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RIGHT WHERE YOU LEFT ME

a/n: i don't have any other explanation than he smiled when the gun was to his forehead and the rest is history. i have a thing for sad unhinged men. and apparently seeing deadpool and wolverine was the stepping off point for a new fixation. so enjoy my mindless rambling and possible borderline obsession.

summary: logan was familiar with death. he understood why it happened, what could cause it to occur, and finally how to accept it. so when his family - the people he cared for most - died...he thought he could handle it. only you didn't die. you left. now he's found himself in a new universe with a person who wears your face, yet doesn't hold your memories.

pairing: logan howlett/wolverine x f!reader

each chapter has it's own warnings, but the story is 18+ only!!

INSPO TAG | PLAYLIST

MAIN STORY

➛ in dreams we rest

➛ lost in time and space

➛ bridge over troubled water

➛ felled by you {COMING SEPTEMBER 1ST}

➛ angel of small death {COMING SOON}

➛ time can never mend {COMING SOON}

➛ beneath the stains of time

➛ TBA

EXTRAS

➛ earth 1400

WADE'S WORLD

➛ let's discuss

➛ #wade's world

snoopys! by fruitillu

this is so gorgeously written!!!

✶ ┄ DIVINE MADNESS !

summary: you were aegon's long before you were aemond's, and the king takes great pleasure in reminding his brother of that – especially when he's drunk. aemond, however, finally decides to remind you and his eldest brother who you belong to now. (8.4k)

pairing: aemond targaryen / f!reader / aegon targaryen

contents: established relationship, enemies to lovers, arranged marriage, jealousy, aegon's a little shit, cw for cheating? sorta?, swearing, mentions of gore smut 18+, rough sex, dubcon-ish because r needs convincing, degradation, exhibitionism (reader) & voyeurism (aegon)

Aemond Targaryen was not easily conquered.

He was born with an inherited sort of anger that followed him well into adulthood. As the unloveable boy grew into an unloveable man, he learned the world in only its most violent terms. The greatest swordsman he ever knew taught him as much. The soft get eaten, said the man who would soon become The Kingmaker, as he pressed his boot to the center of the fallen boy’s chest. 

The words have since scorched a hole into his memory. The remains of them sit like ashes on his tongue.

Aemond didn’t learn of love until it was too late. Until he could only imagine it, like the rest of the world, from a most violent point of view. 

When a royal hunt was held to celebrate his betrothal to you, he felt it was rather fitting. He followed the armored soldiers as they stalked a perfect stag all afternoon, only to find it again at sundown in a bloodied and mangled mess. He watched with his one good eye as a towering bear ravaged the dying deer. He understood quickly that he was seeing love for the very first time that golden hour. 

As the bear ripped the throat of the stag and licked affectionately at the pulsing wound, Aemond wondered aloud, “Is that what marriage is meant to be?”  

You stood beside him in the center of the Kingswood in a pretty dress made of pink tulle and delicate flowers — neither put off by the vicious sight nor his vicious words. “Which one of us is which?” you mused instead, as the bear’s fur matted with blood.

Aemond pondered the question for several long moments. “I’m not sure,”  he answered honestly and without looking at you once. “But I assume we’ll know in time.” 

He realizes now, after many moons gone, that he never found an answer to your question. Who was the deer between you, and who was the bear? Which one of you was bleeding out, and who was the one picking flesh from their teeth? 

Aemond ponders the question now from the center of his marriage bed, where he lies naked over silk sheets. His hair spreads across the pillow in a silver halo around his head — the pin-straight strands set aglow by flickering candlelight. 

His pale body is pressed between your bare one and the mattress as you roll your hips over his lap. There is no real rhythm to your movements, which seem to be guided only by your building pleasure. Your nails bite crescent shapes into his chest like you intend to break through the skin there — to rip his heart from behind his ribcage and crush the beating organ in your fist.

Your skin is lithe and plush and delicate like a flower’s. You leak honey for him, too, which drips warm on his thighs and glimmers in the coarse thatch of hair above his cock. You’re a heavenly thing on top of him — a fact so undeniable that not even Aemond himself can turn away from it.

Your resemblance to that bear, from that day in the Kingswood, is equally as indisputable. 

You do not fuck him for his pleasure but for your own. You open him up to ravage him. To eat. And you leave claw marks on his skin to remind him of the damage you’ve done. 

Aemond does nothing but let himself be slaughtered by you. He yearns for it — for your teeth in his flesh, for the sight of his blood staining your mouth.

The Kingmaker always said that love makes you soft and that the soft get eaten, but god, Aemond has never felt more brutal.

“Are you close?” he wonders in a monotone that shatters the heavy silence, which has so far been filled only by your breathy whimpers. He already knows the answer to his question. Your body tells him without words as your velvety cunt flutters around him.

Aemond feigns an air of disinterest, anyway, just as he always has. 

He tilts his strong jaw upward to pretend he’s looking down at you and digs his lanky fingers into your bare thighs to pretend he’s ripping flesh from bone. Because he is not the weak and mangled stag, but a thing built for death. A thing that bleeds out joyously. A creature not worth loving.

A loyal hound that would bleed for you if you loved him right.

It explains why he let you mount him for the very first time, despite the queer nature of the position. The Maester always said it was best for him to be on top, so that his seed may have an easier time penetrating you — so that he’d produce an heir swiftly and no longer have to touch you. But Aemond lets you ride him with your own selfish intent because that’s what dogs do.

Dogs are loyal. Dogs don’t ask questions. Dogs are happy to be owned.

You nod wordlessly at his question with your eyes squeezed shut and your mouth wide open. Your nails dig further into his skin as the coil in the pit of your stomach tightens. The bed creaks in time with your enthusiastic thrusts, hitting the wall each time your hips roll forward — like a symphony of your desperation to cum.

“Say it,” Aemond commands quietly, to feel like he’s the one in charge despite being caged underneath you. To pretend that he’s the bear devouring you and not the other way around.

“I’m close, Aemond,” you obey in a breathy moan.

The sound of his name on your lips makes his cock twitch in the pulsing confines of your drooling cunt. He wonders briefly if you felt it, and his chest pinches with embarrassment. It’s hard to pretend he doesn’t want you when his body so hastily betrays him. 

“Go on, then,” he orders indifferently.

Despite his apathy — or perhaps because of it — your orgasm rattles very suddenly through your body. 

A whimper squeaks in the back of your throat as you tense over his lap. Your hips still as your pussy gushes around him. You work yourself through your high with little help from the boy beneath you, rubbing at your swollen clit to milk the remains of your pleasure. 

You sigh after a few breathless moments. Your trembling thighs gradually relax on either side of his hips. Your grinds resume, slower this time and with much more rhythm than before. When you grow too sensitive to be touched, you remove your hand from your pussy and smooth your palms over the crescent indents left unknowingly on Aemond’s chest. You feel his heart thrumming beneath your touch.

You toss your head back to smile deliriously at the ceiling. “Seven fucking Hells…” you whisper to yourself.

“You’re in rare form today, aren’t you?” Aemond observes in a detached tone of voice. “The Maester said you would be. Said the days after your bleeding made you more… spirited.”

He tucks his hands behind his head and only then notices the marks his fingers left behind. Small indents from his dull nails beneath blooming marks from his fingertips. It looks like it would hurt someone as delicate as you, but you don’t seem to mind. You seem to enjoy them, actually — which he thinks only proves his point.

You scoff a breathless laugh and drop your chin to peer down at him. Something mischievous flickers like a flame in your heavily lidded eyes. 

“You’re talking about my sexual appetite to The Maester?” you wonder aloud, scraping your nails over his unblemished chest — tainted only by the reddened marks you left behind. With his hands behind his head, Aemond’s lean torso is pulled taut. Your lips ache to trail kisses down the length of his milky skin, as smooth as white quartz.

“Of course I am. I’ve got to fuck a child into you sometime, don’t I?” Aemond answers, shrugging like it’s obvious. A smirk hints at the corner of his thin lips as he blinks up at you.  “Especially if I intend to make you queen…”

The sapphire gem in his right eye glitters in the low light as he rises from the mattress. He presses his heartbeat against yours, smothering your pillowy breasts with his slender body. 

You wrap your arms around his neck and roll your eyes at his insistence — of which he’s maintained since your engagement. You thought he’d get over the false fantasy with age, but his thoughts of sitting the Iron Throne have only seemed to mature alongside him. 

“I have no wish to be queen, Aemond,” you confess quietly, peering at him beneath your lashes. The look you give him is bone-crushingly sincere as you swipe your thumb over the marred skin beneath his severed eye. “I don’t want all of Westeros… I just want you.”

Something in Aemond’s chest threatens to warm.

He refuses to let it.

He knows that isn’t the truth. Not completely, anyway. 

You don’t want him the way you want his brother — the way you’ve always wanted his brother. Aegon was a drunken fool and a middling ruler, but he had always been good to you. The two of you fell in love well before you understood what the word meant. You only loved Aemond because it was your duty to, as his wife. The title was not of your choosing, either.

You did not want Aemond — not then, and maybe not ever — but you were cold and you were lonely, and Aemond was a dragon, and a fire was a fire. It was not fate that drew you to him, but convenience. 

But Aemond lets you kiss him anyway because somewhere down the line, he forgot he possessed the blood of the dragon. He became your loyal dog instead, watching you dangle the leash of his longing in a limp hand, growing hungry as he waited obediently for something that would never come back.

As you lick hungrily into his mouth — making his softening cock twitch with a newfound ache inside you — your bedroom door swingssuddenly (and very forcibly) open. The heavy wooden panel drones in protest before it slams hard against the cobbled wall. 

Neither of you is particularly startled by the sudden entrance. You both know who it is without having to look. The notion makes you part from each other with annoyed huffs. 

A fit of boyish laughter and a very strong scent of ale follows Aegon Targaryen as he saunters into your bedroom. His dark green robe flows behind him, unbuttoned to reveal his undershirt and baggy sleep pants. 

He doesn’t bother to shut the door behind him, and Criston Cole, standing guard at your door, blinks wildly into the amber-lit room. He momentarily forgets himself at the sight of your and Aemond’s entwined bodies. His armor clunks heavily as he rushes inside with an averted gaze. He doesn’t say a word before shutting it behind him.

“We’re busy, Aegon,” you huff, scolding the drunken king as though he were a child. 

You don’t bother to cover your bare form or dismount Aemond’s lap as you glare at the silver-haired boy over your shoulder. There is a very obvious familiarity between you and Aegon — so palpable that Aemond feels it even now, with his cock still piercing you.

“Oh, trust me. I noticed,” Aegon says, chuckling to himself as he attempts to pour a glass of wine with fumbling hands. 

The jewel-encrusted chalices clang together and fall heavily to the table when he reaches for them. The wine sloshes over the pitcher and splashes in fat droplets onto the cloth as he makes several attempts to pour himself a cup. To anyone else, it would be a clear sign to practice temperance, but Aegon has only ever known indulgence.

His white hair swishes around his shoulders when he turns to face you, grimacing briefly when wine splatters to his feet. “Please don’t tell me my brother always makes you do the work, Dove,” he pouts playfully into his goblet before taking a hearty sip.

You open your mouth to protest, but Aemond beats you to the punch.

“When she begs for it, yes,” he answers plainly and without an ounce of hesitation. 

The youngest boy sighs through his nose and leans away from you to rest his weight on his hands. You flash him a hardened glare in response, which he meets with a stoic look of apathy — you can’t get anything more out of him when his brother’s around.

“Isn’t it a divine thing?” Aegon slurs unknowingly, tripping over his feet as he staggers towards the bed. “To see her so desperate for your cock she’s practically salivating for it?”

A pink smile sits lazy and lopsided on his mouth before he stumbles again, catching himself on the bedframe with a pale, ringed hand. He laughs loudly then — at himself or perhaps at his words — but your face flares with embarrassment anyway. Both for the drunken king and for yourself.

You slide off of Aemond with a huff. The mattress dips softly as you sit beside him. His softening cock falls heavily to his hip, shining in the low light with your cum. You try to ignore the suddenly empty feeling as you drag the scarlet blanket over your naked bodies. 

“I don’t much appreciate being talked about like I’m not here,” you gripe with the sheets balled up at your chest — gripping at straws (or silk, rather) for an ounce of privacy, as if Aegon hasn’t already memorized every corner of your body and mind.

He had no choice but to commit every inch of you to memory after you were sold to his brother like cattle. He thought he’d get to keep you when he became king — that he’d have a wife to bear his children and you to warm his bed. He was very boyishly heartbroken when he’d heard of your engagement.

“I can’t just be your whore for the rest of my life,” you’d giggled the night after the royal hunt, drawing indistinct shapes on his bare chest with the tip of your finger. 

Aegon shrugged a bare shoulder and jutted his kissed lips.“Well, you wouldn’t be my whore.”  

“Oh, really?” you grinned.

“Of course not! You’d be my paramour!” he insisted bluntly, hugging your naked body closer with a pale arm around your shoulder, trying to ignore how perfectly you fit against him. He smiled wildly at you, and his light eyes sparkled with a post-orgasmic bliss. “What more could you possibly want?”  he asked you, only partly joking.

Aegon never imagined, then, that he’d be where he is now. A king. A father. A drunk. A heartbroken fool standing at the foot of his brother’s marriage bed, trying to remember how it felt to be noticed by you. 

“Surely, you’re used to being disregarded— as my brother’s bride and all,” Aegon jokes in muddled slurs. He cups a hand over his mouth and whispers loudly to Aemond, “You’re not very attentive in bed, I’ve heard.”

The orange embers simmering in your chest burst into red-hot flames behind your ribcage. A wildfire swims in your irises. Smoke billows from your nose. The inferno sets your skin ablaze. You can’t help but wear your emotion all over your face — or wear your heart on your sleeve, as it were.

Aemond has always been the opposite. 

He’s stoic. Calculated. Taciturn. He rarely lets the facade slip, and now is not one of those times. Not a muscle in his face flickers as the candlelight dances over his sharpened features, glittering in his sapphire eye. You can feel the heat of his own controlled wildfire radiating from his pale skin as he seethes. 

Aegon can feel it, too, it seems, as he giggles boyishly to himself.

“I told you that in confidence,” you say in a steady voice, as soft and as stoic as any princess is allowed to be. “As a friend.”

The word sounds as sweet as honey as it spills from your pretty mouth — like a saccharine venom. Aegon feels the sting of it in his chest, only slightly dulled from the sparkling wine. He clutches at his bleeding heart and flinches playfully backward.

“Ouch… Friend,” Aegon echoes in a slurred drawl before a smile tugs slow on his lips. The rosy expression sits crooked on his mouth as he leans over the bedframe to be nearer to you. “Tell me, Dove. Was I just a friend when you were begging for my tongue after the feast? When you were pleading for me to let you cum like only I can?”

Your soft features harden in Aegon’s direction as the boy’s pale eyes meet Aemond’s, who remains silent and simmering at your side. “Her words, brother,” the king amends, faux-sympathetically. “Not mine.”

Aemond knows his brother well enough to know when the halfwit’s baiting for a response. He’s hardly ever subtle about it — or about anything, for that matter. He wants the fight because he wants the attention. Your attention. And who is he to deny the king of want he so desperately wants?

The bed squeaks under his weight as he rises from the mattress. His feet pad along the floor as he stalks wordlessly across the room. The moonlight spills in rays from the stained glass window and bathes his bare body in glittering shades of silver. He searches very obviously for something, but what, you can’t be sure.

“You talk very proudly, your grace— for someone who could hardly pleasure me that night,” you scoff bitterly, lip snarled in a smirk as you look him up and down. “You were too drunk, if I recall. Too sloppy. Just like you are now.”

Aegon’s smile widens, as though he were pleased by such a cynical response from such a pristine girl. Despite his drunken state, his ringed hand is oddly steady when it reaches out for you. He smooths his palm over the downy silk blanket you clutch to your naked body and runs his thumb over the inside of your knee.

“Perhaps I could make it up to you, then,” he offers in a low and honeyed tone, the exact color of the candlelight he’s bathed in. “If my brother will be so kind as to permit it—”

Aemond reappears from the darkened edges of the bedroom then, still blissfully bare but carrying a sword in his hand. 

The long blade glimmers in the moonlight when he presses it to the side of Aegon’s neck. The freshly sharpened edge idles at the king’s pulse point — one sudden movement to the left would leave him as bloodied and mangled as that deer Aemond can’t seem to get out of his head.

Your heart lurches into your throat at the sight. You gape at the treasonous act before you, wide-eyed and breathless and waiting.

Aegon’s reaction is perhaps slightly delayed by the alcohol. He forgets to be frightened by the blade stinging his skin when he stands to full height again. His pink lips turn softly downward as he gazes at the steel with heavy eyes. 

He blinks once, then shrugs, “Well… Get on with it, then.” 

You can’t be sure if he’s calling his brother’s bluff or if he’s really that big of an idiot. When he lifts his hand to take another hearty swig of grape wine, you figure it must be a bit of both.

“It’s time for bed, Aegon,” Aemond quips in a condescending monotone. He counsels the king as if he were a child, yet holds a sword to his neck as though he were a sheep to slaughter. “His Grace is obviously very tired.”

Aegon’s jaw clenches, hard enough to shift his temples. 

For the first time since he made himself at home in your bedroom, the meaningless masquerade slips. Aegon has perhaps only two weaknesses — two scars that will surely bleed out if prodded: you and being treated like a child. 

He’s coddled enough by his mother and his grandsire, who seem so unintimidated by his authority that they rush to rule over him instead. No one in court ever took him seriously. Only you, perhaps. 

“You’ve got the temperament of a court jester, Aegon,” you told him once, painfully honest, but smiling as you cupped his teary face in your hands. “But you are kind. Maybe the kindest to ever seat the Iron Throne. And that’s what makes a good king.”

Aegon swallows hard, then fakes another smile as he gestures to you with his chalice. “But the princess has yet to answer my question, dear brother. I’ll let her bid my leave, if you don’t mind—”

“Do it, Aemond,” you command sharply into the honey-lit room. 

You sit like a painting in the center of an unmade bed, naked but dripping in silk, with your features still softened from an earlier orgasm. Despite your petaled softness, a harsher venom spits from your lips.

There’s a brief flicker in Aegon’s eyes, though perhaps it’s only the candlelight. 

His smile ebbs a moment later, and his contrite is unmistakable then. His face floods with a quiet sort of concern, as though he were actually worried that his throat would be slit before you — or worse, that you wouldn’t even cry for him if it were.

He’s quick to cover his momentary woe as he turns on the heel of his boot to face his brother, the opposite way of where his longsword sits in wait against his pulse. 

“Tell me, brother— Have you ever fucked her like a hound?” he blurts with a lopsided smile and a mischievous squint. “Have you ever pinned her to the bed and just— made a proper whore out of her?”

Aegon’s boyish giggling fills the room, still mostly quiet, save for the crackling of candle wicks and the summer wind rushing through a partially cracked window.

Aemond’s face doesn’t waver. His sharp features are set in stone, neither scowling nor smiling, but a sinister in-between thing. “You’d do well not to call my wife a whore, brother. Especially with my sword to your neck. ’Tis not very wise.”

“You haven’t, have you?” Aegon laughs, so hard he clutches his stomach to keep from doubling over. “Well, it’s no wonder you can’t make her cum! She goes wild for it, brother. Truly. She does. I have never heard someone scream so loudly from pleasure before— Not even in a brothel!”

Your features twist with a quiet anguish. Your teary eyes flit from Aemond’s hardened face, to the sword in his right hand, and to his face again. You wait for him to look at you — so that he might look upon your disdain and find you equally hurt by Aegon’s words. 

He never does. He doesn’t even blink. He just lets his eldest brother talk himself into a bigger hole while his burning anger builds.

Aegon fights hard to swallow his laughter. He clears his throat and tries to be serious, furrowing his brow and tilting his chin in a playfully solemn look. “Let me guess— You only fuck her how the Maester instructs?” 

Aemond remains silent. Deafeningly so.

Aegon shakes his head and smacks his lips against his teeth, looking genuinely sympathetic. 

“You poor, poor things… No wonder you’re always so irritable,” he quips and pokes his brother hard in the chest. When Aemond doesn’t flinch, Aegon twists the knife. “And no wonder your wife comes to me for a proper fucking—”

Aemond reaches for his brother with his free hand, shoving him unforgivingly on the shoulder. Aegon stumbles over his feet for a moment before toppling to the cobbles. He falls hard and laughs the entire way down. Dark wine stains the stone like blood as the chalice rolls out of his hand.

With Aegon finally out of his tunnel vision, Aemond’s able to see you more clearly. His icy gaze hardens as he eyes you like prey. He stalks towards you on long limbs just the same. A menacing bear to a harmless doe. 

You flinch when his sword clatters harshly to the ground. You tilt your chin to meet the boy’s eyes when he towers over you. “Turn over,” Aemond commands, still soft in his way but leaving very little room for argument.

You try to, anyway, as you blink at him with wide eyes. You swallow through the lump in your throat and try to make out the words. “Aemond— I—”

He lifts his chin in a dismissive look that quietens you immediately. “It wasn’t a question, I’m afraid.”

Your anxious hands grip tighter at the sheets covering your naked body. Your eyes flash with panic and distant arousal as they flit away from him and to his brother. Aegon, still chuckling quietly at nothing, has a hard go of lifting himself off the ground.

“Don’t look at him,” Aemond taunts. 

Your heart stops when you look back at him. His cock hangs heavy between his thighs as he grips it in a pale fist, jerking it slowly stiff with lanky fingers. Pearly pre-cum dribbles from the tip of it, which glows softly red with his arousal. His hand rises and falls in steady motions, punctuated by each of his commands for you. 

“Turn around… On your knees… Head to the pillows… I won’t repeat myself again.”

Something warm blooms in the pit of your stomach at the apathetic look he gives you. You clench your thighs together, distantly ashamed of the throbbing arousal between them.

You swallow down any remaining feelings of trepidation when you shift on the bed. The wooden frame creaks under your weight as you twist into the instructed position. Your knees dig into the mattress. Your cheek rubs against the silk pillow like a cat.

Aemond snatchers the blankets from your body with a cruel hand when you try to hide beneath them. You fight back a shiver when you’re exposed to the cool air. The slick between your thighs glitters more obviously in the candlelight. The sight of your sparkling pussy makes his cock twitch.

“That’s the spirit, brother!” Aegon commends with a bout of childish laughter. 

He staggers to the side of the bed when he’s finally off the ground, boots scuffing along the stone floor. He sways in place as he stands at your side, brows furrowed in concentration as he eyes your naked body. You try not to squirm at the attention.

Aemond pays the boy king no mind as he kneels on the mattress behind you. He slides two of his fingers into your drooling cunt with ease, already stretched out from his cock before Aegon’s sudden intrusion. 

You sigh hard through your nose when his middle and ring fingers wet themselves in your satiny walls. You try not to whimper when Aemond pulls them abruptly out again, using your honey to lubricate his cock.

“She’s absolutely dripping for it, isn’t she?” Aegon muses with his gaze locked on your ass, arched obediently into the air. His eyes go far away in thought as he imagines your waiting pussy clenching around nothing, just begging to be filled. 

“I told you she liked it,” he boasts, then murmurs more curiously to himself. “I didn’t know she liked to be watched, though…”

He tilts his head to the side to gaze upon you in a quiet sort of wonderment, like he’s seeing you for the very first time. 

You avert your gaze when you accidentally lock eyes. You find a spot on the wall to stare at instead, a jewel glittering in one of the tapestries across the room. You needed to distract yourself from Aegon’s prying eyes — needed to distract yourself from how much you liked having him look at you like this.

“Neither did I,” Aemond mutters distantly as he lines his weeping cock at your entrance. 

He slams into you without warning. Buries himself to the hilt inside you and lets you revel in the burn of being pierced so ardently. If you liked being fucked like a whore, he’ll treat you like one. He’ll use you like you used him. He’ll ravage you completely. He’ll rip your throat out and lick at the gaping wound.

A whimper sounds in your throat when the burning gives way to a warmer feeling in the pit of your stomach. Aemond’s cock was much thinner than his brother’s, but what he lacked in girth, he made up for tenfold in length. It was easy for him to penetrate you completely — to leave you writhing beneath him without moving.

But Aemond was usually much more careful with you than this. You were often on your back with him— always on your back with him— and his thrusts were always calculated. The goal was never to make love to you but to produce a child, which was your shared duty as members of court. His orgasm was more important than yours, in that regard, so you rarely ever had one of your own with him. Not that Aemond cared, anyway.

He did not care about your pleasure. Did not care that you spent most nights playing house with his brother. Did not care that you had your own separate bedroom that you often shared with Aegon — a sanctuary wherein the holy vows you made in the eyes of the Seven meant nothing. 

Aemond didn’t care about any of it because it was always easier to hallucinate your holiness. But he understands, now, that you have always been the demon. The demon of his dreams. The death-touched witch he carries like a burden. Somewhere deep in the enemy he made of you, he found the lover.

And as his brother idles some feet away — watching him fuck you, mocking him, giving him something to prove — Aemond realizes they’re bound by the same sin.

You.

“You’ll have to do better than that, brother,” Aegon instructs with a shake of his wild head. He furrows his brows in a pinched look of concentration, like he’s really analyzing each of Aemond’s thrusts, visibly disappointed to find the boy still holding back. 

The thought of pinning you down is rather strange, Aemond realizes, when you’ve always given yourself to him so willingly. Despite your arrangements with the king, you were always waiting for him after a long day of counsel — with spread legs and a flagon of wine— ready to be bred because you knew the prince’s work was never truly finished until then. 

It was somehow stranger to be rough with you, when you were made of something more delicate than flower petals. 

Aemond struggles to find a rhythm with his thrusts accordingly. They’re sharp and merciless — two words that describe the boy rather well — but he can’t decide between burying himself inside you completely or sparing you a gentler inch or two. It leaves him fumbling foreignly in his body.

“She’s not made of glass! You won’t break her!” Aegon chuckles loudly, gesturing to your petaled body with a ringed hand, which now trembles with the anticipation of being ruined. 

Aemond hasn’t yet realized that you, his petaled bride, revel in the cruelty. He hasn’t understood the great relief of giving into destruction, either. Aegon feels like it’s his job to show him, as his older brother and all.

“Go on, then! Fuck her like you hate her!” he shouts brazenly into the quiet room.

Aemond stills completely. You feel him staring down at you. His eyes, both made of striking sapphire, are wide and attentive as they dart over your profile. He searches for any sign of hesitation in your features, because even despite his simmering anger, he won’t hurt you unless you tell him to. Until you beg to be fucked like a whore with his brother watching you.

Your chin brushes your bare shoulder when you glance at the boy behind you. Your gaze swims with orange candlelight as you blink at him with big, wet eyes. He finds a distant fear pinching your pretty face. 

It is not Aemond that frightens you, nor his brother who’s still swaying in place beside you — drunk on the wine, the sight of you, and the hankering to watch you be ravished. It is, instead, the enormity of your desire that scares you. The crushing weight of your craving for both of them. 

Aemond sees the eyes of the dying stag in your own. The wide-eyed gape of an innocent thing that has no idea what’s happening to it. A thing that knows it’s going to be ripped apart but can’t do anything to stop it. 

The only real difference is you don’t want him to stop. You want him to open you up, to ravage you completely, to leave you for scraps.

“Do it, Aemond,” you beg in a breathy whisper. “Please.”

He takes a moment to look at you, to really look at you, and feels like he’s seeing you for the first time. His fragile and unholy wife, commanding him now to sin, with those bad and beautiful eyes beneath him. The embers swimming in Aemond’s chest burst into an all-out flame. He wants to devour you in a similar way — burn you, eat you, love you into dragonfire.

Aemond slams into you again. His hips make a dull clapping sound when they collide with the plush of your ass. His cock reaches a spongy depth inside of you and your velvet walls hug him tight, like you don’t want him to leave. A pained noise sounds in the back of your throat despite that. You arch into him in a silent plea for more.

He gives you exactly what you want.

He finds a steady rhythm with ease — burying himself to the hilt, pulling out before you have time to adjust, then punching back into you again. His lean hips angle forward to thrust into you deeper. His long fingers pull you into each of them, creating new bruises on the prints already blooming there. 

Aegon chuckles loudly. A boyish giggling that echoes over the sounds of a creaking bed and slapping skin — over Aemond’s low grunts and your pitiful whines. 

“There you are, brother! Fuck her like a hound!” he shouts between giddy laughter as he staggers back to the table. His boots splash in the wine he spilled earlier as he steps over the fallen goblet. He retrieves another golden cup and pours himself another.

“Reach under her hip— touch between her legs. She lovesthat. Don’t you, Dove?” Aegon coaches over his shoulder as he empties the flagon of wine.

Aemond could hardly stomach authority. He rarely took direction because he long understood that he was the wisest in any given room. But here, now, he knows his brother is far more familiar with your body than perhaps anyone in Westeros. So Aemond, for the first time maybe ever, decides to obey. 

He does everything his brother tells him to. He pins you to the mattress with a wide hand fisting your hair. Brings his free one between your legs to massage your clit with calloused fingers. He does everything he’s told to do, but better. 

