Fatherhood.

it’s insane how gorgeous and beautiful and pretty she is. it’s always hilson this chase that what about my queen..

heavy in your arms. part one.

— pairing: aemond targaryen x fem!reader

— type: part of a series

— summary: aemond seeks to right the wrong his mother made in rejecting the proposition of a betrothal between you & he.

— word count: 2,473

— tagging list: @emilynissangtr @aemondwhoresworld @callsignwidow @tvangelism

— a/n: welcome to the first installment in my aemond x sg au! (NOT the dark!aemond au (which will be titled idumea, if/when i ever write it.))

“Why did you reject it?” Aemond demands, barging into his mother’s chambers unannounced.

She pads across the room toward him with clasped hands. She needn’t ask what it is her son is referring to, specifically, to already know.

Nor does she need inquire as to how he knows. The bastard girl he’s had an obsession with since the day she was born is most-certainly to blame.

She’s allowed them to keep company with one another for too long, it now seems. Such behaviors will cease today.

She gives him a forced, gentle smile. She knows his temper can be as hot as dragonfire when stoked, especially when it comes to his niece. If he makes a scene, she’ll simply have Ser Criston escort him back to his chambers.

She seats herself, gently patting the cushion next to her. “Sit.”

He comes closer, but does not accept her offer—instead choosing to remain standing, his arms positioned behind his back, his chin raised as he stands across from her. “Answer the question.”

A pause. 

“Mother.”

She sighs heavily. “She is not a suitable match for you. In time, your father and I will find someone more…appropriate—”

“More appropriate than mine own niece? My blood? A princess? One whom I already love and adore? I think not.”

She opens her mouth to to reply, but he continues.

“I won’t allow you to come between us. She belongs with me. You—you cannot take this chance—”

Having had enough, she cuts his protestations short. “It is done, Aemond! You know what she is! All do! It is why her mother optioned her own children for betrothal to mine; to protect them from what she has done by shielding them with either you, or Aegon, or Helaena!”

She sighs, before running her fingers exasperatedly through her hair. “I do not fault the girl for the circumstances of her birth; she cannot help it. I know this. But, as your mother, it is my job—my responsibility—to ensure you have what is best for you. Which she, unfortunately, is not. Were it so that Laenor were undoubtedly her father, things would be different, but alas.”

His small hands are bunched into tight fists behind him now, his body trembling with rage.

“Give it time,” she tells him quietly. “Once you are older, you with either find on your own, or with mine and your father’s help, a proper betrothal.”

He knows what he must do.

He nods, calmly, shoulders slumping slightly. “Forgive me, mother. You just…know how I care for her. I was not…did not think—”

She stands, walking around to him, taking him in her arms. “I wish I could give you this, my son, but your well-being means more to me than your wants at this time. One day, when you have children of your own, you will understand.”

The two of them pull away from each other, Alicent grasping the crowns of his shoulders, while Aemond rests his hands on her waist.

He gives her a smile of understanding. “I’m sure that I will.”

She gives him a kiss on the cheek, and with that, he leaves her.

Her greatest mistake will’ve always been not ordering Ser Criston to follow him back to his chambers. For they were never his destination.

“Your son, Your Grace: the Prince Aemond,” announces  Ser Harrold from the doorway of Viserys’ room. 

Aemond finds his father seated upon a settee before a roaring fire, a blanket draped comfortably over his lap, a stack of books set upon a table next to him.

Viserys smiles as the boy steps closer, bowing his head to his father.

“Your Grace.”

Viserys bookmarks, then shuts his current read, settling it into his lap. He waves Aemond over, who seats himself beside him, watching the crackling fire before them for just a moment. 

“Is there something I can do for you, my son? Or did you merely come to keep your old man company?” He asks with a gentle smile.

Aemond knows he needs word this carefully. “Both, in truth.”

Viserys remains silent, waiting for him to continue.

“I know…” 

He pauses. 

“I know you wish to see us settled, father, just as you did Rhaenyra. Properly betrothed, at the very least. So you might… It may give you comfort. To know that we are content, that is. I cannot speak for my siblings—what, or who they may want this day or another, but I know who I desire for all the rest of mine.”

He meets his father’s eyes. “Y/N.”

Viserys settles back, studying him with an unreadable expression.

“I am aware, that, just this afternoon, mother—Her Grace—rejected an offer of betrothals of her own children to those of your daughter—my eldest sister—Princess Rhaenyra. I want you to reconsider. For my sake and Y/N’s, if no one else’s. We love each other. We always have, and I know that we always shall. I cannot…I cannot bear the thought of a life without her. I will never love another as I love her.”

He swallows thickly. “She cried in my arms when she told me that her hopes that her mother’s offer would be accepted had instead been refuted. And her heart, in turn, was shattered. Along with mine own.”

He takes his father’s weathered hand in his own. “I beg of you, father, please. Please do this. Give her to me and I to her. So we might be pronounced man and wife when you deem the time right once we’ve come of age. I’ve never asked you for anything. But I do this. I’ll do anything you say.”

He swallows. “I know your family means more to you than anything else.” 

He has oftentimes felt the opposite with how indifferent he can seem to he and his siblings, but he must keeps such sentiments to himself. Now more than ever, even if he has craved his love and approval many-a-time in the past. 

