, his cock, his hands, his breath, his voice.
“Whose wife are you?”
“Yours.”
“Whose cunt is this?”
“Yours.”
“Who do you belong to?”
You couldn't answer.
The pleasure was building too fast, coiling in your belly, spreading through your limbs like fire, and you were close, so close, your cunt clenching around him with every thrust, your body begging for the release it couldn't name.
His hand found your hair. Pulled. Forced your head back, your spine arching, your throat bared to the ceiling. “I asked you a question, woman.”
“You,” you gasped. “I belong to you.”
“Good girl.” His hand released your hair, slid down your spine, gripped your hip. “Now come for me.”
Your orgasm hit like a wave, like a fall, like the world ending and beginning in the same breath. Your cunt clenched around him, gripping him in waves, and you cried out—his name, a sound, a sob—as the pleasure tore through you, leaving you shaking, gasping, boneless beneath him.
He didn't stop. Kept fucking you through it, his thrusts growing rougher, less controlled, his breath coming in harsh, ragged gasps.
And then he stilled, his cock buried to the hilt, his body shuddering, and you felt it—the hot pulse of his release, filling you, marking you, claiming you from the inside.
He stayed there.
Breathing.
His forehead pressed to the back of your neck, his weight heavy and warm, his cock still twitching inside you.
Minutes passed.
Or hours.
You couldn't tell.
Finally, he pulled out. You felt the loss like a wound, the emptiness where he'd been, the trickle of his seed sliding down your thigh as you collapsed onto the mattress, your body spent, your mind blank.
The bed creaked. The candle flickered. And then his hand was on your hip, warm and heavy, and his voice was low in the dark. “Next time you smile at a Dornish lord, I'll make you suck my cock in front of him.”
You laughed, a broken, breathless sound. “You wouldn't.”
His teeth found your shoulder, biting down just hard enough to sting. “Try me.”
His teeth stayed sunk in your shoulder, the sting of his bite a living brand, and you felt the low rumble of his approval vibrate through his chest against your back. Then his hand moved—slid down your hip, across the curve of your belly, and slipped between your thighs from behind.
You gasped as his fingers found the wet heat of your cunt, slick with your combined release, his seed already cooling on your skin. He didn't pause. Two fingers pushed inside you, gathering the proof of what he'd done, and you felt the stretch, the intrusion, the obscene wet sound of his touch.
“Still dripping,” he murmured against your shoulder, his lips brushing the mark his teeth had left. “Still hungry. I can feel it. The way you clench around my fingers like you're begging for more.”
You couldn't deny it. Your body was already responding, your hips pressing back against his hand, seeking more friction, more depth, more of him. The aftershocks of your orgasm still trembled through your thighs, and yet—gods—you wanted him inside you again. Wanted to feel him stretch you, fill you, claim you all over again.
His fingers curled, finding that spot inside you that made your vision blur, and you moaned, your face pressed to the furs, your hands fisting the bedding.
“That's it,” he said, his voice rough, approving. “That's my wife. Always ready for me. Always wanting.”
He withdrew his fingers, and you felt the absence like a loss, felt the cool air against your wet skin. Then his hand landed flat on your arse—a sharp, stinging slap that echoed through the quiet room, and you cried out, more surprise than pain, your hips jerking forward.
“That," he said, his hand rubbing the reddening skin, "is for teasing me at that feast. For making me watch you smile at that Dornish cunt while I sat there with my cock hard under the table, imagining bending you over the dais and fucking you in front of the whole hall.”
Your breath caught. The image bloomed in your mind—the cold stone of the throne room, the gasps of the court, Maekar's hands on your hips, taking you in front of everyone—and your cunt clenched around nothing, desperate and aching.
“You liked that.” His voice was flat, knowing. “You liked the thought of everyone watching while I took what's mine.”
Another slap, harder this time, and you sobbed—a broken, shameless sound. His hand soothed the sting, his palm warm against your heated skin, fingers tracing the curve of your arse before dipping lower, finding the slick evidence of your arousal smeared across your thighs.
“Look at you,” he breathed. “Wetter now than when I had my cock inside you. You're a wanton thing, aren't you? My wanton little wife.”
“Yes,” you whispered. “Yours.”
His hand left your skin. You heard the wet sound of him slicking his cock, and then the head was pressing against your entrance again, and you held your breath, waiting, aching.
He pushed in.
The stretch was sharper this time—your body still sensitive from the first fucking, still raw and open, and the sensation bordered on pain before it blurred into something deeper, something that made your toes curl and your back arch.
He seated himself slowly, deliberately, his cock filling you inch by inch until his hips pressed flush against your arse.
“Fuck,” he breathed, the word a prayer. “You feel that? The way your cunt grips me? Like it knows where it belongs.”
You couldn't answer. Couldn't think. His cock was throbbing inside you, and you felt stretched, full, claimed in a way that went beyond the body. He was inside you, and you wanted to stay like this forever—his, filled, possessed.
He pulled out.
Slammed back in.
The sound of skin meeting skin was obscene and perfect, and you moaned, your fingers clawing at the furs, your body rocking with the force of his thrusts.
“You want to know what happens when you tease me?” His voice was low, dangerous, each word punctuated by a thrust. “I fuck you. I fill you. I put my seed so deep inside you that it takes root.”
Your heart stuttered.
“I want to see you swell with it.”
His hand found your belly, pressed flat against the soft curve of your stomach, and you felt his cock moving inside you through the pressure of his palm. “I want to watch your body change. Watch your tits grow heavy. Watch you round with my child.”
A sound escaped you—something between a sob and a moan, your throat tight, your eyes burning. The thought of it, of his child growing inside you, of being so completely his that you carried his legacy in your body—it undid something in you, loosened a knot you didn't know you'd been holding, because gods you understand now why the man had six children.
“You'd like that, wouldn't you?” His thrusts slowed, deepened, each one pressing against your cervix, pushing deeper than before. “Being filled with my seed. Carrying my children. Walking through the Keep with my child in your belly, and everyone knowing exactly who put it there.”
“Yes,” you gasped. “Yes, Maekar, please—”
“Please what?”
“Please fill me. Please put your child in me.”
The words tumbled out, broken and desperate, and you meant them, meant every syllable, meant the want that burned through your veins like wildfire. “I want to carry your children. I want everyone to see. I want to be yours in every way.”
Gods, had you imagined this would happen because you had teased him, well, you knew for certainty that you would have done so sooner.
He groaned—a guttural, animal sound that vibrated through his chest and into your back—and his hand left your belly, found your hip, gripped hard enough to leave bruises as he fucked you harder, faster, each thrust driving you deeper into the mattress.
“I'm going to fill you,” he said, his voice ragged, frayed. “I'm going to fuck you until my seed takes, until you're so full of me you can't walk straight. And then I'm going to fuck you again and again,” his teeth sunk into your shoulder once more, every word muttered answered with a harsh, brutal thrust, “every night until you are pregnant.”
Your orgasm was building again, coiling low and tight in your belly, your cunt clenching around him with every thrust. The sensation was overwhelming—the fullness, the rhythm, the sting of his hand still warm on your reddened skin, the weight of his words sinking into your bones.
“You're close,” he said, “I can feel it. The way you grip me. The way your breath catches.”
His hand slid between your thighs, found your clit, pressed and circled in time with his thrusts, and the pleasure spiked, sharp and blinding, tearing a scream from your throat.
“That's it,” he said, his voice a growl. “Come for me. Come on my cock. Let me feel you fall apart around me.”
You shattered. Your orgasm crashed through you like a wave breaking against stone, your body arching, your cunt clenching in violent pulses around his cock, and you cried out—his name, a prayer, a surrender—as the pleasure tore through every nerve, left you trembling and gasping and utterly his.
He didn't stop.
Maekar fucked you through it, his thrusts growing rougher, less controlled, his breath coming in harsh, ragged gasps. And then he stilled, buried to the hilt, and you felt it—the first hot pulse of his release, flooding you, filling you, spilling into the deepest part of you.
He kept coming, his hips pressing against you, his cock twitching as he emptied himself inside you, and you felt the warmth spread, felt the excess leak around his shaft and run down your thighs.
He stayed there, buried, refusing to let a drop escape, his hand pressing against your belly as if he could hold it in by will alone.
“Breathe, sweet wife. I am not done. Do not move, no drop is to be wasted. You wanted this, you knew exactly what you were doing.”
-18+, explicit sexual content (smut) virginity, elopement/running away, forbidden, praise kink!! unprotected sex, creampie!! mild pain during first penetration and ofcccc enthusiastic consent!!! ᥫ᭡
in the dead of night, cold seeped into your bones as you darted through the moonlit courtyard, heart pounding against your ribcage. the weight of your decision bore down on you, but you didn't look back. the iron gate loomed ahead, its bars slick with condensation.
your hands trembled as you unhooked the latch, but the gate creaked open, revealing ser duncan the tall.
you threw yourself at him, as he hoisted you up onto his horse. then as he got on you clutched his waist, feeling the muscles of his back through your thin nightdress.
“hurry," you gasped as shouts echoed from the palace.
duncan kicked his horse into motion, not bothering to look back. the city blurred past in a rush of black and grey. fear surged through you, but so did exhilaration.
you'd made your choice.
the horse cantered through the night, dunk's silence was comforting, it left space for your thoughts to race, to settle. by the time the first light of dawn crested the horizon, you'd begun to believe this wasn't a fever dream.
as the sun climbed, dunk steered the horse off the main road and into a dense forest. dappled sunlight danced on the ground as they picked their way through the underbrush. a large clearing opened before them, a riot of green and gold bathed in light. duncan reined in the horse and dismounted.
"this will do," he said, offering you his hand. "we'll rest here till nightfall. they'll search the kingsroad first. no one knows this trail but me."
you slid off the horse, your muscles protesting at the sudden motion. dunk led you to a fallen log, its bark rough under your fingers. he unpacked a bedroll and spread it out, an unexpectedly domesticated gesture.
"we should be safe here," he said, crouching down to unlatch his saddlebags. "i've been using this path for years."
you watched him as he poured water from his flask onto a cloth and began to clean his horses face a bit.his hands were steady, deft. a blush crept up your cheeks as you recalled those hands tracing your body two nights ago. they'd been gentle then too.
"duncan..." you began tentatively.
he looked up. "yes, your highness?"
you swallowed hard. "please, you mustn't call me that."
a slow smile spread across his face. "what should i call you?"
you hesitated. "by my name. or anything but formalities really…"
he nodded. "as you wish..."
you lay down next to him, his arm wrapped around you, warm and solid. you fit against him like a puzzle piece, your back pressed to his chest. his breath ruffled your hair.
"this wasn't what i expected when i agreed to 'escort' you," he murmured.
you smiled into the crook of his elbow. "neither did i." after a long stretch of comfortable silence you whisper out his name, “duncan?"
"hmm?"
"thank you."
he tightened his arm around you, his hand spreading wide across your stomach, a warm, heavy weight that anchored you to him. he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath a soft, warm puff against your skin. for a long moment, he just held you, and you could feel the steady, reassuring beat of his heart against your back.
"there's nothing to thank me for," he finally murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through your entire body. "i'd walk through the seven hells for you if need be."
you shifted, turning in his embrace until you were face to face. the morning light filtered through the leaves, painting his rugged features in soft shades of green and gold. you reached up, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw.
"it wasn't easy for me," you admitted, your voice barely a whisper. "i was so scared. but i knew…i knew if i was with you, i'd be safe."
"i'll always keep you safe," he vowed, his voice thick with emotion. "i swear it m’lady."
you leaned in, closing the small distance between you, and pressed your lips to his. it was a slow, sweet kiss, a gentle exploration that held none of the frantic desperation of your first time. it was a kiss of comfort, of reassurance, of a love that had already weathered its first storm and emerged stronger for it.
he deepened the kiss, his tongue tracing the seam of your lips, a silent question that you answered with a soft sigh. his hands began to wander, tracing the curve of your hip, the dip of your waist, mapping your body as if he were committing it to memory. he was still so gentle, so reverent, as if he couldn't quite believe you were his.
you pulled back slightly, your forehead resting against his. "dunk," you breathed, your voice thick with a new kind of need. "please touch me again."
"you're sure?" he asked, his voice a ragged whisper.
you reached up, your fingers tangling in his hair. "i’m sure," you promised. "i truly do want it."
and with those words of confirmation, he rolled you onto your back, his body hovering over yours, his weight a welcome, grounding pressure. he looked down at you, his expression a mixture of raw desire and a lingering awe that made your heart ache.
his hands were everywhere, stroking, caressing, learning every curve and hollow of your body. he was still gentle, but there was a new confidence to his touch, a surety that came from knowing you, from knowing what you liked, what you needed.
he parted your thighs with his knee, settling between them. he was already hard, a thick, heavy ridge pressing against your clothed cunt. he rocked against you, a slow, deliberate friction that sent sparks of pleasure shooting through you.
"dunk-," you gasped, your hips rising to meet his. "please."
“i know- i know m’sweet girl-”
he needed no further encouragement.
with a groan, he pushed himself up, his weight shifting off you for a blessed moment. his hands, those same steady, deft hands that had tended his horse, went to the edge of his breeches. he fumbled, his usually sure fingers clumsy with haste, and the sight of this mighty knight so undone by need sent a fresh wave of desire through you.
when he finally freed himself, your breath caught. his cock was thick and heavy, curving upwards from a thatch of dark sandy curls. a blush crept up his neck, but his eyes never left yours, dark and intense with a vulnerability that made your heart ache.
his large hands found the hem of your thin night shift, and he paused, his gaze questioning. you answered by lifting your hips, a silent, eager permission. he peeled the fabric up and over your head, his knuckles brushing against your skin, leaving trails of fire in their wake. the cool morning air kissed your bare body, but you felt no chill, only the heat of his gaze as it roamed over you, worshipful and hungry.
next came your small clothes. he hooked his fingers into the delicate ties, his touch surprisingly gentle. he tugged them down your legs slowly, his eyes following the path of the fabric as it revealed you to him. he tossed them aside without a glance, his focus entirely on the now-bared heart of you.
he settled back between your thighs, the heat of his bare skin against yours as he took himself in hand, guiding the thick, blunt head of his cock to your slick entrance.
he began to push inside. it was a slow, inexorable pressure, a deep, stretching fullness that stole the air from your lungs. there was a brief, sharp sting, a fleeting burn that made you gasp into his mouth. he froze immediately, his entire body going rigid.