You make noises for him he’s never heard before. Tiny whimpers are forced from your lips every time he punches inside of you. His fingers find your swollen clit and you writhe, whining all pretty underneath him as a coil in your belly starts to tighten.

Aemond watches you take pleasure in his subtle cruelty. Something short of pride sparkles in his chest. “Do you like being fucked like a whore?” he spits between bated breaths.

It’s hard to tell if he’s being genuine when he speaks in such a monotone. You nod for him anyway, warm cheek grazing the soft silk pillow. His pointer and middle finger press hard to your clit, and you keen.

“Say it,” he commands sharply, bending at the waist to lean over your back. His sweat-slick chest presses flush to your spine. His breaths fans over the shell of your ear as he tells you, “Tell me you like being fucked like this.”

It’s hard to make the words out when it’s taking everything in you not to scream. You try for him, anyway. “I love when you fuck me like this,” you whimper between heavy pants.

Aemond rises to his knees again. He releases your hair from his fist and holds you tightly by the plush of your hips, pulling you into his thrusts and fucking you that much harder. 

You hear yourself bellow a feeble cry at the assault on your delicate pussy. The stinging of his cock punching into you combines with a warmer pleasure that drools like honey from your cunt. You clench around him despite yourself, swallowing him further inside. 

His fingers are merciless as they rub at your clit. The sensitive button swells for him as your pleasure builds, overwhelmingly so.

“Do you hear that?” Aegon wonders aloud when you sob. The pitiful sound is strikingly familiar to him. He saunters back towards the bed and brings the chalice to his mouth. “That means she’s close,” he murmurs into the cup.

Your eyes are squeezed shut, but you can feel Aegon when he’s near. You grip the pillow in your fist and struggle to find the will to open your eyes. Through the haze of looming pleasure, you find the face of your first-ever love gazing upon you with a cynical sort of smile. 

Aegon crouches beside the mattress so his face is level with yours. He smooths a sympathetic hand over your cheeks, fiery to the touch, and pushes rogue strands of hair behind your ear. His touch is much softer compared to Aemond’s — less calloused, less bruising. The contrast is dizzying.

“Are you close, Dove?” 

You answer with a strangled moan. 

“It’s okay. I know you are,” he murmurs in a honeyed voice, lips jutted in a pitying pout. “I bet you’re going to make such a mess for him, aren’t you?”

Your pussy weeps around Aemond’s cock at his words — the faux-sympathetic tone of them, more so. The youngest Targaryen grits his teeth when the walls of your velvety cunt tighten around him. A wet schlick schlick schlick sound fills the air. You swallow down a feeble whine in response.

Aemond’s fingers push hard on your sensitive clit. “Answer him,” he tells you.

“Yes,” you squeak obediently.

Aegon smiles into his wine. The bitter-sweet grape shines on his pink lips until he licks it away again. He catches your lidded eyes on his mouth, and his grin grows. He’d kiss you if he could, but he knows you want it too badly. He knew there was very little gained from getting what you wanted without making a little fuss about it first.

“Say my name when you cum, will you?” he murmurs softly as the fingers of his free hand scratch gently at your scalp. “I know you’re surely thinking of me, anyway.”

Aemond falters. His hips stutter against your ass and his hands grip you noticeably tighter, as though physically affected by his brother’s words. The pinch in his chest is only partly relieved when you shake your head against Aegon’s palm.

“You’re so pretty, Dove. Do you know that?” Aegon smiles. “Even when you lie.”

You hear yourself whine before you can help it. Your back arches as your thighs start to tremble. Aemond feels you clench somehow tighter around him, hugging mercilessly at his cock and making it harder to move inside you. Your orgasm swells up from the pit of your stomach, held by a fraying rope that’s bound to snap. The inevitability of your pleasure startles you.

“Aemond,” you whimper quietly, as though looking for an ounce of comfort from the boy fucking you so brutally.

“Cum for me,” he instructs without a shred of sympathy. The words come out slightly choppy from the strength of his thrusts. “Cum for me now.”

The pressure in your stomach builds, like a dam about to burst. A scream rises in your throat and escapes just the same. The pretty sound scratches at the back of your throat, which Aegon cradles in his gentle hand. 

His thumb rests just over your pulse while his fingers curl around the back of your neck. He lifts your chin in a silent command to look at him. A crooked smile tugs at his mouth when you blink at him with glassy eyes.

“Say my name, Dove. Go on,” he guides with a soft nod. 

Your face pinches as you grit your teeth, fighting the urge to scream once more. Aegon’s gentle features harden into something sterner. If there was anything he couldn’t stand, it was not getting his way. 

His pretty eyes lose any ounce of empathy as he repeats, “Say my name when you cum for my brother.”

You crack. The dam bursts. His name swells in our throat and tumbles from your lips. “Aegon!” you moan in a strangled cry as your orgasm racks through your body in merciless waves. 

Your pussy flutters as you leak around Aemond’s cock. He struggles to move with your satiny cunt embracing him so ardently. His hips stutter against you when his own orgasm overtakes his body. A moan grumbles in his chest, bitten back with a clenched jaw, while his cock jerks within your pulsing velvet confines. 

Aemond leaves bruises on your petaled skin with how tightly he holds you. He brings his chin to his chest and pulls you into his sharp thrusts, each of them punctuated by a growl and a load of his cum. Your rippling cunt milks him dry. You sigh at the warm and tingly feeling of being so full of him.

“There you go!” Aegon praises as he watches both of you tremble with the aftershocks of your orgasms. He rises to full height again and takes another sip of wine. He talks in jumbled slurs into his goblet. “That wasn’t so hard, was it, brother? Just takes a little… communication, is all. You’ll breed her in no time, no doubt.”

The haze of honeyed pleasure is slow to pass. Aemond tilts his head back as the remains of it ebb like a low tide. He smiles bitterly and glances at his brother with his one remaining eye. “I thank you for your service, your grace. Truly,” he mocks.

Aegon smiles obliviously, swaying softly in place. He bends at the waist to whisper in your ear. The heavy alcohol on his breath makes you flinch.

“Come visit me soon, won’t you?” he mutters, equal parts playful and meaning it, as the pad of his thumb brushes the apple of your cheek. “Bed’s much too cold without you, Dove.”

You glare at him in response, knowing he’s putting on a show for his brother. Aegon only grins as he rises once more, giggling to himself the entire way out of your room.

When the heavy wooden door creaks open and shut again, you take your first good breath all night. Your lashes brush your cheek as your tired eyes flutter slowly shut.

“How much of that did you hear?” Aegon asks Criston Cole, muffled from the other side of the entrance.

“Not a word, your grace,” the knight answers obediently.

The king snickers. “Good boy…”

Aegon’s footsteps scuff the floor as he walks away on unsteady legs. Metal armor clunks softly together as Ser Criston shifts outside your door. The bedroom, otherwise, grows eerily quiet — quelled only by crackling candles and whipping wind. 

The notion that you and Aemond are alone again together weighs heavily upon you. You’re still reeling with the disbelief that any of it had happened at all.

“Are you… Are you alright?” the boy stammers as his cock softens inside of you. 

Aemond often found it hard to make small talk with you — or anyone, for that matter. He cared little for conversation and less for meaningless ones. He enjoyed keeping to himself most of all, which was a difficult feat for a married man.

You nod wordlessly against the satin pillow.

“Tell me.”

You swallow hard. “I’m alright.”

Aemond’s hands tremble with the urge to comfort you despite having bruised you moments ago. He guides himself out of you and balls them into fists instead. You bite back a whimper at the empty feeling, relaxing slowly on the mattress as Aemond pads across the room.

“I am sorry about my brother,” he says to fill the silence as he reaches for the flagon of ale. He finds it lighter than usual and scoffs when he realizes Aegon has emptied its contents. The king only came around to drink his wine and fuck his wife, it seems — the only two things he appears to be good for. “His Grace quite fancies himself a scene, I believe.”

You exhale hard through your nose in place of a laugh. “I’m used to it, husband. I assure you,” you hum tiredly, twirling your finger around the golden tassel of the pillow.

“I’m sure you are,” Aemond lilts as he steps into his breeches.

You huff and roll onto your back. Your naked body stretches in the sheets like a cat as you languish on the crimson silk. You possess a demoniacal sort of beauty that Aemond struggles to look away from. You seem to know this, too, as you flash him a quiet smirk. 

“You don’t have to be so jealous, my love,” you tease. “Your cum is still leaking out of me, if you’ve forgotten.”

He flashes you a cynical glance that loses its playfulness when he swipes his leather patch over his sapphire eye. A hint of a smile quirks the edges of his thin lips. “Along with my brother’s leftovers, I’m sure.”

“Aemond—”

“Don’t,” he interjects sharply before tugging his undershirt over his head. The baggy white fabric drips over his pale torso. He tucks the hem of it into his pants with an absentminded hand. “I can’t abide by petty conversations. I’ve grown used to receiving Aegon’s hand-me-downs, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

He flashes you a knowing glance, as if to say you were the hand-me-down in question — the princess who was meant to be Aegon’s bride, doomed to belong to his youngest brother.

“You say that like I’m some kind of doll,” you scoff.

“You are, aren’t you?” Aemond humors in a monotone, walking back to the bed as he ties the string of his breeches. “Is that not what you wanted to be before? A whore to be played with?”

He looms over the foot of the mattress. You sit up to be nearer to him, propping your weight on your hands. “A whore?” you repeat with a quirked brow. “Or yours?” 

Aemond ponders the question for a moment. He spots a rogue tendril of hair clinging to your jaw and gets the sudden urge to move it for you. He decides not to deprive himself of touching you this time as his knuckles graze your skin, tucking the strand behind your ear. The act of softness is obviously foreign to the two of you.

“As my dear brother always said… ‘A whore is a whore is a whore,’” Aemond recites indifferently. “They’re all the same, aren’t they? One is as good as another.”

Your chest pinches at his words, though you figure you have no real right to be angered by them. Aemond bends at the waist to brush a chaste kiss to your cheek, pink lips chapped as they graze your skin. You buzz for more as soon as he’s gone.

“Where are you going?” you call to him when he stalks to the door on long legs.

“To the brothel,” he lies without missing a beat. He wraps a hand around the golden door handle and spares you a mischievous look. “Perhaps you should go visit the king whilst I’m gone. He’ll need someone to turn him on his side when he vomits on himself.” 

You blink at Aemond with a knowing glint in your eye, like you can see right through him. He decides to blame it on the flickering candlelight instead, which paints your bare skin in flaxen shades of amber as you slide off the bed and saunter toward him.

“Perhaps I will,” you muse with a shrug when you stand before him. You smooth your hands over his cotton shirt, running your palms up his torso and resting them finally on his chest — just over his heart, where your claw marks are red and welting. “I supposed it’ll help me pass the time while you’re off whoring.”

The corner of your lip quirks in an evil smile that Aemond meets with a hardened scowl. 

You know exactly the game he’s trying to play. You are, perhaps, an expert in it yourself. The notion makes him seethe. 

He finds himself quickly missing having you pinned underneath him, falling apart and pleading.

“Best hurry off to the brothel, my love. Before all the good whore’s are taken,” you tell him with a faux-innocent twinkle in your eye. 

You rise to the tips of your toes to press your lips to his, balling his tunic in your fists to pull him down the rest of the way. You stamp a quick kiss to his mouth and ignore any urge to deepen it as you step back from him. 

Aemond watches with clenched fists as you stroll away, headed towards the looking glass at the far edge of the room, where your gown hangs on the back of a chair. The see-through cotton drapes over your skin like summer rain. He swallows hard, feeling suddenly like his heart’s in his throat — like you’ve ripped a tendon or more out with your teeth and sucked the weeping wound dry.

There was no fighting here, Aemond realizes quickly. There was no winning here, either. He has long been the mangled stag, wailing to the gods for mercy, and you have always been the bear taking chunks from his flesh — the only one around to hear his prayer.

You love him in the only way Aemond understands. Cruelly. With his blood staining your teeth as you gnaw him to the bone. 

You’re going to kill him. 

And he’s going to let you.

they let Rhaenyra kiss a woman PEAK OF TELEVISION

𝐅𝐀𝐈𝐓𝐇𝐅𝐔𝐋𝐋𝐘 — 𝐈.

⠀ཾ༵ 𑁍┆ daemon targaryen x otto’s wife!reader x otto hightower.

synopsis: as the young wife of otto hightower, your joy is threadbare, and your husband is absent. when you have a chance encounter with the rogue prince at the heir’s tournament, you become entangled in a web of desire that you cannot get out of.

SERIES — 1/?

༺ FORMAT: one-shot — not requested, part of a series.

༺ WORD COUNT: 11.5K.

༺ WARNINGS: SMUT!, dubious consent / mild coercion, infidelity, cheating (on otto), legal age gap (for reader/otto and reader/daemon), inexperienced reader, otto is an absent husband, seduction, sexual tension & yearning, reader is sexually repressed, loss of virginity, risk of getting caught, choking, biting / marking, begging, groping, scratching, oral sex (f!receiving), fingering, finger-fucking, p in v sex (unprotected), multiple positions, possessive daemon, mention of child death.

༺ AUTHOR’S NOTE: I am so incredibly excited for this fic series, I feel like it could be a good one! I really appreciate all of the support I’ve been getting on the Aemond fic, another one will be coming up soon! Hello to all of my new followers, I am so excited to have you all here! Please enjoy this part, it’s a big one, but it sets the stage for future parts!

𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓 — you often saw inklings of it in Alicent’s eyes whenever you held her gaze, and noticed the subtle twitch of her mouth with any attempt at conversation. It always fell short, a relationship that had no ounce of potential, nothing to kindle it.

Sometimes, you wished that you could hold her hands, cuticles raw, and tell her that you were one and the same. It always made you uncomfortable to contemplate the closeness in age between you and Alicent, and the longer you dwelled on it, the more bitter you felt.

You were only three years her senior — one-and-twenty, married to her father, Otto Hightower — the hand of the King. Marriage was a concept that you were groomed for, and to be wed to a man of such stature and importance was a great victory for your house.

Otto was an absent husband, at best. His proceedings as Hand left him occupied, and whenever he did return to you, he was often burying himself in whatever business the King had assigned him to. Otto often took much of it on himself, with little time left for you.

You were nothing more than an accessory — a beautiful accessory, at that.

Otto had little desire for another child, and for that, you were eternally grateful to the Gods for allowing such a thing. It was a rarity for a man of his station to take up a wife with no intention of children. In all actuality, he simply missed his wife and yearned for her presence.

Whatever you were, you partially filled the void, but it would never be the same.

There was an emptiness within you that intensified as each day passed, a gaping hole in your body that simply collected dust. You were nothing more than a shimmering jewel for Otto to reveal in the public eye, but put away when it was all said and done.

It wasn’t a horrible existence, but you were unfulfilled. Life felt mundane, and despite the lavish and privileged setting you dwelled within, everything seemed gray, as if you were simply gazing out of a window, seeing the happiness of everyone else.

The more time you spent toiling over your woes and steeping yourself into self-resentment and hopelessness, the more restless you became. You didn’t want to keep pushing yourself into that fray of unhappiness, not when it weighed upon you so heavily already.

Appearances were sacred to Otto, who insisted you join him at the Heir’s Tournament, a celebration to usher in King Viserys and Queen Aemma’s newborn child. A joust and seven days of feasting and revelry were upon you, a routine affair whenever royal children were born.

In the Tower of the Hand, surrounded by a flock of fussing handmaidens, you smoothed your palms across the deep emerald gown, silk soft underneath your fingertips. Your beauty was unmatched — the rare jewel from the North that Otto Hightower had stolen for himself.

It would be a long day, yet the sun shimmered down upon King’s Landing and the Red Keep — a good sign of the festivities to come. You were the picture of a true maiden, not an imperfection in-sight, thanks to the handiwork of your numerous handmaidens.

A knock at your chamber door alerted you to your husband’s presence — it was always stern and rigid.

“Come!” You called, peering at yourself through the large mirror of an upright vanity. The only thing that happened to be missing was a stone around your neck, but you had an impressive array to choose from.

Otto stood within your doorway, always so formal and calculating. He was a difficult man to read — you had been wed for a handful of months, and he was still that way after all this time. “Hm.” He appraised you with a stoic gaze, unwavering and indiscernible.

Sheepishly, you turned for him to see, folding your hands together. “Is this suitable for the Tournament?” You inquired, the colors of your regalia that of House Hightower — emerald with gold embellishments.

In Otto Hightower’s eyes, you would never measure up to his first wife, his true love — but you were perfectly adequate, and that was all you needed to be. He stepped forward, staring down at you with an inkling of warmth within his eyes, tracing a finger across the soft slope of your jaw. “You look resplendent.”

That singular grain of warmth was something you would hold onto, and you mustered up enough of a smile to press a chaste kiss against Otto’s cheek. The gesture was brief, yet even the Hand himself seemed perplexed by it. You wanted to show affection, but Otto never seemed interested in reciprocating.

His kind words were enough to appease you, prompting you to smile as you bowed your head. “Thank you, husband.” Pleased by this, you made sure to string a necklace of peridot around your neck before Otto offered you his arm. It was a courtly procedure — nothing inherently affectionate about it, as you expected.

The walk to the tournament grounds was a lengthy one, but it gave you time to admire the buzz of the Red Keep. The excitement for the birth of a new Targaryen heir was palpable, felt by all you passed. Otto was always stalwart, with a pensive and unreadable expression.

Both you and Otto joined Alicent and Rhaenyra in the stands above the jousting grounds, with crowds of common folk and nobles alike joining in the rancor. Alicent seemed less than thrilled to see you, but you weren’t met with her usual icy indifference.

“Lady Hightower,” King Viserys greeted you with a kindly smile, prompting you to drop into a curtsy. “I am surprised to see that Otto brought you along. It is good to have you here.”

“It is a beautiful day, my King — I certainly hope this favor shines down upon you and your family.” You replied, offering the King a pleasant smile. Admittedly, you were rather excited to see a joust — it was good to be outside amongst your peers, not hidden away within the Tower of the Hand.

Your manners and pleasantries, the eloquent way in which you spoke to others, was a quality that Otto did admire about you. You were soft and kindhearted, possessing all of the gentle traits of a young maiden, a Lady in the making. If it weren’t for such qualities, he might’ve favored you a little less.

As you sat beside Otto, he remained rigid, gazing down upon the field. His eldest son, Gwayne, was amongst the many competitors preparing for the Joust. You had met Gwayne on a handful of occasions, and whilst he did not harbor as much bitterness as Alicent might’ve, he was still rather obtuse about your presence.

You had learned to develop a thick skin — as much as you desired to be friends to both Alicent and Gwayne, you were not their mother. You never wanted that role, either. Motherhood, especially at your young age, sounded most undesirable.

Admittedly, you were enamored with the horses, too — the beautiful beasts that carried their riders to glory, or otherwise. Your love of animals was well-known, something that Otto occasionally treated you to.

Prince Daemon Targaryen, brother to the King, rode out upon a steed as black as the dusk, bearing the Targaryen crest upon his shield. The draconic motif of his armor and helmet had made him appear fierce — a most intimidating competitor.

Otto seemed less than pleased — you knew that your husband despised the Prince, and the feeling was mutual. In your brief encounters with Daemon, often in Otto’s presence, their disdain was palpable. It was all vitriol and hatred, a constant battle for who could obtain the upper hand.

Knowing that Daemon chose Gwayne to joust to spite your husband made you somewhat apprehensive, but admittedly, sometimes you felt that Otto deserved to have his skin crawl at times. You didn’t like it for Alicent’s sake, her brother in harm’s way, but you had to stake in it.

The Prince rode forward, parading around the length of the field before he approached the royal stand, jousting lance held high. His lips curled into a lopsided smirk, and suddenly, you found that he was looking directly at you — those violet hues of his held your bashful stare.

“Lady Hightower,” He called, loud enough for those to hear it. Alicent began to stand, but Daemon shook his head. “Not you, my Lady.” He gestured toward you with his lance, sneer subtle and his eyes full of intrigue and the desire to make Otto Hightower squirm.

Visibly surprised, you looked to Otto, who seemed entirely displeased — but he wasn’t one to make his weakness known. “Otto, should I …” You trailed off, glancing toward the small table with your favor sitting atop it.

“I am fairly certain that I can win these games with ease, by having your favor, Lady Hightower.” Daemon spoke loud enough for all around to hear, inviting an audience — in all actuality, he simply wanted Otto to bear witness to charming you. “Would you do me the great pleasure of granting me your favor?”

Otto grimaced, countenance beginning to simmer with anger, deep below the surface. He bristled, jaw unnaturally tight. His fingers curled into a fist, yet he had no intention of denying you such an act, if you so desired. This was a tournament, after all — and any reaction that he gave, Daemon would indulge himself in.

Startled, you looked to Otto for approval, yet he offered you none. Reluctantly, you rose to your feet, retrieving a wreath of beautiful blossoms — gold, ochre, and shades of pink. You stepped toward the terrace’s edge, meeting the handsome visage of Daemon Targaryen, with his lance ready to receive your favor.

“Where has your husband been keeping you all this time, my Lady?” Daemon questioned, loud enough for only you to hear. Your breath hitched within your throat at his brashness, lips parting slightly as you cradled your favor between your hands.

Instead, you dipped down, offering the Prince a sheepish smile, wrought with some confusion as you tossed it onto his lance. “Good luck, my Prince. I hope to see your victory in this joust.” You nodded, keeping your formalities intact before you curtsied, swiftly clamoring to find your place beside Otto.

Daemon smirked, his gaze hot enough to melt right through you, if you let it. It never left you, even when you ascended the steps to sit beside your husband, the Rogue Prince ensured that you writhed beneath his watchful eyes.

Swallowing the growing lump within your throat, Daemon’s incendiary stare was something that you were so unaccustomed to — Otto never looked at you that way, as if you were a treasure, something to be coveted. It left you to mull over your thoughts for the entirety of the tournament.

The carnage that ensued was typical for a joust, especially one with so many warring factions. Men tore one another from their horses, dueled in the dirt, bashed skulls in. The tangy scent of copper filled the air, one that had unfortunately become ingrained in you.

It brought you back to your youth, as you recalled your sister falling from her steed, head crushed to nothingness upon the rocks. The scent of blood would always loom over you like a black cloud for as long as you lived.

Otto glanced toward you, reaching for your hand as he gave it a subtle squeeze. He did not offer any words of reassurance, lips a thin, pensive line before one of the Maesters stepped in behind him, whispering news into his ear. His expression changed instantaneously.

Something was wrong — you could feel it in your marrow.

Alicent looked to you and Otto, and you saw her fingers, picked bloody and raw, and you felt nothing but sympathy. When Otto immediately stood, letting go of your hand, you watched with a furrowed brow as he momentarily disappeared — King Viserys was long gone, absent for a majority of the Tournament.

It was only when Daemon Targaryen and Criston Cole began to duel, that your attention went elsewhere. You watched in subtle awe as Daemon fought, clad in black armor and crimson scales, the colors of House Targaryen. Dark Sister in his right hand, thrusting at the Dornish Knight with an unholy vengeance.

At last, when it ended with Daemon haughtily retreating from the field, you wondered where your husband had gone, disappearing altogether. He had left behind guards to escort you back to the Red Keep, but his absence left you feeling more afraid of the walk back.

Nonetheless, you gathered your skirts, knowing that Alicent had long since left with Rhaenyra. You didn’t worry for her safety — as long as she was with the Princess, no harm would befall her.

“The Hand advised that we take you back to the Keep at once, Lady Hightower.” One of your guards prompted, ushering you towards the stands as the pair assisted you in getting back down. There was a sense of urgency in their steps, but you were confused by it. Had something happened that required Otto’s immediate attention?

You descended the steps from the stand, finding yourself in a sea of nobles and commoners alike, attempting to return to their homes and daily lives. Your guards remained vigilant, assisting you in pushing through towards the stables. There was a quieter path there, a shorter way to the Red Keep.

“This way, my Lady.” One guard made way, allowing you to go first as you made it to the tournament stables. Many of the Knights, those that still drew breath, were collecting their coin and saddling their horses, preparing to make an exit. There was one horse in particular that caught your eye — Daemon’s steed, as black as night.

The Prince himself appeared from the obscured view of the tent, and you nearly scuttled away at the insistence of your protectors, but Daemon saw you first.

“Lady Hightower,” Daemon greeted you, voice often tinged with something sly, a hint of arrogance. Those violet eyes of his bore down upon you as he approached, still clad in his armor. There were smears of dirt upon his face, flecks of crimson, yet it did not detract from his beauty. “Have you come to praise my victory?”

The guards who stood at your flank seemed less than thrilled with this interaction that was forming. They seemed to dislike Daemon as much as Otto did — and you wondered if there was an influence present.

“We are merely passing through, to return to the Red Keep,” Your soft gaze flickered toward Daemon’s horse, admiring its flawless dark coat. “Your horse is beautiful. It served you well through the tournament.”

Daemon noticed that flicker of admiration and happiness within your eyes, coaxing the stallion closer with a mere tug of the reins. He brought it close, close enough for you to touch. “He is yours, if you want him.” His words might’ve struck you as sardonic, but Daemon appeared to be genuine in such an action.

As much as you wanted to, you couldn’t accept such a gift — and when would you have time to ride, anyway? Otto would never let you past the Keep’s gates, let alone into the forests beyond. “That is too kind of you, my Prince. I am afraid that I must decline — it would be unfair to have a horse that I cannot give any attention to.” You sighed, your features somewhat melancholy.

Fascinating — quite the ironic parallel to your own situation. If you did not see the amusement in it, Daemon most certainly did. “How thoughtful of you, Lady Hightower.” He hesitated, lips twitching into a rather mocking smirk at his next words. “Where is that charming husband of yours?”

You should’ve been offended on Otto’s behalf, especially with the Prince’s contemptuous tone, but you felt nothing. You couldn’t retort, mouth becoming dry as you cleared your throat. “My husband found himself preoccupied with duties as Hand, my Prince. He needed to leave.”

Daemon scoffed, lip curling slightly as he glanced toward your guards. “So he left you with this pathetic display of protection?” The Prince immediately drew the ire of the guards, who seemed less than pleased with Daemon’s remarks. “I could gut them before they could draw their swords.”

“Is that a threat, Commander?” One of your guards hissed, grip tightening upon the pommel of his shortsword. The weight of the scenario made you nervous, prompting you to direct your gaze toward Daemon, whose mouth was upturned in an amused smirk.

“Hardly. It is a promise.” Daemon retorted, hands interlocked atop the pommel of Dark Sister — a legendary blade of Valyrian Steel. You knew that your feeble guards were no match to a swordsman of Daemon’s caliber.

Before steel could be brandished, you immediately extended your hand, anxiousness welling within your heart. It frightened you to be so close to potential violence, but you had some station. “Enough — all of you!” You quipped, hands beginning to quiver.

Daemon chuckled, seemingly perplexed by your sudden display of authority. He did not dispute your call for peace, staring at your guards with a narrowed gaze. “If you are seeking better company than these fucking imbeciles, I will gladly escort you to the Red Keep, Lady Hightower.”

You shouldn’t — Otto would be so displeased.

Every fiber of your body screamed at you to turn away Prince Daemon’s proposal. It was improper, and you knew that your Lord husband would become cantankerous if he were to find out that Daemon was near you, let alone providing passage back to the Red Keep.

He could sense your hesitation, born out of loyalty to your withering husband, Daemon assumed. The conflict that danced within your eyes was one that he wholly intended on manipulating — you were much too sweet. The Prince clicked his tongue, awaiting your response.

“It isn’t a difficult question, my Lady.” Perhaps, his tone might’ve put you off just a little bit, but he was confident that you would accept. Daemon regarded you with those lilac hues of his, calculating and sly.

“Yes,” You interjected, much to the disdain of your guards, “but my guards will stay with me.” It was the smartest option — if you were left alone with Daemon, you feared what rumors could be spun from such an action. You were naive at times, but not completely stupid.

Daemon knew this — he knew your intentions, but he also knew his own. With a sardonic laugh, he readied his belongings, gesturing to take your leave onto the cobblestone streets. “Do you have such little trust in your Prince?”

A ripple of heat fluttered over your features, subsiding just as quickly as it came. You twisted your hands together, fingers interlocked as you fell quiet. Daemon’s salacious reputation followed him like a shadow — violent, promiscuous, and arrogant. It was common knowledge that the Prince possessed crude interests.

“It is not that, my Prince. My Lord Husband will wonder why the guards are at the Keep before I am. I do not want him to worry — he has enough to attend to as it is as Hand of the King.” A threadbare excuse, at best, but much to your relief, Daemon let the matter rest, for now.

The violet-eyed Prince let out a scoff at that, yet he elected not to fluster you further. Your announcement of Otto’s station was most amusing, as if he needed reminding. He joined you, walking side-by-side as you made it onto the noble path back to the Red Keep. It was a safer trek than taking the commoner’s route.

Silence filled the gap between you both, with your guards tailing you and Daemon, ensuring that no one interfered with such royal affairs. He was growing quite bored with the lack of conversation — especially with someone like you. You were interesting and new, something to be inspected.

