Do You Ever Wonder If Jace And Luke Wouldve Ended Up More Fucked Up If Rhaenyra Kept The Family In Kings

do you ever wonder if jace and luke would’ve ended up more fucked up if rhaenyra kept the family in kings landing after driftmark? jace was already following aegons lead in bullying aemond. would that have continued? would aemond and luke have a different outcome or would all roads lead to the same end?

“you look so much like your mother in certain lights”

John Price x f!Reader - Daddy kink, age gap, corruption kink

John Price who’s convinced his best friend’s daughter is flirting with him :/

John wasn’t born yesterday. He sees the way you look at him, like you’re some young, dumb thing desperate for an older man to show you how it’s done. But you’re much too naïve to realize the mistake you’ve made inviting him into your bedroom.

The neighborhood barbecue seemed like a good enough place for you to dip your feet into the water, to test his patience and fish for some sort of reaction.

Your eyes linger on his hands when he uncorks a bottle of wine.

Your pulse races when he spreads his legs wider so that your knees touch under the table.

Your fingers fidget when you notice the bulge at the front of his jeans, desperate for something you couldn’t even put into words.

Lucky for you, you won’t have to.

He’d slip his fingers under the hem of your skirt before you’d even think of begging him to do it. He’d just pull the fabric of your panties to the side and expose you right then and there, deft fingers sticky with the slick that’s been leaking from your neglected pussy since the minute he walked in.

All the while, he holds a conversation with your father across the table. Deflowering his best friend’s only daughter with one hand, while he smokes a cigar with the other.

“J-John, I—“ you’d stutter, trying to keep up appearances.

“What? Need me to get ‘ya something, sweetheart?” He’d drawl, quirking his fingers against that one precious spot just so that he can watch the way you jump in your seat.

“I—I need…” you’d flush, sweating, “I need…more.”

John, well, he just smiles, pulling your panties back over your cunt, patting your covered pussy a few times before he stands from his chair.

“More to drink?” He lies, walking towards the house, “‘Course, darling. Thought I saw an extra pitcher back in the fridge…”

Your father’s so busy keeping up with his friends that he hardly notices when you leave a few minutes later. With all the commotion out in the garden, there’s no one in the house to eavesdrop…

Well, that, or see the way that John bends you over the counter in the kitchen, yanking your panties down around your knees just so he can get himself inside your sweet pussy all the faster.

“Fuck, love,” he grunts, wrenching a handful of your hair, “Keep moaning like that, ‘n your father’ll kick me out before we get to finish…”

The slapping of his hips echoes throughout the room, belt buckle jingling where it hangs from his belt loops.

“Mm—No, John—“ you squeal, standing on your tippy toes just to push your ass back up against him all the harder, “Daddy doesn’t know. He—he can’t know…”

“Mm—Fuck, but he will, baby,” John growls, “He fucking will.”

His chest flattens over your back, cock pulsing inside of you when you fall over the edge of another orgasm.

“‘Cause when I’m done with you,” the bristles of his beard tickle your ear as he whispers, “You won’t be callin’ him daddy no more. No.”

His hips push into you hard enough you swear you’ll be left with bruises when he finally fills you up…

“That’s what you’ll be callin’ me.”

the most embarrassing part about being a virgin smut writer is that those tiktoks of pussy eating/cock sucking tips and tricks have me taking notes. not to use irl because HA nobody's touching me any time soon are you kidding. but to make sure sex havers think I know what I'm talking about when writing my fictional character porn

me after hearing Lewis Pullman say “spit it out” in The Starling Girl:

Part 2 of mean ghost

Content: Simon being mean (again), non-con touching (not sexual), established kidnapping

You do this thing when you think you’re alone. Stretch out nice and slow - back arched, arms up, head back. You make a little noise in the back of your throat and then sigh nice and long as you relax. Sometimes even catch a yawn, rubbing at your eyes to fight off a wave of sleepiness.

You do it after waking from naps, cleaning, showering, even just sitting still for too long. If he interrupts - or you think he’s going to - you shrink down again, take up as little space as possible and try to work through your limbs one by one. Try to remain unnoticed, unobtrusive.

His stealth has never been so handy.

The most tempting is when you’re on the couch. You’ll lie on your stomach and stretch, ass tilting up like an offering. Then you’ll flop out all limp and satisfied, arms folded under your head, ankles crossed prim and proper. He wants to sink his teeth into the plush fat of your thigh.

“Wh-hey!”