"i'm hurting you," he breathed, his voice thick with self-loathing. "i knew i would."
"no," you choked out, your hands gripping his biceps, your nails digging into his skin. "it's… it's alright. don't stop."
he looked down at you, his eyes searching yours, and he must have seen the truth there because he pushed forward again, sinking deeper until he was fully sheathed inside you.
he stilled, buried to the hilt, his forehead resting against yours, his body trembling with the effort of holding back.
"gods," he whimpered, the sound so unguarded, so unlike the stoic knight you knew. "you feel… you feel perfect."
you could only whimper in response, your inner walls clenching around him, a silent plea for more.
he began to move, his strokes shallow at first, testing your limits.
but as your hips rose to meet his, a silent encouragement, his control finally snapped. his movements became deeper, more confident, a primal rhythm that spoke of a need as old as time. he was whining, a continuous stream of soft, desperate sounds.
"are you… are you alright?" he asked, his voice a ragged whisper.
you nodded, a single, tear tracing a path down your cheek. "more than," you choked out. "d-don't stop, dunk please!"
the pleasure built, a slow, sweet ache that coiled in your belly, growing tighter with each thrust. you were moving with him now, your bodies slick with sweat, moving in perfect harmony. the world outside this clearing ceased to exist.
there was only the sound of your ragged breaths mingling, the feel of his skin against yours, and the brilliant, uncaring sun watching over you.
your broken plea seemed to shatter what little control he had left. he let out a ragged groan, his head falling to the crook of your shoulder as his hips drove into you, harder and deeper than before. the pleasure was blinding, a white-hot pulse that stole your thoughts and left you a gasping, writhing thing beneath him.
"that's it," he panted against your skin, his voice a strained, reverent whisper. "s’okay pretty girl." the words made you clench around him. he hissed, his rhythm faltering for a beat. "gods, you feel like you were made for me. like the gods saved you just for me..."
he shifted, angling his hips, and the next thrust sent a jolt of pure ecstasy through you. you cried out, your back arching off the ground as your hands flew to his shoulders, your nails digging into the sweat-slicked muscle of his back. he was relentless now, a steady, powerful rhythm that pushed you higher and higher, each stroke hitting that perfect, devastating spot inside you.
"look at you," he growled, lifting his head to watch you, his dark blue eyes burning with an intensity that was almost frightening. "so beautiful. my pretty princess spread out and taking me so well." he punctuated his words with a particularly deep thrust that made you see stars. "do you hear me? most beautiful woman i’ve ever known, ever seen-"
you could only whimper in response, your mind gone, your body a vessel for the pleasure he was giving you. the world outside this clearing ceased to exist. there was only the sound of your ragged breaths mingling, the feel of his skin against yours, and the brilliant, uncaring sun watching over you. the coil in your belly was winding tighter and tighter, a delicious, unbearable tension that was begging to snap.
"please, dunk!" you sobbed, not even sure what you were begging for. more? faster? for it to never end?
he seemed to understand. he reached between your bodies, his calloused thumb finding your clit and circling it once, twice. that was all it took. the pleasure that had been building crashed over you in a blinding, deafening wave. you screamed his name as your orgasm tore through you, your body convulsing, your inner walls clamping down around him like a vise.
he followed you over the edge with a hoarse shout, his body shuddering violently as he spilled himself inside you. he collapsed on top of you, his weight a welcome, grounding pressure, his face buried in your hair. you were both panting, your bodies slick with sweat, your hearts beating a frantic, synchronized rhythm against your ribs. after a long moment, he rolled onto his side, pulling you into his arms and tucking you against his chest.
"i love you," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "i've loved you from the moment i first saw you."
tears welled up in your eyes, but this time, they were tears of joy.
"i love you, too," you whispered back, your hand resting over his heart. "always."
SUMMARY - You don't answer any of Aerion's messages but that backfires as he talks to you in person. But even then, you still don't give him much.
CONTAINS - reader is slightly avoidant, aerion is aerion, banter (crack to a point), read part one, part three
A/N - i couldn't tag most of your accounts for some reason so instead i replied to your comments hehe. Also i got carried away ahahahha can you tell...
You remained seated in your car. Staring at the notifications, you didn’t move until your screen turned back to black.
You jammed the keys into the ignition and backed out of the parking space. The drive back home was scary. You kept looking back at your phone, expecting another text to pop up but thankfully none did.
When you finally got home, you locked the front door and leaned against it.
“What the fuck…” You whispered to yourself, closing your eyes.
It was a good thing the next two days were a weekend. A temporary shield. For the next forty-eight hours, you didn’t have to step foot on campus and risk catching a glimpse of his silver hair across the building.
But hiding out in your room didn’t stop your mind from racing. A full day hadn’t even passed when you finally gave in and opened instagram. You pressed the search bar and typed his username into it.
You weren’t mutuals, he never followed you and neither did you follow him.
There wasn’t much to see. He only had one post and a highlight. It was strange trying to match that version of him with the guy who had texted you for the past month.
Though on sunday, while your phone was open on a groupchat, your peace was interrupted.
👻: youre online, i know you see my texts
You stared at the small block of text, your chest tightening. Again, you didn’t reply.
By monday morning, you had braced yourself to go to campus again. It was packed as you walked with Tanselle.
“So I told him if he thinks I’m letting that happen, he’s out of his mind,” Tanselle was saying, before her hand suddenly clamped down hard on your forearm. “Wait. Don’t look but Aerion is heading right to us.”
You looked up anyway.
Aerion was cutting through the crowded walkway. As soon as you looked, his eyes were already on you, his face tense and unreadable.
The people next to you instinctively quieted down, stepping back as he closed the distance and stopped in front of you.
You tried pivoting to the right but he blocked the way, cutting off your route.
“We need to talk,” he said, voice low and rough.
“I’m trying to get to class,” you replied, keeping your voice even, refusing to let the panic show on your face.
“Don’t do that,” he muttered, stepping closer. His form completely covered yours, and you felt suffocated in the open area. “You know exactly why I’m standing here.”
You kept your arms folded around your waist, your posture rigid. A few students walking past were already slowing down, noticing the interaction. “I have to go,” you mumbled.
“No–”
“Aerion!”
A sharp voice broke the tension between you. A girl with long, blonde hair walked over, calling his name as she hurried over. It was Jess—you knew because your friends had told you she was someone he used to talk to before things apparently ended badly.
“Aerion, hold on,” she said, totally ignoring you as she reached him. “Did you get my messages? You haven’t replied to any of–”
Aerion didn’t look at her. He tilted his head slightly, his jaw tight as he dropped a flat, impatient, “not now.”
It was a short distraction, but it was enough. You didn’t hesitate as you grabbed Tanselle’s wrist, pulling her with you as you turned on your heel. You moved as fast as your legs could carry you.
“Whoa–hey! Slow down!” Tanselle stumbled slightly, scrambling to keep up as you dragged her toward the stairwell.
Once you got on the platform between the stairs, you let go of her wrists, your heart still pounding hard.
Tanselle adjusted her tote bag, looking at you with wide eyes.
“What the hell is happening?” She demanded. “You barely explained a thing to any of us and now Aerion is doing this? Since when do you two even speak?”
“I’ll explain later, I promise.” You looked down to make sure he wasn’t anywhere close. “Let’s just go.”
“You’re a terrible friend,” Tanselle grumbled, though she immediately followed you up to the remaining steps.
Five minutes later, the bell rang and you were already sitting at your usual row in Davis’s class.
“Settle down,” Davis silenced the class. “Like I said, today we’re starting the peer reviews on the personal assignment from the start of this semester. You’ll be working with the same partner from the previous project, find them and get moving.”
Your stomach dropped.
Before you could even think about moving, the chair next to you moved. Tanselle was gone, shooting you a sorry look as she settled next to her partner.
You searched around the room when suddenly, Aerion sat down, his shoulder brushing yours as he turned his upper body toward you.
“How long?” he asked, keeping his voice low, but his eyes were drilling into yours.
You turned your head, gaze fixing on your laptop, your fingers resting still on your keyboard. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Stop,” Aerion leaned closer. He looked guarded, a defensive edge tracing his words. “The text about the project. You knew it was me. How long have you known before that?”
The accusation stung, but you didn’t raise your voice. You looked over at him, offended by the fact that this was his main concern.
“A few days before that.” You furrowed your brows. “I didn’t know anything at the beginning. I put the pieces together when I saw you pull out your phone.”
Aerion watched your face, his brows drawing together as he searched your expression. “Then why did you go silent on monday?”
“Seriously?” You paused, “I don’t know, maybe because you basically called me boring.” You scoffed, looking right back at him.
“You barely even acknowledged me, and then what? You texted that your partner who happens to be me was just whatever. Why would I want to keep talking to you after that?”
Aerion flinched. The words seemed to hit him, the defensive wall in his eyes fracturing into genuine surprise. He opened his mouth to say something, his hand shifting on the desk, but a shadow fell over your screen.
“Are you guys actually working, or what?”
Jess had walked up the tiered steps, stopping at the edge of your row. She leaned on the desk, looking down at you with a fake, dismissive smile.
“Don’t take it personal,” Jess said, her voice loud enough for the people in the next row to hear. “He won’t even remember your name next week.”
The comment was explicitly meant to embarass you, and it worked. You felt your face warm up as a few classmates looked over.
But before the silence could stretch, Aerion turned.
The change in him was instantaneous. He looked up at Jess, his face turning cold.
“Go.” His voice wasn’t loud, but it brooked no refusal.
Jess’s smile faltered slightly. “I was just saying–”
“I don’t care,” Aerion interrupted, his stare landing on her in a way that made her step back. “Leave. We’re working.”
The people watching started whispering and nudging each other. Jess’s cheeks flushed a bright red. She wanted to snap back, but caught the total lack of interest in Aerion’s eyes, and quickly turned around.
You sat there, your hands unmoving. The frustration that had been building up since last week slowly started to ease, replaced by a strange, heavy feeling.
Aerion had just defended you in front of the whole class. You blinked twice, trying to process what had just happened.
He took a slow breath. Not looking at anyone else in the room, he turned back to face you.
“Thanks,” you murmured, swallowing as your eyes landed back on the screen of your laptop. You clicked open the peer review rubric Professor Davis had shared to the group. You had to find a way out of talking with him.
“Davis wants us to evaluate the thesis of the intro first,” you pointed out, acting as if nothing happened.
Aerion licked the bottom of his lip, caught off guard by the abrupt shift. His shoulders shifted as you continued looking through the rubric. “What?”
“Is your document open, or do you want to look at mine first?” you answered, tapping your trackpad to highlight the first section of the bibliography.
A frustrated sigh escaped him, you could see his confusion from your peripheral vision, his jaw clenching as he realized you were shutting him out.
He was used to people reacting to him by either backing down or trying to stay in his favour. This indifference was clearly a new territory for him. A difficult one too.
For a second, it looked like he might push past it anyway, his hand tightening on the edge of the desk. Yet he let out a heavy, defeated exhale, pulling his laptop closer. “Mine is open.” His voice was clipped.
For the rest of the period, you kept your barrier firmly in place. You weren’t sure why it was so hard for you to hold a proper conversation with him.
You two texted nonstop for a month. It wasn’t like he was a complete stranger. But somehow it felt like it.
Aerion complied, though his compliance was tense. His fingers tapped against the desk whenever you took too long to read through a paragraph. His focus was entirely divided between the text on his screen and your face.
Every time your fingers accidentally brushed his while adjusting the laptop, he would wait to see if you’d pull away. You always did.
When Davis dismissed the class at last, relief coursed through you.
Snapping your laptop shut, you slid it into your bag and slung the strap over your shoulder. “I’ll upload the comments to the docs by the end of the week.” You stood up, looking him in the eye for a brief, passing second.
Aerion stared up at you from his seat, his throat bobbing as he swallowed whatever he wanted to say.
“Okay.”
You walked to the exit, where Tanselle was already waiting for you. Turning your head for a moment before exiting, your eyes met his.
Reluctantly, you had to tell your friends everything as they kept demanding. No, almost everything.
You conveniently left out the part where you had grown to have this strange, unexplainable, and impenetrable feeling for him.
Tanselle then pointed out how she hasn’t seen Aerion with any girls recently. Everyone agreed, which didn’t help your case.
Yet two days passed without a single notification.
By wednesday, the silence had turned from peace into an uncomfortable, distracting weight. You spent the night trying to study, but your mind kept drifting back to him.
Eventually, you couldn’t resist and opened his chat. You scrolled all the way back to the start, back when he was just an anonymous stranger who made you laugh.
Just as you got to the part where you started icing him out, a new message came through.
You frowned, lips parting as you clicked on the button to the most recent chat.
👻: if you wont talk to me in person, fine
👻: lets do it here
Your heart skipped a beat at the sight of the text. You sat up and paced your room for a full minute before warily typing back.
YOU: What do you want aerion
It felt weird to actually acknowledge who you were talking to.
👻: do me a favour
👻: talk to me like you did before finding out. pretend you dont know who i am
Your eyes narrowed at his message. It was a bizarre request, but the familiar look of the text thread made it entirely too easy to slip back.
YOU: What???
YOU: Fine
👻: tell me everything
YOU: Ok u wanna know what i think?
YOU: I think the guy im paired with in davis’s class is an arrogant prick
There was a long pause. The typing bubbles appeared, vanished, then appeared again.
👻: an arrogant prick? really?
YOU: Yes
YOU: He refuses to talk to anyone outside his immediate circle, he walks like he owns the world, and most importantly he treats his project partners as if they were invisible
👻: maybe hes just focused
YOU: Nope, he didn’t even look at my face
YOU: Can you believe it
YOU: Then he has the nerve to say that im a whatever.. Like sorry i didnt juggle for your entertainment??
A couple minutes passed and you thought he wasn't going to respond, but he was still online.
👻: huh
👻: he sounds terrible
A small, involuntary smile tugged at the corner of your mouth, and you tried your best to fight it down.