“Isn’t it the duty of a husband to attend to his wife?” Daemon questioned, attempting to toy with you. He thoroughly enjoyed getting under Otto Hightower’s skin, but admittedly, he did want to know more about you. You were beautiful — a pretty maiden hanging upon the Hand’s arm; he wondered how that came to be.

Your jaw tightened, causing your frustration to brew as you held your skirts within one hand, continuing to make your way up the steps. “Why are you not in the Vale with Lady Royce, if that is what you truly think?” You quipped, somewhat unnerved with how he picked apart your marriage.

Otto wasn’t attentive — if anything, he only became attentive when appearances mattered most. There was no desire nor genuine interaction outside of that. You lived a very lonely life, even if it seemed so wonderful and lavish on the outside.

Daemon chuckled, bemused by your fiery retort. You became so flustered whenever he successfully managed to poke and prod at you. “I’ve no interest in my Bronze Bitch,” He replied, his tone dripping with an underlying venom, “The sheep in the Vale are prettier.”

You huffed, brows furrowing together. This seemed like a horrible idea, allowing Daemon to escort you back to the Keep. He was crass and unpredictable, yet you couldn’t help but find some merit in his examination of your relationship with Otto.

“I am sure that there are plenty of worthwhile subjects in your City to keep you satisfied, my Prince. This isn’t the Vale.” You exhaled, exasperated and agitated that Otto had simply left you at the Tournament grounds.

He could sense it — your repression, the twinge of desperation laced within your voice. Daemon didn’t expect any wife of Otto Hightower to be truly sated and satisfied, but you were the true picture of a jewel locked away in a chest, or hidden beneath mounds of soot. No one had bothered to truly see you as you were.

Emboldened, Daemon knew that tempting you with pretty words could have consequences — fortunately for him, he didn’t care in the slightest. “The only worthwhile subject is standing before me.” He countered, lips twitching into the ghost of a smirk.

A shiver ran down the length of your spine, heart galloping just a little faster when Daemon brazenly showered you in his silver-tongued sayings. You hadn’t been spoken to in such a manner before, and as much as you should’ve countered it, you didn’t.

Heat crept through your features as you kept your head down, chewing at the inside of your cheek. “I do not know what you speak of, my Prince.” Your reply was weak, soft spoken as you continued on your path back to the Red Keep. You didn’t want to reveal just how warm it made you feel.

“I believe you do,” Daemon mused, stepping close enough to you to ensure that the guards wouldn’t eavesdrop. “Surely, your Lord Husband has offered you such pleasure before, has he not?” His Valyrian timbre made your breath hitch within your throat.

“Prince Daemon,” You were in disbelief at his brashness, at how forward he was being with you. You didn’t want to indulge him — yet part of you did. “You must stop.” Your voice was barely above a whisper, strained and throaty. The silence became overwhelming as you made it toward the gates of the Red Keep.

When his name rolled from your tongue, Daemon’s lilac hues glistened with something indiscernible. He enjoyed the way you said his name — trembling and uncertain, as if he had revealed some horrible truth to you. Instead, the Prince stared at you, looking toward the gates.

“As you wish,” Daemon’s arrogance wafted from him like a thick haze, enough to permeate your immediate space. The Prince opted to shift the subject matter to something more appropriate — for your own sake, of course. “I suspect that I will have a nephew, soon enough.”

Daemon sounded indifferent, as if the prospect of a nephew wasn’t at all a pleasant idea. It would make him lower in the ranking of succession, you knew this. Otto had made multiple campaigns against Daemon to keep him from reaching the Iron Throne. Their rivalry was petty, as far as you were concerned.

Your steps slowed, keeping pace with Daemon as you made your way to the gates of the Red Keep. “You don’t sound very jovial, for an uncle.” You replied, and your observation seemed to catch his attention. “King Viserys is your brother. Are you not excited?”

A scoff escaped him as he stared at you, violet hues narrowing at your perceptiveness. “Is that how I seem to you, Lady Hightower? Devoid of joy?” Daemon smiled disparagingly, perching a palm atop the pommel of his blade.

Swallowing the slight lump within your throat, you detected his shackled fury, and you did not want to provoke the dragon any further. “My apologies, your Grace. I did not mean to be presumptuous.” You replied, fingers curling into your skirts.

“Of course you didn’t,” Daemon mused, lips twitching into a sardonic smirk. He seemed to believe you — though, part of your line of questioning felt personal, in retaliation for his jabs about your Lord Husband. “Have you been permitted to see the Dragonpit?”

Of the many places in King’s Landing, Daemon often longed to be on the back of Caraxes — or with his blade driven into any that crossed his path. You hadn’t been to see the Dragonpit yourself, considering that a lady of your station could never go many places unaccompanied.

“No, my Prince.” Disappointment danced within your voice, pace slowing again to keep in-step with Daemon. “I would love to see it, if allowed. Dragons are gorgeous creatures, symbols of your strength.” With a soft sigh, you looked to the Red Keep, looming overhead.

Daemon stepped closer, in close quarters as he looked down at you, noticing the subtle hitch within your throat. “Hm,” He glanced at your stalwart escorts, lilac eyes flickering over your pretty countenance. He dipped closer, lips ghosting near the shell of your ear. “Should your husband release you from your shackles, I could show you.”

A strange wave of gooseflesh crawled along the length of your spine, brows furrowing together as you recoiled, as if being scorched. You looked to Daemon with bewilderment, lip curling slightly as you regained your composure. “Your offer is a gracious one, your Grace.” You murmured.

It often shocked you how reckless Daemon was — abrasive and careless with his position. He could bed whomever he wanted, fuck and fight whenever it best suited him. It wasn’t a possibility for you, a noblewoman married to the Hand of the King. Part of you wished you could be afforded the liberties of a man like Daemon, but it was merely a fantasy.

Silence drifted between the both of you, enough to bring you some discomfort as you heard the doors to the Red Keep creak open. Daemon’s incendiary stare never wavered, never faltered as he kept his eyes on you. Your guardsmen were less than thrilled, but kept quiet as the two of you stepped into the hall.

“This is where I bid you farewell, my Prince.” Your voice was shrewd, nothing more than the soft lull of a mouse. Daemon regarded you with the ghost of a smirk, bowing before you as any gentleman would.

“I look forward to our next meeting, Lady Hightower.” Daemon replied, glancing toward a group of Targaryen guards that made their way to him. Your own escorts were happy to take advantage of the gap in attention, whisking you away into the depths of the Red Keep.

The atmosphere had shifted, from jovial and celebratory to eerie and desolate, somber — servants and nobles alike seemed riddled with melancholy, their heads hung low. Whispers of a fallen heir touched your ears, and then you understood why Otto had left in such a hurry.

Queen Aemma and her newborn son were dead.

You remembered what the air smelled like, the day of your sister’s funeral — you recalled the swaying of golden grass against stone, those in-mourning unable to stifle their tears. It was your mother that had wailed the most, draped across the terrace where her body lay, cloaked by a funerary shroud.

Now, the memories seemed to dance along the fringes of your mind, standing within the open plain far from King’s Landing, along the coastline of Blackwater Bay. Salty air peppered your flesh in soft kisses, eyes stinging with the onslaught of tears.

The despondent look on King Viserys’s face had harkened back to your youth, moments that still haunted your steps. You stood beside Otto, who appeared resolute despite the tragedy, but even you could see the wisps of empathy that flickered across his countenance. Stoicism was his forte, but even death could break the strongest man apart.

Daemon appeared somber, violet hues occasionally drifting toward his brother, the King, who let out a muffled sob as Rhaenyra set the funeral pyre ablaze. Dragon’s fire would return dragons to ash, to the great beyond. You admired the strength of the Princess, even through dour moments like this.

Once the burning of Queen Aemma and Baelon had ended, what nobles were left gathered amongst themselves to pay their respects, to the deceased and to the King. Viserys seemed indifferent, so far removed from the moment as his subjects offered their condolences.

Otto’s hand pressed into the small of your back, the first comforting gesture that he’d offered, completely unprovoked. He dipped down, enough to murmur words reserved for you and him. “The King will need my council during these dark times,” He uttered, “Now more than ever.”

You nodded, knowing that it implied Otto would be less present than he already was. His lips briefly graced the crown of your head before he slipped past, stepping towards King Viserys and Rhaenyra.

Standing alone, you opted to wander, venturing away from the melancholy gathering and toward the sea of wheatgrass that danced with the saltwater breeze. The scent of the ocean filled your lungs, made them whole — it was far better than that of King’s Landing.

Rays of a dying sun sparkled down upon you, licking your flesh with a comforting warmth that you savored. It was enough to make you exhale, eyes fluttering shut as you imagined yourself worlds away, or perhaps sailing out to sea, where it was only your hands that guided you.

The evening breeze jostled your tresses, blanketing your face with its softness. The tears that had prickled your eyes no longer made residence there as you hastily wiped them aside, hands wringing together before you.

Footsteps reverberated from your left side, as the shape of Prince Daemon came into your view. Despite the whirlwind of emotions he’d left you with earlier that day, you were inclined to place them aside. His dark tunic, lined in dragonscales, glittered beneath the waning sunlight.

“I am deeply sorry for your loss, Prince Daemon. I cannot imagine the pain of losing two of your family in one day,” You murmured, lips forming a pensive line as you looked at the Targaryen. He was unusually quiet for a spell, which prompted you to fill in the void. “I hope that your brother will recover.”

“He is the Dragon,” Daemon echoed, hands folded in front of him. “He will endure.” As for the Prince, there was some discomfort knowing that such a bloody fate had befallen Aemma. His sister-by-law had always been a devoted wife and good mother, and such a loving woman was difficult to come by. “My sister was a good woman.”

You had met Queen Aemma on multiple occasions, and she was pure — softhearted and kind, with a gentle visage that was sure to put anyone at ease. “She was,” You lamented, echoing Daemon’s sentiments with a threadbare smile. “And a good Queen.”

That was something Daemon could not argue with, violet hues finally shifting away from the horizon and onto you, a picture of beauty. Even in black tapestries, the color of mourning, you were still rather enchanting. Tenderness blossomed from within you, a soft heart — it was enough to temper Daemon, for just a moment.

He searched your visage, able to detect the growing dolour that became etched into your features. Your eyes glistened with unshed tears, many that threatened to spill over as you twisted your fingers together. “The last funeral that I attended was that of my sister,” You uttered, facing Daemon with a bitter smile. “I hoped that I would not have to attend another.”

A sister — Daemon was somewhat inquisitive regarding the finer details of your life, but he did not want to pry at the present. “Unfortunately, you will find that death is constant and unyielding,” He offered little consolation, but it was the hard truth. “Though, I trust that you will endure, just as my brother will.”

Daemon was often harsh and crass, always a realist with little desire to pull the wool over another’s eyes unless it was for personal gain. He knew that you were sweet, too malleable for this world — he hoped to see you blossom into something strong. With Otto Hightower for a husband, any woman would become as tough as steel.

Part of you wished for flowery words of reassurance from Daemon, but you found none — just a stoicism with an inkling of empathy. Though, you weren’t expecting much, and Otto would be of little comfort, too.

“You are more than just a wife, if you choose it. Do not allow yourself to sit underneath his boot forever.” Daemon murmured, boldly stepping inward to get a better look at you. Your subdued nature was partially Otto’s fault — he blamed the Hand for your sheltered demeanor, for your loneliness.

A brief stirring sensation erupted within your chest, and you looked to Daemon, a singular tear spilling across your forlorn features. “I do not have your luxuries, my Prince — I cannot bed whom I want, go wherever I please, abandon my husband — duty is everything. It may not mean anything to you, but it means something to me.” You quipped, your voice hushed yet strained.

Daemon huffed, lips curling slightly, as if to express disdain. Part of him understood your deep-rooted frustration, but perhaps he simply wanted to pass on his recklessness to you. “Quite presumptuous of you to assume that I care little for duty,” He replied, easily crawling beneath your skin. “You can do whatever you please, once you stop being so afraid.”

You nearly recoiled from him, clearly stung by the attack on your character. His assumption of your fear made you bristle, nostrils flaring as you turned your face away to mask the swell of anger. “This is where I leave you, Prince Daemon.” You hissed between gritted teeth, hands curled into fistfuls within your skirts.

He found your irritation to be somewhat perplexing — you were so repressed, tangled within your devotion to Otto and constant desolation. Daemon said nothing, merely watching as you retreated into the shadow of your Lord Husband.

You wouldn’t dare look back at Daemon — even as you felt those lilac hues pierce your defenses, you refused him, and made your way back with Otto.

If it were up to you, you would never see Daemon Targaryen again.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐝 𝐊𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰, 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 — there was no joy to be found anywhere. With the King’s son and wife deceased, the idea of succession was called into question by the small Council. Part of you felt disgusted by the suddenness of such a meeting, especially while the King was in mourning.

Otto cared little for such things. It was imperative that an heir be chosen — or produced yet again, by means of a new betrothal for the King.

Despite the melancholy atmosphere of the Keep, your thoughts remained disorganized and scattered, preoccupied with Daemon Targaryen — and that was a dangerous thing. After his whispered inquiry of pleasure, his berating of you at the funeral, you could not rid him from your mind no matter how much you tried.

Any attempt to flush the Prince’s brazen advances out of your mind were met with a powerful resistance — the other half of you that had little desire to forget. In all honesty, you wanted to know what it was like to be coveted and sought-after, to feel true pleasure, understand its intricacies.

The other half demanded that you reject him, unleash your shackled wrath upon him. He vexed you like no other had before — he far exceeded that of Otto. Daemon had crawled beneath your flesh and taken up permanent residency there, and he would continue to do so unless you plucked up the courage to put a stop to it.

That night, you couldn’t sleep — Otto was nowhere to be found, meeting within the dead of night with the rest of the small Council. Even if he weren’t caught within a meeting, he seldom came to bed with you. He was often in his study, mulling over books, writing letters, attending to matters that didn’t involve you.

You were never involved in much of anything.

Frustration festered within you, rising like the swell of an encroaching tide. Clad in your evening gown, you retrieved a candlestick, slipping out of the Tower of the Hand and into the corridors of the Red Keep. Midnight strolls were not an uncommon thing for you, but this one proved to be more than just elusive sleep.

Your path led you dangerously close to the Small Council chambers, but as you approached, a figure stood outside of one wall, leering in through the tiny gaps. Light slipped through, providing faint illumination onto the face of Daemon Targaryen.

The Prince had been eavesdropping, curious to know about their intentions for succession. Should Viserys pass, the Iron Throne would fall to Daemon — but they wouldn’t allow it. Otto, in particular, was rather vocal in the push against Daemon as the rightful heir.

Daemon turned, craning to peer over his shoulder. Those shadowed, lilac hues drifted across you, your supple form glad in some lace-laden nightgown. Your hair had been pinned-up when he saw you last, and now, it was freed from its confines. He found you to be a visual feast for the eyes — beautiful beyond compare.

In the background, you listened to the squabbling from the Council members, the infighting over who would become heir. It disgusted you, the manner in which they conducted themselves — the Queen and her son were deceased, and the only thing that preoccupied them were the rights of succession.

The silence that lingered between you and Daemon was necessary, necessary enough for you to hear the numerous slanders that your Lord Husband hurled at the Prince. Their hatred continued to fester, and for as long as Otto Hightower lived and thrived in a position of power, he would plague Daemon’s every step.

At last, Daemon stepped away from his eavesdropping, moving towards you instead. “Looking for your husband, Lady Hightower?” He questioned, his voice rich as it dipped lower, hushed and soft enough for only you to hear. The narrow corridor you stood within was as silent as a crypt, not a guard in-sight.

You shook your head, lowering the candle toward your chest. Warmth brushed across your exposed collarbone, and you glanced at Daemon, lips parting slightly. “I could not sleep,” You confessed, teeth gnawing at your lower lip. “I suspect that you are here for a different reason.”

Concealed within the listless shadows of the corridor, Daemon took a step closer, nearly within arm’s reach. His mouth curled into that familiar, cheshire smirk — and it worried you. “What reason would that be, my Lady?” He questioned, head canting slightly.

The calculated way in which he stalked towards you left you feeling somewhat unnerved, hand cupped around the flickering light of the candle. Whatever look he had in his eyes, it mirrored the one he’d given you at the Tournament earlier that day — incendiary and lascivious.

“To see if you will ascend the Throne.” Daemon’s ambition was well-known — and sometimes, his ambition drove him to recklessness and ruthlessness. You knew about his displays of violence as Commander of the City Watch, his prowess with a blade.

Daemon scoffed, continuing to press closer to you, looming above you. The candlelight flickered across his sharp visage, basking him in an orange glow that touched his violet hues. His lips remained permanently fixed into a perplexed smirk, his hand reaching to grab your chin.

As if scorched, you jerked away, brows furrowing together as you glowered at him. “I do not want to see you anymore,” You mumbled, shaking your head with an air of defiance. “You’ve angered me.”

A sardonic chuckle escaped him, enough to further your agitation. It pricked away at your flesh, giving way to a layer of perspiration as it crept along your spine. “Angered you, is that it?” Daemon questioned, attempting to make you writhe. “If you truly wish to be rid of me, walk away — go back to the Hand’s bed.” He challenged.

Your heart slammed within your sternum, lip curling in disdain as you shook your head. The tension crackled between the two of you, one charged with a dangerous desire and anger — two overpowering emotions. “All you care for is the throne.” You whispered, yet your words held no merit at all.

It was something Otto would’ve hurled at him, and you were not your husband — you were far from it.

It was a feeble attempt to bait Daemon into anger just as he had so easily baited you. He was not quick to fall to your ploy, and instead, he happened to stare at you as if you were everything he’d ever wanted. It made you shiver — no one had looked at you like that before.

“You think me so singleminded, Lady Hightower,” He uttered, thumb tracing along your jawline. “I have little interest in the Throne.” In an unexpected move, he dipped forward, lips ghosting around the shell of your ear. “I am far more interested in you.”

Goosebumps cascaded down the length of your spine, and fear rippled through you at Daemon’s close quarters. You were terrified of someone seeing you with the Prince, and you stepped back, wrenching yourself free from his grasp. “This is inappropriate, my Prince. I am afraid you are experiencing a severe lapse in judgment.”

As you began to retreat away from the Council chambers and into the darkness of the corridor, Daemon followed, a predator trailing after prey. He cornered you into an alcove, his chuckle bemused and sardonic.

“My judgment is sound — the only judgment that will be called into question is your own,” He challenged, pinning you against the smooth stone of the wall. His hand cupped your hip, keeping you locked into place. “My poor, sweet Lady Hightower, left untouched and without a lick of attention from your dutiful husband.” Daemon clicked his tongue.

You shuddered, attempting to squirm and ward Daemon away, but he simply kept up his pursuit. “Please,” You whispered, fright filling your startled heart. The Prince’s lust had grown astronomically — all for you, this hidden jewel now within his grasp. “We can’t, Prince Daemon. Someone might see.” You urged.

Daemon seemed unconvinced, lips hovering above your own, tempting you in the most unholy way imaginable. That strong hand that held your hip began to knead into the flesh there, desiring to feel your bare skin. “Fuck everyone else.” He uttered, hot breath fanning across your countenance.

A soft whimper escaped you, and every fiber of your being cried out for him — you wanted this, wanted him to show you what true pleasure felt like. You watched as he inclined his head, blowing the candle out with a faint grin, leaving the both of you in darkness, save for the moonlight that pooled within the halls.

“I can’t, I don’t …” You whispered, voice mousy and meek, yet your resolve was crumbling away, revealing your soul, bare and angry. Part of you loathed Otto for never showing you affection, never indulging in desire, yet the other half of you yearned for the Rogue Prince to steal your virtue. “Daemon.”

It was guilt that had consumed you, initially — the guilt of betraying your husband, despite his lack of desire towards you. You never had anything for yourself — perhaps this could be the one thing. A clenched fist pushed against his chest, but you were weak.

“Why continue to wait for something that will never come, hm? Toil over a man that doesn’t want you?” Daemon questioned, his voice dropping to a sultry octave, a purr that raked across your spine. His hand began to gather your gown, bunching it up to allow him easier access.

“You — You vex me,” You whimpered, knowing that you were simply a rabbit trapped within the maw of a dragon, and perhaps, that was where you wanted to be. “You don’t want me.” It was a valiant attempt to talk yourself out of it, to convince yourself that you were unwanted.

Daemon peppered a string of hot kisses along your jaw, grabbing at your chin to tip your head back. “You don’t know what I want.” He murmured, his stare shadowed with lust. He kissed the side of your face, forehead briefly resting against yours as you considered the sin that you were about to commit.

It was liberating when you no longer thought of sin, and simply thought of your own needs and wants.

His unspoken pressure finally broke your carefully-constructed barrier, and you leaned upwards, rocking forward until you crashed into him. You dropped the candlestick, yet it made little noise. Your lips, soft and compliant, melded with his own — domineering and triumphant. Need blistered through, and he kissed you with such blazing passion.

You felt his other hand shamelessly move toward your neck, flexing underneath your jaw as he kissed you over and over again. You hadn’t experienced such passion before — and you never wanted it to end.

Daemon coaxed you closer, countenance one of sheer lust and possessiveness. His thumb traced across your lower lip, hand snug around your throat before he looked elsewhere. “Fucking is a pleasure, for a woman as it is a man,” He uttered, noticing the hitch in your throat. “I am certain your Lord Husband never bothered with it.”

Abashed, you shook your head, reveling in the sensation of his hand firmly kneading into your hip. “No, my Prince. He did not,” You paused, your hand finding its way to his chest, fingers curling into his tunic. “Would you show me?” It was a fine line, a perilous one — but you did not care, not anymore.

You hadn’t felt desire quite like this in your life — but you wanted it, more than anything else. The void within you, repression tangled up into a ball wound so tightly that it might explode — Daemon stoked the fire, and he seemed eager to let you come undone. You wanted Daemon.

In High Valyrian, he spoke one word. “Māzigon.” Come — Daemon’s hand slipped around yours, urging you away from the small Council chambers and into the depths of the Red Keep. Your trek led you to unfamiliar parts of the castle, some left untouched and unused.

The dust-laden doors led you to a small study, sparsely furnished, yet all Daemon truly needed was a surface wide enough to bear your body. There was a chaise lounge, with a thick direwolf’s hide serving as the rug in front of the darkened hearth. The remnants of an old, four-post bed sat off within the room somewhere, just as dour as the rest of the room.

No one would find you here.

Moonlight pooled through the two large windows, enough for you to see his porcelain, perfect features, tinged with silver. His platinum tresses turned to white, violet hues drinking you in with a ravenous hunger. Rapture and lust, a smoldering desire to make you give into him.

Daemon’s hands cupped either side of your neck, thumb pressing into the underside of your jaw at the other flicked against your lower lip. “Tepagon ezīmagon nyke,” He purred, towering over you as he dipped down, kissing along your jaw. “Take off your clothes.” His command was stern yet dripping with carnality.

If it weren’t for the sheer intensity of the moment, you might’ve become flustered, but instead, your hands flew toward the ribbons and ties of your gown. You shrugged the lace-laden shawl aside, allowing the garment to simply drop around your feet.

Your body was perfect — Daemon wanted it all for himself. If the Hand would not indulge in you, then he would. The Prince let out a low hum, admiring your silky flesh and delicate curves, hand skimming from the hollow of your throat to your breasts.

“For this to be hidden away for so long,” Daemon uttered, hand moving to greedily cup your breast. It elicited a sweet gasp from you, unexpected yet exhilarating. “Is a fucking crime.” He growled, and without another word, he moved to kiss you, like fire washing over you, all-consuming and devouring.

Instinct drove you as your hands clamored to the nape of his neck, tugging at the silken crown of pale tresses there. Daemon seemed pleased by this, teeth grazing along your lower lip before he bit down, eliciting a whine from you. He thoroughly enjoyed the feeling of you underneath his palm — as soft as velvet.

His tongue lapped across your lower lip, soothing the ache brought about by the sharp bite of his teeth. He kissed you hard, lips parted, the action warm and wet — he imagined tasting something else, head clouded with the unshakable haze of lust.

“Daemon,” You whimpered, abandoning all titles and formalities. He no longer referred to you as Lady Hightower — that wasn’t who you were anymore, not to him. One of your palms dropped to his chest, hesitantly fiddling with the ties of his tunic. “I want to see you.”

Perplexed, the Prince kissed your throat, head canting to one side. “Have you seen a man before, jorrāelagon?” He questioned, partially bemused yet curious to hear your answer. His affectionate High Valyrian caught your attention, causing a small tremor to roll along the base of your spine.

Sheepishly, you shook your head. Otto had never bothered to bear himself at all, and to some extent, you could understand — he was aging, and the attraction was most certainly slim. “No, I haven’t — but I’d like to.” You shivered when Daemon pulled you close, palm cupping your hip before it brazenly traveled to your haunch.

Any sliver of space between the two of you became nonexistent, replaced with heat and tension, bodies entangled into one. Your digits danced along the collar of his dragonscale tunic, imagining what strength and prowess rested beneath.

Instead, he peered at your wandering fingers, brows briefly lifting as if to encourage you. “Go on, then.” Daemon coaxed, his voice somewhat gravelly and pitched lower, interlaced with a burning desire. He watched with rapture as you slowly unfastened the ties and buckles of his tunic.

Daemon thought about being rough — grabbing your throat and fucking you into the lounge without a second thought, but he wanted to explore you. Your repression wasn’t your fault, and he felt some sense of triumph in fucking the wife of the Hand.

He shrugged his tunic aside, letting the garment fall to join the pool of lace and silk upon the floor. He was pale and well-muscled, a vision of perfection. Your hands began to glide across his broad shoulders, and then to his chest and abdomen.

Admittedly, Daemon savored the sensation of you touching him, exploring him — something about it was sickly sweet. “Have you touched yourself before, my Lady?” Daemon asked, pointed and unwilling to go without a direct answer.

Flustered, you nodded, seemingly embarrassed in regards to such actions. “Yes,” You exhaled, skin hot to the touch. “I know I shouldn’t have, but —“ Daemon stopped you with a kiss, hungry and needy, teeth nipping at your mouth with a subtle growl.

“Afraid that your Lord Husband will admonish you for it?” The Prince smirked, violet eyes glinting with a twinge of humor. Your expression reflected a whirlwind of emotions — from desire, lust, and embarrassment to a flicker of sadness and frustration. Daemon decided to leave it all alone and focus on you.

He coaxed you toward the plush velvet of the chaise lounge, sitting down with an unceremonious thud. Daemon was quick to collect you into his lap, all perfect and spread for him. A lustful silence filled the void between you both as he kissed your neck, calloused hands gripping the swell of your hips.

“Allow me to rectify your husband’s wrongs,” Daemon chided, kissing along the hollow of your throat, teeth sinking into your sensitive flesh. You moaned and whined, writhing atop him, chest pressed against his. “You are beautiful.” He said with such assurance, causing you to shudder.

Daemon’s ring-adorned hand snaked along the length of your body, finding the apex between your thighs, warm and slick with arousal. As soon as his thumb and forefinger slipped past your folds, you lurched forward, letting out a gasp of surprise.

The sensation was foreign yet pleasurable, like an electrifying jolt rolling down your spine. His mouth relentlessly assaulted your sweet flesh, leaving behind a myriad of bites and less than desirable markings. Your scent — a concoction of lavish perfumes and oils — invaded his senses like a thick haze.

His digits deliberately explored your cunt, every touch eliciting some strangled sound from you. You felt his fingers tease your entrance before sliding back towards your clit, flicking across that sensitive clutch of nerves. Your heart pounded within your chest, slamming against your breastbone like a drum.

“Daemon,” You moaned, back arching as you absentmindedly leaned into the Prince’s embrace. One of your palms molded itself to his bicep, the other continued to clutch at the nape of his neck. “Please, don’t stop!” With a needy whine, your hips rolled forward, attempting to gain a lick of friction. You wanted him to keep touching you there — forever, if he could.

His thumb languidly circled your clit, other digits sliding against your cunt. You squirmed and careened forward, insides hot as liquid warmth pooled between your thighs. It felt incredible — it was everything you’d ever wanted and more. Nothing could compare to the bliss that rolled through you.

The Prince continued with assailing your flesh, kissing his way across your collarbone, dipping low enough to find the perfect swell of your breasts. A low rumble resonated through Daemon’s chest, one of clear approval as he took one of your nipples into his mouth, kissing and sucking on the hardened peak.

A strangled whimper escaped you, one of clear delight. You hadn’t experienced any of this before — you wanted more, as much as Daemon was willing to give you. You gasped when his teeth dragged across your breast, causing you to jolt forward.

Ensuring that you would be well tended-to, Daemon sank his fingers forward, vigorously tracing across your cunt as his thumb did a majority of the work. Ripples of bliss rolled across your body in waves, and you rocked forward enough to ride his hand.

“Daemon!” You moaned, feeling his mouth drift away from your chest to the hollow of your throat. His teeth were sudden and sharp, nipping and biting wherever he pleased, one hand steadying you atop his lap. The other began to snake towards your neck, calloused digits able to feel the pounding of your heartbeat.