He continues, plotting with his words. Planting a most comely idea. “Were you to betroth us, she and I would not only be able to remain together, but also here. Your son, your granddaughter. Your only granddaughter. If you wished it, this would be our home for the rest of our days. I know it would make her most happy. And that is all I’ve ever wanted: to bring her joy. To make her feel safe. And loved. Just as she has done for me.”

Aemond knows he has said much, but he had to stress his wants—had to ensure that his father was assured of his love and commitment to you. Especially with having gone directly over his mother’s head, so to speak.

Viserys is quiet. For awhile. 

Aemond keeps his father’s hand in his lap, holding firmly to it, so as to keep them close. He hopes he will be more likely to accept his request that way.

Finally, Viserys looks at him. “You truly love her, don’t you?”

Aemond smiles, nodding. “More than anything in all the world. It would ruin—destroy—me to think of us being permanently parted and one day married to others that we do not know. Did not grow up alongside of as the greatest of friends. We are family. To be forced to wed someone else that neither of us loves, while we remain yearning for the other until our last breaths…”

Tears brim in his eyes and his chin wobbles. 

Viserys’ face falls as he pulls Aemond into his side. “And you are sure that she wishes this as well?”

Aemond perks up slightly. “I am. You may summon and ask her yourself if you wish, father. When I left her she was crying in her mother’s arms. I had to…right this. For us both.”

Viserys shakes his head lightly at such a heartbreaking image. So much pain and young heartbreak, and for what? 

He will have it otherwise. 

“Consider it done, my son.”

Aemond looks at him with wide eyes. “We—We are—”

Viserys cups the boy’s cheek. “As of this moment, the two of you are now betrothed.”

He glances toward the door, placing his hand in his lap once more. “I will need speak with your sister on the matter, of course. But I know that she will be most pleased with this arrangement.”

He pauses. “Your mother not quite so, but it is not her decision. I am king. She is to obey me in all things. Including this.”

Viserys had been correct in Rhaenyra being happy about such arrangements, while you and Aemond had held one another and cried tears of joy. 

Viserys had held back his own as he watched the two of you with a smile, while holding his daughter’s hand. 

“This is a most joyous day. It is not often—hardly ever—that those of our stations should ever marry for love. With much luck, such a thing may be found later from arranged engagements. It warms this old heart to know that the two of you have it now, and shall remain with it in-hand for the rest of your days.”

It is then that Alicent emerges into his chambers, his summons for her presence having reached her.

And her disposition is anything but pleased. 

“Your Grace—” She starts, panicked tears stinging her eyes as she swallows down the lump in her throat. “If we may speak—”

Viserys shakes his head, resting each of his hands upon his cane. “There is naught to speak of, my wife. I have made a decision, and it is final.”

“Viserys—” She starts, reaching toward him, but he steps closer toward Rhaenyra, toward the two happy children who cling to one another, who stare at Alicent with…apprehension? Fright that she may ruin what they have only just found? He is unsure, but what he is, is that he will not stand for it.

“Your King has made a betrothal, and it is your duty to respect it. It is done, Alicent. And it is final. I would have my son and granddaughter wed to ones that they love. And now they shall gain as much once they’ve each come of age. It is only a matter of time now.”

She solidifies herself, her heart pounding, and a painful queasiness forms in the pit of her stomach, as she sees just how outnumbered she is. 

She has always been. 

Has always been alone in this world, and will remain as much. 

And she sees further agency slipping through her fingers now. Her children she’d been forced to squeeze out of her young body, for an ungrateful man who hardly ever acknowledged them, is now to tell her what is to become of them? Is to give her yet one more command because she is what? Still yet a girl helpless to tell him no, despite all she has given him, whether she wished it or no? That is all that has ever mattered, isn’t it: what he wants? All else be damned.

No. She is Queen. A woman grown…even if she still so often feels otherwise. Has consistently since the death of her mother. The one person in all the world who loved her the way she needed be loved.

She will show her children that same devotion, even if they hate her for it. Because she knows what is best for them. Not him.

Doesn’t she?

“I will not have it.”

Viserys lowers his chin. “I beg your pardon?”

She takes a small step closer, clasping her hands tighter to hide how they tremble.

“He is my son just as much as he is yours. I carried him. Grew him in mine own womb. Pushed him out of my body and into the world. While you have shirked your duties to him as his father. Pushed he and his siblings aside in favor of—”

“That is enough!” Viserys shouts, slamming his cane against the floor, and Alicent’s chin wobbles in fright.

She wishes her father were here.

No.

Perhaps she doesn’t. He is to blame for this. For all of it.

She wants for her mother.

What if Aemond one day feels the same because of this? Because she did not try hard enough to undo it? He is but a boy. He does not know what he wants.

What if she has…failed him?

Viserys comes toward her, his cane clicking loudly against polished marble floors, his cloak swaying around him. “That is quite enough, wife. That is an order from your King! Is that understood?”

She merely stares at him for only a moment, wondering if he has ever held an ounce of love for her within his heart.

Why in Seven Hells did he marry her? She has often wondered. Wondered even more if she will ever have answer to such a terrible question.