YOU: He is, hes mean
👻: i didnt mean to be
The sudden drop of the bit you two were doing made your breath hitch. The text continued.
👻: im sorry about monday
👻: and the thing i said
👻: youre not whatever
You stared at his texts, the honesty of it surprising you. You typed out a reply then deleted it. While trying to formulate a reply, another message popped up.
👻: i have to go
The chat went dead. You sat back on your pillows, staring at those four words, your mind spinning into a frantic spiral. I have to go. What did that mean? Go for the day? Or was this his dramatic way of saying goodbye to whatever you guys were?
You slammed your phone down on the mattress, irritated by the sudden exit. You needed to clear your head.
Sighing, you grabbed a towel and headed into the bathroom to take a long, hot shower, letting the steam wash away the stress of the week.
By the time you stepped back into your bedroom, it was already dark outside. Drying your hair and changing into your pajamas, you picked your phone up from the bed to check the time.
There was a new text, sent just a minute ago.
👻: open the door
You froze, reading the message over and over again to make sure you weren’t hallucinating.
You walked into the living room, your bare feet making no sound against the floor.
You never gave him your address.
The only people who knew the exact apartment complex you lived in were your closest friends.
Fuck, you thought. Tanselle…
Panic flooded your body as you approached the entryway, and right on cue, a knock came from the other side of the door.
Taking a shallow breath, you unlocked the deadbolt and pulled the door open.
Aerion was standing under the dim hallway light. He was wearing a tight gym shirt, his silver hair slightly messy from the harsh wind of the night.
He wasn’t empty handed. His right hand was carrying a bag that looked to be from a bakery. He saw your gaze switching from his face to the plastic. “You mentioned last week that you were eating cheesecake.”
Your brain refused to believe that Aerion Targaryen was standing at your door with a whole cheesecake because of a passing comment you had made a whole week ago.
The wall you had built felt incredibly fragile right now, but you had to keep your composure. Slowly, you stepped aside, opening the door just wide enough for him to move past.
Aerion walked into the apartment, getting his shoes off by the door. He looked at you, taking in your damp hair and pajamas, then walked to stand near the edge of the kitchen table, setting the bag on the counter.
You stared at him, your mind trying to catch up. The tips of your ears went red at the realization that you were wearing only your pajamas in front of him.
“How do you even know where I live?”
“Tanselle,” he said bluntly. “Don’t start a fight with her, I didn’t give her much of an option.”
“Of course...” You huffed mostly to yourself.
You walked past him to the water dispenser, grabbing a clean glass from the drying rack and filling it with cold water. You set it on the counter near him.
“Thanks.” He picked up the glass. Taking a slow sip, his eyes scanned the living room before settling back on you.
“Look,” he started, voice dropping an octave, sounding rougher in the quiet apartment. “I’ll get to the point. I know you think I'm a piece of shit. It's just that I... didn’t know it was you.” His shoulders shifted slightly as his muscles got less tense.
You raised a brow at that. “So just because you didn't know it was me you treated me like that?”
“No. It sounds terrible I know. I guess I was already comfortable talking to you online that I figured I didn't need to talk to anyone in person,” he explained, his tone stripped of its usual cold edge. “When you started ignoring me, it drove me crazy.”
“At first, I thought you knew the entire time. I assumed the worst, but then I started worrying. And I didn’t wanna stop talking to you.” His voice got quiet toward the end.
You didn’t know what to say. The honesty of his words rang through your mind, effectively breaking down the image you have already built of him in your head.
“...And what about Jess?” You asked after a beat and immediately regretted it.
Aerion’s eyes flickered with genuine disgust and annoyance before he shook his head.
“She’s nothing.” He leaned against the counter. “We used to talk,” he hesitated, “then I stopped but she couldn't accept it. She’s nothing.” He repeated, noticing the fidgeting of your hands.
“Oh,” was all you could say. Aerion seemed to recognize the shift in the air. He finished the rest of the water and set it back on the counter.
“I should let you get some sleep,” he cleared his throat, eyes lingering on your lips.
He walked toward the front door, putting his shoes back on. You opened the door, unsure if you even wanted him to leave.
The curiosity that had been lingering in the back of your mind all week finally slipped out. “Before you go... I wanna know something.”
Aerion paused, an amused spark gleaming in his eyes. “Yeah?”
“What did you think of me at the start? Like after you found out I wasn't Michael.”
He let out a low chuckle, a smirk splaying across his face. “I thought you had a ridiculously sharp mouth. You always called me out on my attitude, it was infruriating. But it was intriguing.”
Aerion then tilted his head, turning the tables. “My turn. Why'd you even reply to an unknown number?”
A smile broke through your expression, you no longer felt the need to put on a mask in front of him. “Mmm... being real I'm pretty sure I was just bored and couldn't sleep. I thought it'd be funny and it absolutely was.”
He laughed softly and paused at the threshold, turning back to look at you. “So you're saying you're glad you replied?”
You pretended to think for a second, looking up. “Maybe,” you teased, the familiar banter coming back.
A tiny smile touched his lips—the first real one you’ve seen from him in person. He let out a hum. “Right. I'll remember that. Go sleep now.” He backed up to the threshold, his eyes only leaving yours as he turned around.
“Goodnight.” You called out to him as you closed the door and locked the deadbolt, hearing the thud of his footsteps slowly fade.
An hour later, you tried to go straight to sleep, but you kept tossing and turning. Giving up, you got out of bed and walked to the kitchen, pulling the box out of the bag. You recognised the logo on the box as you opened the lid, it was from the expensive bakery near campus.
The cheesecake looked so incredible, you didn’t bother with a plate. Grabbing a fork, you stabbed the cake and took a massive bite.
After eating a solid half of it directly out of the box, you stared at the remaining mess and pulled your phone out to snap a quick photo.
YOU: [IMAGE ATTACHED]
YOU: I forgot to thank you lol
You didn’t expect him to reply immediately, assuming he was already asleep. But the bubbles popped up almost instantly.
👻: youre welcome
👻: did you save me a bite or are you selfish
YOU: Nope its all for me
👻: next time ill just make you feed it to me
You bit your lip to contain your smile, sliding down onto the living room rug and propping your back on the sofa.
YOU: Hm
YOU: Depends on how well u behave the rest of the week
👻: im always well behaved
Giggling, you quickly texted back.
YOU: Liar
YOU: Anw out of curiosity what do u have me saved as
👻: unknown
👻: until about a day ago
YOU: Huh what is it now
👻: thats for my eyes only
YOU: Oh rly
YOU: Ok then im saving u as row four lol
👻: how creative
YOU: It fits
YOU: Reminds me that ure an arrogant prick everyday
👻: good
👻: think about me everyday
Your heart did a violent flip.
Going to his profile, you debated on actually renaming him as row four, but you decided on Aerion 🎱. The emoji just felt right.
YOU: Just changed it
Aerion 🎱: row four?
YOU: No and im not telling u
YOU: Thats unless u tell me minee?
Aerion 🎱: oh thats how it is
Aerion 🎱: never
YOU: Wow!! Ur impossible im gonna off myself
YOU: Ok im going to sleep before u piss me off more
Aerion 🎱: lmao alright
Aerion 🎱: goodnight dont die
You let out a content huff before getting up and heading back to your bedroom.
YOU: Goodnightt
The next morning, the lecture hall was filled with pre-class chatter. It was history class but your professor fell sick and Professor Davis was there as a substitute.
As usual, you sat beside Tanselle who was vibrating with anxiety, staring at you sideways ever since you arrived.
Leaning in close, she lowered her voice to a whisper. “Okay, you’re scaring me. You haven’t mentioned him once. Are you not going to kill me?”
You let out a small giggle, shaking your head. “Nope. It’s all settled.”
Tanselle clicked her tongue, utterly puzzled. “Wait… really?” So he didn’t actually go to your house then?”
“No, he did,” you corrected smoothly, as if it was completely normal.
A noise of confusion escaped her, her eyes bulging. “What!? He actually came over? And you’re acting like this isn’t wild?”
Just then, the doors swung open, and Aerion walked in. He was late, and Professor Davis didn’t bother calling him out, simply beginning the lesson.
You watched as he walked up the main aisle, expecting him to stop in row four, but he continued walking. He moved past his friends without a second thought.
Then without tilting his head up, his eyes locked onto yours. A warmth instantly bloomed in your chest, a smile growing on your face, and you quickly bit your inner cheek to hide it.
He reached your row and without saying a word, he pulled the chair beside you and slid effortlessly into the seat.
Nudging your chin toward the lower row, you pointed at a few familiar faces who had turned around their chairs to watch him. “Your friends are literally staring at you. They’re waiting for you.”
Aerion followed your glance for a split second before looking back at you. “So?”
Before you could reply, the screech of the microphone caught everyone’s attention. “You two,” Davis barked into the mic, his voice echoing. “If you two have matters that are more pressing to discuss then feel free to take it out of the class.”
The weight of Davis calling you out together made the class go extremely silent, staring back and forth between you and Aerion. You could see Jess staring menacingly from the other side of the room.
Your lips formed into a pout as Davis finally looked away, continuing his talk. Aerion, on the other hand, did not take his eyes off you, his smirk widening slightly at the sudden audience.
He slowly leaned back in his chair and for a moment you thought the distraction was over. But under the desk Aerion shifted. The side of his thigh bumped firmly against yours, deliberately pressing in with lingering heat. A sharp jolt shot straight up your spine.
You shot him a warning glare, but he was already busy on his phone.
A second later, your phone buzzed in your lap.
Aerion 🎱: z
Aerion 🎱: z
Aerion 🎱: z
You hid your hands under the desk, looking down to make sure Professor Davis wasn’t looking.
YOU: Wtf
Aerion 🎱: we cant talk out loud
Aerion 🎱: i have to find other ways to get your attention
You glanced at him out of the corner of your eyes, but his face looked to be absolutely calm and concentrated as he pretended to analyze the projector screen.
YOU: Oh ure a pro
YOU: Wait move ur leg ppl r staring
Aerion 🎱: doesnt matter
Aerion 🎱: if you care move yours then
YOU: Ok nevermind
Aerion 🎱: mhm
Aerion 🎱: what are you doing after class
YOU: Its a free period im probably gonna go to the cafe
Aerion 🎱: wrong
Aerion 🎱: we’re going somewhere
YOU: ??? Hello why wasnt i informed
Aerion 🎱: i just informed you
You almost laughed at that but managed to keep it in, not wanting to draw even more attention from Davis.
YOU: Stop before i get kicked out of the class
YOU: Ok im leaving u bye
Aerion 🎱: stay
Aerion 🎱: hes not gonna see
YOU: If he does im blocking u
Aerion 🎱: i know where you live it doesnt matter
Your lips parted at the sheer audacity of his last message, a rush of heat hitting your cheeks as the memory from last night flashed through your mind.
Looking up from your phone, you caught the subtle twitch at the corner of Aerion’s lips. It was then that you realised that replying to a random message was easily the best mistake you’ve ever made.
SUMMARY - You receive a message from a random number and you two begin texting frequently. However, you accidentally figure out who it is.
CONTAINS - banter (crack to a point), aerion is aerion, modern AU, peep the small details!! Read part two, part three
A/N - i keep getting vague modern aerion requests soo!
Your phone vibrated against your mattress late at night.
You rolled over, the glare of the screen hitting your eyes in your dark room. It was an unsaved number.
UNKNOWN: where the fuck is the link for davis’s class
You stared at the screen for a few seconds. You were wide awake, and you definitely didn’t have the energy to start on your own work.
You giggled at your own message before hitting send.
YOU: I sold it oops
The reply came before you could even exit the app.
UNKNOWN: stop fucking around man im not in the mood
YOU: I dont think this is the right number lol
A minute passed with the typing bubbles flickering on and off a couple times.
UNKNOWN: the fuck
YOU: If ur stuck on his class just check the 2022 archive
There was no response after that. You eventually drifted off to sleep, figuring that was the end of a weird interaction.
Four days passed, and you completely forgot about the random text until friday when you received a notification from the same number.
UNKNOWN: it worked
You blinked at the message, trying to remember who it even was.
YOU: Yeah
UNKNOWN: howd you know about that
YOU: I saw his desktop open with that site and took my chances
UNKNOWN: youre actually not michael?
YOU: No im pretty sure im not a guy
You thought the conversation would end there, but about ten minutes later, you got another text.
UNKNOWN: any other shortcuts u know about
YOU: Maybe
Over the next two weeks, the texts became a weird regular thing. It wasn’t a constant back and forth, but it turned into a daily routine.
You’d get a text in the middle of the afternoon about whatever, or you’d send a quick message about random things in your life.
You didn’t know each other. There was no pressure. You didn't have to put on a performance to try to impress whoever it was you were talking to.
UNKNOWN: what were u saying
UNKNOWN: just got to the gym
YOU: Tf didnt you just leave ur room
UNKNOWN: yeah
YOU: Is the gym right next to ur house or smth
UNKNOWN: the gyms downstairs
YOU: Oh you live in an apartment??
UNKNOWN: no
UNKNOWN: i have a gym in my house dumbass
YOU: Oh!!!!!
YOU: Different tax bracket
UNKNOWN: funny
You found yourself looking forward to those short, blunt messages. He was definitely arrogant, but he was always honest and that pulled you in.
By the third week, the conversations started stretching later into the night. You’d be lying in bed, messaging your friends, and a text would pop up at 1 AM.
👻: why the fuck are you awake
YOU: Im readingg
YOU: why are YOU awake
👻: driving
YOU: Ur gonna die
YOU: Get off ur phone
👻: you sound like my dad
👻: hes the reason im driving
YOU: Shit is he at the hospital??
👻: no im clearing my head
YOU: Oh
YOU: You okay?
👻: family dinner was so fucking annoying
👻: just micromanaging my schedule like im some kid
YOU: I feel that, my parents keep controlling my life its so stupid
👻: exactly its pathetic
👻: honestly its weird talking to you
You: Ok whyd i catch a stray hello
👻: no i mean its off talking to someone who isnt trying to get something out of me
YOU: Idek who u are so theres nothing to get
👻: keep it that way
Then during one morning, you walked into the lecture hall for Professor Davis’s class.
