#r1cochet

He's also noticed that since becoming the Torch, it's been a lot easier to get the girl, but a helluvah lot harder to keep her.

And then Johnny met you, and he realized, maybe he just needed a man?

"So, what's your favorite song? Maybe I have it."

"Bésame mucho."

"Oh," Johnny was perfectly prepared to put on a couple of pop or rock songs, then bossa nova into some romantic jazz, and finally, a slow song. You'd just saved him a couple steps. "a classic. Well chosen, babe."

The look you give him, then... either he's just smitten or you're looking at him like you can tell what he's got planned. Oh, really, who could he have fooled with this? A visit to the Fantastic Four tower, a dance in his room? Yeah.

"I mean, I gotta say, aren't you keeping up with the times? Classics are great, but the new stuff is even better." Johnny insults you with a pretty smile on his face, hand extended for you to take. You can't be mad at him, not when he's the hottest man in the world.

"Maybe you should show me." You take his hand, pull him close. The line of Johnny's teeth breaks with a small gasp, but the smile returns eventually, wider than before.

"I should." He agrees, pressing himself close to you, hand on your shoulder.

Johnny's usually great, but it seems like he can do nothing but sway, because he really wants to kiss you right now. What's stopping him? He doesn't really know.

It's gotta be this tension, looking into each other's eyes like this, the way it looks like you have to physically tear your gaze away from his lips. It's how warm your touch is and how easy it is to just look at you.

But then you spin him around. His cheeks flush red and warm, and it's not because of his fire, it's because you wrap your arms around him, pull him against your chest, and spin him around just like the spinning of the record.

Maybe he just needed a man to twirl him around and hold him.

Yeah, hold him.

"Oh my god." Johnny groans into the pillows, hot and wet and sodden with his own drool—yeah, holding is definitely what you're doing to him.

Johnny feels like he's lost all his senses. All he can hear is the drum of his heart in his ears, and all he can feel is the exhilarating pleasure of your cock mixing up his insides, so really, who can blame him for not paying attention?

"Fuck," It's explicit, that sound of your pelvis slapping against his ass that he can't even hear. No, he can only feel it, and it feels fucking amazing. "fuck," The way you fuck into him, the way your cock feels dragging along the walls of his ass. "fuck!"

His eyes roll back, and well, you can't see it, but you can see that he's already lost.

Men are different from women, Johnny has learned in his relationship with you. He could list off all of the ways, but let's go with the ones Johnny is learning now:

1. The sheer size of you. He has to make space for you between his legs, stretch his hips wider and to their limit—until you wrap them around your own hips, and fuck, the feeling of encasing you between his legs is so intimate. Oh, and that fucking cock. He can't leave it out. Looking at it is different from having it inside of him, because inside of him it creates pleasure, stretching his hole wider than he's ever had before.

2. Your strength. You push him up the mattress and up the pillows with each thrust, it's actually insane. He's done this to girls, he realizes, but he's never been on the receiving end. Knowing you're doing this, that you could do worse (or better) like lifting him up and fucking him in the air just feeds him.

3. The size of you, rehash. Now you've got your hand on his chest, and it feels like it dwarfs him. You've strength enough to restrain yourself and pause in your fucking him to slide your big warm hand up his collarbone, up his neck, and to his jaw to kiss him. It's sloppy, but he doesn't mind.

4. Two sources of pleasure. He supposes this could be accomplished with a toy, but this is like, 100x better. You've got your hand around his dick while yours slides in and out of him, between thrust your hand works him up—those two things together double the sharp, pleasure feeling in his nerves and give him no reprieve to even breathe. It must be making him a little delirious, but oh, you're doing all the work right now, so does it really matter?

Lucky number 5... you're fucking his brains out, he can't think of one.

"Oh my god!" Johnny shouts for the umpteenth time, no matter which way he turns his head, he's got spit all over the pillow case.

Johnny spurts into your hand and his own stomach when he finishes. Yours follows soon after, though you spill it like a gentleman on the sheets beside him.

Johnny doesn't have to learn, because he's not stupid, that you could've finished inside or on his body. That much is applicable between sexes. It's just such a shame that you opted for neither.

"Baby." That pet name makes him "wake up". His eyes snap open, though they are still lazy, to look at you. You look like an angel—his angel.

You slide down over him and kiss him, and Johnny remembers this isn't the battle of the sexes. This is you, his boyfriend, the person who just treated him to the best sex he's ever had.