“The Prince Aemond—my son—and the Princess Y/N—my granddaughter—are henceforth betrothed. If I discover further dissension on your part in dishonoring my wishes and my decree here today…”

He takes yet another step closer, forcing her to look up at him, making her feel impossibly smaller. 

Like a frightened little girl, indeed.

“You shall not enjoy the consequences. Do I make myself clear?”

She does not know why she does it—she too is equally responsible for all the misfortune which has befell her, and part of her hates her for it—but she glances to Rhaenyra with tears still shimmering in her eyes.

Rhaenyra takes a near-undetectable step toward her—expression unreadable—but stops when she feels you clutching her skirts for comfort, Aemond holding you close for the same.

Her own son has betrayed her. Where had she gone wrong? 

She wants to lock herself in her chambers and rest. Perhaps not to wake.

That, she’s sure, would most please the man who stands before her. The pathetic excuse for one. 

And yet she knows that come tomorrow, she will return to her role as a dutiful wife, because since she was fifteen years old…it is all she has ever been. She knows naught else what to be than caretaker. A wife, a womb, a concubine. 

A ghost.

She’d once been and had a friend, but now she thinks those days must long be past.

Finally, Alicent nods solemnly, digging at her nail-beds.

Viserys nods. “Good. Then it is settled.”

Aemond presses a kiss to your forehead, filled with equal parts joy and guilt.

He prays his mother will one day come to see what he himself does when he looks at you. He cannot understand how she does not already.

If she loves him, she will love you as well.

He hopes so, at least. He would not have you feeling unwelcome in your own home. He will not have it.

You are now his to protect, and protect he shall. In every way he can.

Gregory House x fem!reader (platonic?)

Warnings : none

Summary : Greg finds out something interesting about you.

Authors note : Not the biggest fan of this, could've been better, but the idea wont leave my head so I wrote it.

𓈒⟡₊⋆∘ 𓈒⟡₊⋆∘ 𓈒⟡₊⋆∘𓈒⟡₊⋆∘𓈒⟡₊⋆∘𓈒⟡₊⋆∘𓈒⟡₊⋆∘𓈒⟡₊⋆∘𓈒⟡₊⋆∘𓈒⟡₊⋆∘

Today was particularly rough, your coffee machine broke down so you had to settle for the crappy coffee in the breakroom, the cafeteria had ran out of your favourite chips, a patient puked on you so you had to change your clothes and by god's grace, all the anti-vaxxers in Jersey decided to come visit you today. Sitting down you let out a sigh, your feet hurt and your head felt like it was being pounded by an anvil closing your eyes in hopes for a fifteen minute shuteye, slowly drowning out the noises of the busy hospital. Suddenly your pager rings, the shrill noise cutting through the room, letting out a sharp exhale you take the pager in your hands and look at it, it’s a page from the NICU, nothing uncommon.

Standing up you rush out of the room, reaching the NICU, the nurse fills you on the patient, a seven month premature baby suffering a sudden attack of patent ductus arteriosus, as the baby flailed around trying to take breaths that he couldn’t catch, you’re held a scalpel your gloved hand tightening around the handle of it, bringing the sharp edge scalpel to the baby’s chest, just as you were about to make a cut the baby stopped breathing. Taking a deep breath you set the scalpel down “time of death?” “Twelve twenty am.” “I’ll go tell the parents.” Removing your gloves you walk out of the NICU towards the maternity ward, walking into the patient’s mother’s room “are you Miss Hennock?” “Yeah, what happened, is he okay?” Biting your lip, fighting back tears, “your son has passed on twelve twenty am.”

“What? How?”

“He suffered from patent ductus arteriosus”

“no no no, that can't be possible.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

The mother broke down in tears. Her screams could be heard by the whole floor, walking out of the maternity ward, the screams still playing in your mind, stopping by a pillar. You rest your back on the pillar, closing your eyes as tears threaten to spill, hugging your body for comfort. After a few seconds of solitude you hear the familiar tapping of a cane, opening your eyes you see Greg House walking, as he reaches you he stops and stares, staring back at him “what?”

With no response he goes back to walking to wherever he was going.

After fifteen minutes of peace the screams of someone interrupt, sighing you decide to go up to the roof. Just as you were climbing the stairs, you reach the breakroom, opening your locker you take you alcohol flask, walking to the roof you sit down on the edge, taking in a deep breath, you open your flask and take a big sip after 15 minutes and a half empty flask you hear the door open, looking back you see House limping towards you.

“Why're you here?”

“You looked like you wanted to die down there, was hoping you didn’t.”

“Awwww, you care about me.”

“Considering you’re slurring, I would like to consider you’ve finished that flask.”

“No, there’s still some.” You shake the flask.

“ So what happened down there?”

“Oh, nothing important.”

“You were on the verge of tears, someone definitely died.”

“Why do you sound so sure?”

“The last time I saw you cry was when one of your patients had died.” he says affirmatively

“Maybe my mom died?”

“Your mom’s been dead for seven years”

“How'd you know?”

“I like snooping, so what's so special today?”

“Nothing just a NICU accident.”

“That's why you're crying?”