The room was already buzzing with students and you took your usual seat next to Tanselle who was busy drawing sketches on her paper.
“Did you finish the reading he gave last week?” Tanselle asked, not looking up from her page.
“Barely,” you muttered, pulling your laptop out of your bag. “I read like two pages.”
Down in the fourth row, right near the aisle, Aerion Targaryen was slouched back in his seat. He had his dark leather jacket slung over the back of his chair and was surrounded by his usual crowd.
One of them said something, and Aerion let out a short laugh. The guy looked around the group with triumph all over his face, proud that he managed to impress Aerion.
Just then, your professor began talking and it didn't take long for you to lose focus.
Bored out of your mind as Professor Davis started droning on about the text you guys were supposed to read, you pulled your phone out under the desk.
YOU: Im bored entertain me
You hit send.
You kept your eyes on your screen, but then out of habit, your gaze drifted back down toward the front of the room.
Down in row four, you watched Aerion reach into his pocket. He pulled out his phone, a small smirk tugging on the corner of his lip.
His jaw set as he read something, and his thumbs immediately typed out a fast response before he shoved the phone face down on his desk.
Your phone vibrated in your palm.
👻: go entertain yourself
Your breath hitched. You stared at the screen, your heart doing a weird thud against your ribs.
No way, you thought. The lecture hall is massive. At least forty people were on their phones. It’s a coincidence.
Your fingers hovered over the keyboard. You needed to be absolutely sure. You typed out a reply, keeping your eyes glued directly on the back of his silver head.
YOU: Ok unkind
YOU: So ur actually paying attention to class?
The exact moment your text delivered, you watched as Aerion’s head tilted down. He picked his phone back up, scoffing under his breath. His thumbs moved around the screen, typing quickly.
Buzz.
👻: no im looking at my phone because a dumbass is texting me
A cold wave of panic hit you.
Your eyes darted from the screen to the back of his leather jacket. Your mind was short-circuiting, trying to connect the dots.
Aerion Targaryen.
Aerion Targaryen who had a reputation for being, well, himself— was the exact same person who had been texting you until midnight.
You spent the remaining minutes of that lecture staring into the wall. Every time Aerion shifted, your eyes snapped straight to him.
When the bell finally rang, the sudden noise of chairs scraping against the floor made you jump.
“Thank god,” Tanselle muttered, slamming her notebook shut. “You coming to the library?”
“I don’t think so,” you replied after a beat, shoving your things into your bag.
At the front, Aerion was already walking. One of the guys threw an arm over his shoulder and Aerion swatted him off with a grin.
He didn’t look back once. He had absolutely no idea.
For the next three days, every time your phone buzzed, your stomach did a flip. You knew exactly who was on the other side of the screen now, while he remained clueless.
During a late saturday night, you were eating with your friends when your screen lit up.
👻: this movies terrible
👻: why would you recommend this
You stared at the text. Knowing it was Aerion, reading the texts felt completely surreal.
YOU: Ok my bad ill just die
YOU: Its good tho idk what ur on
👻: its not
You: Lol turn it off then
👻: im already an hour in
👻: wouldnt wanna hurt your feelings
YOU: Aww how sweet
YOU: Stubborn bitch…
You bit your lip as you sent the second message. No one would dare to call him that in person, it was thrilling.
👻: lmao
👻: what are you doing anyway
YOU: Eating cheesecake
YOU: Wait have u done the assignment due next week
👻: nah im dreading the partner assignment on monday
👻: if i get paired with one of the idiots im doing it alone
You swallowed hard, grabbing your glass to drink the strain away.
YOU: Maybe youll get someone decent
👻: doubt it
You closed your phone and pressed it onto your chest. He was so different in real life.
When monday came, the room was silenced as Professor Davis tapped his microphone, turning on the massive projector behind him.
“Alright, I’ve randomized the pairings for the research,” he announced. “Check the board, find your partner, and spend the rest of the period discussing with them.”
Your eyes scanned the list, stopping as you found your name near the center column.
Your lungs locked up.
Aerion Targaryen was written right next to it.
“Oh, jeez,” Tanselle said, looking at you with worry. “You got Aerion… Good luck babe.”
Down in row four, Aerion didn’t even bother looking back to find his partner. He simply opened his laptop, ignoring the rest of the room while his friends started moving around. He clearly expected whoever his partner was to come to him.
You took in a deep breath, grabbing your bag.
Walking down the steps felt like walking a plank. As you got closer to his seat, a couple of his friends looked up at you. One of them nudged the guy next to him to clear a seat for you, leaving an empty chair next to Aerion.
You gave them a light smile before sliding into the seat, setting your laptop on the desk. Up close, he smelled like expensive cologne and musk.
“You’re my partner?” he asked, his voice a careless drawl. He still didn’t look at you, opening a blank document.
“Yeah.” You kept your voice as even as possible.
“Type in your email,” he said, turning the laptop just an inch so you could see the screen. “I’ll do the body and everything else. You do the outline and introduction.”
You blinked at him, the contrast hitting you like a physical punch. No jokes, no banter, no casualty.
You were aware he had a reputation for being a ‘womanizer.’ So why was he so cold to you?
“Okay,” you mumbled as you awkwardly reached out to type in your email.
He didn’t say another word to you for the rest of the hour. You sat right next to him, occasionally looking at the side of his sharp profile, realizing this was the same guy who had texted you about the miserable movie you recommended to him just two nights ago.
By 10 PM that same day, you were sitting on your bed, staring at the shared Google Docs. He had already finished his sections before you did.
Your phone buzzed on your blanket.
👻: just wrapped up that history project early so i dont have to deal with it later
You read his message, a sour feeling building up in your chest. You picked it up, your expression hardening.
YOU: Lucky, im still doing mine
You lied.
👻: thats sad
Chewing on your inner cheek, your thumbs moved before you could stop.
YOU: Hows ur partner
The typing bubbles appeared immediately.
👻: its some girl in my section i didnt pay attention
👻: she didnt mess anything up, shes whatever
She’s whatever.
Your eyes fixed on his message until they blurred. You had spent weeks listening to him, laughing at his texts, sharing personal concerns to each other—and yet in real life, you were just a boring, insignificant whatever to him.
The irritation flared up. You tossed your laptop onto your bedside table and sat back against the headboard of your bed.
YOU: Cool
A minute passed without a response.
👻: just cool?
YOU: Yeah
👻: youre acting weird
You left the text on read. Not like it mattered, his read receipts were off. Throwing the phone somewhere in your bed, you didn’t reply.
For the next few days, you struggled returning to how you normally were.
He didn’t text you the next morning but eventually did at night, and you left it unreplied for two hours before sending a short answer.
👻: you alive?
YOU: Yes
👻: ok whats wrong then
YOU: Nothing
👻: ???
YOU: What
👻: fine
It felt petty, but each time you looked at your phone, you remembered him sitting right next to you and not even glancing your way. You felt stupid, but his words hurt too.
If you were just a blank space to him in person, you figured it would be better if you were that way on every platform.
By the end of the week, the silence between your texts was heavy. He didn’t text you back after the last chat, and you definitely weren’t going to break first.
You were sitting in class when Tanselle walked in, settling in the chair beside you.
Professor Davis cleared his throat before speaking. “Alright, before we start today’s lecture, I’ve set up a group thread for the upcoming peer reviews. Click on the link and make sure you’re in it by the end of the day.”
You opened your phone to join the chat, then automatically shoved the phone back into your bag. You had no intention of participating.
The period of the lecture ended with a few minutes remaining and your phone started vibrating nonstop.
You tried to ignore it, but the constant noise was getting frustrating. You reached into your bag and pulled it out, looking to mute the group.
A new message popped up at the bottom of the chat. A classmate tagged your number directly because you hadn’t put your name on the sheet yet.
Too annoyed with the whole class to care, you swiped the app and locked your screen.
Then, your eyes subconsciously drifted toward Aerion. You watched as he pulled his phone out.
He was scrolling through the mass text thread when suddenly, he froze.
His head tilted slightly. Narrowing his eyes, he looked at the only text tagging a number. The number he’d been texting every day.
Up front, the classmate who had sent the message lost his patience. He turned around, looking up at where you and Tanselle were sitting.
The guy called out your name, his voice turning multiple heads in the quiet room. “I just tagged your number in the group, you need to upload your topic.”
The sound of your name echoed through the lecture.
Aerion’s head snapped up.
He didn’t look at the guy talking to you. His eyes darted straight up until they locked dead onto you.
The usual expression on his face dropped away. His eyes searched your entire face, his brows drawing in closer.
He saw the phone in your hand before going back to your face.
It clicked.
You stilled under his gaze, the blood rushing loud in your ears.
Beside you, Tanselle nudged your shoulder. “Babe. Babe? He’s talking to you?”
“Yeah,” you managed to choke out. Your fingers felt like wood as you uploaded the topic into the sheet. “Done. It’s in there.”
The classmate muttered a quick thanks and turned back around.
But Aerion didn’t.
He stayed shifted in his seat, his body turned toward your row. One of his friends said something, laughing and clapping him on the shoulder, but Aerion blindly shrugged the guy’s hands off without looking at him. His dark gaze remained on you.
You looked down at your screen, pretending to type, but you could feel the weight of his stare.
A quick glance back down confirmed it. He was staring at you like he was seeing you for the first time, his mind putting the pieces together.
Some girl in my section, she’s whatever. He finally understood why you had iced him.
When the bell rang, you instantly stood up, already packing your bag.
“Why are you in such a rush?” Tanselle asked, shaking her head with confusion.
You gave her a tight smile. “I just need to get back.”
You wanted to wait out the crowd, hoping he’d leave first, but Aerion was already standing by the row exit.
He leaned his back against the desk, ignoring his friends as they stood confused as to why he was still there.
Panic flared in your chest. You didn’t think this through properly.
Without thinking, you threw yourself into the small crowd shuffling through the other exit at the top of the hall.
You basically sprinted across the stone of the parking lot, your keys already clutched in your hand. Unlocking the car, you threw your bag into the passenger seat and slammed the door shut.
You slumped on the headrest, gripping the steering wheel as you finally let out a breath.
Then, your phone lit up with two notifications.
There were two missed calls and above them another notification popped up. It was a text.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
— WHEN YOU CALL MY NAME, IT'S LIKE A LITTLE PRAYER;
cw: smut (+18, MDNI!). canon divergence, modern!au, age difference (baelor is in his late 40s and reader in her late 20s), erectile dysfunction, oral (male!receiving), titfuck (?). | wc: 2.153k
modern!baelor targaryen x female!reader.
thinking about how BAELOR is older than the men you usually date.
you had matched with him on an online dating app: skimming through the frat bros, and the men holding fishes in their profile pictures, and the guys failing to mask their commitment issues behind a "thoughts on going 50/50 on a first date?", only to find yourself swiping right on him. on a man who, despite handsome, was a year short of turning 50, head of his own architecture firm, and painfully interested in tolkien's bibliography.
the result was just as interesting as the discovery. he used proper capitalization but did not try to make you feel dumb for not doing so yourself, made questions that held an actual meaning and took what you answered with genuine interest, and, most importantly, did not hit you with the accursed "u up?" as soon as midnight stroke.
it was refreshing. it was unusual. and it kept you waiting for the other shoe to drop, wondering just what made a man like that spend his time swipping through profiles on an online site like all the men half his age that only seemed to be there in the efforts of wasting women's time.
it felt, frankly, too good to be true.
and the truth is, BAELOR was, at first, just as confused as you were.
he was a divorceé, and had hastily set up his profile after some goading from his sons about, in their words, "needing to put himself out there again." he did not want to waste anyone's time because he did not want anyone wasting his, and was barely learning his way through the app when he matched with you.
you were younger—probably closer to his sons in age than to himself. you were beautiful. you were smart, and funny, and, god, you deserved better than a man who was twice your age, tragically addicted to his work, and, quite frankly, lonely as fuck. not to mention he couldn't even seem to get it up—not that he'd had to for anything else than his own hand for the last decade, but still.
the thing is, he's not even that old. he's not fifty yet. and he's healthy, too: religiously jogs every morning, doesn't drink beyond an occasional wine glass when having dinner with his brother, and follows a healthier diet than the one he kept for half his life.
he's just stressed.
yes, that's it. his firm is supervising a housing development contract that keeps turning into even more of a nightmare with every passing day, maekar is a pain in the ass, and now, to top it all off, he's trying to get back into dating as if he were not a man that has already built a happy, successful life of his own. so yes, he's stressed.
he's stressed, and he's taking pills so he can sleep, and yeah, he's old—he’s old, and both his beard and his hair are speckled with grey, and his back cracks when he gets up from his bed in the morning.
no wonder his dick doesn't get hard as fast as it did when he was twenty-seven.
and, god, you're twenty-seven.
you’re young and bright and lively—you’ve just finished a phd in applied mathematics and (still) think going out to concerts is fun. you smoke while drinking your afternoon coffee and meet with your friends every friday to discuss your book club pick over a charcuterie board and an aperol spritz.
and you said yes when he asked you out to dinner.
you had, in fact, also ordered an aperol spritz during your date. that, wild mushroom risotto, and white chocolate mousse. you told him you’re a vegetarian and baelor did not crack a joke; he took the risotto bite you offered and made a comment about needing to find a similar recipe so he could give it a try at home. you shared half of your desserts with each other and then agreed to continue the date at his place.
and now, you're on your knees, at the foot of his bed, wearing the prettiest red dress he's seen in a long, long time.
you're on your knees, in a short, tight, pretty red dress, and you have his cock inside your mouth. warm, tender, wet—and fuck, he's still soft.
he had, of course, told you about his struggles. somewhere along finishing dessert and ordering coffee, he had confessed in hushed words that even if he took you back to his, he would not be able to perform the way you're probably used to. you had insisted you didn't mind, and had told him you wanted to suck him off regardless, and he had agreed, and god—
you close your lips around his tip, flicker your tongue over his slit, and he allows himself, just for a moment, to think of the what ifs.
what if he was your age, and his dick still worked, and he could have you bent over the kitchen counter? what if he was at least ten years younger, and again, he could get you on a mating press, or a headlock, or anything that was not this. anything that meant he's making you feel good, anything that would not have him feeling the slightest bit of the shame that threatens to swallow him whole.
fuck, he should have eaten you out first. he should have fingered you until you came.