You squirm; Simon’s having none of it, pins you with a harsh hand on the back of your neck. You yelp in surprise and discomfort, going still only because you have to. Unhindered, he continues to yank your joggers down over your ass, peels them to mid-thigh.

No bite marks.

“Fuckin’ mutt,” he grumbles to himself. “Doesn’t know how to play with you right.”

You make a high-pitched, distressed sound, hips shifting uneasily.

“Hush up,” he tells you absently.

You whine again, quieter this time, hands balling up into tight little fists by your head. He stares at the bare skin of your thighs, smooth and unmarked. Is sorely tempted to touch. Bruise. Bite.

Yanks your pants back up again instead and lets you go.

You scramble to the far side of the couch, curl up with your knees to your chest. Stare at him with big wet eyes.

“Wh-what…?” you breathe. “Why?”

He tilts his head. Your hair is all mussed up now, cheeks flushing with color and paling at intervals. Body not knowing how to react.

“I-I was just… sitting there,” you say like you’re trying to rationalize it to yourself.

“Because I wanted to,” he replies. That’s really all the explanation you need.

You sniffle a bit, blinking rapidly. Lashes already wet and sticking together with unshed tears. The light glitters in them.

“Was that scary?” he asks, taunting.

You sniffle again and don’t answer, pressing your lips together to keep them from trembling.

He rises onto the couch, still maintaining the distance you made. Stares as your eyes drop to your fidgety fingers, twisting and rubbing together to self-soothe. Keeps staring as you wrestle your breathing under control. Tuck your elbows into your side, compact. All set to hunker down until the predator loses interest.

“C’mere.”

Your head snaps up, breath hitching.

“M-me?”

“Who the fuck else?”

You lick your lips nervously, uncoiling a bit in a bid to buy yourself time.

“Y-you want me… over… there?” you say it like translating an unfamiliar language.

“Told you to c’mere didn’t I?” he rumbles. “And what’d I say ‘bout repeatin’ myself?”

“S-sorry,” you say, hands up as if in surrender. “Just… I just wanted to make sure I understood.”

“Thought I made myself pretty fuckin’ clear.”

Your silence and darting gaze disagree; he gives you a pass only because you scoot a bit closer. Within arms reach again. His hands twitch on his thighs. Your eyes dart down to the movement instantly, so hyperaware.

He flips his hand, curls a finger, beckoning you closer.

Your expression twitches, a complex amalgamation of the stages of grief. Then swallow and inch just a bit closer, as much as you seem able to stand. The tiniest sliver of heated air separates your bodies now, yours angled towards his with his weight on the cushion.

Fidgety hands again, and biting at your lip. About to shake out of your skin.

“What do you call me?” he asks.

You blink, head popping back a bit in genuine surprise. “Um… could you — what do you mean…?”

He narrows his eyes a bit, parsing your expression. If it were Johnny, he could make the biggest, saddest, wettest eyes in the world and Simon would know he’s being a fucking brat. Asking questions just to poke holes in his paper thin patience.

You, however, seem to be asking out of an abundance of caution. A desire to please him on the first try rather than risk failing at all.

“If you needed my attention,” he says slowly, watching a nonverbal I-would-never cross your pretty, vulnerable face, “how would you call for me?”

You tilt your chin down a bit. Tongue and teeth for weights and measures.

“I-I’d say ‘excuse me’,” you begin slowly. “Or, um, I guess if… if I was in another room…”

A longer pause this time. Long enough that he’s about to bark at you to spit it out.

“Mister lieutenant Ghost… sir…?”

He stares for a second. Feels the corners of his mouth twitching beneath the mask.

Makes his voice deep as he growls, “You call me sir or mister. Nothing more nothing less. Understand?”

You nod quickly. “Mhm.”

He narrows his eyes. You blink in return, notice he’s expecting something. Fidget again.

“Um, th-thank you,” you offer.

He huffs. Christ, what’s Johnny been fucking doing with you all this time? So polite and quick to learn, you just don’t know your manners yet. Haven’t been taught.

“Thank you, what?” he prompts.

“Oh,” you say as it clicks. “Thank you… sir?”

“You’re not sure if you’re grateful now?” he tsks.

“No!” you put your hands out quickly, trying to placate - still so, so careful not to touch. “I-I mean yes… um, yes sir. I… uh, thank you, sir.”

He considers you. Waits until you swallow thickly, leaning away as far as you can without scooting away again. Get that pretty gleam of tears again.

Clicks his tongue. “Off you go, then.”

You don’t ask where, just dart off the couch.

“We’ll work on it.”

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