“You know what House, lemme tell you a story, sit down” you pat the spot next to you “your crippled leg must hurt.”

As he sat down, “So what's this story about?”

“About ten years ago, in my third year of medical school, I met a man with the prettiest grey eyes, like the clouds on a rainy day.”

“Where is this going?”

“Sush, so we get to talking and a few months into dating he proposes to me and I say yes” “Want some?” you push the flask towards him.

“Yes” he takes the flask from you.

“So anyways, we get married and a few months later I get pregnant, we were so happy”

“You were married?”

“A few months into the pregnancy I start noticing he had started to become distant with me, coming home later than usual, leaving early, talking about that one new nurse that started working at the hospital, so one day i decide to visit him in the hospital, going around the hospital I couldn’t find him so I start to go back when I hear voices in a broom closet and when i open it, I see him and the new nurse he kept talking about, eating eachothers faces.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

He notices tears welling in your eyes.

With a shaky voice and a tight chest you continue, “so we had an argument and then he apologised and I thought everything would go back to normal, but it did not, we started to fight more he started to act weird and one day we have a huge argument like plate smashing and yelling, the argument gets so big he threatens to kill himself. We’re standing in the kitchen, he's holding a knife to his neck, i'm standing a few feet away from and we’re yelling and suddenly he cuts his neck, blood spraying everywhere the stress from the event puts me into early labour, I somehow manage to call 911 and then everything was a blur.”

“You are going to regret this in the morning.”

“The next thing I remember is holding my dead baby in my arms.”

He was rendered speechless.

“That's why I was crying, do you miss Stacy?”

Taken aback by the sudden question, he looks at you “yeah, why?”

“I miss him a lot, I loved him and he had to love me, somewhere sometime between the cheating and lying.”

“Stop” he gets up “you’re drunk.”

You smile at him, “I'm sad.”

“Aren’t we all sad?”

𓈒⟡₊⋆∘ 𓈒⟡₊⋆∘ 𓈒⟡₊⋆∘𓈒⟡₊⋆∘𓈒⟡₊⋆∘𓈒⟡₊⋆∘𓈒⟡₊⋆∘𓈒⟡₊⋆∘𓈒⟡₊⋆∘𓈒⟡₊⋆∘

fin

I am in an angsty fic mood and want to write about; bsf’s ex!character x reader, but was confused between these three, so y’all choose

jalebi baby !

or; Dick Grayson and his Indian gf hosting Diwali 🧨☄️🎆

dick grayson x indian!fem!reader, like one euphemism i originally wrote more but it was kinda off-topic so i didn't include it. but if this ends up like...resonating particularly deeply with anyone i'll make another part also never quite got an answer on that friends question... Read Jason's version here !

In the years you’ve been with Dick, he’s celebrated multiple Diwali’s with you. He’s familiar with the customs and practices by now, knows the story behind the holiday, and has space in his closet for the several traditional garments he’s collected over the course of your relationship. But this year is different; this year, you are the hosts.

The day before, you were a mess. Rife with stress and nerves over your first time hosting the family party, an unspoken rite of passage into adult life. He had to basically drag you away from your checklist so he could sit you down and pamper you, massaging coconut oil into your scalp so you could relax. You can’t lie, though, it did help. That, and him being extra generous while washing it out in the shower later. You slept like a baby that night, worries long forgotten.

When the time for the party comes, he’s looking so…

He’s wearing a kurta that perfectly matches the cerulean of his eyes and has a shimmering silver paisley pattern, and he wears it with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows to put his tan, muscled forearms on display. (*Barking*)

Like the gentleman he is, he helps you drape your sari. He presses the pleats flat, secures the pins in place, all with a graceful precision that makes the finished product better than you could ever achieve. He’s pouting the whole time, though, because no matter how much you insist that it’s magenta, it still borders too close to red for his taste.

“It’s magenta, Dick.” “That’s basically red! Why don’t you just wear one that says ‘I Hate Nightwing’ in huge letters?” “Dickie, don’t be ridiculous…you know the pleating would hide the words.”

You thought that was hilarious, but he’s EXTRA pouty after that.

He can’t be mad at you for long, though, not when you’re looking like that. The gold border of your garment, the sparkle of your gold jewelry, and the rosy color against your brown skin with a bindi to match…you’re practically glowing. And if you’re wearing paayals (bell anklets)…that dainty twinkle that follows you when you walk— hold on, he needs a minute. He thinks he’s died and gone to heaven because there’s an angel in front of him.

While you’re spending the whole party running around and looking after everything, he’s looking after you. He’s making sure you take sitting breaks, he’s bringing you water, he’s feeding you while you’re cooking, and taking over the cooking (when you let him) so you can take some time to actually enjoy the party.

For dessert you prepare his favorite (jalebi) but every time you remove one from the pot and place it in the serving dish, two seconds later it’s gone. He tries to pin it on one of your relatives, which results in said relative calling him lode (lode-eh), and you having to sequester him in another room so you can finish cooking.

While you take him on his walk of shame, he asks you what that means and you lovingly reassure him that it’s nothing bad. (It isn’t, technically…I mean it is his name, right?)