"mhm," you hum, looking up through your lashes, one hand fondling his balls while the other grips the back of his thigh. "that's it. doin' so well for me, hm?"
he wants to. oh, how he wants to do well for you. be good for you. he wants to run his tip down your slit, coat himself in your juices, and bury himself to the hilt inside of you. he wants to have you on your back, or your belly, or on top of him, or in any position your body wants to be fucked in, splitting your pretty pussy open with his cock.
but you’re on your knees. you’re on your knees, and you have his cock inside your mouth.
you shift in your position, slipping the straps of your dress over your shoulders, pulling the hem down until your tits are spilling out of your dress, and BAELOR hisses. there's blood traveling down alright, and you take him in your hand, harder than he was a minute earlier, and push yourself upwards to tap his tip once, twice, three torturous times against your stiff nipples. he knows he would've busted all over them already, painted them in a mess of a hot, thick white ribbons, if only he were fucking—
"that feels good, yeah?" you breathe out, quiet, aware. "you like 'em? want me to let you suck on 'em later, mhm?"
"fuck, pretty—"
"mhm, that's a yes, isn't it?"
BAELOR smiles, biting on the soft, supple skin of his bottom lip, and he feels like he's on fire. you do it again, tapping his dripping, leaking tip against your tits while you part your lips to let a single ribbon of spit fall over his tip.
his breath catches in his throat.
it looks debauched, dirty—he's seen this in porn, when he's lying on his bed late at night and he's trying to will an erection that will not come, and god, he had never thought it would feel like this.
"yes, it's a—a fucking yes, pretty," he mutters, slipping the word through clenched teeth.
he’s not hard yet, not by a mile, but his cock weighs a different kind of heavy in your hand. your thumb runs in circles over his tip, redder, starting to pulse, and pleasure begins to build at the bottom of his stomach before you've even taking him in your mouth again.
"yeah? and you like that, mhm? telling me what you want to do to me?" a smirk, and a pump up his cock. "you want to talk me through it? tell me how you'd fuck my tight, wet cunt?"
he knows what you're doing: you're stroking his ego just as much as you're stroking his cock, and there's an easiness to your movements that lets him know you're doing it for you just as much as you're doing it for him. because you don't have to stroke his ego, and you don't have to play it up, and you run your tongue across your lower lip when the thought settles in your head.
it feels easy. it feels comfortable.
it feels like going home with a man that was respectful, and attentive, and considerate, since the very first message you exchanged with each other. it feels like going home with a man that spent the entirety of dinner listening to you—genuinely, interested, uninterrupted—instead of saying whatever he'd thought would make his shadow look bigger when he turned around. it feels like going home with a man that thinks of you, your pleasure and your comfort, first and foremost, even when he gets to have his dick inside your mouth.
and so you set your eyes on his once more, and BAELOR feels slightly longer, slightly thicker, slightly stiffer, when you wrap your pretty lips around his tip once more.
"i want—fuck, i want—i'd have you on top of me," he says. "you'd be straddling me. and my, mhm—oh, just like that. yeah, do that thing with your tongue again, pretty girl. please. that... yeah, that thing. 'm just—just not as young as i used to be."
you moan around his cock, tongue at his slit, and he shivers. you look up at him again, pupils blown out wide, eyes hazy with want, and he surrenders to the blissfulness of the moment.
his hand, big and rough, finds the back of your head and pulls you down until your nose kisses his navel. a streak of silver marks the place where his happy trail begins right over the edge of his tummy, and BAELOR’s fingers, long and lithe, wrap around your hair, clenching into a tight fist. the burning at your scalp makes your hole clench around nothing.
"i'd be buried inside your warm, wet pussy," he continues, eyes glued to where his cock disappears inside your mouth, feeling his pleasure grow, and grow, and grow, and he's about to succumb to it all. "and you'd be gripping me so, so tight. and you'd be rubbing your clit as you ride me, and you'd let me suck on your pretty tits, and—oh, mhm, 'm gonna—"
you pull him out of your mouth with a wet pop, and he shudders at the loss of your heat. his cock, still limp but now pulsing red, plops obscenely against your hand, and you pump him faster as you keep your eyes on his.
"gonna what? gonna cum?" you tease, tone resting somewhere between a moan and a mewl, and he almost misses the way in which you're clenching your thighs together as you speak. "gonna paint my face? or—oh, you're gonna cover my tits, huh? suck 'em after?"
and god, you're turned on. you're turned on for him, because of him, and he didn't even need to be hard to have you clenching your thighs together in search of friction, dripping down your thighs in anticipation. oh, he's going to eat you out so, so well after this. he smells your arousal from where he sits and imagines its sweetness when he swallows the knot forming in his throat, and he's—
"mhm, just like that," you mewl, pumping his cock from base to tip as he spills all over your chest in a mess of white.
he moans, loud, unrepentant, humping upwards against your hand as his eyes threaten to roll back against his skull. his thighs tense, muscles clenching as his orgasm ravages through his body. it travels up his spine, making him shake, wrecking him down to his bones, pulling him apart just so you can put him back together.
and you keep pumping his cock, still soft, still leaking, and he feels like it's his heart, hot and bloody and pulsing, that you're holding in your palm instead. he'd let you. he’d present it himself, tear it out for you, bare it clean in open palms if you so wished for it.
he breathes in, breathes out, rhythm frantic as his chest rises, as it falls, and he lets out a long, deep sigh as he lets his head fall back against his shoulders. and he, just like you, feels at ease.
“well, i think he does likes me, after all,” you say, words slipping past swollen lips and melting into a giggle.
and BAELOR rolls his eyes back, still panting for breath, and the corner of his mouth rises into an easy, lazy smile. "brat."
warnings: please don't read if these trigger you! non-con, dark themes, maekar's lost all restraint and he wants his daughter's pretty nursemaid, coercion, humiliation, older man/younger woman relationship, woman viewed as property (?), inappropriate workplace relationship, prince/maid, boss/employee, imbalanced power dynamics.
This is the Maekar version of this post where Baelor survives his head whack and becomes a whole new person. Maekar's head whack isn't too bad, but's he a bit funky...
Instead of his brother, it had been he who had received a wound to his head during the trial of seven. The maester originally thought that perhaps Maekar had received a simple concussion... a harsh bump, but nothing life-changing. He'd even swatted away the maester when he tried to tend to him, acting no less normal than one would expect.
It's not until he returned to Summerhall, supposedly healthy and healed, that people started to notice changes.
He was grumpier, ruder, and meaner. He'd always been gruff and filled with animosity, but he'd been able to keep himself contained. He'd known how any outbursts would be perceived by those in the castle – he had appearances to keep up, and the crown couldn't afford more frustrations coming its way. But now, he was snapping at the serving girls and swearing at the guards. He'd lost that all-important filter that seemed to be keeping him out of trouble.
Now, people feared him, ducking down corridors to try to avoid his ire. They wished to be spared another of his screaming fits, though his son's seemed to fare less favourably with those. His punishments for his son's poor behaviour had grown even harsher, callous and cruel, sending even them into a state of fear around their father.
His ability to manage his impulses had completely gone, too, Maekar now demanding his wants be fulfilled immediately, without care for the cost. He could barely hold meetings due to his newfound like of leaving the room at a suggestion he didn't agree with. He found no reason to hold back.
But there was one person who this new, crueller version of Maekar seemed to hold his temper with: his youngest daughter's nursemaid. You.
He'd always been fond of you, finding you a constant in his life since you entered his service upon Rhae's birth. A pretty young thing you were, eager to earn your keep in a harsh world by looking after his daughter.
You weren't boastful or loud or ostentatious in any way. You simply did as you were told, just as a good nursemaid should. Never bothering him, never causing any trouble.
Little Rhae adored you. Knowing little of her own mother, she found comfort in you, clinging to your skirts and squaking if you tried to move away from her chubby little hands. She would constantly cry for your company on the rare days you had off.
Maekar would roll his eyes at the way she would scream for you, and yet he would send for your presence quickly as her cries grew louder. And when you would appear, your servants' uniform disregarded for the simple wool gown you would wear in your own home, he would sigh in relief. He would have a moment of peace.
It had led to you holding a larger role in family life than a nursemaid typically would, lingering on the sidelines of feasts, family gatherings, trips to the capital – wherever Rhae was, you were the person whose arms she cuddled into.
Despite your constant presence, you never truly spoke much with the prince except for matters of his daughter, and even then, it was short and clipped; he made you nervous, and you often sought to spend as little time with his gaze upon you as possible.
It had always been that gaze that sent shivers down your spine, aware of the way it would linger ever so slightly longer than was proper. You would swear to your fellow maids that you'd feel his eyes trail over your body, though they would laugh it off – why would he lust over a servant?
You'd agreed; of course you had. He was a prince… why would he lower himself to think of someone like you like that?
It had been barely a month before the family's journey to Ashford Castle when he'd demanded you move into Summerhall; his daughter was growing needier, and you would be needed to soothe her throughout the night now. You'd had no choice, despite your protests, and soon your belongings were being moved to Rhae's room.
The sweet girl had been elated, a toothless grin on the toddler's chubby cheeks as you brought her into your chest. Despite her happy giggles, your body was stiff at the sight of the prince standing in the doorway, watching the sight with an unreadable expression.
It had been over a week of living at Summerhall when, in the early hours of the morning, you had been disturbed from your sleep, awoken with a fright by the crash of a door. The prince had barged into the apartments, demanding to see his daughter, naught a care for the hour nor your indecent state of undress.
To be in only a nightgown in front of such a man was more than improper, and handing his squirming daughter over, you were exposed – and the prince knew it. His eyes trailed over your frame as he mumbled to his child, taking in the way the moonlight highlighted your figure to him; shapely hips, full breasts, nipples peaked under the fabric from the chill of the room. He thought he might give in in that moment. His daughter's sweet nursemaid was all ripe for the taking – but he didn't. He held himself back, despite the stirring of his loins. He was better than that.
Quietly, he'd told you of Aerion's threat against Rhae, his brain refusing to allow him an ounce of rest without first checking on her. It wasn't an apology, but he could see you understood.
It was when he handed her back to you, her grabby hands making for the robe you'd managed to scrounge up, that he realised something. Rhae's tiny fingers grasped at your breast, tugging at the fabric and eager for a meal, and he understood then that Rhae thought you were her mother, or at least the closest thing to a mother she would know.
Something niggled at his brain, a thought that he shoved down, ignoring the way you blushed as you tugged her hand away, cooing down at the sweet girl. You looked at her like your own, he thought.
All had been well until the tourney, but once he returned from Ashford Castle, something was off.
Maekar hovered more. He claimed it was to see more of his daughter, her growing limbs having allowed her to begin toddling around the solar, but whenever you chanced a glance his way, you would see his eyes on you – intense, as if taking every inch of you with his scrutinising gaze. It was unnerving.
His gaze would linger, pervasive and constant, to the point you started to worry. Was he planning to send you away? Was he unhappy with your work? Had you done something while he was away that he didn't like?
Others in the castle had noticed, too. First, they worried for you – for your wage. But when they quietly stood back and watched how he spoke to you, looked at you, and treated you, they began to grow more concerned. This wasn't the look of a father watchful over his daughter's carer; it was something different.
It was lustful and hungry. It was frightening.
He'd made it four days.
You'd made it four days.
Four days after his return, he'd summoned you to his apartments under the guise of tending to his daughter. He'd taken her earlier, so you'd had no reason to worry.
You should have. You realised that when you found yourself on his bed, face shoved into the velvet covers, his hands rucking up your skirt with vigour.
He was inside of you before you could really comprehend the situation, a calloused palm coming to cover your mouth as you cried out at the burning, stretching feeling that he was forcing upon you.
His hips harshly rutted into you, pushing him deeper, harder, inside of your walls and you felt your tears spill over, wetting the fabric beneath you.
Maekar's harsh grunts were echoing around the room, joining the sound of his hips meeting the flesh of your backside, the rhythmic pounding drowning your cries.
The sound of the door opening caught your attention: a younger maid you'd often seen in the nursery standing wide-eyed at the sight before her; the Prince of Summerhall pinning a woman to his bed, forceful thrusts pushing her body deeper into the mattress, his hand muffling her cries.
You don't know what you'd thought she'd do – save you, perhaps? It was a foolish thought, but when she walked past the bed towards Rhae's cot, your heart sank.
And then she left, and you were alone with the prince once more – not that the interruption had halted his movements at all. It wasn't enough to take you like this, but he had to humiliate you, too.
Once he was done, his seed slowly leaking out of you, all you could do was lie there for a moment, your brain trying to comprehend what had just happened. It's not until he's pulling you up, tugging your skirts back down and tidying up your hair that you finally look at him, finding him smiling at you unsettlingly.
Smiling.
You were too stunned to speak as he guided you to the door, mumblings leaving his lips of how Rhae would likely be crying for you now. He'd send you off with a firm grope of your ass, and you could only mindlessly wander to Rhae's rooms, tearily cuddling the sweet baby girl in your arms, seeking solace in her sweet, good-natured giggles.
It's only when he's having a guard escort you to his rooms the next night that you realise that this new version of Maekar is not so content to let you go.
With the part of his brain responsible for impulse control damaged, he's finally indulged in all the desires he'd be holding back from before the accident, and now he wants you.
Contains: Crack fic, suggestiveness (alot of it), mentions of sex, morning after, sex not taken seriously, character vessel, reader being a pervert
A/N: I like to think vessel would be terrified of having his cum inside you in any way cuz he isn't sure the chemical composition is still the same and may harm you. So I wrote it
Vessel was gentle.
Vessel never wanted to hurt you, not physically, not mentally, not physiologically.
So the first time you slept together, last night, he was like a blanket of comfort and bliss around you. You'd think he had the power of a thousand suns with how gently he was making love to you.
But you still loved it, you still loved him. He wasn't unskilled, wasn't too skittish around pleasuring you.