"Growing up?" Valarr huffs out a breath as he thinks about it. "My dad traveled far too much for the racing. That was horrid, of course, until I started traveling too for karting. Driving families start them off young! Suppose you might expect pressure from that, but my father, and current Team Principal, put no pressure on me at all."

"Did you look up to him?"

"Of course. Every son looks up to their father. If you put it that way, I guess that's why I got into karting in the first place. I wanted to be just like my dad, for sure, but I also grew to really like racing." He laughs as he thinks of his next words, "Forgive my Targaryen, but it feels like flying on a dragon. I'm sure my cousin Aerion would agree."

"Is there any competition or tension between you two at family gatherings? Between Targaryen Dragonstone and Summerhall?"

"No, not at all." Valarr says first... then he winces as he thinks about it. "Well, just some antagonizing from Aerion—but between my father and my uncle, there's no competition at all!"

"Do you think you're going to involve your own kids in motorsports?"

Valarr uncharacteristically pauses. He hums and even twiddles his thumbs for a little while, and it's not like he's just thinking, he's staring straight at the interviewer out of frame. "My opinion?"

"Your opinion."

He sighs, then smiles, as if the interviewer's asked him a much more difficult question than it actually is. "Motorsports is great, but it can be stressful. I'd like to think with the long Targaryen line of drivers that driving is a genetic talent of ours, so I'll definitely introduce my kids... but if they don't like it, then they don't like it. I won't push."

"You've said before that you're open to adoption—what happens if your kid doesn't have that genetic talent and wants to keep driving?"

Fans, of course, found the question baffling. Who would ask about adoption? They scoured the internet, too, for any traces of Valarr stating any sort of opinion on adoption and found nothing.

What's most weird is that Valarr makes no comment on how the interviewer might know his opinion. "Training," He begins, "is the most important part of the sport. I'm not perfect, my father wasn't perfect, my relatives aren't either. We've all trained. Genetics isn't how we win, it's just a foundation. My kid, if adopted, might have a harder journey, but I'd be there every step of the way."

"When does racing end for you?"

"Damn. Can I get a skip on that one?"

Damn? Valarr is always professional. He'd never come close to swearing on an interview, not even accidentally. And he'd always reply with a more professional answer when evading, like, "no comment".

"Sure. How about, do you ever see yourself taking over Targaryen Team Principal from your father?"

"Oh, absolutely. Before my dad became team principal, his former racer father before him, my grandfather, was team principal too. Besides... the nepotism, you know, it's a family tradition. I'd love it if one day that hypothetical race driver son of mine and I could travel the globe together, doing our best at races."

"Doing your best? You're championship leader currently!"

Valarr chuckles, head tilted just slightly, "What's the question there?"

"Sorry. No question, just a compliment. You're too humble, Mr. Targaryen."

The driver shakes his head, proving the interviewer's compliment right. "Humble is how I was raised. Thank my father for that one."

"And thank you for answering all our questions. We're wrapping it up here. Thanks again, Va–" The short video cuts off there.

"They were totally flirting." You read monotone from the comments, flipping through them with an expression of disbelief.

"I thought you were an interviewer. Read your lines better." Valarr pokes at you, both literally and figuratively. He jokes while also prodding your ticklish waist with his nose as he nuzzles closer than possible.

"Sorry, my Prince." You reply dramatically, digging your free hand into his hair. Valarr sighs contently. "Listen to this one: You guys are weirdos. They were NOT flirting."

You weren't flirting. It was just the natural chemistry! It's why you're dating in the first place.

Dangerous move, dating a journalist, but being a race driver is even more dangerous. Valarr knows how to play the risk game. "Read more."

"You think Valarr was just secretly buzzed?" You read in the most chud voice you can muster.

"Offensive." He comments. "I would never."

"Shit."

"What?"

You've been found. Someone paused the video when it was just about to end, when you reached out for a handshake and came into frame for the first and only time. They tracked down your instagram from your side profile and used one of your hand holding stories from your "bae" highlight reel to compare the ring stack from the story to the ring stack that Valarr has been seen wearing before—and the only ring missing in your story was the Targaryen signet ring.

Imagine taming him that way, training him to take your cock and only yours, as his rightful Lord Husband.

Imagine letting him have his way to the court, appearing as the stronger one or the commanding one, all while knowing he'll just come crawling back to your bed at the end of the day.