I didn't include this in Jason's version but I think while Dick likes jalebi, Jason is a gulab jamun kinda guy

divider from here

Sugar on the Rim vol. II

bruce wayne x afab!reader

aka the billionaires new friend

part one

warnings: heavily implied that reader is a virgin, age gap (bruce is older than reader), smut, oral fem!receiving, nervous but enthusiastically consenting reader

You’d tried to calm your nerves but they couldn’t be helped.

You’re anxious about everything, all of it. What he wants you to do, what he’s expecting you do, whether it’ll hurt, whether you’re ready.

You think you trust Bruce, but you also know that these things are different for men and women. You don’t necessarily expect that he’ll have a mind for what you’ll need, but honestly, neither do you. You don’t know what to do to make this easier for yourself—you don’t know what to do at all. 

You bought the lingerie, you’ve got it on under your clothes and it feels like a costume. You can’t tell if that aids or worsens the anxiety. 

You’re fidgeting with the hem of your skirt and you wish you could quit it, you’re radiating enough nervous energy as it is, you don’t need to be sending him visual cues on top of it. 

Bruce holds your free hand in his as he guides you through the manor, you think it’s a different section than you’ve seen before. His hand engulfs yours unfairly as he leads, but the touch of his skin is so warm and inviting that you can’t tell if your hand is still shaking under it. If it is, he pretends not to notice.

He guides you up the stairs and into a corridor and then another before you arrive at a set of double doors. You’ve never seen double doors on the inside of a house before.

He lets you in ahead of him, and you have a distinct thought that you’re glad he can’t see the look of awe on your face as you walk in. His bedroom has an entire living room inside of it, and altogether it’s bigger than your whole apartment. A maroon couch and matching chairs surround a grand fireplace at the front of the room and the resulting glow from the active embers has the area shrouded in a warm light ahead of the shadows filling the rest.

You glance past the seating at his bed; large and proud. It’s definitely bigger than a king sized, with an overhead canopy and streams of dark burgundy curtains draping down from the corners. There’s another set of closed double doors past the bed, you imagine leading to the bathroom.

The end of the room displays a large window seat that looks like it’s never been used, and vast tinted windows. You look up to find the ceiling higher than you’ve ever seen in a bedroom with a very expensive chandelier hanging over it all.

He takes your arm, steering you out of your wonderment and leads you towards the couch rather than the bed, gesturing for you to sit down with him. You do, quietly glad when he positions himself so that you’re close to each other but not pressed right up against you. He’s able to relax his body more than you’re able to fake it on yourself, and you think your thoughts must be vibrating out of you by now.    

One hand comes to rest on your thigh as his other nudges your cheek towards him. “Hey, nothing’s happening right now. No need to be nervous.”

You nod blankly, but your thoughts are running wild with everything that you very much are nervous about.

He takes your hand in his, rubbing circles with his thumb. 

“You’ve got to relax,” he coos, “Remember what I said?”

You take a breath, “You’re not going to throw me in the deep end.”

“Exactly,” he murmurs, kissing your forehead. “Just wanna make you feel good, right?”

You nod, easing your posture.

He looks you in the eye, “You gonna let me?”

You hum, nodding again.

“Good girl,” he purrs, pulling away.

You quickly find that the distance is not at all what you want, and you decide to push forward—as forward as you can—sitting up again to peel your jacket off. He watches you move with a look in his eyes, you take it for intrigue but it may just as well be something akin to pride. Pride in you? He’s openly flirted, kissed you, and straight up propositioned you for sex—but sure, he’s proud of you for taking your jacket off.

Your nerves transition into insecurity before you can catch them, and you’re starting to feel a little stupid, like a child playing pretend.

You watch tentatively as he tilts his head at you, running his own assessments of your actions. 

“Will you come sit on my lap?” he asks you after a moment. 

You suddenly become acutely aware of the amount of air in your lungs. This feels like a big request and you’re not even sure how to take his meaning. Does he want you to sit sideways? Your back to his front? Or fully straddle him? 

He wants whatever you want, he’d said. What do you want?

You glance down at his thighs, covered by fabric more expensive than you can imagine. Positive confirmation rings through your head immediately, willing you to push yourself forward a little more. 

You reposition yourself over him, straddling his lap in spite of your nerves.

Again, he looks pleased. Happy even. One of his hands comes to stroke soothing patterns across your lower back, the other resting on your waist. 

He makes sure to catch your gaze, “You’ll tell me if you want to stop.” 

He follows when your eyes stray, “Yes?”

“Yes.”

He places a tender kiss on your cheekbone, “How did shopping go?”

“Um, good. It was good. One of the sales girls helped me,” your breath is shaky as he kisses your jawline.

“Yeah? Tell me about it.”

“I, uh, I just went to this little boutique up on third street,” he places another kiss on the column of your throat as you talk. “Um, it took longer than I thought it would. There were so many choices.”

His hands come up to soothe over your ribs, pulling you a little closer as they do. He hums for you to keep talking, his kisses continuing to lower until they’re down to your collarbone, though they remain relatively chaste.

“I—I didn’t really know what to look for,” you admit, breath shaky as you exhale. 

“But you like it?”

“Yeah, I—I do.”

He hums, smiling against your skin. His fingers inch under the seam of your shirt, caressing your waist. “Can I take this off?”