But you did notice, he didn't cum anywhere inside with how many times he came that night. He always wiped it away or let it fall on the sheets. And after seeing his...size, and the fact that he didn't eat (anything other than you atleast), it made you wonder what he'd taste like. How he'd feel on your tongue. Hie sweet his voice would be as he moaned and screamed-
"Ywan! Morning, love..." His tired morning voice cut off your train of thought. Vessel laid next to you, hair messy, face half-buried in his pillow, and his beautiful six eyes still half closed.
You hummed, still draped in a sleepy haze. He leaned forward and kissed your forehead, then nose, then lips.
You immediately tangled with him again, pushing away the blanket barrier between you and fully entwining. vessel rubbed his head against yours, almost as if scenting you like a cat, and with a more timid kiss from him your train of thought picked up again.
your hand trailed down his abdomen, stopping short above his bits. And his stomach twitched in the slightest, your gaze turning even more lustful as you licked your lips. "lay on your back for me, will you, vessy? "
vessel, though confused, turned over to lay on his back, his eyes turned from curiosity to panic as you placed yourself between his legs and lowered your head.
He let out a small yelp and pulled the blanket over his hips, "Uh sorry, love! I have to get up, ritual today!"
You pulled back in confusion as he quickly got up and stumbled to the bathroom, he didn't have a ritual today?
Oh.
Well, you knew what you were going to do today.
You could tell vessel was generally avoiding you today, after a couple accidental glances and he was still seeing your lustful gaze on him. Practically undressing him with your eyes. He feared for his life with what your heart desired.
So you followed him around silently, until you found him in ii's little apothecary.
"This should work, two times a day, and they shall be okay again." ii explained as he worked on a small herbal mix for some villager. Vessel was standing next to him, leaning to watch as he ground herbs together.
With an mischievous snicker you went in, closing the door behind you. "Hey, vessy." You giggled innocently as you ran your hand up his bare arm, he jumped slightly, and the panic in his eyes double when he saw how close you stood next to him.
"Oh, hello, love..." He timidly greeted, trying to put a little distance between you. You closed in on him from the left, leaving him to back to the right and press too much into ii's side.
ii ever so ignorant of you two's little game, grumbled as vessel got too close, "do you mind?" Vessel whispered an apology and stepped away.
You cornered him even closer, your hand lifted to hold his hip in place. And with no subtlety, you let your eyes wander his body till it landed right on his groin. You giggled and licked your lips playfully, letting your eyes rest right there.
You could feel vessel's nervousness as he shifted on his feet. His breathing grew more frantic when you lifted your other hand closer to him.
"It's done. Let me just put it in jar." ii announced, luckily just in time for you to pull away before he looked at the interesting interaction.
"Keep up the good work, ii!!" You cheered as you exited the apothecary, leaving vessel with an embarrassingly obvious hard-on.
Later he was with iii in the library, iii providing vessel with some diagrams and diagnostics of a beast's structure. They sat together at a table, vessel's own notebook open and following along iii's report.
And your mischievous self appeared again, right behind vessel's chair. You felt up his shoulder and greeted, "Hello, iii!" Oh so casually.
"Hello, duck." He cheerfully responded, turning his full body to face you.
"Mind if I sit with you?" You asked innocently. And you immediately felt vessel's full body tense up, but iii agreed right before vessel could signal anything for him to say no.
"Ofcourse not!" And you gladly pulled a chair right next to vessel and plopped down innocently. "Right, as we were saying-" iii continued on with his explanation.
Vessel tried focusing and ignoring you, but as much as your upper body looked focused with iii, your hand were doing completely different work.
You felt up vessel's thigh, playing with the fabric of his pants. He visibly sucked in a deep breath and glanced at you, almost like a warning with no real threat behind it.
So you went further, your fingers grabbed at his waist band and pulled it down ever so slightly. Vessel almost jumped in his chair when he felt the cold air reach his bits, but you didn't move forth. You simply kept your hand on his thigh and waist band, Teasing him with the smallest of twitches in touch.
And as iii kept explaining, vessel's notes slowed, his responses shortened, and notes lessened. This, you felt some guilt in. So with some mercy you decided to leave, but not before you pulled vessel's waistband back up and caressed his groin first. His mouth pressed into a thin lime to avoid making any noise.
Luckily iii was focused on you getting up more than vessel's reactions, "Ah leaving so soon? Am I boring you or something?" He joked.
"No no!! I just have other things to do. You keep doing your thing, iii!! And bye, vessel!"
You waved innocently at then as you left, as if you weren't about to jerk vessel off under the table.
By the afternoon, vessel was helping iv in the garden. This time, you needed a more sneaky approach. You hid in the tool shed and waited. iv would most definitely send vessel to get him something from there soon.
You watched from the shutters on the window, making sure you were well hidden. And as expected, iv asked vessel to get him something to trim some weak leaves off a plant.
You pressed yourself to the wall behind the door and waited.
The door opened, the sound of his heavy footsteps entered, a beam of light illuminating him from behind. As soon as he was far enough from the door's threshold, you shut it behind him.
"Hello, vessel." You gently announced, vessel jumped at the sound of your voice. More afraid of you than he was startled.
"L-love! What are you doing here?!" He tried to cover his panic with a polite tone, but his body nervously backed up against a wall. The cramped shed didn't have much space for him to hide in, it was perfect.
You approached him as slowly as you can, and you can see how he pressed himself up the wall more with each step.
You stopped just short of his chest, your nose pressed into neck and took a deep breath. "You smell amazing, honey."
"F- Thank you, love. Now please I must bring iv his she-" right before he could move you slammed your arms on the walls each side of him. He yelped again and his breathing grew frantic.
"Why are you avoiding me, vessel." You pressed on, a hand came up and caressed his cheek, feeling the heat under his skin. "You know what I want, why are you avoiding it." Your tone became more sympathetic, since vessel never really was the type to hid his discomfort when it came to you. He would open up to you about everything eventually.
He stammered, his eyes looking anywhere but on you, eventually he looked down and his hands grabbed yours, leading them off the walls and into his own. "...I'm scared for you, love. I don't know if it's safe for you to do what you want, to s-swallow my cum."
You tilted your head in confusion, safety? This was a safety issue? "Safe..? Vessel, how could it be harmful to me? It's just cum!"
"I don't know if it's just cum anymore! Maybe Sleep changed something in it when transforming me!" Vessel whined, embarrassed about the whole ordeal, his hands covered his face and dragged down as you processed his words.
"Sigh, oh ves." You hummed, taking a deep breath to think about it.
After a moment, your thoughts cheered up again, coming with a safer solution. "Well, we happen to have an amazing apothecary in human medication, and the first vessel of Sleep who can pray for my healing." You pet the side of his head and smiled at him gently. "So what do you say, love? We can try?"
Vessel seemed to like the idea but his expression quickly became one of embarrassment again. You put your hand to his cheek, and sure enough, it was warm to the touch. "Vessel..? Don't tell me you're shy of getting sucked off..?", you heard a muffled whimper from him and his full body shivered.
You really didn't want to embarrassed him further, you really didn't. But you couldn't help a small giggle escaping your mouth even if you tried covering it with your hand. He grumbled and whined at your giggled, trying to distance himself from you. "No no no, vessel!! It's cute, I swear!" You held onto his arms and pulled him closer, forcing a comforting hug to your shy and gentle giant.
After your giggling died down and your lover calmed down, your hand trailed back down his back and settled on his ass. "So...are you now willing to try?"
Vessel remained quiet for moment before nodding timidly.
Knock knock knock.
"Vessel? What could be taking you so long to get sheers?!" iv knocked on the shed door, only met with a few muffled groaning noises.
He worried maybe something happened to vessel so he took the liberty and opened the door-
"OH! by Sleep, you couldn't find another place and time!?" iv quickly slammed a hand over his eyes and shut the door at the sight of you on your knees infront of vessel.
He was surely going to be passed about having to delay his gardening time, but you and vessel had bigger things to worry about at the moment.
summary: snooping around in the stables late at night won’t go without repercussions.
word count: 4.2k
warnings: 18+ NSFW. dark content! fem reader. dub-con. brat taming, spanking. pussy slapping. spitting. humping. use of pet names. BDSM. fingering. degradation. edging. no aftercare. inappropriate use of horse tack, seriously you’ve been warned.
please read warnings before reading. if you think this content will upset you do not read further!
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
The cold gravel nips and bites at your soft heels as you creep out the back door, the door clicking shut behind you, the quiet latch sounding thunderous in the quiet of the twilight.
In the same moment a rather biting gust of wind hits you, flurrying underneath your nightgown rather mockingly, seeping it’s way into your very bones.
The ragged shawl around your shoulders doing little to keep the chill at bay, the moor itself seems to be ridiculing you each step you take- the heat of your home, your warmed bed still in your grasp yet here you are.
Your stomach feels in knots, churning the heavy pit you feel each step you take, worsening each step into the night- feeling more like you are stepping to execution rather than the familiar fields you frolicked as a girl.
The stables come into view and you swither in your steps, feet digging into the ground as shame builds and works its way up your neck, so sickening that you have clench your eyes shut and pinch your forearms till it marks your wind whipped skin. A feeble attempt at best to to get the wicked thoughts from your head.
Just some proof is all, an inkling that even one part of what Cathy saw rings true, then you can go, back where it’s warm, where you can wake your wretched sister and tell Nelly all about her filthy lies. The satisfaction warms your chest enough to quicken your steps. Thats why. It will be to prove her wrong. That’s why you’ve ventured in the cold, her stupid childish stories. Lying to ones own sister like this. What does she take you for.
You’re women grown but just the sort of thing she’d lie about to tease you, just like when you were girls. So vulgar and far fetched, just something she conjured up to redden your cheeks and scandalise your affections for such an innocent man.
A working man.
Joseph. Our Joseph.
and Zillah?
Whips and chains and horse tackle?
The thought has you huffing with an incredulous smirk as you shove the door open to the darkened stables.
The stable door creaks echoingly loud and you stupidly attempt to shush it as you tiptoe inside. The intrusion has the horses startled - their hooves scuffling against the gates, nickering disapprovingly amongst themselves. A lantern has been left burning, practically near snuffed by the tack wall. Bingo
Padding across the hay littered ground, bare feet scuffing along the hardened cement till you reach the horse tackling, it’s strewn along the wall, hung perfectly but no coherent organisation that you could decipher. In the low light you kneel on the dirty ground to inspect the each part of roughened leather bridles, working left to right along the wall, your knees aching and likely covered in filth when you stand.
Once checked over you carelessly drop them, letting them reverberate back against the hollow stable walls, rattling the chains with a shrill booming shudder till there is just one left to inspect.
Shivering you pick it up, narrowing your eyes to hold the cheekpiece up to the dimming light again, eyes lazily scanning, feeling foolish for leaving the warmth of your bed for this, thinking of the scolding that you’ll give your sister on the morrow and-
Hold on.
There it is.
Bite marks. Distinct and human.
Your stomach lurches uncomfortably.
Surely not. You wipe your dirtied hands on your white nightgown, a scattering of dust and filth marking the lace carelessly as you move closer to the lamp, leaning as close as you can, not wanting to believe what you see.
Then- the wind changes. The stable door flying open with the gust- snuffing out the lamp and completely enveloping you in a shroud of darkness, leaving you isolated with just the pull of worry and something else still churning in your abdomen.
You drop the bridle- the chains ricocheting against the rest with a loud clang. The sound thrumming for a second as your eyes adjust to the darkness. You feel for the wall closest to your left, using it to guide your way back to where the door is, squinting in the dark for the familiar arch. It comes into view but not down to the skill of your own eyesight, it is a light that appears, getting closer along with the sound of humming, out of tune and oh so familiar.
Joseph bustles his way inside, heavy boots thumping across to where the horses rest, blissfully unaware of your trembling presence hidden in the dark corner. He hangs his lantern and looks over the horses with a furrowed brow, the light reflecting over his angled features so it’s all you can see in the room.
“That you making all that racket in here eh?” he tuts, sucking the air through his teeth disapprovingly.
“Just a bit a’ wind that’s all. you know that.”
He scoffs, petting the horses with a gentle kind hand before picking up the lantern to head out again, taking a singular step forward toward before he locks eyes with you.
Your heart is in your throat and you can scarcely exhale, your eyes so wide that you feel the cold wind nipping and drying them, completely frozen to the spot.
The teeth.
The reigns.
Zillah.
The whip.
The sounds.
All the things Cathy told you hammering in your skull, mocking you right now as you look at him where he stands a foot away.
He is still completely dressed in his work gear, strange despite the hour and it makes you wonder for a half second if he ever sleeps, how does he find the time with all this? Your head is spinning in fear and shame, eyeing the door like you are ready to bolt.
He edges forward keeping his voice a low slow timbre when he speaks, careful not to spook you like he’d approach a frightened mare.
“Miss Earnshaw?”
When he draws closer, you instinctively step back, your back hitting the wooden support beam behind you.
When you do not respond, he speaks again, “Was that you making all that noise in here?”
He looks amused, brows furrowed but eyes full of mirth despite his gentle concern. Drawing his gaze downwards, taking in your nightdress. Your filthy nightdress.
“M’ sorry Joseph I could not rest, I was just taking a walk to tire me that’s all. Came in to see the horses.”
You mumble hurriedly under your breath, sweetening your voice for him like you always do when you want something, big eyes blinking up at him.
Your breath fogs in the cold air, your own lies visible in the air of the dark stable.
He regards you for a moment, gauging the truth of it. Even in the low light, your features are drawn and pale, clearly distressed.
“Restless?" he repeats, his voice crackling gently. “And you didn’t think so put on a pair of proper shoes before your little walk?"
His tone is gently reprimanding—like a disapproving adult to a child.
"You're shivering," he states matter-of-factly, gaze flicking to your bare feet and to the the damp shawl wrapped tightly around you.
“and I don’t believe you Miss Earnshaw.”
His sneering tone surprises you, despite being scarcely a year younger than him he has always spoken to you with gentle respect, the tone befitting your relationship, nothing more.
But he isn’t working now and the accusation puts fire in your belly, enraging you to be disregarded and caught in your own lies. It stumps you to silence.
He can see your shifting eyes, your attempt to think of a way out, the way you won't hold his gaze. It only reinforces his belief that something is deeply amiss.
His expression doesn't falter, still gentle but unyielding. In a voice laced with quiet authority, he coos,
“No lying now Miss. Why are you in here?”
