i just can't stop thinking about how BAELOR is older than the men you usually date, and the way he'd have you gripping the bedframe as he circles the tip of his tongue across your needy, throbbing, swollen clit.

it would be morning—the sun has barely risen and he's lying in bed, with your clothes thrown carelessly around the vintage frame and his arms circled around your thighs. sunlight, warm and golden, would seep in through the blinds, bleeding across the wooden floor little by little, occupying the space as a clock, somewhere nearby, ticks, and ticks, and ticks.

it had rained the night before: not too violently, not for too long, just hard enough for a faint chill to remain whenever the wind blew in through a set of wooden blinds that were left open half-way. it makes the beams creak and the walls whistle, and it brings a shiver up your spine.

it is, after all, the beginning of summer.

BAELOR’s hands, however, feel hot against your skin. his fingers are splayed along the expanse of your thighs, digits pressing into the plush skin as he circles them in a caress. and his tongue, running along your puffy, glistening folds, feels the warmest of all.

"look at how pretty she is," he murmurs, pointing his words with a lick. "how she throbs and leaks, begging for my touch. tastes so sweet, too. could just—mhm, could just lick her for hours, pretty girl."

he just about has been.

he’d started just as you were waking up, dragging his fingers along your slit under your sleeping shorts, sucking them into his mouth before asking you to ride his face instead. and how were you supposed to refuse?

"no, no," he hums, sucking your clit into his mouth as he pulls you down lower against his face. "i didn't say hover, pretty girl. i said sit."

a moan rips through your lips as his tongue enters your hole, and he circles it around as he revels in the sound. he gulps, savoring your taste, feasting on your slick, whimpering against your skin at the way you begin to move your hips over his head. he sucks around your hole as he kneads at the bottom of your ass, working his lips in tandem with his tongue.

his hands move again, making you gasp, making your teeth sink into your bottom lip the moment he uses them to land a spank just over the place he was kneading. and, as if feeding off of your response, as if growing only from your pleasure, does it again the moment you begin to move faster.

"that's right. mhm, take what you need. yeah, just take what you need," he moans against your skin, moving his face upwards to rest his tongue beneath your throbbing clit. he lays it flat, feeling you move against it, your cunt dripping down his chin.

and there’s a part of him that’s still ashamed. there’s a part of him that still whispers and grumbles in the back of his head, telling him that he’s too old for you, that you deserve better, that you should want better—

you quiet it, moaning over him. he puts it to rest, willing it away if only for a moment, nibbling on your clit as he treads a hand between your folds, collecting moisture with his fingers.

he moves his thumb back, digit dripping with your slick, and circles it, softly, tenderly, along your asshole. he hears you gasp, feels you tremble, and tongues at your clit as he applies more pressure with his finger. the tight, puckered ring of muscle clenches under his digit, and he presses in, and a moan, broken and hoarse, echoes across the room.

yours. or his?

BAELOR laps at your cunt, moving his finger in slow, delicate motions, accompanying your moans with the wet, debauched sounds of his sucking.

“i’m so—BAELOR, i’m—”

“gonna cum, pretty girl?” he groans, moving his finger in deeper, sucking your clit in harder. “soak my face, yeah? gonna do that for me?”

you want to answer. you try to.

but then BAELOR’s tongue flicks along your pearl once more, and you’re weightless, and you’re sinking down, and you’re soaring up. your hands grip the headboard so tight your knuckles begin to hurt, and you’re seeing blue, and pink, and white, and all the colors of the rainbow on the back of your eyelids as you move faster against his face, riding out the bliss.

your orgasm ripples through you in a way that has him all but feeling his, almost succumbing to it, almost coming untouched.

he’s careful when he pulls his finger out of your hole, caressing it once more when it starts to clench at the loss.

his cock rests over his stomach, soft and heavy, bright red and leaking. you lean back, opening your mouth as you spit on your palm, and he groans into your clit. your head is fuzzy with want when you take reach back and him in your hand, hot, throbbing, wet against your palm as you grip on his base.

“can i ride it?”

BAELOR stops. he halts in his movements at your question, his brain trying to make sense of the words as he tastes you on his lips.

“pretty girl, i can’t—”

“i know,” you say, noticing the way he moves his hand back up so they both rest on your hips. “i saw something online, and i want to try—you don’t have to be hard. and i’ll stop if it doesn’t feel good for you, i promise.”

there’s a pause.

seconds trickle by raindrops on his skin, and he feels them drip, drip, drip away as the voice, speaking louder, being meaner, pops back inside his head. you shouldn’t have to settle. he should be able to make you feel good, his cock should be—

“please. i really want to try it.”

and then, there’s that. there’s you, quieting it again, almost as if sensing his shame before he can let it fester. before he can let it burrow.

"alright,” BAELOR says, parting from your cunt so he can speak, breath hot against your tender skin. “try whatever you want, love.”

he presses one last kiss upon your clit, smiling when it throbs, and he knows he would have given in either way. you take in a breath, deep, and stretch your back to move down against his figure.

your fingers map down your descent: kissing his clavicles, feeling the mat of hair on his chest. they trail down his stomach, caressing his belly, following the path set by a graying happy trail.

and then, with your eyes set on his, you let yourself hover over his lap for a brief, fleeting minute. your skin is still buzzing in the aftershocks of your orgasm, charged with electricity, eager for more.

"go on, pretty girl. rub yourself off on my cock. make yourself cum on it again," a pause. he takes in a breath, moving an arm to have it rest under his head.

there is something he doesn't say—he does not need to. it lingers between you, restless, charged, and you lower your cunt onto his cock, your lips glistening with his spit, his cock covered in yours, and feel the head of it come in contact with your clit.

you don't need him to be hard get him off. it feels just as good, just as he is.

"that's it. that's my girl. rub that perfect pussy all the way along my cock. cum on my—fuck, cum on my cock."

it throbs under you, twitching as your clit runs all the way down from the base to his sensitive tip. you move your hips in a slow, circling motion, putting down pressure, and a moan catches in his throat. you move your hips back, rubbing yourself faster against him, and it breaks free.

and there’s no shame in this moment. he doesn’t overthink. he doesn’t let himself stray away from the way your tits move with each and every one of your movements. he doesn’t let himself stray away from the sound of your moans, soft and melodic, loud and violent, each and every one existing as a response to him.

he doesn’t let himself stray away from the way your folds, dripping and puffy, swallow the humiliation whole as they take on his cock.

he is not feeble. he does not fade away.

he watches as another orgasm rips through your body: making you shake, making you shiver, making you rut down against his cock in fast, desperate motions that have him choking on air. you look beautiful like this. otherworldly. he decides to treasure the sight for as long as he lives.

and he cums like that. you’re hunched over, stiff nipples pressing down against his chest, hips still moving down against his cock as he begins to spill. white messy ribbons paint the outside of your cunt, and you don’t stop moving, and he feels like he’s on fire.

your hands find his over the mattress.

a sound is born somewhere along the bottom of his stomach, traveling upwards, ripping past his lips as a breathless moan. he doesn't close his eyes, doesn't dare to miss a moment—just stares at you as he pants.

he looks at you, lost in your pleasure, with your eyes closed and your head laid to rest over his figure. his cock is soft, beating with a pulse, resting between your slit the way a heart would inside a ribcage. he still smells like you. his cum is smeared across the inside of your legs, warm and thick, and his fingers close in around yours, tight and sure.

and bringing these up again because #MyTruth

anyways!