You nod timidly, trying not to seem so on edge with anticipation. You’re not confident that he can’t see right through you.  

He presses another chaste kiss to your neck upon receival of the permission, and your shirt begins to come off slowly, his hands skimming every new bit of skin revealed. As he pulls it over your head, he glances down at the baby pink bralette you’d picked out for yourself.

He groans quietly as he takes in the sight, “Oh, pretty girl. Beautiful girl,” He noses at your chest, leaving little kisses where his lips make contact with your skin, “Look at you. Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Your stomach flutters as his hair tickles your cheek. His hands roam up your sides, stopping to stroke placid circles along the sides of your breasts.

His touch makes its way around your back, expertly undoing your bra clasp without a second thought. Your bra hangs forward a bit off your shoulders, but he leaves the work of entirely removing it to you. And you do, with more confidence than you’d imagined yourself mustering.

He immediately shows his appreciation, kissing and caressing your chest with lover-like admiration. Your head falls back involuntarily as he noses at your soft skin.

He’s breathing heavy when he pulls back, humming low and deep before lifting you up off his lap to stand. The sudden shift has you a bit thrown off, working to catch up as he kneels down in front of you and repeats his earlier process with your skirt—kissing your thighs and tugging the fabric down bit by bit.

When it’s discarded on the floor you stand only left in your underwear, the lace practically illuminated against your skin.

He looks up at you from his place on the floor and smiles as he takes in the sight of your body. His hands find your hips as he asks you, “Has anyone ever seen you like this before?”

You hesitate for half a second before answering truthfully.

His smile grows, “No, you’re a good girl, aren’t you?” 

He doesn’t wait for an answer before he’s nodding, “Yeah, I know.”

As he rises to stand he scoops you up by the back of your thighs and lifts you in the air with no discernable effort. Now at face level with him, you get a bit bolder and lean in to kiss him. He kisses you back, pleased, beginning to walk the two of you over towards the bed.

He sets you down gently atop the soft mattress, kisses pushing you backwards to lie back on the bed. He scoops your wrists up and leisurely moves your arms up above your head. His grip is benign as he releases one hand in favor of holding your jaw. Your kiss is deep and controlled on his part, but in a way that makes you feel light in the head. You like the cloudy-sensation very much.

After a while, he pulls back to look at you with clouded eyes. 

He practically purrs, “You’re such a kind girl. So sweet to everyone, all the time. Will you let me be sweet to you?”

Your breath is shaky as you nod, attempts at hiding your anticipation failing.

He nods back at you with a faux-sympathy across his face. “Let me hear you say it.”

You force air into your lungs, giving you the willpower to speak the words. “Will you touch me? Please?”

The corners of his lips turn up, “Of course, sweet girl.”

He nips at your jaw as his hands travel down, petting the inside of your thighs with a touch so feather light it almost tickles.

Your knee jerks inward towards his hand, your body desperately seeking out more of this new sensation. He obliges, tracing his touch back up, up, up until his hand dips under the lace trim of your panties, skimming over your clit. Your hips flinch back away from him momentarily in surprise, only to press back forward a second later.

He actually laughs at the action, like it’s endearing. You feel a little silly for it, but you’re not given much time to dwell as he persists, brushing against you with a bit more pressure.

He tilts his head, watching your expression carefully with a remarkably pleased look on his own face. “How’s that, sweet girl?”

You nod, beside yourself. “Feels good,” you whimper. “Feels really good..”

You don’t necessarily mean to, but your hips grind up against his touch, your body too mesmerized with the sensation to remember to be embarrassed.

He’s certainly not complaining about it though, his quiet coos encouraging you to chase the feeling. 

He lets you grind up against his hand, taking in the needy look on your face with contentment.

“Poor girl,” he tuts. “Just need somebody to take care of you, huh?”

That makes your cheeks burn, but your attention finds itself more concerned with the urge to squeeze your thighs together.

You whine when he pulls his hand back out of your underwear, only for him to stand resolute in his actions. 

“Not yet, sweet thing,” he hums, pressing you back down to the bed with a light but firm touch when you try to sit up. 

He hushes you gently, murmuring for you to be patient as he shifts his position over you. 

He starts to move down your body, leaving kisses in his wake. The sensation of his lips tracing down your stomach has you feeling butterflies.

By the time he reaches your waistline you’re borderline dizzy from the anticipation, squeezing your legs together in an attempt to alleviate the ache.

He pauses there for a moment, torturously, and noses at the seam of your panties. A whine from you has him chuckling and finally moving to where you need him.

He kisses your clit over your underwear and you’re fighting thoughts of embarrassment over how sure you are he can taste how wet you are over the fabric.

It doesn’t seem to be enough for him though, as he tugs your panties down slowly, kissing your thighs as he goes.

Bruce’s hands hold onto your waist as he eats you out, holding you in place with an easy grip. 

You squirm against the feel of his tongue and you can’t quite figure out what to do with your hands. You almost wish he’d made you keep them above your head but really you’re not sure you’d be able to keep it together if he had. You’re not sure you’re keeping it together now.

He groans against your pussy, and one of your hands flies to grip his hair without permission from your brain. If you’re being honest with yourself though, your brain isn’t really the one calling the shots anymore.