There is a finality in it that brooks no further argument. His tone ragged and disapproving.
He steps closer but stops just shy of the tack wall, forcing you to shrink against it even more.
This he regards with a barely there smug smirk, his stance relaxed yet dominating in the small space. He is deceptively lazy, an act of calculated patience likely chosen to bait you into enlightening him with the truth.
Your blood boils, straightening your back and balancing on the balls of your scuffed feet in a feeble attempt in trying to assert him, shuffling closer to him in the murk, ignoring the heat pooling in your abdomen under his smug holier-than-thou gaze.
Fists clenching on the dirtied fabric of your nightgown, you sneer.
“It’s none of your concern what I do. You forget yourself and are being inappropriate Joseph. I’m no liar. you wait till I tell Fath-“
He cuts you off with a stern look before you can finish your snarky attempt to rebuff him. His brows drawn and mouth turned to a frown- unfamiliar and biting on his usually kind face.
“Oh? Inappropriate?”
He repeats the word as though tasting it, a dark eyebrow lifting faintly as he looks you up and down. A ghost of amusement flickers through his expression. You're trying to reassert authority, remind him that you're a young lady of status compared to him. It's an attempt to gain leverage and it falls flat instantaneously.
He tilts his head slightly, one side of his mouth curving up to a crooked smile, faint yet fond in it’s condescension.
"You seem to have wandered out into the open moor at night in little more than your shift. I'm not sure what is appropriate holds any sway over either of us at the moment.”
He points out towards the open stable door- towards your home as it sits in the fog.
"And just what will you tell your father then? That I caught you out here half-naked? Perhaps hiding a lover….hm?”
He peers behind you in the shadow of the stable just to irk you further, as if really checking for some fiend to be hiding in the hay with you.
Your body burns from the tips of your toes to the flush of your cheeks with pure scandalised horror, outraged you spin on your heel and stomp out into the night air.
He doesn’t follow right away. Lets you go. An amused huff parting his mouth as he watches you distance from the stable. Not for long though, slow and deliberate, he steps after you, letting the heavy barn door creak shut behind him.
The lantern light faraway and darkness shrouding him as he moves deeper into the shadows, unfazed by your little tantrum.
His steps are quiet, catching up with you with ease while you catch your breath in the doorway of the kitchen you had left swinging open before.
From behind, his voice comes low and even,
“I won’t tell your father a word. Not if you tell me the truth girl.”
He steps closer, you hear the scuffle of his mucky boots.
“Now. Miss Earnshaw.”
His stern voice sends a shiver through you that has little to do with the cold wind. A familiar ache in the pit of your abdomen overcomes you so suddenly you fear if you turn around it will be written all over your face.
A sharp retort wells up as you turn but it dies under his piercing gaze.
This close, it's almost impossible to look away, his eyes an enchanting blue, glimmering in the moonlight, if those eyes weren’t gazing at you with such disapproval you’d be likely to stand there frozen in the sapphire depths all night.
His stance, though not oppressive, dominates the moor- even in the open field you feel just as you did when he cornered you in the stable, like an animal, ready to bite and scratch your way out.
But you don’t. You find yourself explaining, however irritated and sheepish you sound.
“Cathy told me some story.. she saw you and Zillah in there..doin’.. things.”
You nod towards the barn half heartedly, unable to meet his eyes.
He catches it immediately, interest peaked.
“Hey! Fweet!” he whistles like he would to a disobedient mare, tipping your chin up with his leather clad hand to meet his furrowed eyeline.
His touch doesn’t linger but you feel it’s authority even as it’s gone- the whistle straightened your back immediately- frustratingly so that he could work you just like one of his animals.
“Look at me when you’re talking eh? Manners..What’s that Cathy sayin’ about me then eh?”
The corner of his mouth tightens slightly, surprise mingled with wariness. Peering into every micro-expression you give him, his eyes flickering with something, a smug kind of cockiness as he awaits your response. He studies you, the defiant tilt of your chin, the set of your jaw.
It's as though your resolve only spurs his questions, his interest piqued by your defiance.
His eyes sparkle as they hold yours.
"What things were we doing?”
His tone is gentler now- like it was when he found you in the darkness. Cooing and leading you into this temporary sense of ease.
It excites you, the way he could manipulate your feelings.
Your words. Your attitude. It equally terrified and aroused you.
“You were- um. Playing with the tack.”
You fail to suppress a smirk as the words leave your mouth. Your voice wavering on a half laugh. You couldn't help it, it felt so serious before in your own head but verbalising it to him felt childish. The words fizzle out of your mouth with that coy smile.
But when you look up once again to meet his gaze he’s not impressed.
“Oh? S’funny is it?”
He crowds you- his breath warming your weather battered cheeks.
His scent filling your lungs, the smoky scent of hay and dirt mixed with the sweat and grime from his long days work. It should repulse you. It should make you sick but you hang onto his every word- wide eyed eyes stinging, afraid to blink even as the wind pricks at them.
“You found it so funny you wanted to come out and see for yourself? Dressed like a fucking..whore. What? to laugh?”
He nips at you. Lazing over his words because he knows he has you right in his clutches anyway, his curses slow and dripping with (false?) contempt.
It’s as if someone has poured ice into your veins.
All leverage you thought you had of the situation out the door. Or more appropriately out into the biting cold of the moor. He’s not as dense as you were hoping.
You have to clench your thighs hard under your skirt, the pulsing between your legs crying for the barest pressure as he scolds you.
He’s right of course. You were hoping you’d find him out here. Part of you hoped Cathy hadn’t lied. That Joseph wasn’t the pious working man everyone thought he was. Not only did you hit the bingo you’ve summoned your very own wicked & perverted dreams into fruition.
You stare at him unable to work up a single syllable, clearly surprised by his outburst but waiting patiently for what? more? This seems to irk him further.
He grabs your wrist. Hard. Yanking you forward, trailing you back into the darkened stables while you can only follow dizzily.
Eyes trained on his broadened strong back. Your steps are clumsy in your desperation, your depraved mind already trailing off to your sweetened memories of how this view differs in the height of summer, as he is throwing hay bales across the barn…bare- his sweat and muscle rippling in the heat.
He manhandles you into the centre of the tack wall once again, scowling once he realises he still hasn’t shocked you into a response.
Your eyes just as dreamily unfocused as before. Looking at him with that same expectant half smirking look- he’s not happy.
"Stay there." he spits, stalking off behind you to fetch the tack- returning with the same bite imprinted bridle you found before.
When he turns back to you- running the leather through his fingers he regards you greedily- your pert nipples through your nightgown, your oh-so-soft thighs on display.
You feel sick with your impatience but still unwilling to stoop so low to beg for his affections.
Yet.
He broaches into your space now, while you stand obediently- exactly how he told you to- cold feet shifting on the solid ground. The whistle of the wind rattling through the stable is the only noise you can hear- the only thing you can try to focus on besides him.
“Chilly? Poor thing.” he murmurs, nosing around you- observing you with clinical precision in the murk.
His voice has that soft coo to it again- he’s so hot and cold that you don’t quite know where you stand- the way he’s fiddling with the tack like it’s a threat yet talking so softly. So sweetly.
“Yeah..s’cold Joseph. What are you doing?” you mumble at last, eyeing the door like you’d be discovered- by who- Nelly? Cathy?
You haven’t done anything to be ashamed of but the arousal burning in your belly makes you feel dirty all the same.
“What am I doing?” He laughs like the answer is obvious.
“This is what you wanted isn’t it?” He leans down to your level- close enough to feel his warmth- for you to see the sprinkling of chest hair peeking through his neckline, the curve of his angled mouth as he leans closer.
And closer.
His nose grazing yours now.
The breath leaves your lungs in a flurry of excitement- standing on your toes to meet his mouth when he suddenly pulls back with a cruel laugh.
“Kisses? Tut Tut. No I don’t quite think so Miss Earnshaw.”
With a sudden Thwack he slaps the meat of your thigh with the tough leather bridle making you gasp in indignant disbelief.
“Joseph!” you squeal, biting your cheek to suppress the pleased smile that creeps on your face, the sting of the smack setting your blood aflame- your pearl fluttering and pulsing immediately.
He repeats the action in the exact same spot with a self satisfied grin, making you cry out again.
“You want me to stop?” he teases- gently rubbing his warm hand over the nipping reddened skin. His words have you dumbfounded and quiet again.
“Tell me what you want then hm? Tell me how inappropriate I am. Where’s that attitude gone from earlier?”
He sounds disappointed and if it weren’t for that smile on his face you’d believe it.
“Don’t know...”
You gulp, looking back down at the curve of his mouth with hazy- poorly disguised need.
Another Thwack- higher up this time, the pained sound that escapes your mouth sounding closer to a whorish whine.
This seems to amuse him enough for his teeth to peek out when he smiles cruelly. His canines sharp, reflecting prominently in the lamplight. How you wish you could feel the scrape of them on your tongue. Your neck. Your thigh..
“I think you do know baby. I think if I felt under that filthy dress of yours you’d be fucking soaked. Sound about right?”
Caught.
You’re too caught up and needy to keep lying and you nod instantaneously. The pet name doing nothing to help ease your want for him.
“Oh such a good girl. Finally being honest. Give me your hands Baby. Keep being good and listen.”
Doing as you are told he takes your outstretched hands and fastens them into the bridle at the wrists, barely moment of realisation passes through you before he hooks you onto the ceiling beam with expert precision, effectively holding you in the spot.
“Och’t so pretty!”
He rubs his hands together to heat them before cupping your cheeks and pressing a kiss to your gaped surprised mouth. The kiss is achingly slow and wet- intentionally teasing, straining your raised arms in desperation to wrap around him, keep him close. The chains rattle when you instinctively try and he pulls back immediately.
He circles you a couple times before slowly lifting the hem of your skirts- grazing his warm hands over your arse, now bared for him. He doesn’t comment on your lack of underclothes but you can hear the hitch in his breathing from behind you.
His hands so so fucking close to where you need him.
“Joseph..”
You whine, desperate for attention, desperate for anything he will give you.
And what you get is a hard smack right on your arse.
Another to follow for good measure.
“Be patient.”
He sucks the air through his teeth when you moan. Angling his strong arm around your middle to hold you steady before sliding his other hand through your backside and down towards your aching wetness. He feels his way through your folds with precision- soaking his hand with what he finds.
His hips press against your arse at the angle and you can feel the unmistakable pressure of his hardness through his breeches. It has you throbbing right where he can feel, pulsing right on his fingers as little whimpers leave your mouth in your vulnerable desperation. Completely at his mercy.
He seems to take pity on you, circling his fingers on your pearl with the pressure you’ve been needing. Shushing you gently and talking you through the sharp pleasure.
“There she is. Take what I give you. Good girl- oh good girl.” his voice is a near rasp now. Circling his own hips so slightly onto you to relieve his own pressure.
Instinctively you buck your hips, a girlish whine escaping your mouth as you work yourself through the pressure of his fingers and back to press onto his aching cock.
Bad decision.
He pulls his hand away just to spank you directly onto your aching cunt and you wail in frustration.
“Don’t be greedy!”
He snaps. letting you go completely for a moment- your arms rattling above your head- the wind seeping between your legs and cooling your heat.
He grabs your chin, forcing his wet fingers into your mouth- fucking them into your throat- the tang of your own arousal coating your tongue and there’s not much you can do but take it. Gladly.
Once he’s satisfied he releases them from your mouth with a questioning look.
“You gonna listen this time?”
“Mhmmm!”
The immediate way you agree seems to charm him and he returns his hand between your legs- front facing this time so he can watch the needy expressions on your face.
His hand strokes and rocks between your legs, coaxing your pleasure from you slowly, building you back up to that tight pressure he had you feeling moments ago. His long lithe middle finger slipping further down and filling you sudden and unexpectedly- his ring finger soon joining.
The sensation of being filled while the heel of his palm rocks against your sensitive pearl is almost too much, your bottom lip is red raw from biting back all your needy moans but you don’t waste your energy on feeling ashamed anymore.
Needy little uh..uh..uh’s are slipping from your slacked jaw, accompanying the wet sounds of your own slick arousal as he fills you.
“Look at me baby? Keep that pretty mouth open.” he smirks- giving you a moment before spitting straight into your mouth- the wetness dripping down your chin despite your attempts to swallow it down. Your lips glossy with it in your efforts.
“Messy girl..” he laughs taking his free hand to palm and rub against his aching cock shamelessly over his clothes as he fingers into you.
Your eyes follow the movement greedily and the desperation to be filled- properly filled by him comes over you feral and more than you can take.
“Please Joseph..”
You whine looking at it desperately, you can practically feel it already- every ridge and vein as he’d notch his way inside you- filling you up. Making him feel so good. You’re so close, vision blurring as you beg.
The pleasure drunk look on his face twists.
He takes his hand away completely and you squeal- the sound echoing through the barn- probably out in the fields too. Being dropped from such pleasure when it had just began to peak makes your cunt clench rhythmically into itself- aching.
“Bad girl.” he huffs.
He cups your jaw- the wet scent of your arousal mocking you now so close to your face.
“Greedy girls get nothing.”
He unbuckles your wrists from the restrains leaving you stood sheepish, thighs trembling, eyes burning in frustration and shock.
“No no no wait please I’m sorry!”
In a moment of desperation you clutch his shirt in your sweaty palms. Lip quivering.
Heartbroken he thinks. To not get your own way for once.
Spoilt thing.
He almost feels bad. Giving you a slow kiss on your pouting lips before turning his back and walking out. Leaving you standing at the tack wall right where he found you.
—
authors note: well! here it is, i’ve had this in my drafts for a bit but i decided to just commit. please let me know what you think! (unless its mean lol) bye friends!
iv holding your legs spread open while you lay in his lap while iii fucks you, thinking about them talking about you like a toy while you’re laying there, not even acknowledging you 😈😈
the way i had to sit for a moment with my head in my hands just to think about this and take a deep breath, the same way iv would be whispering in your ear for you to take a deep breath as iii slides into you.
cw: 18 + 𝖒𝖉𝖓𝖎. gn!reader, nipple play, spit play, gagging on fingers, threesome/partner sharing, objectification, reader referred to as a ‘toy’ and ‘fucktoy’.