You whimpered his name as if it were the only word you knew — and for as sinful as it felt, you found yourself abandoning all sense of care and propriety. Daemon made you feel incredible, in ways that you had merely dreamed of.

As Daemon traced two digits along your slick entrance, his lilac hues fell across your visage, searching for any signs of hesitation. You felt the brief pressure, one hand comfortably sitting at the nape of his neck, the other gripping at his shoulder.

Deliberately, he began to sink two fingers inside of you, watching as your countenance blossomed into a look of bliss and startlement. Daemon soothed your worry with a kiss, head canting to one side as to deepen it, and you followed, flesh crawling with warmth.

A soft, smothered moan escaped you as he gingerly eased both digits in and out of your tight cunt, enough to make you gasp. The sensation was foreign yet incredible, enough for you to rock forward, brow furrowed in concentration. Daemon continued to litter your neck in kisses and bites, hand groping the swell of your plush hips.

“There she is,” Daemon growled against the hollow of your throat, lips traveling upward until they collided against yours. It was a messy, hot kiss, one that made your stomach slosh with molten heat. “A woman deprived of pleasure.” He murmured, prompting you to kiss him again, needy and desperate.

Some sliver of you knew how wrong this was — the infidelity, the disloyalty to your Lord husband, the selfishness that weighed upon you — you should’ve been aghast. Yet, in the heat of the moment, you thought little of it, content to let Daemon Targaryen finger-fuck you into a blissful oblivion.

You were lost to your own ecstasy, thoroughly reveling in the myriad of sensations you were now getting to experience. “Daemon,” You sighed against his mouth, feeling his teeth briefly scrape across your lower lip. “I want more.” A groan escaped you as his digits began to still, thumb circling your clit.

As he slowly removed his fingers from your tight heat, Daemon brazenly groped at your breast, pale brows furrowing together as he began to untie the laces of his trousers. You steeled yourself, feeling a brief pang of anxiousness strike at your gut. You knew that it was supposed to hurt, and the very thought frightened you.

“More?” Daemon echoed, the shadow of lust dancing within his eyes as he deposited you onto the lounge, hands seizing your ankles as he dragged you to the precipice. Without pause, he sank to his knees, broad and beautiful between your legs as he kissed your thigh. “You’ll have to beg me for it.”

You exhaled, sharp and excitable as your hand fell to the edge of the chaise lounge, nails digging into the wood and velvet. “Please,” You whispered, shifting atop the cushion as Daemon bit at your soft flesh. “Please, Daemon!” The sound that left you was pathetic — simpering, even.

He enjoyed hearing you whine — it was a stark reminder of what Otto Hightower could never have. Daemon’s mouth maintained the barest hint of a smirk, pressing a string of kisses toward the warmth between your legs. You were silk and saccharine beneath his fingertips, feverishly warm.

The first stroke of his tongue raked hot embers across your cunt, a sensation that set you ablaze. Whimpers turned to ash within your throat, flesh unnaturally hot — you melted beneath Daemon, and that was exactly what he wanted.

A shiver coursed down your spine, hips canting forward toward Daemon’s mouth. His breath was hot, warm wisps of air fanning out across your slit. It was heavenly — you nearly forgot yourself, moaning his name as you fisted the cushions on either side of you.

His hum was satisfactory, tongue dancing along your weeping core, drinking you in like a fine wine. The cool, silver bite of his ring dug into your hips, his grip ironclad, enough to leave bruises behind.

If Daemon had it his way, he would bruise you again — in the light of day, able to see his marks etched into your flesh, knowing that they were his creation. Possessiveness swelled within him, an ugly and festering thing — he wanted you terribly.

Pleasure rippled through you, consuming every fiber of your being. Daemon’s mouth found your clit, suckling at the clutch of fiery nerves. You gasped, nails digging into your palm, thighs attempting to rub together, kept apart by the Prince’s broad shoulders.

“Daemon,” You moaned, your jaw falling slack as you rolled forward into his maw. A soft huff escaped you as his tongue caressed your cunt, returning to assail your clit again. It was bliss overwhelming, prompting you to reach for his shoulders. “Daemon!”

Tension furled within the pit of your stomach, a familiar knot of ecstasy that brought you closer to the edge. Daemon’s mouth sluggishly receded, peppering kisses and love bites along your inner thighs. He licked his lower lip, violet hues threatening to burn through you.

Your chest rose and fell with the throes of excitement, skin prickling with anticipation. Daemon kissed your hip, moving to stand between your legs. He loomed over you, physique eclipsing all inklings of firelight — a shadow of desire.

He stepped back toward the mound of furs, silently gesturing for you to follow. “Lie down.” Daemon purred, his voice more of a lascivious command instead of a question. With a simple pull, he loosened the strings of his smallclothes, gaze hooded.

A whimper nearly erupted from your throat, never coming to fruition as you stood from the lounge, following Daemon’s lead. You slipped down onto the furs, with only the moonlight as your guide. Your legs parted for him, expectant and waiting.

The loss of one’s maidenhead was often rumored to be an intense and bloody affair — it no longer frightened you like it used to. Daemon stepped out of his leather trousers, bare and statuesque before you, a porcelain god come to claim you.

Moonlight bathed his flesh in a sea of silver, pale rays dancing across his ivory complexion. There was something calculating and predatory in the way he moved, a confidence that few possessed. He sank down, crawling between your legs as he reached your mouth.

Lips clashed again, a dance of desire as the head of his cock brazenly brushed along your slick cunt. Daemon was sizable, to be sure, a man with a plethora of experience. You shuddered when he planted a hand beside your head, the other gripping your hip.

Again, the head of his length threatened to split past your folds, oozing with tendrils of precum as he kissed you once more. It was ravenous, with all the ferocity and vigor of a dragon as he prepared to rock his hips forward. His broad physique kept you spread apart, molten heat churning within your belly.

Daemon finally snapped his hips forward, cock sheathing itself inside of you with little resistance. You gasped, the intrusion somewhat painful and discomforting at first, but he made sure to distract you, pressing hot kisses along your neck. He wasn’t gentle, leaving behind evidence of his affections in the form of flourishing marks.

His cock bullied its way into your cunt, stretching you in new ways, a different sensation from his fingers or yours. Daemon grunted, a huff escaping him as he allowed you a moment to adjust, grow used to the feeling.

Your countenance blossomed with pleasure, gaze a touch smoldering as you found Daemon’s visage. Those violet hues continued to devour you, a visual delight to the Rogue Prince as he fucked you. It wasn’t as rough as he typically was, opting to spare you from the brunt of his usual debauchery.

He found a rhythm, each movement succinct and sharp, hips driving forward as his cock buried itself within you with each thrust. You moaned, feeling the occasional dull ache of pain as you surrendered your virtue to Daemon, nails digging haplessly into the muscle of his shoulders.

Part of you forgot about decency and honor, trampling it into the dirt as Daemon speared you with his length. Friction grew between the both of you, flesh against flesh, perspiration building along your brow. Heat openly oozed between you, cunt slick with arousal.

The angry lines of your eager nails raked over Daemon’s shoulders, the remnants of your sin. He seemed to be savoring your roughness, throat reverberating with a myriad of grunts and softer, subtle groans.

“Turn over.” Daemon huffed, able to detect a flicker of confusion within your gaze. Admittedly, seeing your pretty face contort into one of bliss as he fucked you was rather enticing, but he was chasing after his release.

Silent, you did as he asked, turning over onto your stomach. Something about the newfound position made you shiver with anticipation, and you gasped as Daemon grabbed your hips. He lifted half of you from the furs, hips pressing into the swell of your backside.

He guided his cock back to your slit, thrusting inside of you as he assumed a quick, needy pace. Daemon’s palms squeezed at your hips, layering over the already-formed bruises from earlier endeavors. He split you asunder; a clash of lewd noises filled the room, accompanied by your intermingled sighs of passion.

You moaned, hands scraping across the direwolf hide beneath you, gripping at the furs as Daemon plunged himself into you. His motions were repetitive, intensifying in their erratic pace as he grunted. You were perfect — the noises that emerged from you only served to encourage him, unbeknownst to you.

Liquid heat oozed between your thighs, arousal spilling onto Daemon’s cock. You were teetering along the brink of a blissful oblivion, feeling your pleasure mount. Daemon’s hand slithered between your legs, thumb rolling over your clit to give you some stimulation.

It was as if the dam had shattered, consumed by the squall of lust as you whimpered. A myriad of wanton sounds escaped you, followed by a rush of warmth that surged to your cunt. Daemon growled, feeling your slit tighten around him, your release an incredible one.

Daemon followed suit, painting your insides with his milt — a dangerous game, but one that he enjoyed playing. He removed himself halfway through, coating your thighs and cunt in ropes of his seed, enough for you to feel the heat of it.

He huffed, noticing the faint trembling of your thighs, rattling like leaves as you attempted to recuperate. You had little time for composure, knowing that you needed to return to the Tower of the Hand before your Lord husband emerged from his council meeting.

The Prince did not adopt your swiftness, watching with a tempestuous stare as you retrieved your clothing, flesh sparkling with perspiration. You did not want to leave, but you feared discovery — you feared what would happen if Otto were to find out about such nocturnal proclivities.

“Going somewhere?” Daemon questioned, knowing fully well what the answer would be. He happened to redress himself in his smallclothes, observing you with the ghost of a smirk.

“I must return to the Tower of the Hand,” You mumbled, slick between your legs. The combination of Daemon’s spent and your arousal proved to be sticky and uncomfortable, but you would endure the walk and clean yourself up as soon as you could. “I cannot be seen.”

Daemon scoffed, dismissive of your concerns, though he allowed you the courtesy of dressing and preparing to depart. “Still worried for your husband,” He mused, stepping forward to caress your cheek. “How sweet.” It was cajoling, but you cared little.

“Daemon,” You began, but he stopped you with a kiss, eyes twinkling with a semblance of mirth. He held your face between his calloused palms, thumbs gingerly gliding along your cheekbones. “I do not … I do not know when I can see you again.”

A bemused hum escaped him as he cocked his head to one side, feeling your palm press flat atop his muscled chest. “Already thinking of the next time, my Lady?” He purred, pressing a kiss against your jaw. “Perhaps, when next we meet, it will be at the Dragonpit.”

It was far away from prying eyes — what better place to let feelings run hot than the seat of dragonkind at King’s Landing? Even then, Daemon knew that any future trysts would be difficult to achieve, if they were to continue.

You kissed him — a sweet gesture, one that was chaste and ladylike. Daemon could not allow something so brief, seizing your chin to kiss you again. Your head was spinning with so many things, to the point of feeling so very overwhelmed.

“I have to go.” You whispered, squeezing Daemon’s forearm as you passed. Your state of dress was somewhat uncouth, but you had no time. You made sure to keep quiet as you slipped into the gap between doors, stealing another look back at the Rogue Prince.

Violet hues remained indiscernible, though his expression was telling — the very same incendiary look he’d given you at the Tournament. “Until next we meet, Lady Hightower.”

@ copyright — all works belong to swordgrace, please do not copy or translate this work onto any other platforms or accounts.

being fucked so hard from behind that you collapse forward and then they lean over you and use their weight to keep you completely pinned so you can’t do anything but whine and take it

4-7-8; series masterlist

pairing: jungkook x reader

glimpse: you’re secure when it comes to loving jungkook, knowing that your husband loves you beyond words. what you aren’t so secure about is his first love — someone who isn’t you.

alternatively, jungkook’s married to you, but he still celebrates his anniversary with his ex out of sentimentality.

warnings: semi-heavy angst (pls take a break when necessary!!), emotional constipation, no cheating happens here btw (neither physical nor emotional), self-loathing, miscommunication, based on the moral dilemma of whether or not it’s okay to be friends with ur ex, intense yearning + specified tags in each installment!

notes: thank you so much for all the love for 478 ♡ i rlly love reading all your feedback and thoughts!! send them in here :)

cross-posted on ao3.

— PHASE ONE

CHAPTERS

01: part one 

02: intermission

03: part two

04: intermission 02

05: part three; finale

DRABBLES

the first meeting

the wedding band habit

miso meets yoongi

the hickeys

the jealousy

tiny bowls for tiny babies

the one with the doubt

maybe physical affection isn’t so bad

the everyday risk

the groveling

the anniversary (derogatory)

— PHASE TWO

DRABBLES

the baby blue couch sex

the babymaking

jungkook’s birthday

couvade syndrome

the argument

jk fights with miso (real)

the comeback of slideshows

the false alarm

the nesting period

hwayoung_debut

yoongi’s visit

hwayoung’s first 100 days

jungkook and hwayoung’s bad day

Homemade

Pairing: dbf!Joel x Reader

Summary: While your dad’s watching a movie downstairs, you and his best friend decide to make one of your own.

Warnings: 18+. Sneaky sex tape fun with dbf!Joel ;-) Unprotected p-in-v. Age gap. Daddy kink. Facefucking. Joel being the world’s worst cameraman. Shower sex. Overstimulation via adjustable shower head. Dirty talk. Screaming ‘daddy’ too loud, and your father shows up.

Translations: In Chile, pico is slang for penis. Joel’s is big.

Part of the Waiting Game series

“If this ever ends up on PornHub, I’ll kill you, Miller.”

Joel knew you meant it, too.

The only reason you’d agreed to make this dumb little ‘home video’ at all was because you were headed back to college tomorrow and wouldn’t see him again until May. Doing long distance was tough, but doing long distance while simultaneously trying to keep a risqué, torrid, and totally-not-age-appropriate love affair with your father’s best friend under wraps was infinitely more difficult. This was the safest way to keep desire alive in the meantime.

Immortalized on a Sony CCD-TR70—because neither one of you trusted iCloud to keep a sex tape secret.

It had also been the only video camera you could find in the closet before your dad had plopped down on the couch just outside your room and announced he would be watching Oppenheimer for the third time. You’d had to scurry off fast before he could invite you to join him.

“I’ll be damned—this thing’s gotta be as old as I am,” Joel mused as he stood at the foot of the bed, camcorder pointed at your semi-nude form.

“I didn’t know they had cameras back in the Stone Age.”

Your smirk didn't flinch, even when Joel flipped you off.

You were lying on your side, head propped up on one hand while the other picked at a few loose strings from the comforter. The lacy, pastel pink bustier holding your tits in place was currently making breathing feel like a chore, and your skin was on fire from the warmth of the room, but you tried not to show it. Joel twisted a dial.

“Alright, now...flash ‘em for daddy,” he grinned as soon as the lens focused in where he wanted: your cleavage.

You rolled your eyes.

“A little closer, please,” you said, patting the space in front of you.

Joel didn’t need to be told twice. With one hand still cradling the camera, he clambered over the bed so fast he nearly tripped and took a nosedive in the headboard. You had to cover your mouth to contain a shriek of laughter—and terror—as his frame barreled into yours.

“JOEL!”

Fortunately, your cameraman was quick to recollect himself, planting a knee on either side of your chest once he’d knocked you onto your back. Then, from above, he angled the grey-black hunk of metal just a foot away:

“Anything you’d like to say to the folks watching at home, ma’am?” Joel inquired, suddenly assuming all the poise and matter-of-fact elocution of a news reporter.

You stuck your tongue out at the camera and blew the wettest, fattest raspberry you could muster in response.

Joel hummed, zoomed in on your lips, and nodded.

“Fascinating,” he said, pretending to make sense of the fart noise you’d just made with your mouth, “Have you ever given thought to maybe...sucking cock on camera?”

The swiftness with which he was able to dodge your kick was remarkable. He swayed the camera just out of reach before you could shove it away and say, ‘Joel, quit being GROSS’ and he promptly replied, ‘Ain’t that the whole point of a sex tape, sweet pea? Bein’ a little bit gross?’ And you playfully tried to kick him again, only this time, he caught your foot and yanked you closer to him. He turned the camcorder back to your face and grinned.

“That’s my little pornstar,” he murmured with affection. Then, zooming in again, this time to find your panty line, “Riiiiight there.”

You knew giving Joel Miller recording privileges for an occasion as momentous as this was a bad idea. At the rate you were going now, you’d be seeing the sunrise through the window before you ever got a glimpse of his dick. You needed to take matters into your own hands.

Literally.

You crawled on all fours to get to Joel across the bed.

The man, kneeling with the camera pointed in your direction, looked up to cock a brow at you.

“Sweetheart, hey, can ya do that one more—”

“Hush,” you muttered, closing in on his crotch. 

Your head was lowered so you could undo the front of his jeans. Because of this, your back was arched, and your ass was pointed up just the slightest bit. For a second, Joel seemed torn between tilting the lens to your lower half or your face, which was inching ever closer to the bulge in his trousers. In time, he landed on the latter.

He swallowed. That sight never got old—and seeing it displayed on the camcorder’s semi-grainy screen only made it that much hotter. Joel shifted on his knees while you worked him out of his boxers, watching the nimble movements of your fingers as you wrestled the fabric.

“Wanna—” Glancing to the side of the bed, “—maybe—”

“Yup.”

Both of you liked it better on the floor: you on your knees in front of Joel, chin tilted up to see his reactions as you sucked him off. You loved to sink between his legs and then see and feel nothing but him, brain going blank the moment his cock filled your mouth. Joel slid a pillow under your knees before widening his stance some.

“Is it on?” Your hand was wrapped firmly around the base of his cock and your lips were hovering an inch from the tip. You resisted the urge to lick the precum off just yet.

“Darlin’, it’s been on ever since you stepped outta the bathroom in that— that—” Joel seemed to be searching for a word when the head of his cock was enveloped in a kiss. You dragged your tongue across the slit of him and collected the hot, salty beads with a muffled moan.

Then you pulled off.

“Teddy,” you said, reminding him of the name for that pretty little tulle and lace getup you currently had on.

“Teddy,” Joel echoed, his mind a million miles away from any lingerie jargon at the moment. He held the camera tighter as you took him back into your mouth and sank deeper on his cock. He struggled to keep it steady.

It was strange, watching Joel and the rounded glass of the lens as you did this dirty thing that was only meant to be shared between you and him. Knowing it would be recorded, saved for future viewing, displayed on some dimly lit screen in Joel’s bedroom maybe one, twice, or more likely than not, several dozen times over the next three months. You wondered how you might look from this new point of view; though, you weren’t so sure you needed to know what sight Joel was made privy to while you sucked and hollowed your cheeks around his cock.

As it turned out, that uncertainty wasn’t meant to last you very long, because Joel flipped the camera’s screen around two seconds later. Some sepia-tinted, pixelated rendition of your face, framed by the date and time and a bright red flashing dot beside the word ‘REC’ were the first to greet you. You flinched back just a little.

“Joel,” you said, almost bashful, “Flip it back.”

Joel just grinned. Then he laced his fingers through your hair and tugged you closer to him, thumb stroking over your scalp, “C’mon, darlin’, don’t ya wanna see how goddamn pretty ya look on your knees for me?”

You didn’t think you looked pretty at all. In fact, you reckoned your features looked something more like an alien utility funnel than a real, human face as you tilted your chin inward and seemed to be nothing but eyes and a hollowed-out expression, but you let Joel guide you back onto him all the same. You heard a low rumble of pleasure take shape in his chest as your lips slid over his shaft. Your gaze remained glued to the screen as you did.

Wet with saliva and a few faint traces of precum, you continued to bob your head up and down. Joel’s groans grew louder, and your drive to take him further and further surged as well. By the time his hand was tightening into a white-knuckled fist in your hair, you’d nearly taken him all the way to the back of your throat, and your nose was no more than an inch from the soft tufts of hair on his belly. Joel let out a shuttering breath.

“Fuck me,” he heaved. You might’ve smiled if your lips weren’t otherwise occupied. Then he clenched his hand even harder and murmured, “Can you— can I, please—”

Again, you didn’t need him to finish the rest of the question to know what he wanted. You moved your head back just slightly to nod, a low, ‘Mhmm’ reverberating down the length of his dick as you gave him permission. Joel swallowed and set the camera aside immediately.

He placed it on the nightstand, perfectly level with your head, to the side. Then he rotated the device just a bit, took one glance at the screen, and shortly returned to where you were watching him with wide, glossy eyes.

“Ready?” he asked. His right hand now joined the left at the back of your head, but not before thumbing a quick touch over your cheek to get a feel for your approval.

You hummed once more. You watched Joel’s hips move forward, hands secure around your scalp all the while, and you felt a gentle nudge at the back of your throat. Then another. You couldn’t help the impulse to gag, but thankfully, it was short-lived. Joel peered down at you, eyes searching yours for any plea to stop or slow down, but he found nothing. He sheathed himself deeper until your lips were brushing the base of his dick. He groaned.

“That’s a good…fuckin’ girl,” he managed, voice strained, “Takin’ my cock so deep.”

He shifted his hips to move an inch or two out, then slid his cock forward again, bumping that spot at the top of your throat. This time, you were better adjusted to take him and felt your muscles expand and contract around him without activating your gag reflex. Your eyes stayed trained on his face while he dragged his cock back again.

“My pretty girl and her—” Joel stabbed back into you, somehow tender in the way he did it, “—pretty fuckin’ mouth…Sweet thing likes gettin’ facefucked, does she?”

With the increased pace of his thrusts and the grip he had on the sides of your head, you couldn’t quite answer, but Joel could tell from the glint in your eye that you loved when he manhandled and fucked your throat like this. Watched the light sear gently behind those irises as you swallowed every inch of his cock, back and forth, and let your brain break down to little more than a happy, mindless mush. Joel was always keen to oblige you on that front—aroused to no end at the sight of all your thoughts being fucked straight out of your head—and within the next few thrusts, his gut was giving a familiar clench. He pulled halfway out of your mouth, paused, felt the pinch again, then withdrew from your lips fully.

“Get on the bed.”

You straightened back up and made it over to the mattress, quickly. Before you could assume the position you’d been hoping to take on all fours, you felt yourself flipped on your back. Joel yanked your hips to the edge of the bed and kneeled down between your legs. Hooked his fingers under the waistband of your panties and had them shuffled down your thighs and past your ankles in no time at all. Then, when he lowered his lips to your wet, aching core, you pressed a touch to the crown of his head.

“Joel, wait,” you said. All of a sudden your chest felt tight.

In spite of the fact that your airways were open and completely free from any obstruction—namely, Joel’s big ol’ pico—you still found it difficult to inhale. Some murky, amorphous sense of anxiety weighed over your chest.

When your hand didn’t move from his head and instead pushed him further, Joel furrowed his brows, perplexed.

“What’s’a matter, darlin’?”

You shook your head, more to yourself than to him.

“I haven’t…just— haven’t washed down there today…o-or shaved,” you stammered, “Don’t want you to taste it.”

That was largely a lie. You’d bathed, shaved, and prepared for this just fine, but really were more concerned about the novel optics that loomed overhead. Being filmed in such a singularly vulnerable state without knowing how to act. You were fine when the attention was focused on Joel and his pleasure, but something about having your every whimper and moan laid bare before you on film felt daunting. Unnerving, in a way.

Joel frowned while rubbing your thigh. His brow pinched inward again, as if he were considering something.

Then he moved across your body, and your muscles eased with relief at the thought that he’d just let it go and get to fucking you exactly how you wanted. You reached for him, ready to wrap your legs around his waist, when a yelp clawed out of your throat. You found that you didn’t get to touch his chest, or his cheeks, or his big, broad, beefy shoulders, as you were promptly thrown over the latter of the three body parts and lifted when Joel stood up from the bed. He started carrying you across the room, heedless of the startled, ‘What the FUCK, Miller?’ you’d cried the second he took one step.

Hardwood floors transformed to tile before your eyes, and shortly, you realized you were being brought into your bathroom.

You heard the squeak of some metal knob being turned, then a brief sputter, then a spray of water raining down on your shower floor. You were still being held hostage over Joel’s shoulder, try as you might to bite at his lower back or smack his ass in an attempt to break loose.

He set you down a second later, seemingly unfazed.

“Get in.” He nodded toward the shower.

Before you had a chance to respond, he left. You stood back in disbelief—refusing to go into the shower and let Joel have his win—but just as you opened your mouth to call out and tell him as much, his form slipped back in through the door. Naked, now, and wielding that stupid, goddamned camcorder with a devious glint in his eye.

“Will you—” You held out a defensive hand in front of you, cheeks already heating, “—stop with that?!”

Secretly, the corners of your lips were fighting a smile as Joel drew closer with the camera held up to your face.

“There she is, folks,” he announced, as though speaking to a crowd, or else reading off of a script from the world’s most cheesy porno, “My dirty, dirty girl says she needs a shower—don’t ya, sweet pea?”

It sounded so ridiculous and dumb that neither one of you could keep from laughing. Even as you lifted your middle finger in response, Joel grinned and smacked your ass. Steadied the camera out in front, nudged you closer to the shower, and watched you somewhat begrudgingly obey his orders. Once you’d stripped what little remained on your body, you stepped into the tub.

Add to ‘ridiculous and dumb’ just wildly unsexy as well—who the hell needed a soapy interlude to a sex tape?

Joel Miller, apparently. He constricted his grip on the camera and followed you in, tongue already skimming the backs of his teeth in anticipation. You turned away to step under the shower’s stream, and he wasted no time getting a shot of your derrière. You leaned forward and sighed.

The water worked wonders to get your muscles to loosen some, but still, you were nervous. You could clean up now, stall a little longer, maybe even offer to give Joel head again—but what if he really wanted to eat you out on camera? You couldn’t put off the conversation forever.

Or another minute, it seemed.

You let out a shriek when you felt Joel’s fingers sneak up between your thighs. You hardly knew what he was doing, just folding limply when he spun you around to press your back against the shower wall. Your eyes widened to see him descending your body once more.

“I lied,” Joel said, smirk painted clear across his features, “You’re not dirty—I just wanted to eat your pussy in the shower ‘s’all.”

Chivalry was evidently alive and well in Austin, Texas.

No truer words could have been spoken, and yet, you felt wildly uncomfortable the second Joel’s head dipped between your legs and that big, dumb, handsome face started licking stripes up your sensitive core. You cast a glance to the side and saw the camcorder perched on the sink—just through the open slit in the shower curtain, you could see it pointed directly at you.

You shivered and started to push Joel away.

“Can we maybe just—”

“Sweetie?!”

Joel’s lips tore out of your cunt quicker than a sneeze through a screen door. His eyes were wide.

“Y-Yeah, dad?” you squeaked, tone almost fearful.

“Everything okay in here? I heard ya scream,” your dad returned shortly.

You could only imagine the expression of confusion and distress painting his every lineament in that moment. Probably just barely sticking his head through the crack in the door and blinking anxiously through the steam.

Your dad was caring like that.

He just never knew the right times to show up.

No, there were very few times where you would’ve liked to see him less—apart from that one time you’d sucked Joel’s dick under the table at your dad’s birthday dinner. Your heart was thudding a wild, erratic beat in your chest, and you could only imagine how Joel was feeling. Probably seeing visions of a Size 11 boot being shoved up his ass if his friend happened to slide the shower curtain to the side and see him nose-deep in his daughter’s box.

That would be bad. So very, very bad and probably ten times worse than when Tommy had caught you blowing his brother at the aforementioned birthday party. You just couldn’t seem to catch a break these days.

You sucked in a breath and answered anyway.

“I thought I saw a spider.”

“Really?” You could already sense the embittered tinge to your dad’s voice, harking back to the war he’d once declared on all wolf spiders in the home, “Want me to kill it?”

The next thing you heard was two boots thud on the bathroom floor outside the shower, and you could’ve sworn you saw Joel’s whole soul leap from his body. He shot a frantic look around him, spotted a window above, and seemed to wonder for half a second if he might be able to shimmy his 188-pound frame through a space that probably wasn’t big enough to fit a fat raccoon. He slumped his weight against the shower wall and winced.

“No! I— It wasn’t even a spider. Just a…roach.”

Shortly, Joel’s eyes widened even more and met yours, as if to ask, ‘Why the FUCK would you say that?’

“A roach?!” your dad cried simultaneously.

Apparently, you’d forgotten that any derivative of the word ‘cockroach’ was like a sleeper agent activation phrase for middle-aged fathers who wanted to keep their homes free of all household pests. The look on Joel’s haggard, world-weary face communicated as much to you, and for a second, you remembered that he, too, was built the same way as any other semi-old dude you knew.

Just bigger and beefier and…harder below the belt than you would’ve expected most men around his age to be.

You quickly chided yourself for ogling Joel’s dick at a time like this and replied to your father, shrill, “No!”

Then, slightly more composed, “No, no— I already took it out with some hairspray and told it to fuck off to hell.”

An attempt at humor was the last leg you had to stand on. Fortunately, it worked.

Outside the shower, your dad chuckled, and his footsteps started to shuffle off toward the door.

“Ah. Atta girl,” he beamed, ever the advocate for brutal cockroach killings, “If you see another, just holler, okay?”

“Okay.”

You heard the sound of the bathroom door closing, and you almost fell to the floor. Joel probably would’ve been facedown just as well—fear seeping out of his body along with every last ounce of willpower to stand—had he not made a dive for you as soon as your dad had left.