You gasp when he licks a bold stripe, “Bruce—”

He groans again, briefly breaking away from you. “Oh, say that again.”

You sigh out, “Bruce, please.” 

He makes a pleased hum. “Good girl,” he murmurs before diving back in. 

He complies with your pleas generously, giving you more. He’s gradual but resolute as he inserts two fingers into you, giving you the time to adjust. But he’d evidently done a very thorough job prepping you for it, you’re so wet that the initial entry doesn’t sting like you’d expected. No, rather the first thing you register is closer to pleasure. A lot closer.

He begins to pump in and out of you at he continues to suck at your clit, and somewhere during you have a distinct thought of “oh this is it.”

You let out a little gasp and for once, you break out of your own head and just relish in the way his fingers curl inside you.

The way your thighs squeeze around him as you come, doesn’t hinder him one bit, only has him applying his ministrations with more intent. It doesn’t take long for the trembling of your body to give way to full on shaking, your body stuttering beneath him.

He continues working at you the entire way through your orgasm, until you’re flinching from overstimulation. 

He gives you one more lick before looking up at you with hooded eyes. “Y’taste sweet too, you know that?”

You can feel the blood rush to your cheeks as he starts to move back up to face-level, kissing the high point of your cheekbone.  

He pulls down on your bottom lip, your slick wet against your mouth.

You open without question, a clouding urge to please him the only thing running through your mind. 

He grumbles a low, pleased sound as you do, moving his hand only to provide room for him to kiss you again.

He sits back up over you and starts unbuttoning his shirt and you realize only now that he’s still fully dressed. 

He glances down to his belt as he undoes the buttons. 

“Will you help me out, sweet girl?”

You blink a couple times before registering the request, still overwhelmed by how quickly and skillfully he’d made you come. 

You struggle a bit to push yourself up into a sitting position, but he supports you by your waist, nipping along your jaw as encouragement.

Your hands shake as you undo the clasp, and while you’re still very much eager, if not moreso, you’re suddenly confronted with the very real possibility that you’re about to have your limits pushed. He ate you out and did a damn good job, stands to reason that he’d want you to return the favor.

So it takes you by surprise when he’s nudging you back against the pillows, removing his pants himself.

He keeps you occupied with an intense kiss as he does, and the distraction so smooth it’s almost like it’s rehearsed. 

You follow his lead easily, though surprised by his lack of desire to get his fill too.

He drapes himself over you nicely, his size easily dwarfing you out. He’s quick to block your chin from tilting down, gently bringing your face back up to meet his. 

He shakes his head lightly, murmuring, “Don’t worry about that. I got you.”

You are worried about it, but you trust Bruce, you know you do now.

You feel the weight of his cock against your stomach, at this exact moment, feeling like not much more than a daunting task.

“S’alright, sweet girl,” he lulls, brushing your hair back. “Okay?”

As heavy as the simple question is, you don’t need to think about it before you’re nodding and moving your hand to hold onto his bicep.

He peppers kisses all over your face as he starts to push in, effectively starting to distract you from the pain of the stretch. He hushes your whines soothingly and kneads at your waist with confident hands.

Your arms lock around his shoulders on instinct, your eyes squeezing shut as you try to convince yourself he’s almost all the way in, but you know you’ve got aways to go.

He pauses halfway, imploring you to open your eyes so he can check up on you properly.

“Talk to me, sweetheart,” he softly urges.

You will yourself to blink up at him and try to take on the challenge of both him and his gaze. Surely, an impossible task.

But you manage shaky eye contact that occasionally gives way to glancing down at his lips. 

It doesn’t feel good yet, but it only makes you more eager to keep going.

“I’m okay,” you nod, taking a breath. “You can keep going.”

He waits to find that reassurance in your eyes before he continues to push in, bestowing you a deep kiss in reward for your bravery.

Once he’s nearly bottomed out he waits a moment, then begins to rock in and out slowly, letting you get used to a starter of the sensation.

He brushes your hair back, weaving through the strands. “There we go,” he coos as you look down between you. “Doing so good.”

Your gasp is louder than they had been before, and closer to a sigh now. 

He’s fucking you gently, with a decorum that exceeds what you’d earlier told yourself you were stupid for hoping for.

It doesn’t take long at all for his movement to start to feel really good and your grip around his shoulders comes around to a different kind of intensity.

He noses against your jaw, applying kisses whenever  convenient. “‘S that feel good, sweet girl? Hm?”

He hits a particularly deep spot in you immediately after and it makes you borderline squeak. He huffs out a laugh that’s nothing short of affectionate. 

“Yeah?”

He then attacks that spot with extra intention, hitting it absolutely expertly every time. He speeds up a little, lips latched onto your neck as he fucks you nice and deep.

He drops a hand down between you and starts rubbing circles onto your clit with a pace that makes you want to scream.

You can’t help the moan you release when he teeths at your neck, clearly aiming to drive you crazy. But damn if he isn’t going about it the right way.

His circles pick up pace and you can be sure you’re leaving nail marks on his back. He seems to only get more encouraged by your sounds, working you closer and closer to the edge with every whimper.