“Take a deep breath now.” The warmth of iv’s breath fanning across your neck causes goosebumps to erupt and spread across your skin. Your hole twitches against the pressure of iii’s thick, leaky tip pressed against you. The pressure builds as he tries to invade, ready to spread you out around him until he’s sinking deep enough to bottom out.
“Needs to be wetter,” he grunts, tongue swirling around inside his mouth, gathering a ball of saliva, before the lewd act of delivering it down between your thighs to where your bodies meet. A slow string of spit falls from the tip of his tongue, making you gasp and shift your hips on contact. iv’s grip on the backs of your thighs tightens in response, his fingers digging into your plush flesh.
You’re folded in his lap, knees pushed up to your chest, thighs spread and presented like a gift—a perfect little fucktoy for iii to use. Your hole clenches around nothing, empty and needy at the teasing contact of iii’s cock as he spreads his saliva against you, mixing it with your own wetness and the spurt of lube he’d previously added.
That’s the only preparation you’re given before you feel it, the slow, steady press of his cock into you, making you gasp and squeak with the burning stretch. Reaching for him in an attempt to find purchase, your nails rake across his shoulders before dragging down the expanse of his back. Around him, your walls flutter, squeezing and dragging him deeper, and the second he bottoms out inside you, he chokes out a groan.
“How does it feel, hmm?” Behind you, a smirk spreads across iv’s lips as he watches, admiring the pretty sight before him. “Nice and tight?” He presses, and all iii can manage is a grunt that follows the snap of his hips as he draws back just enough to sink into you again.
“So fucking… fuck…” he breathes, the second you squeeze around him. Your walls hug him tight, but the added slickness from his saliva makes it easy for him to drag back, hips snapping forward and driving deeply, repeatedly, the sound of your gasps and whimpers encouraging him.
“Such a pretty little toy,” he sneers, darkened eyes peering up from beneath hooded lids, looking past you to iv over your shoulder. “I think we should make a nice mess of it together, see how much we can fill it.”
“I bet that’s a hole that could handle a lot,” iv remarks, his hard cock pressed against you, twitching. “Making the prettiest sounds, too.”
There’s a low hum of contemplation in his tone, eyes wandering down along your body before he slips a hand from the back of your thigh, traveling over it toward your stomach. His touch causes heat to spread through you, more rapid than the one driven by iii’s cock pounding into you. As his fingers graze higher, to your chest, he pauses to tease at your nipples, pinching and twiddling them between his forefinger and thumb, eliciting more sounds from you.
“Wonder what else this pretty mouth can do,” iv muses, the moment his fingers move higher, teasing at your lips before pushing past them. The pads glide over the surface of your tongue, pressing toward the back of your throat until you gag, drool gathering at either side of the digits invading your mouth. He keeps them there, forcing you to audibly gag and choke around them, a sound that is easily music to both their ears.
You can’t deny the way it drives you into a daze, your eyes rolling back at the simultaneous pressure between your thighs and your mouth, especially when they begin to talk about how they plan to fill you, passing you back and forth like nothing more than a toy, completely at their mercy.
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Contains: family issues, mentions of death, death of a creature, mentions of sex, religious nótt,
A/N: sleep fears me, the action not the God. But the writing must continue, nótt must be stupid.
Enjoy!
Part 1 part 2 part 3
Nótt is all grown up, like her life flashing before your eyes.
She turned 11 a few days ago, a small party with a few of her close friends. (And Jerry)
Even if vessel taught her literature and about Sleep, ii taught her sciences, iii combat, and iv with math. She started going to the village almost everyday to meet her friends.
While she remained relatively shy and timid, around your family and her friends, she was confident and very opinionated.
"Uncle iv, I don't get why don't let me play with Jerry alone outside, nor do you let me bring him inside!" Nótt criticized her uncle's strict rules, though he didn't have a say in them. She was petting her beloved black flamingo, an ostracized one of the flock roaming the garden.
"Dear, you know why we can't leave you alone outside... and ii would have my head if that bird gets his dirty feet anywhere near the manor." Nótt gasped dramatically and covered Jerry's "ears", her own ears pointing downwards.
"You dare speak of him like that, right when he can hear you too!?" She scolded him jokingly, turning on her heel with Jerry still between her arms. "Don't speak to me or my bird ever again!"
iv let out a hearty laugh at her shenanigans, standing up and ruffling her short hair.
"Yeah yeah, come on, your father wants you at the library. More Sleep studies." He led her by the shoulder, having to pry Jerry away from her arms. She still let out a grumble and frowed her brows.
Vessel was at the library, books, scrolls and nótt's notebook set out for her lesson. He stood next to the table, waiting patiently for his daughter.
Out of all subjects, she loved learning about Sleep the most. When he taught her a few prayer phrases, she beamed and spent almost twenty minutes praying before bed.
When he taught her about offerings, she brought her favorite headband, but ofcourse vessel refused and told her anything will do. Not just precious items.
Today he was going to teach her about the nature of this realm, and the beasts that reside in it.
The door opened and when he glanced up, he saw you instead.
"Love." He immediately went to hug you tightly, burying his face in your neck and inhaling your scent.
"Missed you, vessy." You pulled his face back to admire him, the same six eyes you fell in love with. And now raising a life with.
He leaned in and kissed you, his hands grabbing at the fat of your hips gently. Your own hands came to rest at his bare chest, feeling his faint heartbeat underneath the skin.
He broke the kiss and rested his forehead against yours, "do you think I can ask Sleep to give nótt a sibling?" He humored.
"Yeah yeah, as if I can handle another birth now!" You giggled and playfully smacked his arm, he chuckled and put his chin on top of your head, swaying you slightly.
"She's growing up so fast." You frowned as you thought about it, she used to be so tiny, now she's almost taller than you!
"remember when you brought her to the communion a few days after she was born? How she just blankly stared at everyone from your lap, even when they fawned over her?"
Vessel chuckled at the memory, she was very non-expressive when she was a baby, if she wanted to be carried she would just raise her arms like a tyrant making a demand.
"Papa, I'm here!!" Nótt announced loudly, making you two immediately break apart.
She suspiciously eyed you two when she saw how fast you broke apart, but she didn't comment.
"Sweetie, come sit." Nótt came to give you a kiss on the cheek before sitting with her father to start their lesson.
"Remember what we said happened last time?" He started opening a book at a marked page, make sure nótt opened the same page.
"Sleep ascended you here, to worship?"
"Correct!"
At night, the whole family sat at the dinner table, even if only you and nòtt really needed to eat.
"What did Papa teach you today, deer?" iii asked, his arms folded on the table and finished plate set aside. He still didn't want to leave yet.
Nótt seemed upset and confused, picking at her barely touched plate. "Sleep's creatures."
After a moment of silence she spoke again, "papa told me how dangerous and unpredictable they are, which is why you go out and kill them."
She looked up at iii with innocence in her eyes, "is that true uncle iii? Do you kill them?"
An awkward feel fell over the whole room, iii hesitated before responding. "Uh...yes, sweets. I have to, or else they can attack the village, or any of us, or your mother-"
"Well that's stupid, you have me now! They listen to me, you don't have to kill them anymore!" Nótt raised her voice, starting to get emotional over the topic.
"Nótt, you haven't been around one for long enough to know how in control are you, you can't risk it." iii warned, her safety was more important to him than anything, even Sleep Herself.
The only time he ever played with her "safety", was the time you woke up and found both of them in a sugar coma on the kitchen floor.
Before nótt had the chance to argue back, vessel cut her off.
"Nótt, that's enough." He used that stern voice she knows means "no room for argument", "your safety is not negotiable here, Sleep assigned iii to hunt them. If it's not our orders, it's Her order."
Nótt slumped back in her seat, clearly still upset. Noone liked seeing her upset, but there was no way to make her happy about this subject.
You pat her shoulder and kissed her cheek, "atleast finish your food, sweetheart. It's not worth the trouble."
"Okay, mama..." She gave up on arguing, instead going to poke at her food again.
iv and ii didn't want to get involved, they would only make things worse. They always had a soft spot for her, they'd try to agree with her at any point to avoid making her upset. So they kept their mouth shut when it came to Sleep's beasts.
With the unbearably awkward silence that fell over the room, iii grabbed his plate and got up. "I'll Uh...I'll go now. See what Jerry's up to."
At night, the vessels and you kept the goodnight kisses to the minimum, nótt was still upset with everyone and could explode if someone tried getting to friendly with her.
She sat up in her bed, alone. Praying to Sleep, "why? Why must you create creatures for them to kill?" She murmured, her prayer beads held tightly in her hand. "There must be a way to show them, there must be another way." She repeated over and over again.
...
...
An idea.
A stupid one, but an idea nonetheless.
Nótt got up quietly and put on her little shawl on her shoulder, she padded to her window and opened it as quickly as she could.
Her room wasn't too high up, she managed to land in the flamingo's food crates. It didn't smell the best and it got all over her pajamas, but it broke her fall just enough to land with no injury.
She walked through the garden, ignoring ad the flamingos and Jerry tugged at her, clearly warning her that it was a stupid idea.
"Jerry, let go!" She whisper-yelled at Jerry as he grabbed at her shawl, "they need to see this, Jerry!"
She roughly tugged back her shawl and Jerry almost fell over, nótt quickly ran to the forest before the flamingos can catch her again
While you and vessel laid in your bedroom, clueless if your daughter's shenanigans.
Vessel was laying his head on your bare chest as you played with his hair, both of you undressed and sweaty.
"We barely have time for ourselves like this, vessy." You gave him a little kiss on the top of his head, he nuzzled into your chest further and sighed.
"Seriously considering asking for a second child right now." Vessel laughed when you playfully smacked the back of his head.
SLAM!
"PUT ON YOUR CLOTHES, YOUR DAUGHTER RAN AWAY!" iii slammed the door open and yelled, axe swung over his shoulder, Jerry standing next to him honking loudly.
You and vessel jolted up, vessel immediately pulled a blanket over you two.
"Nótt?! Where'd she go!?" You yelped, already getting up to throw on any clothes.
"This fucker broke in and started honking like crazy, I thought she let him in, but her room was empty." Jerry honked again and flapped his wings, looking towards the hallway as if telling you to hurry.
Once you and vessel wore whatever wad infront of you, iii led you back to the garden, ii and iv were already waiting.
"Found traces of flamingo food, she jumped in it and ran to the forest." ii reported his findings, iv nervously tapping his foot next to him.
Before they can say anything else, a loud, inhuman screech emerged from the forest edge.
"Papa!" Nótt's voice followed, cheerfully calling for him. She emerged from between the trees, absolutely covered in filth but happy.
"I told you they listen to me, look!"
A giant amalgamation of arms holding an axe, with spikes surrounding its round ugly face like a clock, it emerged behind nótt, letting out another screech when it saw you.
Nótt saw it about to swing its axe and yelled at it, "NO! Put that down!", though it listen, it screeched again and coward away from her.
"Nótt get away from that thing!" Vessel yelled at her, pushing you to stand behind him.
The creature screeched at him, tightening its grip on the axe as if defending nótt.
"What is it that you don't get?! They can be friendly!!" Nótt yelled back, her shawl swaying as she stepped closer to the creature.
iii couldn't wait any longer to negotiate, he stepped forward and pointed his axe at the creature.
The creature took enough offense in that, it charged at iii.
Nótt screamed for it, trying to run after it, "no no no NO! STOP!", but it didn't listen this time.
iii did what he had to do, a quick slam of the axe in the creature's neck and it collapsed on the ground with a weak scream.
she only stared at the dead corpse on the grass, Bleeding and twitching in its final breath.
Everyone immediately ran to nótt, checking over her and assessing if she had any injuries.
"Nótt! Baby, what were you thinking!?" You scolded while checking over her face, not caring how much filth covered her.
"It didn't listen to me..." She whispered, the realization that she was wrong crashing over her. Her family could've gotten hurt just so she can prove a point.
She sniffed and grabbed onto you, she hugged you tightly and sobbed into your neck. "I'm sorry, mama... I'm so stupid, you could've gotten hurt!"
As she sobbed, everyone paused. They knew they still had to punish her in some way, but seeing her so guilty immediately killed that thought.
Everyone glanced at each other before patting nótt's back or petting her hair.
"Baby, let's get you inside and cleaned up yeah? We'll discuss the punishment later..." nótt nodded and wiped her eyes, holding your hand as you all walked back to the manor.
A quick shower and a pair of pajamas thrown in the laundry later, the whole house settled down again. You told the numerals you and vessel would handle talking to nótt and they can go back to sleep.
ii made sure to clean up after Jerry's dirt footprints from the break in, But he did give the flamingo a little treat for alerting the house of nótt's plans.
In nótt's room, you and vessel sat at the edge as she laid tucked in.
Vessel leaned forward to kiss her forehead, and tugged lightly at her ear. "You could've gotten badly hurt, everyone could've gotten hurt. You understand that, right?"
She winced slightly at the tug and nodded, "m' sorry, papa. I really am."
"You understand a small sorry won't do, this was very dangerous. So we decided..." You stated, and looked at vessel so he can announce the agreed punishment.
Vessel seemed nervous, though he agreed in the punishment, he didn't really like it.
He sighed and spoke up.
"No sleep lessons for a week."
"WHAT?!" nótt shot up from her bed.
"It's what's agreed upon, and this is your mistake to own up to."
She slumped back in her bed and grumbled, you sighed and held your hand up. She grabbed it and you ran your fingers over her knuckles.
"I love you."
"Love you too, mama."
You and vessel gave her a goodnight kiss and left her to sleep.
Once you got back to your room, you and vessel collapsed back in bed. Vessel immediately rolled over to cuddle you, caging you with his large arms and legs to his chest.
"She's stubborn, just like you." You giggled, pressing little kisses to the marks you previously left on his neck.
His six eyes rolled at your comment, he snuck a finger under your shirt and tickled your stomach. You immediately yelped and tried breaking free but he only grabbed you harder.
"Vessel!! Vessel stop I'm gonna pee!!"
"Then I'll lick it all up!"
You couldn't even bring yourself to smack him or say "gross", he tickled your complaints to oblivion.