The force of his push sent you straight into the wall, legs forced to wrap around his waist as he buried his face in your neck.

“Thank fuck,” he breathed.

“You’re welcome,” you murmured, swiping the water out of your eyes with a grimace.

Then, just as you were about to request that Joel lower you back down to the floor and out of the shower’s spray, you felt a nudge between your legs. Luckily not a tongue this time—just Joel, or the tip of his leaking cock. The man below you grinned, and for the first time in a long time, you felt a wash of relief. Could it be?

“I’ll still eat you out if y’want,” he started, though speaking with a little less conviction this time around, “But after all that I, uh—kinda jus’ wanna fuck ya stupid.”

Well thank fuck for fake spiders and cockroaches, too; you’d just averted a dreaded tonguefuck, thanks to that detour.

You’d worry about your pornstar moans and on-camera charisma another time—now you could just sit back and let Joel do all the work while he took you against the wall.

Really, there was no need to concern yourself with anything at all from that point forward. Once you’d given Joel the green light, he was sinking you onto his cock with a grunt and making sure you felt nothing but him. His hands found your hips and held you firmly in place as he rutted into you from below, your own fingers latching onto his shoulders for some much-needed support. Both of you knew that you needed to be extra quiet now—seeing how sound seemed to carry in that tight, tiled space—so Joel snagged your lips in his for a kiss.

He was practically panting in your mouth by the time you started meeting his thrusts. His fingertips slid some and must’ve seared ten perfect crescents into the flesh of your ass as he fucked you into the wall.

“Look so pretty like this,” he whispered in between kisses and short, shallow breaths. His cock parted your insides with an excruciating welt of pleasure, and he hardly even seemed to realize it, “Look so damn pretty takin’ cock.”

Then, lips kicking up in a smile when it seemed he’d remembered something, he added, “Can’t wait to play this tape back home and watch us fuck all over again.”

Again. Again. And again. Shit, you could just see it now.

Your eyes traversed the compact shower space once more to find the video camera—still perched, still live, still perfectly implacable and silent atop the sink as it recorded your every grunt, groan, and shuddering moan. You were nearly as curious to know what Joel’s bare ass looked like rutting into you like this as you were to hear yourself getting railed against the shower wall. Maybe you’d beat this fear of secondhand embarrassment after all.

Maybe.

Joel’s teeth snagged your bottom lip and bit it, lightly.

“Every chance I get, you can bet I’ll be thinkin’ ‘bout this…sweet pussy while you’re away,” he said, voice low and occasionally punctured by a groan, “Say one more thing f’me and I’ll…cum every time I watch this part.”

The kinks at the corners of his lips were endearing. You would’ve liked to supply them with just about anything they could’ve wanted, so when they leaned into your ear and murmured just what it was they needed to hear, you only hesitated a second.

Or maybe two or three, because, well…it was risky.

Moaning ‘daddy’ out loud at a time like this? It might get Joel off quick, but it might send your real dad running even faster. You weren’t crazy about the thought of anything that might draw the man’s attention again.

Joel seemed a little less risk-averse than you, notwithstanding the window-leaping fear he’d felt when your dad had rushed in before. Leave it to a criminally horny man to have the memory of a goldfish, though.

At present, Joel was blinking and gawking a bit like one, too, waiting for you to enunciate that one magic word.

You couldn’t deny he made a damn cute desperate sex fiend when he wanted to be. And you needed to cum.

You figured you could cut a deal with him just this once.

“Alright,” you mumbled against the top of his stubbled lip, “Make me cum and I’ll say anything you want, Miller.”

You weren’t sure if it was a chuckle or a strangled moan that jumped up in his throat when Joel squeezed your sides tighter. All you knew was that he was lowering you to the floor in the next instant, spinning you around, and walking you forward, swiftly and with purpose, toward the opposite end of the shower. Right where the crack in the curtain made you most visible to the camcorder.

Joel’s hand snaked around your front and gently eased between your legs. Then, pressing his chest to your back and nudging you to bend just slightly at the waist, he tipped your bodies closer to the camera’s line of vision and stilled. From the LED screen, you could see the ghost of a smile crossing his lips as he shifted his head beside your own. Next, they were kissing across your shoulder, your neck, that sensitive spot behind your ear, and finally the shell of it, brown eyes trained on the camera lens as he murmured to you, “Stay real still.”

You didn’t know if you could. But you tried. And you damn near cried when his fingers started working circles over your clit. Your body was raised on tip-toes, and your hand was bracing the wall as Joel fucked you from behind and made a mess of your wet, writhing body. In no more than three or four strokes, your fears of looking or sounding stupid on camera trickled away with all the rest of the silent, sizzling liquids circling the drain below. Your cheek pressed against Joel’s rougher one, and with the push of each new thrust, you came more unraveled.

When Joel’s hand closed over the front of your throat, you didn’t flinch. Didn’t move—couldn’t move, as the man was holding you still in such a taut, rigid grip.

“What do we say when we get fucked this nice, baby?” Joel whispered in your ear, words almost entirely masked by the sounds from the shower. You still heard it, though.

“T-Thank you,” you stuttered, cockdrunk and faint.

“Thank you, what?”

Your eyes were fluttering closed, but you could feel the smug expression just over your shoulder. You clenched around him and felt him snap his hips ahead even harder.

“Thank you, daddy,” you whimpered.

“Say it again.”

“Thank you, daddy!” you whined, still scared to be too loud.

Joel wasn’t scared. His hand ascended the column of your neck to pinch your chin between his fingers, jerking your head to the right.

To the crack in the curtain. To the camera.

You could’ve cried with how fast he was fucking you now. You opened your eyes and cast a pathetic look to the recorder. Joel made sure you maintained that gaze, too.

“Who’s makin’ ya feel this good?” he seethed, shaking your whole frame with the breakneck pace of his hips.

“You, daddy.”

“Who’s fuckin’ this sweet cunt like no one ever has?”

“You, daddy.”

Joel seemed sated and somehow not fully satisfied at all. Like he was pleased to see you falling apart for him like this, but needed to hear more. Feel more.

He withdrew from you, and you nearly collapsed with the absence of his arms holding you straight.

You pressed a shaky palm to the wall and almost moaned for him to get his ass back over here, you weren’t done, when Joel returned in a second. To your relief, his muscly arms found their way around your front once more, and his clock plunged back inside you, too—only this time, you sensed you were missing something else.

Water.

It wasn’t on your back anymore.

It was fanning between your legs.

Blasting the full force of its stream toward your most sensitive parts as Joel held the shower head up between your thighs. You would’ve jumped back and screamed were it not for his hand clamping tight over your mouth before you could, his lips grazing over your ear again.

“Try it one more time.”

You released a hoarse, muffled squeal into his palm when he lifted the stainless steel to your clit and started rolling his hips. The strokes themselves were relatively gentle, but paired with the ruthless spate of the water, your eyes were nearly rolling to the back of your head at the pulse.

You couldn’t breathe, much less speak. Joel hummed almost apologetically into your hair but didn’t seem sorry at all as he lowered his hand back down to your throat and squeezed. He continued rocking his hips into yours.

“You’ve said it dozens of times before—what’s’a matter?”

Joel Miller knew what the fuck was the matter. He just liked to see you desperate, fucked-out, and teetering on the brink of going feral before he let you reach your peak.

“D-D-D—”

Damn, you sounded stupid.

“D-D-Do you wanna cum? Is that it?” Joel said, mocking your struggle to articulate words as he fucked you.

In spite of your normal no-bullshit attitude toward him, you weren’t in quite the right frame of mind to be talking back to him. You just nodded and moaned, movements constricted by the grip of his fingers on your neck.

“Use those big girl words for me, honey. I know ya can.”

Again, you parted your lips and started to speak, but the oscillation of the water, the brush of his cock, the patently deprecating lilt in Joel’s string of praises, made it nearly impossible. You ended up sputtering again,

“D-D-ah-fuuuckfuckfuck.”

“That ain’t the word I’m looking for.”

But, just as you ventured to say it once more, he cut in,

“Here. Lemme help ya find it.”

Before you could blink, Joel was pistoning his hips against your ass like he had before, only this time, he held the shower head stationary between your legs as you seized and nearly fell to the floor with the force of all the pleasure coursing through you. Your body seemed to act of its own accord, head dropping to Joel’s shoulder and stomach giving an alarmingly fitful pinch as an orgasm tore through you. You couldn’t control how it came or where it went—or how your tongue jumped up and cried,

“Daddy!”

Joel nodded, fucking you through each violent spasm with all the composure and aplomb of a seasoned pro. While your eyes cycled back in the throes of delirium, he held firm and didn’t slow his hips—or the shower head.

You probably could’ve torn a hole through a cinder block if you’d happened to have one between your teeth just then. That was how fervid and merciless the aftershocks of your climax were pulsing through you, exacerbated to the nth degree by the continuity of Joel’s movements. You managed to grab the forearm that was holding the metal nozzle and plead a wild, slightly stifled, “JOEL!”

In truth, you didn’t really want him to stop. It felt too good. You could tell that Joel sensed this, too, because in the instant after that, his lips were sponging kisses to your shoulder, cock working steadily between your walls.

“One more, sweet pea.”

“Joel—”

“And say it louder this time.”

Were you in your right mind, you probably would’ve chided him for being so reckless and stupid about it all. How the fuck could he expect you to scream out loud when your dad was lounging right outside of your room? Did he really think the drone of Cillian Murphy’s smooth, American-ized tone would mask your unbridled moans? Honestly, you couldn’t be sure—and more importantly, you couldn’t be stopped to consider for much longer. With one last trembling vibration from the shower head and a thrust from Joel, you were cumming all over again.

Squeezing his arm, sinking into his sturdy frame, clenching over his cock in what felt like a hundred convulsions, and casting caution aside, you screamed:

“DADDY!”

You might’ve blacked out for a second or two.

Even a minute, as it was, because the next intelligible thing that reached your ears was the thunder of footfalls. And the thrum of Joel’s own hammering heart as he yanked you into his chest and stilled frozen inside you.

The door swung open on its hinges so hard it hit the wall.

“What is it, sweetie?!” your dad yelped.

“I—”

“Are you hurt?”

Just fucked raw by your best friend and shaking, Pops.

You sucked in a breath when Joel nudged your head with his nose and slowly pulled the shower curtain closed to move you out of view of the camera. But it was still there.

Your dad was still there.

The shower walls seemed to be closing in on you, but somehow, you managed, “No, dad, I’m fine! Just…coulda sworn I saw another spider in here, but it was nothing.”

“Are you sure?”

Your dad sounded unconvinced, pacing closer. You could’ve screamed, but Joel was likely holding you too tight to make any such sounds possible in that moment. The two of you recoiled, still stuck chest-to-back, away from the edge of the plastic shower liner when a boot thudded just outside the crack between curtain and wall.

You swallowed. Joel squeezed. Neither of you breathed.

“If it’s another roach, I gotta call the extermin—”

“No! No, it wasn’t a roach. I’m just seein’ things, I think.”

That didn’t seem to make your father feel any better, because he didn’t retreat like he had before. A tense moment fell over the compact, fog-infested room, like the man was chewing away at some thought in his head.

Then he sighed.

“Alright.”

Blissful footsteps away from the shower. You smiled.

Unfortunately, the grin was destined to be short-lived, because in the next instant, you heard boots screech to a halt on the tile. Pivoted, then paused where they stood.

Another gut-wrenching dozen seconds passed, and for one short, chilling moment, you could’ve sworn you felt your father’s gaze sear through the curtain and see you.

But he didn’t see you. Or Joel. Or anyone.

Instead, his gaze was fixed someplace else.

Suddenly, his voice rose above all the awful noises of clamor and panic in your brain, and broke out, loudly,

“What’s my camera doin’ in here?”

on call

7.5k / pairing: cardiothoracic surgeon!javier peña x resident surgeon f!reader

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summary: Javier Peña - a shark of a surgeon - is the head of Cardiothoracic Surgery and you're on his service for the week. After letting you take lead on a risky surgery, you crave what else he can teach you. warnings/information:  MA 18+ (minors DNI), doctors performing surgery but no gore, medical talk (open heart surgery performed, mention of aneurysms and paralysis), both Javi and reader are surgeons, implied but unspecified age gap (Javier is an attending surgeon, reader is a resident surgeon), sex in an on call room (rooms in the hospital where the staff can catch some zzz's), swearing, size kink, praise & degradation kink with accompanied dirty talk, competency kink, (un)affectionate pet names, fingering, oral cleanup (f!receiving), oral (m!receiving), unprotected p in v, creampie reader is described having hair and wears surgical scrubs, but otherwise (I believe) no physical description, no use of y/n A/N: FYI the only knowledge about hospitals or doctors I know is from Grey's Anatomy, so expect some drama and inaccuracies! beta’d by the lovely @thetriumphantpanda! spanish assistance by the talented @undercoverpena! banner made by me!

Any doctor will tell you that smoking cigarettes has a well-documented history of negative health risks. 

Smoking can significantly increase the risk of various health problems, including cardiovascular diseases, lung cancer, respiratory issues, and, most importantly, to a surgeon, how delicate your tissue is. It shreds during stitching, falls apart in between gloved fingers, and increases the risk of infection. 

So why does Javier Peña, the Head of Cardiothoracic Surgery, smoke? 

Probably because he thinks he’s God. Galavanting through the surgical wing in his dark navy scrubs. The attending flirts with every nurse who passes his eyeline, sweet-talks his residents, and charms each patient he consults. 

Beneath all that, he was a ruthless shark of a surgeon. Driven to the point of recklessness. Stealing surgeries out from under fellow doctors, commandeering ORs, and always proving to be the smartest in the room. He knew when to bark and, more importantly, when to bite. 

Javier Peña was a piece of goddamn work. 

The operating room is the only time he’s silent. Espresso eyes narrowed on the surgical field, fingers succinct and persuasive like he’s giving the most delicate organ in the world a compelling speech: to live, to keep beating, to pump blood until it simply cannot. 

He’s impressive, really. 

Standing on the opposite side of the patient on the table, watching him work, you nearly forget how handsome he is behind his mask. If you weren’t such a great resident, you’d be more impressed by his looks than his hands. 

But his hands… they were brilliant. 

Peña was steady. Every movement is filled with confidence; they don’t stutter or flinch. He operates with wonderful dexterity, switching between both hands, neither more dominant than the other. Instrumental and graceful, like a maestro conducting a large orchestra. 

This was his stage, the surgical instruments were his props and everyone in his OR was simply an extra. He was a star; everyone knew it. But no one knew it more than you, his third-year surgical resident on his cardio service for the week. 

His years of training bleed through his expertise, and shine in a way that makes you remember why you signed up for so many years of medical school, dropped top dollar on an education to get you here, and then granted residency at one of the finest hospitals in the country. 

You were good. Peña was great. 

As his resident, you must prove nothing but useful. He’s not a natural teacher, the way his brain drives allows no one in his passenger seat. But you’re keen on declaring on cardio, and you’ve been the resident by his side for most of this year. He doesn’t need your help. He can do this all by himself, so all you can do is prove yourself useful. 

You must anticipate his needs and next move, watching him progress from step one to final completion. 

But this surgery was unexpected. Unplanned. Most heart surgeries end up being accidental, arising from complications during a routine surgery. The patient on the table before you was scheduled for a general procedure but began presenting with heart issues during the operation.

Peña performs an aortic arch replacement. He starts with a #10 blade, making an incision along the sternum to access the aortic arch. 

“Retract all this tissue,” he mutters. 

It takes you by surprise because his OR is radio silent. He talks in his head, not to you, ever. 

“Me?” 

“Are you really asking me that?” His tone twitches with irritation, but you do as he asks before he can disregard and bury your anticipation. It allows for more exposure, and he’s back to work. He cannulates the patient for CPB, working through the right atrium and then the aorta. 

“Proper placement?”

You nod before you remember he’s still staring down at the patient’s heart. “Yes.” 

Doctor Javier Peña is the commander of his OR. Which makes you all the more confused as to why he decides to put you in the driver’s seat. Or rather, the hot seat.  

“Okay, we’re going to arrest the heart using cardioplegia purposely. What’s next?”

Your mouth is going dry; it takes you a moment to find your words. You should know the answer, even without having prepared. He just makes you nervous. “We need to use myocardial protection techniques to minimize… ischemic damage?”

His eyes snap up, glaring, cold as ice. “Are you asking me? Or are you telling me?”

You force down the lump in your throat and take in a shaky breath. “Telling?” 

He cocks his eyebrow in annoyance. 

“Telling.” You say more confidently, nodding before he sighs. He wanes his options in his head before his eyes start to soften. He must feel at slight ease talking to a resident who isn’t a fucking moron. 

“Okay. You’ll deliver the cardioplegia solution and monitor its function.”

You let out a breath of relief, perhaps too big of one, because Peña smirks and tuts at your shift in breath. 

“You’re not a complete waste of space in this surgical program after all. Congrats.” 

After willing yourself to bite your tongue, you watch him proceed with the arch repair. He returns to silence as he carefully dissects the aorta, amber eyes admiring each of the strong branches like that of a great oak tree. 

“Name them.” 

Eyes meeting his over the operating table, Peña waits. He’s testing you, pushing you towards greatness or failure. He wants to see where you fall—if you’re worthy to be in his OR, opposite of him, learning under his greatness, or if you’re a waste of his time and talent. 

“You’re a third-year resident, I knew this by my second,” he grinds, “all the books I’ve seen you read in the cafeteria should have told you this. Name them.” 

He watches you, it wasn’t just in your head - the magnetic stare you can feel from across the room that makes the hair on your arms stick up. He watches, he knows you’re capable. “Not gonna get by just on looks here, Doctor.” 

Dragging your eyes away from his intense stare, you loosen your jaw and line your fingers over each strong branch, starting at the trunk of the tree. “The left subclavian artery, left common carotid artery, the innominate artery-”

Peña raises his gloved hand, seeing the gentle smear of blood along his fingertips and palm. “Stop.”

Your eyes squint heatedly, feeling your chest tighten. “I can finish, I know them-”

“Stop, damn it,” he barks louder, his eyes shifting away from yours and across the room. He wasn’t listening to you; he was listening to the heart. Doctor Peña tilts his head to the monitor, watching the heart shift its beats. “Doctor, identify the pathology.” 

You shift on your feet, the nerves throughout your arms leave you feeling shaky. Something was wrong. “The aortic arch, it shows…” Closing your eyes helps you focus, ignoring the crowd in the overhead gallery, forgetting the patient on the table just for a moment, and only listening to the beat on the monitor. 

“Pretty girl, not so smart,” he taunts with a shake of his head, the beeping on the monitor pitching louder and echoing hauntingly through your ears. You wished this room would swallow you whole, but that would be you admitting to cowardice. 

Peña takes a deep breath and looks between you and the monitor, “Alright, come on, open your eyes,” he instructs, guiding your hand off the retractor and along the heart’s wall. “What do you see?”

The commanding tone in his voice brings you out of your head and back to the patient. The room wavers and it goes silent. You don’t hear the erratic beeping of the machines, you don’t see the movement in the gallery. Doctor Peña is in front of you, calm and focused. Because he trusts that you know what’s wrong. 

The aortic wall bulged out of its normal shape. It looked weak, stretched out, thin, and nearly translucent. You see the saccular protrusion, lips parting at the discovery. 

“He’s—was there an aneurysm? He had an aneurysm?” you ask with more panic in your voice than you had hoped. It must have been during the patient’s original procedure earlier in the day before you and Doctor Peña even scrubbed in. “We can’t do a repair or a replacement of the arch. We have to stop everything--” 

“So what are we gonna do, Doctor?” He probes, piercing dark eyes on you. Suddenly, your height shrinks, and you feel only a few inches tall under his gaze. He’s so much older and wiser, and all you can do is panic. “What, you can't figure this out yourself? Four years of medical school, internship, and residency, don't fucking disappoint me now. Tell me how we fix it.”

Our brains hold endless files of knowledge. A doctor is not only supposed to keep files on how to perform a procedure but also what to do if one is horribly failing. But your brain only knows panic because until you become a brilliant surgeon, all you know is fear. 

“Should we page neuro? A-A neuro consult, his blood flow isn’t reaching his spine. He might be paralyzed.” 

Peña scoffs and shakes his head, “Hoping someone else comes to save you and fix your problems? What if I wasn’t standing here? You’re on your own, kid.” he spews, focusing his headlight back over the heart. “We don’t call neuro, the patient can’t wait that long. Come on,” he whittles away your confidence, fire in his eyes. “Come on!”  

You can’t seem to control your anger, feeling it ween down to something brittle and broken. You snap. “Doctor Peña, respectfully shut the hell up. We’re gonna fix the aneurysm sac.”

“How?” He’s quick on the whip, and it feels like your lungs might give out. “Come on, smart girl, tell me how.” 

“You’re-You’re gonna use the sac to bring blood back to the spinal cord. He’s only paralyzed because the aorta isn’t able to send blood to his spine. You replace the aorta with a Dacron graft and rebuild the aneurysm into a second aorta.” It’s spoken with half confidence, but your eyes are fiercely stubborn. 

“Its only job is to send blood to the spine,” he mutters in agreement, hands already at work. 

“Like the freeway being blocked by traffic, you take a side road. Or, in this case, you’re building the side road.” 

He momentarily pauses his hands, pretty brown eyes searching yours. He stares you down longer than anticipated, and suddenly, the air feels charged. Heat tingles up your spine, and you find yourself challenging his stare. 

You deserve to be in this OR. You’re good, but Peña is great. And you will be great once you learn more from him. Him and his stupid fucking- brilliant hands.  

“I’m not building the side road; we are,” he corrects, and he asks the scrub nurses to give him the supplies for constructing the graph. 

Finally, his cheeks perk up, and a small smirk hides under his mask. “Suction, Doctor. Prep some 6-0 of prolene. We’re gonna need it.” Peña spends the next few hours teaching you how to reroute the aneurysm and restore blood flow, allowing you to reconstruct and place the graph. 

You and Peña are a well-oiled machine. He lets you take the lead under his supervision. It’s impossible not to scream inside your head about this moment. You feel like you’re floating, no longer panicking. Your fingers weave with an indescribable amount of delicacy. It feels like braiding hair, the way your fingers know where to move, the muscle movements natural despite never having done this procedure before. 

What a fucking high. And you’ve always been such an adrenaline junkie. 

Once word got out around the hospital that Peña was doing this incredible and unexpected surgery, the gallery was all standing and fighting for room to glance out the over-viewing window. And you were there, across from him the entire time. Every surgeon in your class is sitting in the gallery, damn jealous of you.

Peña watches you close up the patient and says nothing; you were perfection. 

You huff loudly upon completion, watching as Peña wipes his forearm across the sweat on his forehead. You despise him in this moment. Thankfulness fights your need for social justice. He can’t talk to you like that, belittle you, squish whatever confidence you had left. But you’re exhausted now and don’t feel like snapping in front of half the hospital. 

“We won’t know if he has full function until he’s awake. Page neuro and tell them they have a post-consult waiting for them.” His voice drips with exhaustion, rolling out his shoulders as he speaks, and you can’t help but watch as the broad muscles move under his shirt, tan skin now visible after the medical gown has been removed. 

Trailing behind him out of the OR, you strip your surgical gloves, gown, and mask in the trash as you try to calm your adrenaline. It never stopped beating; your heart, the strong and beautiful organ that it was, never stopped pounding. You can hear it in your ears, in your pulse, even thudding excitedly against your neck. 

It beat for your ambition, it beat for Doctor Peña. He’d never see you as his equal. Hell, he’d never see anyone as his equal. But today, he taught you. And you can’t think why. He has barely done his duty all year despite working at a teaching hospital where the residents are nearly quizzed on the minute by their attendings. 

Peña didn’t think anyone was worth his time, but he saw something in you today. Despite being thankful, you can’t help the anger you feel bubbling up as he smirks at you from down the hall. 

“What the hell, Peña?” 

Oh shit. 

The head of neurosurgery stomps down the hall in his navy blue scrubs, graying hair tucked under a scrub cap decorated by EEG waveforms. His eyes are narrowed on Peña, pointed finger at the ready. 

“Who the hell do you think you are? Your patient goes into paralysis and you don’t think to page me?”

Peña merely shrugs and sets his hands on his hips. “I did think to page you. And decided not to.” 

The head of neurosurgery scoffs in disbelief, raising his voice to a shout. “You’re too fucking- cocky for your own good! I could have done an assessment, they could gotten spinal cord ischemia- and a third-year resident of all people performing that surgery? What the hell were you thinking?!”

Fuck. Now you were brought into this, and standing at the end of the hallway couldn’t be farther away. Peña was as solid as stone, heat didn’t faze him. “She had it under control. She was perfect.”

Perfect. 

Neuro seems to smirk lightly, brain doctors who love to play mind games. “You two screwin’ around in the on-call rooms, too? Is that why you let her in on that surgery a fifth year couldn’t even perform? You pull that shit again, and I’ll-”

“You’ll what?”

Peña steps closer, narrowing his eyes on the short little man whose bark was louder than his bite. 

Neuro stutters for a moment, his posture shrinking. You can’t help but smirk, almost a little lightheaded at the way he steps in to protect your credibility. Peña was a dangerous surgeon to stick around with. His arrogance, next to his skills in the OR, could be taught by accident. 

Neuro grabs onto a slipping rope and sniffs as he glances around at the onlookers in the hallway. “Don’t think I won’t tell the Chief about what happened today. You and her are on thin ice.”

Peña smirks and pats his shoulder in a futile manner, pulling loose his scrub cap and running a hand through his jet-black tresses. “She had it under control. I wouldn’t have let her do anything she couldn’t handle. And if you talk about her like that again, I’ll knock your fuckin’ teeth out.” 

Peña’s already walking away, back to the angry little man. 

Your stomach bubbles with something unfamiliar, slipping behind the elbow of the wall and taking a shaky breath. You can’t feel anything besides the buzzing in your brain and the tremble in your hands. 

Doctor Javier Peña was defending your fucking honor. 

In Javier’s eyes, any surgeon can walk into an operating room and follow the procedure's already-written steps. They can rehearse, practice, and prep all they want. But the beauty of surgery was that it was both a science and an art. 

The heart was such an intricate, unpredictable thing. Healthy one minute, broken the next. 

Javier loves to read, but only for the plot twist endings—the ones you don’t see coming—which add richness to the story and make you fall deeper into the mystery. 

That’s why he loves the heart because it isn’t easy. It’s a challenge. He also loves that hearts make him feel special because not everyone can handle operating on a heart. That’s why people choose easier specialties. Cardio was hardcore. Javier was hardcore. 

Despite how difficult a cardio surgery can be, the surgeon must be gentle. Going too fast leads to mistakes. 

As if driving on black ice, you can’t twist your wheel too fast, or you’ll spin out and crash.  He was like that during his internship, even into his residency, but he carried raw talent that no one else could compare to. He was the star of his class, a surgeon who felt like he was more than a doctor, more than a God. A preacher to the soulless, a guide to the lost. He was his patient’s light at the end of the tunnel. He saved their fucking lives. 

In his eyes, heart surgeons needed to be sharks. He never met a shark who wasn’t fierce and damn near evil. It’s critical to success; to be a shark in the water, eager to see crimson. 

You were no shark—not yet. But your drive, dedication to the art, and willingness to work with him set you apart. He knows he’s not easy. But he’s never liked easy anyway. 

Javier slowly slumps down onto the edge of an on-call bed, smacking the light switch so damn hard that he thought he broke it. The room sinks into darkness, a velvet blanket of blue from the slight night sky slipping past the blinds. 

He was exhausted after today, the hours of his day stolen by back-to-back surgeries. His back ached, and his knees were screaming at him. But the comfort of a bed wasn’t all that he craved. 

You were brilliant, purring like a kitten whenever Javier stroked your ego. A younger colleague impressed him for the first time in months. 

God, you were young. What—ten years his junior? More? 

His face fell into his hands, heat flushing into his stomach at the thought of you. 

When he’s in surgery, the heart is all he can think about. But your eyes were on him for hours, watching him, learning from him—God, the things he could teach you. 

Suddenly, the door clicks open, and light floods the room, causing Javi to drop his head and squint. 

“We need to speak, Doctor Peña,” your silken voice evokes a sense of long-lost courage.  

You’re the last person who should be in his on-call room.

He groans and stands, eyes cast on your hand still nervously caught on the door handle. “Not now.” 

“Yes, now,” your voice wavers as you click the lock and cross your arms. His eyes drag over your body, hugged by the comfort of your soft blue scrubs. He can tell it’s taking everything in your body to control your temper, as he is still technically your boss. “You can’t just belittle me in front of the entire OR. No more calling me princess, no more calling me pretty. I’m a lot more than those pathetic superficial names, and you know it.” 

Javier runs his fingers down his nose, mutters something incoherent, and plants his hands on his hips before curtly jerking his head expectantly. “I said not now.” 

“You push me, you push me around, you push me in the OR, you just don’t stop-”

He snaps. 