He finally lets you over after a minute of shamelessly relishing in your moans, himself following close after.

He continues moving in and out of you until you’ve both completely finished, slowly coming to a stop. 

You get a moment to catch your breath before he pulls out delicately. You don’t even realize he’s moved before he’s got his boxers back on and is halfway to the bathroom.

You’re a little alarmed by the sudden shift in proximity, though you guess that’s the playboy experience, isn’t it? After a second you hear water running and assume he’s taking a shower.

You push yourself to sit up fully, minding your achy thighs, and swing your legs over the side of the bed. You glance at the foot of the bed where your underwear lies, then back over by the couch where the rest of your clothes lay discarded. You briefly contemplate how quickly you can get your clothes back on when the bathroom doors open again.

You glance up at Bruce, dazed, who looks surprised himself to see you sitting up. As he makes his way back to the bed you notice the supplies he has in tow and your brain begins to slowly start turning its gears again.

You don’t realize the glass of water in his hand is for you until he’s pushed it into your palm. 

His other hand carries a wet wash cloth that you, again, aren’t able to register the purpose for until it’s in action. 

“Drink,” he tells you as he spreads your knees apart gently, wiping away the mess between your legs with a notable amount of compassion for your sensitivity.

You do, gulping a few as he finishes, tossing the rag in a hamper before setting your glass down on the side table.

Your eyes return to the end of the bed and you nearly decide to get up, but he’s still standing so close to you, you’re not sure this is the right time.

You seem caught halfway between decisions now, you know you do. You’d honestly preferred when you thought he’d just ditched you for a shower because at least then this part wouldn’t be so awkward.

He watches you closely as you deliberate and seems to draw a conclusion about your hesitation rather quickly. His brow pinches as he processes, tilting his head at you. 

“You’ve got to be joking,” he says, bewildered. “Right?”

“I—” you falter, looking to the couch and back to him again. “No?”

He stares at you for a moment with an expression you can’t define.

“Lay down.”

You don’t have a second to process before he’s climbing back in bed too, pulling you down to lay your head on the pillow.

He pulls the covers over you and splays an arm over your waist, clearly firm in his decision for you to stay.

Your eyes are heavy and his bed is so comfortable, it’s difficult for you to even consider either of you wanting you to leave now.

Maybe you’ll just sleep for a little while, get some of your energy back. 

The way he traces soft patterns across your stomach certainly encourages the idea and doesn’t give you much power to resist.

You let your eyes flutter shut to the feather-light touch and listen to the steady deepness of his breaths.

Well, this isn’t so bad either.

🐲 reblogging is an ancient art form, only the strong may master it 🐲

He feels like he's died and went to heaven.

Let's set the stage. You, his amazing, spectacular, beautiful girlfriend, are not a very physical person. Don't get him wrong, you are affectionate and you like touching him very much, but you don't do it often. You show your love in other ways, you cook for him, you make his favorite foods all the time, you search about his interests so you can have conversations with him about it, you know what's on his mind and you give him space when he needs it. You know him better than he knows himself.

So when you do touch him, it's all the more special. you kiss him on the cheek and forehead, you give him small hugs, ones that don't last very long and don't involve that much contact, you hold his hand when you feel he needs support, and you touch him on the arms and back when you feel like he needs reassurance. Something about having grown up in a non physical household.

More importantly you don't initiate sex, on your normal days that is. He has been always the more physical of the two of you, a surprise to some, given his disposition, but he is the only one that initiates it. That is except for one instance in time.

"Please, please, please, fuck me." You whisper, grinding and rubbing yourself all over him.

You came for him when he was sitting on the couch, watching a show that he can't even remember and then you started your little ritual. You would ask him what is he doing, then you sit on the other end of the couch, then you start inching your way closer to him and you start touching him absentmindedly, and finally you go to the main event, and you plop your pretty self in his lap and when he asks what are you doing, you shut him up with a kiss so ferocious that it takes his breath away. And you start pawing at him, to every piece of his body that you can reach, he starts doing the mental math in his head and it clicks, it's the blessed day. Your ovulation day.

The day that you don't really care about your inhibitions about physical touch and you just want to maul him. For three days up to a week you would be on him like glue. In public you would stick yourself to his side, at home you would jump him every chance you could, not even to have sex, just make out and be closer to him. He would take his fill of you and more, you would wake up and you would kiss him till he can't breathe, you would fuck him till he sees sound and hears colors, and most importantly, you would have long cuddle sessions. God forbids that he wear no shirt around you at that time, you would start biting him. That's another thing about you, you start looking at him like you genuinely want to eat him, and he sometimes feels nervous when you start kissing his neck, but that is what makes it so hot to him.

"Please, I want to feel you, I want you to fuck me."your sweet voice jerks his attention back to you, to the amazing goddess that is perched on his lap. The way that you look, with your hair framing your face and your sleep clothes, the ones that had him audibly groaning at the sight of them, leaving nothing to the imagination. You grind yourself on his cock, nestled up filling in his sweat pants. He feels like a young god because of the way that you desire him. And that makes it all the more special.

So yes. He feels like he has died and went to heaven.

alicent when she finds out rhaenyra is kissing girls now but she isn’t one of them