“I push you to be great!” His brown eyes nearly turn obsidian as he locks you in his gaze. “You’ll be a better doctor when I’m done with you. You should be thanking me.”

You scoff indignantly and throw up your hands in frustration. You’re so fucking cute when you’re upset. “Thanking you?”

“Yeah. Thanking me. My ass is on the burner because I let you perform that surgery.”

“The one not even fifth-year residents could perform?”  

Peña pauses, his jaw shifting from left to right as he glances at the room's corner. “You heard all that, huh?”

There’s a lull, one that signifies you both know that he stepped in to defend his choices in the OR; specifically defending you. He watches as you slowly nod, pulling your hand off the doorknob and crossing your arms over your chest. 

“You didn’t have to do that. Now it looks like you favor me. I’m gonna get chewed out by the other surgeons, not to mention my entire class is going to think I’m sleeping with you.” 

Pena shrugs and purses his lips. “Let ‘em.”

He watches as your lips part, taken aback by his words. After a few doe-eyed blinks from you, the room falls out of focus, and it doesn’t feel like he’s standing in the hospital anymore. 

Javi imagines you in places he shouldn’t. At his place, in his apartment. On the couch. In his bed. He thinks about how different you’d look in the light of day, your body curved by jeans or even a sundress if the weather allowed. He’d be privy to the freckles on your back and shoulders, the dips of your hips, the slope of your body he wants to memorize with his eyes closed. 

But fantasizing wasn’t enough. 

“Let ‘em,” he mutters, low, and enclosing the space between your bodies. “If they already think that, let ‘em. Fuck ‘em.” 

Your face visibly softens, and your head naturally leaning into his hand that rests on your cheek. 

“I want you to teach me,” you whisper to him. And it’s so fucking soft, so sweet dripping from your lips, almost whining with need. 

He slowly nods as the room falls silent, Javi’s opposite hand coming to your hip, flushing your body against his. 

“Okay, cariño, I’ll teach you.” 

“Teach me,” you plead again, your chest heaving with anticipation. His eyes fall to the way your breasts protrude with each breath you take in your scrubs. The emotion that stirs in the room is enough to start a full-blown hurricane. 

Javi’s hands fall to the hem of your top, and you raise your arms swiftly, so pliant to his touches. But that’s your job, to anticipate his needs. 

The sight of your skin alone is enough to make his shoulders tighten, seeing you all pretty and exposed. A knot begins to grow in his stomach. But no, you weren’t done yet. 

“Please, Doctor Peña,”

No, don’t fucking beg. 

“I want you to use your hands and teach me.” Insistently, your fingers dip into your scrub bottoms, his eyes catching the pretty black band of your panties before the material is pooled on the floor. 

You stand there with soft eyes, wide and expecting. The longer he stands here, not touching you, it damn near looks like he’s hurting your feelings. But he’s not stupid enough to leave you abandoned. 

“Fuck,” he grunts, closing the distance in a matter of a second, his hands on your hips as he yanks your body into his firm front.

The kiss is tangled and heated, desperate and needy, so different compared to the subtle dance you both played before. But now it’s so obvious the pure need that consumes you both. 

Your small fists clutch his broad shoulders, and you moan into his mouth purely at the muscle built into his toned body. He licks into your mouth, and all he can think is how fucking sweet you taste. And how your pussy probably tastes just as sweet. 

Your fingers blindly reach for the light switch, flicking them off and sinking you into midnight once again. 

Javi tuts and shakes his head, breaking the kiss as he glares down at you. “You wanna see my hands work, cielo? Then you gotta watch.” He mutters as he flicks the switch back on, guiding you into the lower bunk of the on-call beds. 

He likes the way your hand slips from his cheek to the back of his neck, fingers gentle at first before clutching at the hair on his nape. 

Javi lets out an unexpected moan into your mouth as his body slots perfectly between your legs. His rough and calloused hands explore the smooth skin of your outer thighs. He squeezes and cradles the flesh with the perfect balance of strength and delicacy, the coarse hairs of his mustache scratching your skin as he presses kisses over your exposed breasts. 

He craves every breath that you take because of him, because of his actions. Your reactions are honest and instinctual, watching as you bite down on your lip because God forbid anyone saw you sneak into his room. 

Javi’s fingers are just as you expect, expertise as he unclips your bra with ease. He snatches away the black material, your nipples sensitive to the cool air as they peak under his eyeline. 

“Christ,” he mutters, his hot mouth on them in an instant. His tongue circles them meticulously before he suckles, lifting his head and watching as your breast is tugged into his mouth. A whine slips past your lips and he feels your legs tug tighter around his waist. It’s enough to get him hard, the way you won’t let him go, because this feels way too fucking good to stop. 

“Doctor Peña-”

“Javi,” he mutters upon letting your nipple go with a pop, moving to the other and showing it just as much affection, letting his teeth gently nip at the sensitive peak. “So fuckin’ pretty, princesa,” he mutters before sucking on a spot just above your breast, a place to mark his territory. 

You gasp at the feeling of his hot mouth on your skin, goosebumps flooding to his touches. You glance down through barely-open eyes as the skin changes color, from red to a soft purple as he draws blood to the surface. His teeth marks are still there even after he leaves, a smirk on his face as he slips lower to between your legs. 

“Javi, please,” you muster up, trying to regather air in your lungs. 

He shifts to his knees, one arm straight and hand planted beside your head as he hovers over you, the other finally slipping between your legs. Your lips part as he slowly swipes two up your center, seeing what makes you tick. 

His smirk widens as your eyes roll to the back of your head, biting down on the plush of your lower lip again to conceal a moan that surely would have slipped. He spreads you, letting his thumb pads delicately circle your clit experimentally. “So fucking wet for me.” 

Just as a moan emits, his hand is clamped over your mouth. 

“Shh, shh, shh,” he degrades, your eyes wide as the circles continue achingly. “Into my hand, baby girl, don’t want anyone else to hear you. Just me.” 

Your thighs begin to tremble as his thumb experiments on you, and you realize he’s learning. Everything is about learning for him. He learns and studies the heart, now he’s studying what makes you fucking soaked for him. 

The slow circles are enough to get you going, but as he continues to pick up the pace, he realizes you need more more more. 

His thumb moves faster and surfs the edges, it makes you twitch under him. His smirk widens as two of his fingers glide up and down your wet center, your hips nudging upward with neediness. 

“Wanna hear you,” he mutters, but you’re so scared to let out a peep. In this fog, you can’t even remember if you locked the door, and now your heart is pounding against your chest, the beautiful muscle that it is. 

“Come on,” he says goadingly, pushing two fingers into your entrance. Your eyes blow wide as you let out a soft sigh into his palm, followed by a wimpy whine. “Give it to me,” he mutters as his fingers start to move through your tight heat. He’s trying to find it, working himself deeper and deeper, curling them just right and finally-

His hand clamps harder down on your mouth as you let out a loud cry, eyes shutting hard as your body writhes against him. You leak out against his fingers, hearing them squish with your arousal as he smirks. “That’s fuckin’ right, feels so good to let it out, doesn’t it? You can gimme more,” he encourages, and you don’t think you fucking can. 

But he works against you so feverishly, the combination of his thumb on your clit and fingers fucking your entrance, once the seal was broken, it was hard to contain it. 

“Fuck!” You cry out as he scissors you open, separating his fingers and forcing your entrance to work itself wider for him. The noises are obscene, soaking his fingers as he continues to plunge so deeply into you. Your hand shakily reaches up to the bicep bulging beside your head, nails sinking into his tan flesh. 

His movements have your thighs beginning to shake as he searches, still learning, looking for that one spot that has you breathless. Then it fucking sucks the air from your lungs. 

You gasp against his hand and clutch his wrist desperately, feeling him massage the sweet, spongy part inside of you that has sparks going off at the base of your spine. Your eyes begin to water at the overwhelmingness of it all, him and his stupid fucking perfect hands. 

“Javi,” you pant against his mouth, because something indescribable is building. Your back arches against his body. He doesn’t even need to look at what he’s doing, he’s so distracted in watching you unfold. 

Finally, it’s all too much, and he’s got you in the palm of his hand. You can’t help but bite into his palm as you sob against his hand, his fingers so perfect inside of you, leading you to the crescendo of your orgasm. The build leaves you lightheaded, your thighs twitching against his hips as he purrs your name. 

“Just wanna little taste,” he mutters as he finally slips his hand from your mouth, still feeling the burn of your pretty bite. His chest lands on the mattress, and you sit up a bit to allow him space. 

Javi’s arms wrap around your legs, hands now on your inner thighs as he helps spread you open. You whimper, still so sensitive that you nearly twitch away as he moves in. “Aww, come here, sweet girl. Know you taste so good, don’t you?” 

You weakly nod and sink back into the mattress, your eyes falling closed as he slowly sponges kisses to your warm inner thighs. Your hole still puckers for the loss of his fingers, a groan leaving his throat at the sight. He teasingly flicks his tongue against your twitching clit, and it’s enough to make your entire body seize. 

“So fucking sensitive,” he mutters adoringly, spreading your labia and letting his tongue flush against the juices that soak his tongue. He audibly grunts against you and works slowly to clean you up. His eyes meet yours, and he reads your wrecked face instantly. 

You let out a hesitant moan, your fingers tiredly weaving into his dark locks and nails gently scratching along his scalp. His mustache tickles your clit and you try to breath through the aftershocks of your orgasm. 

He was right, his hands were fucking perfect. Look at the way he learned your body, what it was chasing after, how it could be healed with his touch. You only with to give him the same. 

You sit up off your elbows, and he looks up at you with your arousal sitting silkily across his mustache. You cup his jaw, and he sits up with you, your mouth landing on his. You taste yourself, and it almost makes you shy, knowing Doctor Peña has tasted you. More importantly, made you cum with nothing more than his fingers. 

The opportunity to touch his body is one you didn’t realize you craved, small palms moving down his front. On instinct, he parts from your kiss and pulls his scrub top off. And God, you were right with every assumption. 

You knew he worked out, all cardio Gods adhere to the rule of working out to keep the heart muscle strong, but this was a different kind of strong. He was a Greek marble statue, all arms and toned chest and a waist you could easily tangle your legs around. 

“Jesus,” you breathe out.

Javi smirks confidently, his large hands cupping your face once more and tangling his tongue with yours. You swallow the lump in your throat and move your hand to his upper thigh, coasting your hand along until you feel his shaft protruding against his scrubs. 

“Take ‘em off,” you whisper. 

“Are you asking me or telling me?” He asks confidently, forcing a grunt out of your mouth as you tug against the hem. 

“Telling. Now off with them.” You command. 

He tuts as he stands from the mattress. “That’s my girl,” he mutters proudly, circling his thumbs along the waist of his scrubs before pushing them down, briefs included, stepping out of the material that pooled around his feet. 

You slowly raise an eyebrow, your lips parting at his size. No wonder he was so cocky. You sit at the edge of the on-call bed and he steps forward knowingly. 

“S’okay, pretty girl. Just wanna make you feel good.” 

You stubbornly shake your head and take his hands, guiding him closer as your doe-eyes meet his melting brown ones. 

“I can do it.” Wrapping a hand slowly around his length, your other hand rests on his thigh to allow some security. 

He takes in a slow breath, his eyes growing heavy as you spit along his length. 

“Fuck,” he mutters as his large hand gently comes to rest on the back of your head, fingers intertwining in your hair as he begins to clutch them possessively. 

It felt so good to be the one in charge, to be his guidance. He wants you so badly, your hot mouth wrapped around him, begging for his own release just as you were. 

You sponge kisses along his length, watching him almost in a taunting way, because you know he’s going to fall apart before you. Flatting your tongue and sticking it out, he grunts at the sight. Leaning forward, you take him in your mouth. Your tongue circles his beady tip and you get to enjoy the taste of his pre-cum on your tastebuds. 

He’s salty and musky, hours after a long surgery and it tastes divine. All man. All Javier Peña. 

Javi’s breaths are getting faster as you begin to bob your head, taking him inch by inch until you felt comfortable enough to really go for it. 

“Such a fucking- overachiever,” he grins, your nose brushing against the coarse hair along his base as your eyes clench closed, choking around him but not letting off. “Holy fuck,” he moans. Your nails sink into his thigh and he hisses, your one and only reminder for him to stay quiet. He pulls off with a pop, leaving you pouting as you stroke over his impressive length. He twitches in your hand and he’s so heavy in your palm. 

“Don’t want anyone to hear us, Peña,” you remind as you break to give kisses along his thigh where your nails created crescent moon shapes. 

“Got me so close, baby. Don’t wanna cum yet, though.” 

You pout but ultimately leave him with one last kiss to his shaft. 

Javi can’t seem to get enough of your kisses, tracing his tongue along your bottom lip as he moves you back onto the mattress once more. Your fingers glide down his body, feeling the ripples of his muscles that you hope stays engrained in your mind forever. 

Even if it’s just a one-time thing, you wouldn’t mind storing the way he makes you unfold so effortlessly, caring to learn your body and its cravings. 

“Please, Javi,” you whimper against his mouth, feeling the warmth of his body slipping between yours once again, and it feels like a home. “Need you.” 

He nods breathlessly against you, propping up the pillow behind your head. You’re not sure why it gives you butterflies, taking care of you more than just sexually. But he pats the pillow a few times nonetheless and centers it to the back of your head, not stopping until you’re smiling up at him. 

Your hand cradles his jawline, thumb gliding across his chin before his mouth is back on yours. His lips part as your gasp enters his mouth, feeling his hand guide his tip from your clit to your leaking entrance. 

“Wet all over again,” he mutters against your mouth, but acting surprised is pointless. 

“Uh huh,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth before letting him envelop you fully. 

Javier listens to you, reads your body language. He feels you grow tense as his tip nudges at your entrance, feeling your legs tighten hesitantly around his waist. 

Your hands are soft on his back, moving along the carved muscles and following their runs like wild rivers. Perhaps it is a way you calm your nerves, touching his warm skin relaxes your walls. He’s able to push onward. 

“Jesus- Javi,” you whimper, letting him sink his length fully into you until he bottoms out in one thrust that leaves him groaning. The pillow he’s laid down for you is held by his fist, the veins down his arms bulging against your head. 

“Fuck, that’s it,” his chest rumbles, Javi starting to find a rhythm as he guides his length in and out of you. 

The first couple of strokes are dragging, aching. It’s hard to breathe and your nose brushes against his neck. 

Javier is so lost in the feeling of you, your tight little cunt squeezing repeatedly around his cock. The hand not holding him up runs up the side of your body, first on the outside of your thigh, then moving upwards to squeeze your ass in his large palm. You moan into his ear, and he does it again, both of you smirking against the kiss. Then he’s on your hip, following the pretty curve before he wraps his arm on the underside of your body, cradling your shoulder. 

It’s like a seatbelt clicking in, gasping as you feel him lock you into place. Your eyes widen as you look up at him, Javi coming to rest his forehead against yours as he begins to snap his hips. 

With the change in pace, the energy becomes charged with something less delicate. It’s like you were witnessing Javier’s two-sided personality, trying to learn and teach, and now, the arrogant, cocky shark. 

The drag, once painful, now feels heavenly, the ache becoming a sedative that has you cooing for more. He’s more relentless now, hips snapping into yours that has your eyes rolling into the back of your head. Your jaw points to the ceiling, and he sees the opportunity for his lips to latch onto your neck. 

At the height of sensitivity, you feel everything. The sweat trickling down your temple, his teeth carving marks on your neck, your breasts pressed against his toned front; he’s all encapsulating. 

You whine as you squeeze around his cock, his hand on your shoulder pressing harder into your skin. He keeps you there, pounding into you, the coarse dark hair grinding against your clit so perfectly. Your core tightens, and you feel your second orgasm begin at its crest. He must be close, too, because he’s driving into you with ferocity. 

“Javi,” you cry against his neck, your nose brushing against his tousled hair, “I-I can’t.”

Javier shakes his head and moves the hand on your shoulder down between your bodies, finding your quivering clit and adding pressure to the small ministrations he starts on. His lips move to your ear, placing a kiss against the outer shell. 

“You can,” he demands in a stern tone, his hot pants fanning against your face as his aquiline nose nudges your cheekbone, “you can give me another one, cariño.”

He wants to see your star explode. See you dissolve before him into a million tiny sparks, fizzling into the night sky so he can take your beauty in fully, from inner soul to outer exterior. You were slipping into the void before him like a firework bursting. 

“Fuck, I can,” you pant, your head dropping back onto the pillow as heat slips down your spine and your vision goes dark. 

You squeeze his cock repeatedly as your orgasm surges through you, back arching off the mattress and your legs tightening around his slim waist. He can feel your pulsing clit against the pad of his thumb, feeling you gush around his dick as his balls slapping against your core grow slick with your arousal. 

From below, your vision is hazy, and he looks so fucking handsome. The surgical mask doesn’t do him justice. 

“You can come inside me,” you whisper as you lean in and nibble his earlobe, hearing him grunt at your comment. 

“Christ,” he mutters, “you have no idea what you do to me.” Javi gently tugs on your lower lip before he distracts himself with your kisses. His snapping hips begin to lose their rhythm, becoming more sloppy and erratic.

He was chasing the feeling, distracted by how perfect you were for him today.

The vein along his temple bulges as his desperate espresso eyes meet yours. All he needs to see is that little smirk of yours, and it sends him over the edge. 

His jaw drops, and a silent moan wants to slip out desperately, but somehow, he’s able to conceal it with low grunts of something that resembles your name.

You begin to feel his warmth spread through your core, making your insides fuzzy. He trembles; you both do. It feels like he comes for forever, but frankly, you don’t want it to stop. 

This feeling sits still inside you, humbles you, and centers you with the universe. Your life is hectic, and for one hour today, you’re not running around from one room to the next or getting chewed out by the senior doctors. This was the perfect stress relief; Javier Peña was a damn good break. 

His strong body collapses over yours, and any residual strength he has left is being held by a tiny string that keeps you from being crushed. 

He lays on his side, shoulder blades pressed against the cold cinderblock wall. He buries his hand in his face, and you wonder if he regrets what he’s done. 

Did he? 

“Thanks,” you whisper, reaching blindly for scrubs and accidentally tossing on his scrub pants in your orgasmic haze. 

“For what? And those are mine. You can have them in a few years when you’re an attending.” He hums, smirking as he pulls the sheets up to cover his lower half. 

You scoff and pull off the pants, switching out for your own after you clasp your bra behind your back. 

“For the lessons.” 

He watches you change, slipping your shoes back on and fixing your hair in the mirror. You try to ignore the feeling of his come slipping out of you, your legs as wobbly as a newborn calf. 

“Yeah? What did you learn?” He cocks an eyebrow and blindly reaches for a pack of cigarettes on the windowsill, propping open the window a few inches. 

Your eyes scan over him slowly as you tighten the tie on your scrub bottoms, a slow smirk gradually growing on your lips. 

“I know why you smoke.” 

Ignoring his intrigued face, you flip off the lights and leave his on-call room in a midnight blue film. The heavy door inches open, light shedding through and inching into the darkness. It clicks closed behind you just as your pager goes off, seeing that there is a message coming through for your newly reconstructed aortic arch patient. 

“Shit,” you mutter. 

The door swooshes open behind you, and Peña reappears dressed in his navy scrubs, surging past you. His shoulder knocks yours on the way out, and you can’t help but scoff. 

“Let’s go. Pick up the pace,” His voice is raspy and tired, but you keep his stride as you work your way towards the intensive care unit. 

Doctor Peña glances back over his shoulder, his smirk mirroring your own.  

Even a shark has its vices. Perhaps after tonight, you’re Javi’s. 

main masterlist | notifications blog if you enjoyed the read, commets and reblogs are super appreciated!

lexi styles

eclectic array from the button museum.

I LOVE DADS 🤞

#he's such a dad

girlhood calcifying into this bruised adulthood.

nothing new, taylor swift // @seravph // drop kick aria, sally wen mao // the unabridged journals of sylvia plath // sugar, spice and everything nice, d.s. // girlhood, stevie edwards // jenny zhang // would've could've should've, taylor swift // churching, kristin chang // ? // taylor swift // seven, taylor swift // girlhood is godhood, mimi evangeline @tenderfaery // everything is illuminated, jonathan safran foer

if you love me, you don’t love me in a way i understand

wishbone, richard siken // bite the hand, boygenius // u.k // the only thing, sufjan stevens // fleabag // moon song, phoebe bridgers // u.k // u.k // used to be friends, searows

sweet child o' mine | masterlist

neighbor!joel x f!reader | ao3 | playlist

joel miller has lived next door - since forever. you've been a pain in his ass - since forever. one drunken night changes everything - forever.

please check out individual chapter content warnings before reading!!! this series features adult content and themes which may be triggering.

series warnings: age gap (late 20s reader, late 40s joel), unplanned pregnancy, discussion of (non-graphic) car accident & dead parents, emotional cheating & some minor/one major instance of physical cheating, smut, angst, fluff.

main series

pt. i

pt. ii

pt. iii

this is… a masterpiece… fucking LOVE every part of this trilogy, the way you write so beautifully the relationship and every complicated thing about the characters AND THATS WHAT MAKES THEM PERFECT FOR EACH OTHER!!!!! jesus just love everything you write. don’t stop ✋🏻

Mr. Miller’s Girlfriend

pairing: joel miller x fem!reader (afab, use of she/her, use of the word girl a lot tbh)    

rating: explicit. (18+. mdni.)       word count: 11.6k………… jesus fucking hell im sorry guys its too long  requested: yes i love u all summary: “it’s delicious, this game you and Joel play.”   warnings: mentions of canon-typical injuries, blood loss/descriptions of blood, consumption of alcohol, reader gets injured, over use of the word slut, age gap (unspecified), sir kink, Jackson era, jealousy, allusions to cheating, toxic reader and Joel tbh, only because they don’t know how to talk about feelings, light voyeurism kinda, mentions of masturbation (m), rough sex (PiV, unprotected), creampie, oral (f!receiving), edging, thigh riding, slapping (reader gets slapped and joel does too, all consensual), spit kink, nipple play, slight exhibitionism (sex in front of a window), threats of bondage, threats of anal play (once), overstimulation, mutliple orgasms, slight breeding kink, dirty talk, degradation, praise!!!!!!!, dacryphilia, porn with SOME feelings, fluff too ngl just a bit, possessive fr

notes: okay finally the third part… i had such an overwhelming response to the first two parts thank you guys so, so much for the love!!! ill be honest this stuff is my motivation so pls let me know if you like it :) this is so so long but i rly wanted to include as many of the requests as i could for yall :) and finally some feelings with reader and Joel! trying out a new writing style with swapping povs so lmk if it is better or worse! i hope you guys enjoy! 

[this is a sequel to Mr Miller and Mr Miller’s House.  other Joel fics:     fever       landmines  ]

★  

        the jukebox in the corner of the room has a slight skip to it. 

it’s been bugging Joel, itching the back of his mind as his gaze lumbers over every measly lump of a person in the room; his mind miles away as Tommy - or maybe even Dahlia - yaps away about something or other in his ear. 

his fingers, dry from the blistering sun then pelted down with the torrential pours of afternoon thunderstorms scratch unfortunately loud against his sweating glass. the whiskey sloshes and clinks the ice against the cup. 

Keep reading

Salvatore

pairing: javier peña x afab!fem!reader

summary: a secretary with an attitude problem, a DEA agent with an insolence problem. years ago, you’d stopped hoping for his character to improve, but he’s still gunning to set you straight. it’s the worst day of your life, and javier peña aims to take advantage of that.

warnings: rough sex/smut (fingering, fem penetration, oral [m receiving]) so 18+ only content, fem afab reader, mentions of reader having long hair, bratty!reader, brat-tamer!javi, alcohol consumption, smoking (so much smoking, I’m sorry but it’s narcos), dubcon (slight intoxication, coercion if you really, really squint)

beta reader: @millllenniawrites that’s BABIE

word count: 10.3k (imsosorry)

no use of y/n in this fic

hey y’all ! i said i had a longer javi fic in store and i was not kidding lmfao !!! slight warning, the reader is a bit of an asshole so teaaaaa. anyhow, don’t forget to join the taglist if you’re nasty, and feedback & comments are always welcome mwah mwah -em<3

—

Nothing ever went to plan with Peña around.

It was a curse. A nightmare. You were so careful with your agenda, making sure meetings with the ambassador happened on time, every time, and uninterrupted. When that didn’t happen? It was your ass on the line. And when that didn’t happen? It was always because of agent Peña.

“I can’t let you in, right now,” you hiss, tired of repeating yourself. “She specifically told me not to let people in. Not to let you in,” you add, pointing a finger at his chest.

“Aw, c’mon,” Peña’s murmured supplication rolls off his tongue, “It’s real important.”

You huff indignantly. Keeping your voice low, you retort, “Every time it’s life or death, Peña—”

“Why don’t you ever call me Javier, sweetheart?” A playful twinkle dances in his twilit eyes. “You’ve known me longer than any of the other girls I’m on a first name basis with, here.”

It was true. You’d been working at the embassy for ages, now, babysitting big-headed politicians or power-drunk DEA agents and soldiers. Peña was the worst of them all, solely in virtue of the fact that he knew he could get away with everything. Men loved him because he was tough, charismatic, and capable; women loved him because he was tough, charismatic, capable, and looked like a vintage pornstar. It only took you a month at the job to grow violently sick of hearing his name cherished on the lips of your female coworkers, forced to listen to the gorey details of nearly every. single. office. conquest.

But that wasn’t even the worst of it.

The worst might’ve been when his ‘informants’ called, their mewling voices asking to leave a message for ‘Javi.’ Or, it might’ve been the culminating effect of his reaping the rewards, time after time, for his insolence, gaining respect, praise, pussy—and all because he never fucking listened.

Years came and went, and somewhere down the line you’d accepted that Javier Peña was simply destined to be a lifelong affliction.

Keep reading

Man I'm just bloody feral for the Miller Brothers and that damn breeding kink 😩😭 help a sis out!! Keep posting that nasty stuff please 🥹💖

Cucked

Summary: You want a baby so bad you fail to realize how it might affect your marriage and Joel impresses with his skills as a father so much you catch yourself imagining him in your husband’s stead.

A/n: I will for you!!! This is a whole story omgoshness, I wasn’t expecting it to be this big. There will be a small Drabble after this, with Tommy >:)

Warnings: Smut, heavy on the breeding kink, reader is pregnant for most of it (it’s Tommy’s), infidelity, some barely mentioned concerns of infertility, Tommy is such a sweetheart #undeserved, Joel is an asshole and mad jealous, dark fic!!!

Tommy had introduced you to Joel, he thought you two would get along well, but he didn't expect you to get along that well. The first time Joel had laid eyes on you his face brightened, he tipped his head down at you, shaking your hand for a second too long.

Then Tommy wrapped his arms around your waist and Joel had swallowed so harshly, his throat bobbed.

He was happy for his little brother, he had a partner, somewhere safe to live, a community that cherished him. He had even showed him the ring he had found in an abandoned jewelry shop somewhere out where he usually patrolled.

He was happy for his little brother.

Then you started popping up all the time, always knocking at his door in the morning, asking him to accompany you to breakfast at the hall. You asked Ellie too, but in those moments whenever you looked in his direction he felt as if you were only speaking to him. You wanted his company.

"Tommy's busy in the mornings, either on patrol or helping build something."

Joel had the urge to ask you if he could help around Jackson too, he's sure he could do what Tommy does, maybe even do it better.

He hums as a response, fighting the urge to bring mouthfuls of food into his mouth and eat it all quickly. Ellie had no shame though, you patted her back whenever you noticed her scarfing down her food.

"You'll get a stomachache, baby," you would scold softly, a hint of a smile on your lips. He smiled at you appreciatively when she slowed down. She never listens to him, unless it was serious, it seemed as if a gentler approach was needed. Something he didn't think he could provide naturally.

You had this motherly feeling to you, he's sure you would be a great parent. Tommy had told him how you were trying, how he finally felt safe enough and secure in how the town's own wellbeing was to start looking towards settling down, with you.

Joel got quiet after that conversation, letting him talk on and on about how you two were reorganizing your home, gathering supplies for the baby or babies if you were lucky. He had winked at that, a smirk firmly planted on his face mentioning offhandedly that he remembers their uncle having twins, as well as their grandparents having a pair as well.

Joel had excused himself afterwards and you had caught him at the door of your house just as he was stepping out and you were getting your keys.

"Hey, Joel," you had greeted, pulling him into a hug.

You wrapped your arms around him tightly, your hands sliding up his sides and onto his back, accidentally going under his jacket. Your chest was flushed against his, he could feel your breasts squeeze and compress against him.

He reciprocated all too willingly.

"Mrs. Miller."

You chuckle, he'd call you that and it would sound as if he himself had given you the name to keep. You vaguely remember the time a newcomer had asked where your husband was, Tommy sitting right next to you.

You gave them a weird look, then they clarified, "Where's Joel?"

Tommy had chuckled it off, ignoring your growing frown. It was funny to him, but it wasn't to you. He hadn't thought of the implications of the misconceptions like you had.

When you thought about it, you two are only ever together at night, when he was done with his day. Most of your activities now included fucking or sleeping, you barely even spoke now.

"How are you?" you ask.

He nods, pursing his lips, hating the way you had stepped back and your warmth left him, your hands resting on his forearms so that you could have a small chat before he left.

"Good,” he purses his lips and sucks in his teeth, “heard you were thinkin' of adding a Miller to the family."

Your face scrunches in what looks to be embarrassment and some form of annoyance. Tommy loves to go around town and run his mouth, you glance behind Joel to catch Tommy leaning against the doorway, you narrow your eyes playfully before your face fell a little, seeing that he had his boots on along with his pack on his shoulder, ready to leave again.

You focus back on Joel, your smile returning naturally.

"Yeah, hopefully. It's taking a bit."

You look down to the ground, trying to hide your disappointment. When he turned back, he could see Tommy's own look of slight despair. Your relationship was at a strain, despite himself, he started to find elation in his heart at the fact.

Especially when you started to talk to him about it.

Ellie had just finished eating, so quickly you hadn't even finished your eggs. You watch as she drapes her coat over herself, practically bouncing with energy to meet up with her new friends. Joel's expression softens when he sees the way you stare at her, a knowing look on your face, an eyebrow raised.

"Be careful, don't go running around by the gates‐"

"I won't. Promise."

You hum, skeptical. You had seen her the other day, along with her group. They were always up to something, most of the time just causing slight annoyances to the townsfolk. They were good kids but had low survival instincts.

You worry about her, as if you were her own mother. Joel is taken back to the night you had come over for dinner, Tommy busy being part of the elected council. Ellie had confessed to you first about her crush on this girl she met in school.

"She's so fucking cool. She has all these tattoos and shit‐"

"You have a crush on her?" you had asked simply, accompanied by a teasing grin.

She was scared, admittedly. To talk about that aspect of her life, to express it openly, if at all. Her face fell, growing paler by the second.

"Don't tell Joel..."

That had broken his heart. An axe pressing down the side, twisting and pushing so hard he thought he couldn't breathe for a second.

"I won't."

The beating organ in his chest seemed to plummet to his stomach.

"But..." you had pushed her hair back, pulling her to your side, your hand squeezing her shoulder and arm reassuringly, "That man loves you so much, he would rather die than make you feel as if he didn't."

Ellie had told him in passing, asking how to ask girls out, her eyes flickering between him and the hallway every few seconds. Of course you were there, sipping from one of his mugs, enjoying the coffee he had offered to share with you. He smiled at you so gratefully you thought another man was staring at you. He’s sure if you hadn’t reassured Ellie she would have never mentioned a thing.

It was sweet, watching him try to explain how to impress a woman, turning to you for help but only being met with a shrug and a smirk. You liked watching them communicate, live, just be. He really did care about her like a father, a good one, even if he asked too many questions about this mystery girl named Cat.

You were starting to see her as a daughter too, although you don't think you'll ever confess that to anyone, not even Tommy. If anything the closest thing you could be with Ellie is aunt and niece.

You sigh when she leaves in a rush. You briefly glance down at your stomach, feeling your disappointment flare in your mind once again at waking up to find out you were still going through your cycle that month.

"How are you?" Joel muttered. A question echoed back to you for once, since you always wanted to know about everyone else's day.

You nod, following by a small "Good," which he didn't believe at all. He reaches a hand across the table, and he wonders how Tommy never understands why people mistake you and Joel for a couple. You flip your hand, your fingers twisting together tightly.

"Is it Tommy?"

You sigh, breathing out shakily and attempting to smile and brush off the sadness that envelopes you.

"It's not‐ he's working so much to make sure we have everything for the baby.”

You sigh.

“It just feels as if he's not here with me anymore."

Joel knew all too well how Tommy gets when he sets a goal. He came all the way to Wyoming from Boston all by himself for god's sake. He tends to leave his family behind. Joel would never.

In the absence of anyone around and and the sinking feeling in your chest, you finally let yourself break.

Your eyes fill with tears, your lips start to wobble and you try to hide your face with your hand. He stands quickly, already beside you on the wooden bench.

"I just‐ I feel so lonely sometimes."

His arms go around your shoulders, you’re enveloped in his scent and warmth. Shivers go down your spine. When was the last time Tommy had held you this way? His head atop yours, squeezing you tightly and pressing you against his chest as he cradles your head. It's been too long.

"Hey, darlin'. I'm here, it's okay," he whispers. He pulls back to see you so broken, so beautiful and vulnerable. He hates the way his heart beats wildly at the hopeful way you look up at him with half lidded eyes.

"You're not alone, baby. I'm right here with you."

He looks into your eyes deeply, his hands cupping your face. It was wrong, he knew it was. It should be Tommy in his place, he shouldn’t have started leaning in, his eyes shouldn’t have flickered to your lips, prompting you to do the same.

You grip him by the lapels of his thick jacket, pushing yourself to meet his lips with your own desperately. He reciprocates with a deep groan, as if he had been holding it in since the day he met you.

You stop when he had coaxed your mouth open, his tongue sliding past your lips and caressing your own. You stop when you give a high whine, feeling your core pulse at the way his hands travelled to your waist and hips, dipping into the denim of your jeans. You stop when your hands ran over his hair, feeling the roots and lightly tugging. You stop when you realize his hands were different, his lips and his hair weren't what you were used to.

You stop when you realize you weren't kissing Tommy.

You push away quickly, leaving him leaning towards you as if he couldn't get enough. He genuinely couldn't, your taste was intoxicating, the feel of your body against his so intimately made his mind blur.

“Shit-Joel-“

He attempted to kiss you again, but you had leaned further away, standing and shaking your head in shock. He watched you leave, rushing to put on your jacket, taking big strides. You glanced at him one last time as you passed by the window, catching his stare, how his mouth hung open and he licked his lips when you had stopped slightly only to continue forward, flustered.

You were like a drug to him.

You had acted as if nothing had happened, you haven't gone to his house for dinner, you hadn't invited him to get breakfast with you and you haven't been alone with him since.

It was just a kiss, he thought. A kiss and he lost you for who knows how long. He watches you when Tommy invites him over for dinner, how you talk to Ellie most of the night, how you keep a hand on Tommy at all times like a message. You were Tommy's and you wanted him.

He could see through the facade easily. He wonders if you think of the kiss often. If you imagine Joel instead of Tommy when he fucks you every night. He thinks of you often, almost every night when he jerks his cock in his fist, imagining your whines and whimpers, how wet you must get and how you crave touch so intensely.

He imagines you under the layers of clothes you wear, how he would peel them off slowly, make you squirm under his gaze. Some nights your stomach is normal, soft and healthy, others it's swollen, so much so your breasts rest atop it like a shelf.

He likes those nights, when he imagines himself giving you the baby you wanted, what Tommy seems to be lacking on. He'd stave himself off, letting go of his cock or squeezing so tightly his orgasm is lost. He'd have a vision in his mind, your big puffy tits in his mouth, sucking at a constant rate to get your milk going down his throat and falling heavily into his stomach.

He wanted to be full of you, satiated by what you provide. He wanted you to be full of him. Fucking twins. You had told him the other day, before you had started avoiding him entirely, how twins run in your family.

Two beautiful babies. Healthy and chubby because you two would take care of them with so much love and care. Beautiful babies he would watch grow and become beautiful people.

Then you started feeling sick a couple months later and the next few months were filled with celebrations and gatherings all for the growing Miller family. He started seeing you more often, his desires increased tenfold. Each time he would see you, your belly would be slightly larger, your body softer but your eyes were starting to dull.

Tommy's appearance was becoming less and less prominent and you would be surrounded by mothers and parents, elderly and children, all trying to ensure that you were doing well.

Your eyes only ever brightened when Ellie was around, which wasn't often anymore. She was growing into a young adult and to be completely truthful she didn't find anything worth talking about with you anymore, not since your condition had impeded you from riding on a horse comfortably, let alone help patrol or keep up at the stables.

It felt as if everyone was slowly starting to avoid you. At least the people you cared for. Tommy picks up any job and task he could get his hands on, if only for a few extra shares of food, clothing, materials and guns, and Ellie is off with her friends, worrying the whole town.

Recently they had made their way out of Jackson, taking some of the horses from the stables without telling anyone. You remember the look on Joel's face when a patrolmen found them out and drinking alcohol, he was so red and his brows were so furrowed deep he looked cartoonish.

Your heart had warmed at his sigh afterwards, shaking his head and most likely having counted to ten in his head to keep in his anger. A pat on the back is all he did, telling her to go to school and that when she came back they were going to discuss some things.

His eyes connected with yours afterwards, catching you staring and for the first time in a while you kept your gaze steady. Your hand had gone to the now prominent swell of your middle, wondering how Tommy would have reacted to the very same situation Ellie was in.

Would he shout and scream or would he collect himself and give a stern warning? Would he even be a good father?

You stop yourself before you could think on it more. Thinking about wanting Tommy to be like Joel was mean. This was his first time being a dad, Joel had already done it before. It wasn't fair to judge so quickly, especially if the baby wasn't even in his arms yet.

But wouldn't it be nice... you imagine Joel with a baby in his arms, swaying ever so slightly, smiling down at the bundle of warmth. Then he would look to you, his eyes softening when you smiled tiredly at the scene. Just like in that moment, when Joel had smiled at you and you had smiled sheepishly back, a sign that he could get close again.

Joel isn't the type of man to let an opportunity go to waste.

...

You waddle, you waddle now, and it was exhausting. There was no one to complain to, no one to even talk about these problems you have been dealing with because Tommy was tired too. He would come back home, finding you half asleep with a book in hand on the rocking chair he had been able to get by trading and barely speak a word before he went up to shower and ultimately go to bed for his morning shift.

He didn't hear how you shifted in bed, trying to find a comfortable position, how sometimes you would wake up nauseated and puke when he was still asleep. He wasn't even there when you felt the first kicks, when you had dropped your laundry to the floor and stood in shock when you had finally felt something shift. It was said in passing, a comment about having felt the baby, and it was shrugged off, a passing hand at your shoulders and a peck to your lips before he left.

Disheartening and disappointing is what it was. Things were so good before, then you had asked to build a family with him and you regret it now. You had just gotten married and you were so desperate for how things were before the outbreak that you didn't realize how hard things would be to even get ready for such a monumental step in your life.

You were hoping to talk about it in the evening when you knew Tommy would be home. He had taken a morning and night shift, having midday to rest. You hope it meant you would see him more, to stop thinking about other men in his stead.

A sharp bell from the door startled you, and when your head turned sharply to the clock by the wall your heart started pumping with joy. The door opened and Tommy was met with a bright smile.

The hug had made him take a step back, almost losing his balance from how you threw your whole body in his arms. He holds you as tight as he could, slightly swaying and sighing from the way your head fell almost perfectly into the warm junction of his neck and shoulder.

Your bodies radiated happiness, your minds turning blank at each other's touch. His hands gripped yours tightly when you had started roaming, your lips already working over his exposed neck after a few seconds of inhaling his deep musk.

It's been months since you've been this close and your body needed some release. You were already wet, your pussy clenching at the thought of him taking his jacket and flannel off and exposing his broad chest and shoulders in the tight thermos you knew he wore all the time to keep from the winter's cold.

You held in a moan at the taste of his skin, your tongue peaking from your lips teasingly and your hand moving to the front of his pants that you felt slowly becoming firmer with each passing second.

You heave when he had stopped you, pulling back to look in your eyes, his brown orbs full of playfulness and slight disappointment.

"Joel and Ellie are going to stay awhile, we can't right now, honey."

It took a minute, you were licking your lips, shifting uncomfortably as he stepped back and let go of you. Then a couple feet from your front porch Joel Miller comes striding in, a small, soft smile on his face as he trudges up the steps.

"Mrs. Miller," he greets, humor in his voice. Your eyes narrow at his confidence as if you hadn't made every move to not be in his presence alone for the past few months.

Tommy's hand caresses up and down on your arm, trying to soothe the mounting disappointment and discomfort at his arrival.

"The generator doesn't work, tried to fix it but looks like something's off with the power."

You eye them on your front door, squinting between the both of them in disbelief.

"I I know I haven't asked the woman of the house yet." He expects a chuckle, you just stare, his face falls slightly, "But I had already offered them the guest rooms and a Miller always keeps their promises."

...

Tommy learned how to cook, for you. It was rough the first few times, when he would give you either burnt food or half cooked and raw meats but with each dinner he had gotten better. Staring at his back, you watch him gathering ingredients from cupboards, turning to ask if you knew where certain things were and smiling when you just motioned with your head in annoyance.

You stand with your back against the kitchen island, sighing loudly from the company. You remember the night he proposed, he pulled his hair in a bun, like he did now to cook, and wore an old dress shirt. He found a record player, brought it home and played some slow songs. His eyes looked so deep into yours that night, it felt like you fell in love all over again.

He turns to you, crossing his arms and giving you that gigawatt smile and it feels as if your chest was starting to combust, the memory of that night suddenly coming to fruition again.

"Can I?"

Joel's chest blocks your view, you stand up straighter. He didn't ask again when you looked up at him in confusion, his hands already at your stomach, roaming. His fingers prod at the end of your shirt- Tommy's shirt, and pulls up to reveal a sliver of the skin of your stomach.

"Your niece has been growing," Tommy adds after a few seconds, going back to focusing on the stove. He was oblivious to the way you shifted on your feet uncomfortably.

"Niece? You think it's a girl,” Joel asks, looking down at you, his brow quirked.

"Know so, I can feel it," Tommy responds.

Joel smiles softly when you do, glancing behind his shoulder, to Tommy. He deserves a good life; he just hates that it had to be with you. Maybe if you weren't already together when he arrived, he would have swooped in and taken you first.

Maybe then he would be the one telling Tommy that his niece was growing in your belly instead of the other way around. He turns to you.

"Have you gotten any cravings yet?"

He stares down at you, his eyes moving to your lips and staying there. Tommy couldn't see the glint in his eye, the way his thumb moves in circles on the skin of your belly.

"No, not yet,” you respond quietly.

You swallow thickly when he hums, it vibrates from his chest to yours, you throb at the feel of his warm hand, the smirk of his lips.

"It'll happen soon enough, makes you crazy I think, especially now when you can't have what you really want."

The shake of your head makes him chuckle, you glare at his shoulder.

"I'll giver her whatever she likes, she's never been without, not with me around."

You purse your lips, quickly finding the irony in your husband’s words. Joel barely turns his head when speaking back to him. He hums again, considering his words.

"You sure?"

Tommy glances back for a second, confused, not quite catching on. Joel's hands start to drag down lower, moving to your hips, his thumb at your hip bone and digging closer into the front zipper of your jeans.

"What cravings we talkin' about?" his voice was unsure, as if he had caught onto something suspicious. Your breath stutters, Tommy's head turns from where he was cooking at the pan.

"I don't know Tommy, maybe I'll want some ice cream."

You interrupt, seeing Joel's eyes squint and his mouth purse. You weren't sure he was going to say what he wanted to, but you knew it was on the tip of his tongue. He was bold and it made you anxious.

"Maybe some pickles with the ice cream,” you reiterate.

Tommy laughs and Joel frowns when you step away, moving to get a glass of water from the water jar on the kitchen counter. With a kiss to your head, his hands still busy on the sizzling pan and wooden spoon, he chuckles.

"I'll get you all the pickles you want, darlin'."

He winks and swats your ass gently, you scoff. What concerned you was the fact that Joel had scoffed along with you. Tommy laughs, pointing at Joel with his spoon.

"Sorry, can't take my hands off my lady, maybe you'll get what I mean soon, since you got all them women pecking at your feet."

You expect the conversation to end there, you almost sigh in relief at the seconds of silence afterwards.

"Nah, I got my eyes on someone, I'm sure you'll like her Tommy."

"Oh really?"

"Yep."

"Can I meet the lucky gal?"

"I'm sure you already know her since y'know, you've been here longer and it's a pretty small town."

Tommy smiles. He was happy for his older brother, finally settling in. He glances at you beside him, knowing that you had a big part in assimilating him into the town. You glance behind you as if you knew something he didn’t. His heart swells at your close friendship. He had hoped his brother would have accepted you and the other way around, especially with the stories he had told you about his past.

You knew everything about Joel and he had told Joel everything about you.

"I'm sure I do,” he responds seconds later, arching his brow in your direction.

Your ears burn hot, you don't dare turn around, knowing he was grinning right at you.

Lunch was awkward, Tommy had sent you both to set up the table and you had tried to hide your displeasure despite the way Joel's hand on the small of your back made you want to jump out of your skin. It wasn't horrible, it was a good feeling, especially when he had made you sit down while Tommy finished up, massaging your shoulders, then moving down to your lower back, his fingers grazing over the top of your ass.

A moan had escaped you accidentally, making him stop his movements momentarily and continue with more vigor over the stiffness of your muscles.

"Such pretty sounds coming from a pretty mama."

"Joel-“

“It’s ready!”

You shift away a little too quickly, standing and facing Tommy at the doorway. Your hiss from the ache in your back, the sudden weight pulling you down. Tommy immediately goes to your side, urging you to sit back down, barely noticing how close Joel had been seconds before. You eat in relative silence, the dinner lasting longer when Ellie had come in, just coming from her friend’s house.

You only had a few moments with Tommy the rest of the evening, he held you, swaying in the middle of your room, about to put on his boots to leave for patrol. It was always nerve racking, watching him leave now, especially since you used to accompany him all of the time before and now you physically couldn’t. At least he had Maria looking over him now. The worry was still ever present.

“Just a few days and we’ll have the house to ourselves.”

You nod against his chest, gripping his waist tightly. He cups your cheek, feeling your hands shake, trying to keep yourself from crying.

“Hey, I’ll come back, I always do, yeah?”

You nod again and he frowns at your lack of eye contact. His lips soften you some, coaxing your mouth open, making your legs turn to jello at the feel of his hands gliding over your body and pushing you to sit on bed. Your shirt comes off quickly, and he stares in amazement, for the first time in a while seeing your breasts bare.

“They’re bigger, honey.”

You huff a short laugh, watching his hands hesitantly cup them, squeezing and making your nipple bulge from between his fingertips. You moan, your lips parting, your thighs shifting. He looks mesmerized, his tongue flicking outward, his knees shifting closer to you. You spread your legs, already unbuttoning the front of your makeshift maternity jeans, his torso already slotting against the insides of your thighs.

You smell good, he’s been able to trade for some scented oils for you, mostly for your growing body, to help soften your skin. He had wanted to gift you something but he had to work harder to find things to trade. The things that he’s given up to make sure you were well off… it made him miss these moments with you. He was still amazed how much the baby has grown.

Then his eyes started flickering, moving to the side and his eyes narrowed. The clock was glaring at him, making him groan in irritation and startling you. He stands, picking up your shirt and helping you put it on.

“Gotta go…”

You barely reciprocate the kiss before he leaves.

——————————

The stomach makes things more complicated. Your balance is off, you could barely see your toes and you weren't as flexible as before. Your arm had to curve to even reach your pussy, which normally shouldn't have been a problem since you had Tommy around. But you were aching, you barely had any time alone with him and considering Joel's generator had decided to stop working entirely when your schedules were finally aligned you don't think you would ever.

You groan in frustration, your head pressed against the pillows and your eyes closed shut to imagine his scent, his taste, the softness of his hair. You move your hips, imagining his thrusts, your hands running down his bare back and counting all of the freckles and marks on his skin whenever you rode him. You missed his cock, uncut, thick, hard.

You moan even without touching yourself, imagining him on top of you, his lips at your neck, his teeth biting at the skin of your neck. You didn’t think to lock the door, or pay attention to the way the wood creaks.

"So beautiful…”

You stop your movement, not being able to sit up quick enough and cursing yourself when all you could do was cover yourself with a thin blanket from the side. You stare at him, standing by the door, watching and walking in slowly only to close to the door. The bed dips when his knee connects to the mattress, crawling towards you in your shock.

“He doesn’t take care of you does he?”

You scowl, glancing at him and the door.

“Joel, what are you doing?” you hiss.

His hands reach to cup your face.

“Let me. Please.”

Your eyes were swollen in unshed tears of frustration, your hands were shaking in nerves. He imagines he’s in his home, and you were laying on his bed, naked and so damn horny you could cry. He kisses you softly, cupping your face unexpectedly and dipping you down to lay down again. You lean into it helplessly, feeling your hands grasp onto his shirt and grip so tightly it twists. You were the one to take it further, to make sure he stood still when your tongue started dipping in between his lips.

You were so desperate for touch, for any sort of skin on skin that you had momentarily lost yourself, moaning into his mouth, swallowing his groans down and pressing your hands wherever you could to feel him against you. Your hormones were going insane, raging through your body in pulses of pleasure when you sat up again only to push him down and straddle his lap.

His hand runs over your stomach, pressing slightly on the newly formed firmness.

“He hasn’t touched me, not since…”

You motion to your stomach and press further into his chest.

“He’s depriving you, needy thing. You need a cock in you every night, don’t you. Need cum to fill you to the brim.”

Your hands grip onto his shirt tightly, unbuttoning the front and revealing a white undershirt. You make him groan, teeth nipping harshly at his bottom lip and grazing down his jaw and throat.

“You make me feel good, Joel,” you whispered. Your body was a mess of hormones, you were already dripping by the time his fingers pressed your underwear to the side, making you gasp onto his neck.

There was barely any resistance at his cock, entering you quickly in a thrust. The mattress creaks with each press of your hips, your belly kissing his with each undulation. Your breasts bounce and for a moment his eyes are stuck on the movement, your head thrown back and your hands tightening over his shoulders as you raise your thighs and slap them down again. His hand cradles your belly, his thumb running over your folds and grazing your swollen clit.

He’s amazed by the growth of your stomach, each time. He pretends it’s his, you do too, in your heart.

“You're so full of me, sweetheart.”

His cock was stuffing you repeatedly, stretching you wide every time you bounced and your cunt met the base of his shaft. You arch your back, your hands leaning back on his thighs. His head leans forward and his mouth reaches the peaks of your breasts, tongue flicking your nubs in time with his suckles.

“Does Tommy fuck you like this?” He murmurs against your skin.

Your eyes widen, you gasp when he bites down lightly. You clench tightly, the thought of your husband finding you fucking his own brother made your body stiffen and tremble.

“N-not a-a-anymore.”

Your wetness covered his lap, smothering the insides of your thighs in slick. His hands grip your hips tightly, lifting you and pressing you harder than your pace. Your body stiffens, your head filling with a pleasant and euphoric fuzz.

“So fucking tight, so wet-“ he groans, “how could he resist you, mama?”

Your back hits the mattress, despite the initial discomfort of having your legs spread to either side of your chest, your knees meeting the sides of your breasts the press of his hips against yours made your body turn soft and pliant.

The bed creaks, the frames slamming against the wall. Your breath leaves you in puffs, his body over you and his lips attached to your neck, leaving a thick trail of spit from your chest to lips. His hands entangle in yours, his groans next to your ear. You couldn’t think of anything else but him, anything but the way his cock slid into you, making your slick squelch against each slap of skin.

“Tommy doesn’t know the first thing about taking care of a family,” he groans.

He stills, making you whine, your pussy tightening and your hands gripping over his strongly. His head lifts, staring deeply into your eyes, one of his hands cupping your stomach, his thumb smoothing over the gravid swell soothingly. He whispers promises on your lips.

“I’m going to take care of you. You and the baby.”

His thumb presses hard against your clit. You whimper closing your eyes tightly, nodding lightly.

“Gonna give you more, as much as you can gift me.”

He gets lost in your face, brows furrowed in pleasure, lips wide open in ecstasy. His hips move slowly, the tip of his shaft meeting your lips and sinking in, building you further into your climax. He closes his eyes, grinding his pelvis against yours, feeling your legs start to shake, your moans getting higher in pitch. Louder.

You gargle a scream when you lose yourself, making him groan against your chest, holding in a growl at how tight and wet you had gotten. His cum spurts inside you, you groan from the feeling, missing the heat that warms you. You pant, delirious and wiping at your forehead as your legs start to relax, almost cramping from the position he had put you in. His arms wound themselves around you, mouth open in exertion.

You chuckle almost forgetting how much older he was compared to you. His chest is in sync with yours, his hands roam around your belly when you turn towards him, leaning your heavy stomach against his soft one. The pressure on your back is relieved and you sigh deeply, head burying into his shoulder.

He chuckles, pressing his lips on the side of your head and for a second you thought Tommy was beside you, caressing your stomach in circles, breathing in the scent of your hair. Your finger had stopped tracing patterns on his chest when you had felt a mole on his collarbone, pausing at the unfamiliarity.

Then your heart leaps from your chest, you felt as if you couldn’t breathe. You sit up quickly, tears already springing in your eyes at the man beneath you, sitting up with you to hold your face in his hands.

“What’s wrong?”

You almost scoffed, but you shake your head instead. Your heart drops, Ellie, the bed was banging against the damn walls, you had screamed for god’s sakes.

“Oh god- Ellie- she must have heard everything-“

“She’s not here, she’s with a friend tonight.”

That didn’t stop the tears from falling. You had deceived your husband, you fucked his brother. You were disgusted with yourself, your actions, the thoughts you had been fighting for months now.

He grips your face tighter, hearing you mutter Tommy’s name over and over again in a quiet whisper, trying to push yourself away from him. He mashes his lips against yours, he swallows your gasp, pulling you impossibly closer. Your lungs burned, your head cradled in his hands, his eyes closed tightly willing you to stay put.

You hate how you reciprocated, feeling your heart thump quickly in affection, something you used to only feel with Tommy.

…

Joel was with you every night, waiting until Tommy had left, when Ellie was in deep sleep or gone off with a friend. Sometimes he would take you in the morning, which was becoming an even more common occurrence. You smile more often, you haven’t felt so doted on in what felt like a year. You didn’t need Tommy anymore, not when Joel was always with you, taking his own jobs around town, mostly at the stables and with the cattle where you were usually set to supervise.

His presence was accepted again, you were practically at the hip, Ellie tagging along every now and then, sometimes giving you a strange look when he would sit too close and his hands would twitch to yours when you were walking, which you always ignored. All of Tommy’s time was in work, and when he didn’t have anything to do it would be spent with Joel.

Your sudden indifference from his attention got him worried. It was wrong, wanting your wife to be miserable when you were gone, but so was he. He hated every minute apart from you and now that he saw you so content with the situation, a complete change from your sad looks and tired but grateful gazes whenever he came home to you, he knew something must have happened.

He confides in Maria and she gave him hours off, reassuring him that the whole community was willing to help him and his wife raise their child. She felt pity for you both but Tommy was one stubborn man, he didn’t want anyone else’s help, claiming it was unfair to the other members of the commune if he had special commodities because of his baby. She could see the strain, how most of your pregnancy was spent alone.

“There’s an event… tonight…”

Maria raises a brow, eyes full of mirth and a small smile on her lips.

“Everyone will be there, I’m sure you could surprise her there.”

He nods, eyes flickering around the room in contemplation. A smile rises on his face, his chest fills with excitement.

“Dancing?”

Maria chuckles, crossing her arms. She gives him a look.

“What kind of monsters do you think we are? Of course there’ll be dancing.”

He smiles so wide his teeth seem to glimmer in the morning light.

“Shower before, I doubt she’ll be too happy about your stench.”

He scoffs, his horse trotting ahead to make it to the settlement quicker. She watches on, his slumped shoulders now straightened and his chest puffed. He glances behind him gesturing for her to hurry it up.

——————————`

You and Tommy used to attend these things all the time. There was cause for community celebrations all of the time. Even if the same songs would keep playig, and at times there was the same foods and beverages served, Tommy had always managed to bring you out to dance.

Now you’re here with Joel and Ellie, Joel nursing a beer, and Ellie talking your ear off. His hand was on your thigh under the table, occasionally moving over your belly and rubbing. Your hand would caress over his forearm, fiddling with his sleeve, tightening whenever you had caught yourself throwing your head back in laughter.

You lay your head against his shoulder, chuckling along to whatever comment he had responded with before sipping his beer smugly. Ellie had been bothering him about his love life, commenting on how much of a loner he is, hanging around a fifteen year old daughter figure and a heavily pregnant and married woman. He had eyed you, a smirk in place. You shoved your elbow into his ribs and he winced.

The door had opened to the hall and he turned, minding the way your laid your head against his shoulder, your nose pressing against the fabric of his long sleeve shirt. His face fell, and his hand patted your thigh, caressing over your stomach one last time before shifting away. He wasn’t hiding anything for himself, if anything he wouldn’t mind the whole world knowing you were his, but you would.

You still loved him, the yearning was still there and when he saw Tommy standing at the doorway, his eyes roaming around the hall he knew you would go to him. You turn to where his gaze was directed, your eyes brightening. He was never out this late. His shift should have started an hour ago.

“Tommy,” you whisper.

Joel’s hand meets your back when you attempt to stand, taking a sharp inhale from the sudden exertion. You were wearing a dress he had found you during one of Tommy’s patrols. It was early in your pregnancy and you had joked about dreading the day it would actually fit.

You wave him over, and his face brightens in a smile, striding over to the table quickly. His hands move to your waist, his body slightly hunched to lift you against him as he hugs you tightly. Your head buries in his curls your hands landing on his back.

“Hey, darlin’, missed me?”

The rest of the night he was clinged to you and in turn you to him. He had asked you to dance and Joel had protested, saying you shouldn’t be on your feet too much, and you would only get achy. It had only stopped Tommy momentarily, until you had dragged him to the floor in a slow song.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he whispered against your ear.

His eyes were filled with ardor, his hands roaming to your ass, and his head buried next to yours. You only slapped his shoulder, kissing his cheek when he whined playfully. Joel helped you stand, his hands on your lower back and Tommy’s hand on yours. Their eyes connected, and he threw a look of confusion in Joel’s direction, especially when he noted his barely hidden scowl.

Your head lays against his chest, you inhale his scent, the soap you had made him months ago clinging onto his skin, smelling like coconuts and cedar wood. The song was slow, enough so that you didn’t have to leave the interlocking of your bodies, looking as if you were just stood in a hug, your arms under his pits and over his wide back, his arms wrapped over your waist, a hand over your bump protectively.

Members of the community stare at you both, some smiling in his direction, others nodding. They could see how much happier you’ve been, how you smile so pleasantly against his chest. It brought him pride, showing off his heavily pregnant wife. He did that. He put that baby in you. You were his beautiful wife. He was so lucky and he was so close to losing everything.

“I’m sorry.”

Your head rises, looking up with brows arched in surprise.

“What?-“

“I know I haven’t been here, for you, for the baby.”

His eyes well with tears, he looks down on you with a sad smile.

“Maria gave me some time off- well not some- a lot.”

He cups your face, your eyes widening at the affection. This is what you wanted, for the longest and now you have it. Why do you feel your heart sink? Not at the fact that he was going to be around longer but at the fact that you had to let Joel go. You glance in his direction, he was turned away, Ellie still talking to him about something passionately judging by the way her hands move frantically. He would be fine, you thought, he had his own family.

You smile brightly, the brightest you have in a while and Tommy’s heart expands. It was almost as if Joel could sense your eyes from a second before. Joel’s heart plummets to the floor, you were stomping all over it, you and Tommy. He watches Tommy kiss you delicately, your hands raising to the back of his neck to keep him there. You moan against his lips, deep and throaty from the way his tongue swiped over your bottom lip.

“Missed you, baby.”

You rest your forehead against his, feeling his warmth closer than ever. You hold him tighter, resting your head against his shoulder when you pull yourself up against his chest.

“Missed you too,” you mutter.

The last thing you see before being dragged away, your coat being placed over you in a rush, was Joel’s deep frown, staring until you had made it out the door.

You ignored it.

Your legs shake, thighs jiggling with each lift. Tommy was underneath you, his lips smacking, savoring your taste and his hands on either side of your hips helping you stay up and balanced.

“Mmmh fuck baby, haven’t been taking care of this pussy in months. She’s so goddamn needy.”

Your hands tighten over the headboard. You nod, moaning out his name when his tongue flicked up to your clit. Then his hands tighten over you, pressing you against his face, not letting you up. His head swivels from side to side, his tongue out and his nose rubbing against you relentlessly. He makes you grind on him, and you lose yourself.

“Joel,” you moan.

His hand loosens slightly, your body freezes for a moment, and for a second your heart stops, beating wildly afterwards when he had continued with more fervor.

You had forced your mind to blank, focusing on the way his tongue flicked over your clit repeatedly, tonguing your slit afterwards and pressing his nose up to pull your hood from your sensitive nerves. You think of the way his cock is probably throbbing, aching in his jeans, straining against the zipper. He rubs almost too harshly against you, and you cum with a surprised yelp.

He licks up the mess slowly, helping you come down in waves. He lifts you gently and when you try to reach for his crotch, wanting to palm him he stops you. He helps you lay down afterwards, minding your shaking thighs and your sweat soaked skin. He stares for a moment, getting lost in your state. You give him a questioning look.

“Did you-“

He’s at a loss for words.

“Did you say someone else’s name- just now?”

You pause, you stop breathing for a moment. You had hoped he missed that, that he would dismiss it quickly.

“You said Joel.”

You shake your head slowly, wiping at your forehead, flicking the sweat from your brows.

“I said oh.”

It was said so confidentially, it sounded genuine ad his eyes immediately softened in guilt. How could he accuse you of such a thing?The bulge that was at the front of his pants was now gone. You sigh.

“I’m sorry if I ruined the mood-“

“No. No, it’s fine, I just uh- I shouldn’t have been thinkin’ of my brother when I was between such pretty legs.”

You chuckle, your face warming but not at the vulgarity of his words or his try at a joke but at the fact that he had been so close to the truth and you were such a great actress. You feel a great shame when he joined you for a bath, helping you lean back against his chest and caressing over your skin with a sponge. As if he could wash away the past weeks where you used his brother to feel good about yourself.

You cling onto him, and he savors it, not knowing that your over affections came from guilt.

Coincidentally, the same week Tommy had managed to fix Joel’s generator, now having enough time to look it over. Joel and Ellie were now gone. Now you and Tommy could finally have some time alone despite them coming over every so often, Joel more than Ellie.

“Gonna give you more, look so pretty like this, stretched out on my cock and swollen with my baby.”

Sometimes Joel would invite you over for breakfast, he could afford the food now, especially since he’s taken some shifts for patrol lately and the pay was always good. He loved having his meals with you, especially before Tommy’s shift ended and his began. Hi belt buckle clings loudly with each thrust, his hands fisting your dress tightly.

The breath is pushed out of your lungs each time his cock plunges into you. You moan wantonly, head lolling between your shoulders. Your palms almost slide on the kitchen island, your legs spread wide from where you stood. You whine when he slows, closing your eyes tightly, honing in on his grunts and the sound of your ass meeting his pelvis.

He grunts loudly and his warmth fills you. His head meets your shoulder, his breath wet and hot on your exposed shoulder. His hand moves to grope over your exposed breast, you lean back against his body, breathing heavily, cunt still throbbing from your loss of release.

“Fuck, baby, made me finish early, got you squeezing my cock so tight.”

He slips out of you and you groan, his spend sliding down your thighs. His fingers place your panties back, tapping against your mound and pulling his hands away wehen you bucked forward only to smooth down the skirt of your dress.

“I could take care of you another way, sweetheart.”

He pulls you against him, his arms wrapping around your waist, cupping your belly and holding the weight in his hands. You relax further against his hold, sighing in slight reief. Your eyes wander around the room, and your back straightens, you gasp, eyeing the clock.

“Tommy’s almost home.”

“Just a few minutes, I promise.”

“Joel-“

He turns you in his arms, his hands roaming over your sides.

“One more taste, please.”

You lick your lips in contemplation and before you knew it he was guiding you to sit in the dining room table.

He was kneeling, hidden under your long summer dress. Your breasts had looked amazing in them, you were developing a bigger cleavage and you had decided to show it off. You looked so pretty sitting down in the recreational area, smiling during conversation, a hand on your bump, running circles over the soft fabric of your dress.

You lean back on the chair, you could see his head from beneath, a lump at your front and with the lacy ends of your skirt delicately on his broad back. He was going slow, taking his time, hovering his mouth over you so that you would squirm in impatience.

“Joel, please.”

How could he ignore your whines, the way your hips twitch to his mouth. He eats like a man starved, ever since he first arrived he ate as if his meal would be swiped from under his nose at any second. He feels that way with you, waiting for Tommy to take you away, only having you when he was gone. He yearns to keep you, to just cup your face and kiss you at any given moment and not in the confines of a locked room.

He still didn’t understand why you didn’t let him, he was obviously a better choice for you, he could be a batter father than his brother, a better husband. Your back arches, your palm smoothing over the head covered in fabric. His nose nudges your clit repeatedly, his tongue laying flat against your slit the tip running over the insides of your cunt. He could barely breathe but he didn’t care.

He drags you forward, the back of your shoulders meeting the back of the chair. You stare up at the ceiling, trying to keep your breaths in line. He kisses up the insides of your thighs, shifting on his knees every so often. He was deliberately taking his time and you chuckle when he continues again, slurping and licking to his heart’s content.

You glance out the window, mouth wide open, sweat collecting on your brow and eyes so hooded it looked as if you were on the cups of a moan. There he is. Your husband, watching with cold eyes, his pack on one shoulder and a rifle on the other. your eyes widened, you slapped the head between your legs and the chair scratches against the floor from how quickly you shifted away.

Time seems to slow for you, you refused to answer any of Joel’s questions, your body already shaking and tears falling down the sides of your face. You stare at the floor, hearing the doorbell ring resound around the house. He ignored it, his eyes frantically moving over your face.

“Did I hurt you? What-what happened?”

The walls shake from how hard he pounds at the door. You seem to collapse over yourself, standing quickly and lifting up your underwear quickly after taking a breath.

The knocks continue, each time getting louder.

“Joel! Open the fucking door!”

Your breath catches in your throat, you choke on a sob when Joel stands, opening the door hard enough for it to slam inside. Tommy’s hands make it to the lapels of his jacket before you could even reach the hall, pulling him out to the porch and down the steps.

Their faces were inches away, practically snarling and snapping like bulldogs. You watch, your legs stiff, as Tommy pushes him on the chest, screaming in his face and glancing in your direction every so often. Joel barely reacts. He directs a dirty look towards you and your heart sinks.

“Is that even my baby? How long has she been spreading her legs for you?”

You gasp, hands pressing to your bump protectively. Joel finally reacts, his own hands pressing against Tommy’s chest and pushing him back a couple feet. He points an accusing finger.

“You watch your tongue, boy, I won’t let you talk about her that way.”

He scoffs, voice rising.

“You’re sleeping with my wife!”

“Someone has to!”

You rush down the steps when Tommy swings, already having straddled him on the ground by the time you reached their wrestling forms.

“Tommy stop it!”

He grunts, ignoring your yells.

“Tommy stop-“

You reached for his shoulder, Joel’s face was already split, his teeth covered in his own blood. Tommy pushes you away and you fall on your ass, yelping and slipping from the snow. He stops almost immediately and Joel pushed him away, crawling towards you. The fabric of your dress was getting wet, your legs starting to sting and numb from the cold.

You sit up with a groan, the impact of the ground making your hips ache. You keep your head down when you stand with Joel’s help, neighbors having come out of their homes from the commotion. Tommy stares as if he wanted to help, his hands twitching in your direction.

“Get inside.”

“Joel-“

“I said get inside.”

You follow his command, but not before lifting your head to catch Tommy’s stare, his eyes narrowed and flickering from your stomach to your face. Joel spits red on the snow inches away from Tommy’s boots. You couldn’t hear what they were saying, but you kept your stare out of the window, catching Tommy’s eyes moving to the house every so often. He leaves with a scowl and Joel’s heads inside with his shoulder’s slumped.

You tend to his face, his hand at your bump, not leaving it even when you had made him stand to make him take a bath. You fall into his arms that night, staying in his room and sobbing the rest of the day, knowing that you had just lost someone you loved dearly.

——————————

"The baby's yours..."

His eyes flickered to his hand tightly fisted at the table and back to you, sitting down in front of him, scared out of your wits and rubbing small frantic circles over your stomach.

"That's not‐ I know."

He ignores the tears falling from your eyes, he sighs.

“I know she’s mine, I do, sweetheart.”

His softness made you sob, your palms covering your eyes and your lips quivering to keep in the sounds of your cries.

“I’m sorry, Tommy.”

You sit in silence, until you catch your breath. It’s been a few days and you had decided to go back home, alone. Joel didn’t even know you were there. He didn’t want you to see him anymore, claiming he didn’t deserve you and that he could raise the baby all fine with you. You still wanted Tommy in your life, in your child’s life.

“I think it will be best if you move over to Joel’s for now, I… I need time.”

You wanted to cry again, to heave yourself off to bed and just collapse into the mattress. You just nod solemnly.

“When the time comes, I’ll be there for her, for you. I love you, and I don’t think I’ll ever stop.”

He chuckles sadly, his eyes watering and threatening to spill. He reaches for your hand, standing and kneeling to kiss the side of your head one last time before he went out to work, leaving you to pack up.

“I love you too,” you murmur.

He hums, nodding against you before inevitably letting go.

…

"So... you and Joel."

Small town gossip doesn't escape anyone, even in the post apocalypse. If the teenagers somehow knew, you don't doubt the adults do either. You stay quiet, festering in your guilt and embarrassment. She was going to find out eventually, you’ve been staying over for a few days now, you were siting on the porch to their backyard at the moment.

"I mean, you could move in with us... he's kind of already like a dad..." To me, she might have added, she's not quite sure she'd ever specifically call him that outwardly though.

"Might as well complete the nuclear family, two kids and two parents. Could get a dog too..."

You fight a chuckle, she's been on and on about wanting a dog recently. Even in a serious conversation she brings it up. What really peaked your interest was the fact that she had included you in her nuclear family, a parent.

It tore your heart in two and stitched it back up again. She saw you as a mother figure, maybe even your unborn child as a brother or sister. Your face falls, thinking of Tommy, how he had told you he needed time. You have doubts on whether or not he would love the child, it's not like there were any paternity tests anymore. He must think Joel was the biological father. Why would he believe a cheater anyway? Why would Joel even care about the kid either, knowing the truth of their paternity?

"The kid's not even his..."

"I'm not either," she snaps at you. But he still cares about me, he still loves me like his own. You could see it in her eyes, she was stern, not wanting to leave any doubts in her argument. You sigh not wanting to intrude in anything, not wanting to get into a family when you didn’t know the outcomes of the one you had just put in pause.

She rests her head against your shoulder, watching as Joel works on the small garage she was going to call home soon. Joel wanted to get the baby’s room ready. He was excited.

You didn’t have the heart to tell him about the conversation you had with his brother.

——————————

Perma/Joel Taglist:

@lexloon @zbeez-outlet @kyuupidwrites @am-3-thyst @burninggracesandbridges @amethystwonders11 @akiratoro420 @prettysbliss @abbiesxox

Comments and reblogs are deeply appreciated! I wanna know y’all’s thots 🤭

Mr. Miller

pairing: joel miller x fem!reader (afab, use of she/her, use of the word girl)    

rating: explicit. (18+. mdni.)    

word count: 6.8k requested: yes. here and here :) 

summary:  “six months before you ran yourself into any trouble with somebody - that’s no easy feat, considering your track record, so you like to call it a win anyways. but boy, talk about a rocky start with someone. Tommy’s goddamn brother, no less.”

warnings: Jackson era, mentions of marijuana use, age gap (unspecified), sliiightly dub!con, smut (PiV, unprotected), creampie, overstimulation, pussy spanking, choking, spit kink, slight knife kink (do not look at me), dom!Joel (brat tamer!Joel if you squint), slight sir kink, so much dirty talk, lots of begging, degradation kink, dacryphilia, mean!Joel, this is just shameless smut i am horrible  notes: okay i kind of modified these asks but I thought it’d be fun to write it like this!!! as always reblogs/asks/comments are always great motivations :’) this is not reread because i am INSANE! xoxo

(  read the sequel other Joel fics:     fever       landmines    )

★  

to be completely honest, you never would’ve guessed you’d move to Wyoming. 

Keep reading

Javier Peña & Joel Miller Headcanons (drabbles?)

another smutty edition. ohmygod this is filth.

warnings: rough sex/smut (oh boy. oral [both receiving], fingering, masturbation, cockwarming… & prolly more) so 18+ only content; stepdad!joel (againimsorry); dbf!joel; slapping, spanking, spitting; age gap; bratty!reader; smoking; dubcon (coercion, intoxication, imbalanced power dynamic); like I said this is just pure filth—dead dove, do not eat.

Thank u guys for all the love on the last one !! I’ve got longer pieces coming soon, but in the meantime, enjoy this depravity!! I’m going to hell!!

Join the taglist if you want moreeeeeee.

-em<3

—

Javi’s “boredom breaks” at work involved stealing you from behind your desk & coaxing you into giving him head from the passenger side of his Jeep Cherokee. Parked or driving, busy street or deserted parking lot, it was all the same to him—which meant onlookers, inevitably. Peña was indispensable at the embassy, so the voyeurs didn’t bother him, and he assured you that “nobody’s gonna recognize the receptionist by the back of her fuckin’ head.” In a dusty, empty side-street, Javier’s cock rhythmically prods the back of your throat. With one hand straddling the back of your neck, he grinds out a “fuck yeah, jus’ like that,” between deep pulls off his cigarette, ashing it out the open window with a quick flick of his fingernail.

“It’s fuckin’ hot, watching you take calls from all those corporate big-shots when I know you still got the taste of my cum on your tongue.”

Joel’s favourite position was doggy-style. Especially with both your hands pinned behind your back in his much larger, much stronger one; especially when your teasing had earned you some good-old-fashioned discipline. “Someone’s gotta fuck the brat outta you.” He’d pull out every time, even when you begged him not to, all so he could watch his hot seed spilling onto the red handprints branding your ass. But that always happened after he took in the swooping arch of your back, the way your skin yielded to his with every lazy slap he delivered to it—and, oh, your muffled sobs following his: “tell me—where’s that fuckin’ attitude get you?”

“S’right, sweetheart. Gets you on your knees, takin’ cock facedown like a lil’ slut.”

Sometimes, Javier just wanted to watch. “Show me, hermosa, how do you touch yourself when I’m away?” He’d relax in the armchair, an attentive audience member as he drank in the sight of you spread out on the bed, sliding a hand between your thighs. Those dark eyes never left yours, not even when he had to palm himself through his denim to relieve the aching desire building underneath. “Can tell you’ve been practicing for me.” & you’d finish with his name on your tongue, taking care to put every detail of your climax on display for him.

“You could be fuckin’ famous, y’know. I could film you just like that—my very own pornstar.”

One late-night in your father’s living room, you worked up the nerve to ask Joel to take your virginity so that it’d “be with someone who I like, who’ll take good care of me.” & he did such a good job, easing in oh-so-slowly, searching your eyes for any ounce of pain as he stretched you wide, wiiide open for him. “Fuck, maybe m’not the best person for this, sweetheart,” and it might’ve been true ‘cause his cock was almost too big to fit, squeezing in so, so tight between your fluttering walls. But eventually, it did, and then your dad’s best friend was rocking into you, muffling your soft cries of surprise, pain, pleasure, lust, abandon, and need in his palm.

“Sshh, sshh, s’alright, babygirl, s’alright. Jus’ focus on me, yeah? ‘Else your dad’s gonna find out I broke in his lil’ princess.”

Javi had never considered himself to be a jealous man. He was something of a sexual communist: cheating wasn’t cheating if it was just fucking, girlfriends were made to be shared, and only a self-denying idiot turned down any version of a threesome. But after that first time with you? That was all over. He’d have you straddling his lap on the brink of explosion, cunt dripping onto his bare thighs before finally lowering you onto every hard inch of himself—only to keep you still, his personal lil’ cockwarmer. “Tell me you’re mine, baby, tell me this pussy’s mine.” Saying the words wasn’t always enough for either of you to actually believe them, so Javi would fuck you—hard—until they were true, until he was certain that you belonged to him. Till he tore cries of worship from your lips and orgasms from your cunt.

“I know, querida, feels so good to surrender, don’t it?”

Stepdad!Joel picking you up from a party in his big ol’ truck with a couple of his drinking buddies tagging along. This time, he lets you sit in the front. “Ain’t she a stunner?” Blushing as the others mumble in agreement. Soon, Joel’s rough hand is crawling up your thigh. “We thought up a way you could thank us for the ride, angel.” Your cunt warms at the feel of his fingers slipping between your folds. It starts to pulse at the idea of being filled so full by 3 men at once, and it nearly aches at the thought of pleasing Joel. “You’re a big girl now, ain’t that right?” Parking the car, pulling you onto his lap, bunching your shirt up above your tits and exposing you to a car-full of leering eyes.

“N’ big girls take care of more’n just one cock at a time, sweetheart.”

It was obvious from the start that Peña, Murphy, and (especially) Carrillo didn’t abide by any kind of rule book in the field. It shocked you, nonetheless, the first time you watched Agent Peña put a bullet through a sicario‘s head. “We’re the good guys, sweetheart.” But it didn’t feel that way. For months, it didn’t feel that way, and you refused to be alone in a room with him. Not because he scared you, but because you were afraid of how his gratuitous violence had excited you. You managed to avoid him, until, one afternoon, he cornered you in the filing room—like a writhing tail caught in a mousetrap—his amused expression underpinned by a familiar kind of danger.

“You wanna pretend I’m the bad guy? S’fine, querida, I can live with that. But your pussy’s wet just thinkin’ about it, so at least have the decency to let me fuck you like one.”

When Joel ate you out, it was always as a reward. He liked doing it, of course, but he was an impatient man who worshipped the feel of a woman’s cunt wrapped around his cock (he’d cut blowjobs short for god’s sake, pulling you mid-gag off his length just to fuck you, instead). You memorized how pretty he looked with his head between your thighs, grey-speckled beard glistening with your very own slick. “F’you keep squirmin’ around like that, angel, m’gonna have to tie you up. Stay put.” Thighs hitched over his broad shoulders, voice hoarse from the never-ending moans his mouth and his fingers enticed from you over and over and over again. “Been such a good listener, babygirl,” and your fingers ran through his hair, streams of freshwater gushing between great, snow-flecked pines. But the best part came after: even his praise didn’t compare to the feel of his thumb against your chin, prying you open as he spat a wad of saliva onto your tongue.

“Open up for me, tha’s right. Y’see how good that pretty lil’ pussy tastes?”

Bonus fluff/angst:

He’d never meant to hurt you, of course. Javi wasn’t the greatest at the whole ~relationship~ thing, and even though you hadn’t defined whatever it was that, together, you shared, it still hurt like hell, finding out he was still screwing around. He hadn’t broken any promises, per se, but your crestfallen expression made him feel as though he’d committed a federal offence. “Baby, if I’da known…” and he’s kneeling down, (praying at the foot of your altar), gazing up at you with plea-filled, onyx black eyes before pressing his forehead to your abdomen, holding your hips between his hands as if you were sacred to him.

“I just… I need you like the fuckin’ air I breathe, hermosa. I hate myself for hurting you.”

You’d always had a bit of a school girl crush on dad’s best friend, Joel. Who could blame you? He was capable, funny, handsome—and oh, how you hated bringing friends over while he was in the house, too, ‘cause they giggled and flirted with him and it made you livid. This time, you actually had to step into the garage and light up a sneaky smoke just to find some fucking peace again. That’s where he found you, leaning defeatedly against the beer fridge; you frantically put the smoking tip out, cursing yourself for your carelessness. Joel raised his eyebrows at the cigarette before smiling in amusement. Then, he surprised you by pressing a big, warm, tender palm to your cheek.

“You’re always gonna be my favourite. You know that, right?”

—

TAGLIST: @millllenniawrites @mads-grace4 @anyas-stuff @liviloo12346 @bookofbee @mattmurdocksgirlfriend @stardust-chords-enthusiast @fruitcupsworld @sallymilkweed @sullysflm @sexygaypalpatine @livyjh @s-unflowxr @lostsoldieronahill @maudlinflowers @inkedells @ayehomo @chapterhappygirl @raeluvshammett @buckysmainhxe @silkiers @jupitersmoon-cal

Javier Peña & Joel Miller Headcanons

a smutty edition<3

warnings: rough sex/smut (fem penetration, oral (both receiving), fingering) so 18+ only content; fem!afab!reader; dbf!Joel Miller; step!dad Joel Miller (so step-cest [I’m sorry]); implied age gap; choking; spanking; smoking (and probably more—this is just pure filth, read at your own risk).

TYSM for 500 followers!! In honour of that, enjoy some slightly depraved Joel Miller & Javier Peña headcanons<33333

PS: DBJAG part 3 coming to YOUR dash, real soon! Read part 1 here & part 2 here!

—

Javi laying his steady hands against the soft, inner skin of your thighs, spreading your shaking legs wide open for him and letting out a sinful groan. He’d never seen anything so perfect as the sight of your aching cunt dribbling down onto your cluttered desk. His practiced tongue draws long, breathy exhalations from your lips. Keep quiet while I taste you, querida. Skirt bunching around your waist, underwear shoved in his back pocket, your knuckles turn white on the hardwood edge of the table as you listen for footsteps, voices, the distant ring of a telephone.

“Be a good girl and keep watch for me—or d’you want everyone in the office to know just how needy this pussy is?

Dad’s best friend, Joel Miller, fucking you dumb from behind in a dark, deserted alleyway, muffling your cries with a calloused hand over your mouth. His fingernails dig mercilessly into the skin under your cheekbones—Joel loves watching the combined effect of his cock and his suffocating palm on your big, drunken eyes, sending them rollin’, straight up to the skies. He laughs when you squirm against his hips, responding to every desperate moan you breathe against his skin with a lazy, harsh slap to your ass.

“Always wanted to send you back to your old man with my cum drippin’ down your thighs”

It’s your first month at the new job—after graduating college, you thought the possibility of being hazed was behind you. That is…until you get assigned a seat next to Javier Peña at a work dinner, feeling a rough hand slide up your leg and long, dexterous fingers ease your underwear to the side, teasing your aching clit all night long. He engages you in small talk with your boss—the weather and politics—speaking nonchalantly as his middle and fourth fingers pump in and out of your pulsing cunt.

“Words a little hard tonight, sweetheart? Or something else getting you tongue-tied?”

Joel’s massive hands on either side of your head as he facefucks you selfishly, tears running down your puffy cheeks while you near-suffocate on his thick length. Open wide before you swallow, baby—show me how my cum looks on your lil’ tongue. Grabbing at his forearms and staring into his dark, hungry eyes, dazedly wondering how you’ll manage to hide the bruises on your knees in the coming weeks. Dragging a thick thumb under your eye, he drinks in the sight of your tear-soaked face.

“That’s right,” an approving groan. “Knew that pretty lil’ mouth was good for somethin’ other than whinin’”

Riding Agent Peña on his unmade bed, bringing your lighter up to the cigarette hanging from his mouth til’ the tip glows red-hot. Breathing in the smoke he blows out between your ecstasy-parted lips as he rolls his hips against yours, the dark head of his cock pressing against that spot inside you.

“Look at me when you come, hermosa. Look so fuckin’ pretty with my cock up inside you.”

Getting lessons from your step-dad, Joel, on how to stroke, suck, and ride a cock properly—like a big girl. He talks you through it slowly, breaking you in til’ you’re sore, bruised, and thoroughly used. Like that, Joel? Pumping his hard length between your delicate, devoted fingers, watching intently as his face contorts with pleasure. Alright, angel—that’s enough playin’ around. Facedown for me, now. Listening, paying attention, doing your best to be the perfect little student.

“N’ when a man says he wants to come inside this needy lil’ pussy, you say yes, alright?”

Blowing off steam with a couple of girlfriends at the bar and running into the very person who’s been making your work-life so stressful. Watching him flirt with other women for hours before he bothers a glance your way. Rolling your eyes when he winks at you. Javier’s low voice rings crystal clear despite the loud music filling the space—one hand on your shoulder, the other hovering over the back of your neck as he leans down to whisper softly in your ear.

“Roll your eyes all you want, querida; we’ll see how tough you are when I’ve got you on your hands and knees, beggin’ for it”

Joel Miller—over double your age and double your size—growing tired of the short, tight clothing you’ve been wearing around him. Dressin’ like that’s gonna attract the wrong kinda attention, sweetheart. Testing him, pulling him in with a wicked, skyward gaze—that’s what I’m hoping for, Miller—and getting rewarded with a thick hand around your throat, rough fingers manhandling your breasts. Need me to show you what the wrong kinda attention feels like? Nodding enthusiastically, needing for him to use you.

“Fuckin’ hell, sweetheart, if I’da known how much of a slut you are, I woulda fucked you stupid the second you were legal”

Bonus fluff:

Agent Peña carrying you home to his couch after watching you take one too many shots at the club. He just can’t help stepping in to rescue you, regardless of the fact that he barely even knows you. When you wake up in the morning, confused and thoroughly hungover, he’s already at the office—but there’s a warm coffee, an aspirin, and a muffin waiting for you on the nearby table.

“you really can’t handle your tequila, hermosa. did you eat?”

Joel kissing you roughly at the peak of his climax and then finding himself completely unable to stop. Your lips are sore, red, and severely abused by the end of the night and still the man can’t get enough of you. The grey-speckled hair of his mustache brushes against your Cupid’s bow and he tastes like necessity, something desperate in the way his mouth clings to yours, his hand delicately cradling the back of your head. Almost as if you were precious to him.

“you sure know how to make a hard man soft.”

—

TAGLIST: @mads-grace4 @anyas-stuff @liviloo12346 @bookofbee @mattmurdocksgirlfriend @stardust-chords-enthusiast @fruitcupsworld @sallymilkweed @sullysflm @sexygaypalpatine @livyjh @s-unflowxr @lostsoldieronahill @maudlinflowers

yes hes my comfort character, and yes he does beat the shit out of people. he multitasks idk