#tricksh0t

[tricksh0t]

★ princes don't pout

☾ jacaerys velaryon x top m reader

𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘴𝘩0𝘵 ⛥ i'm sorry guys this was ready 20 hours ago but i fell asleep (at 11 pm) then i was busy and then i napped

𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘵𝘴 ⛥ 2.10k words

cw: Jace is 18 in this !! age gap, thigh fucking, ser and boy as names, handjob, inexperience, groping, some slight feminization

"It does not befit a prince to pout, Prince Jacaerys." You, a Queen's Guard and his mother's sworn protector, say pointedly.

You have always been a caring figure who looked out for him in every moment, but it has come to the point where you are an extension of his mother, quietly heeding her words and effectively keeping him trapped in his own home.

Your protection and your very presence make him feel safe; and your charming humor, in the rare moments you are not driven by his mother's words, bring a yearning to his chest. Jace wishes for something else from you.

He's got a crush.

A crush that has him blushing madly every time he does something remotely embarrassing, that has him doing anything to prove himself to you. A crush that makes him, though the moments are sparse, anything you tell him to.

Currently, you stare down at him with a disappointed look just like his mother does.

"What did you expect, my Prince?" You raise your eyebrow at him, making shame rise in his chest unintentionally. "For me to accept? I protect your virtue, my Prince, not tarnish it."

And to that, Jace simply answers, "Please?"

You can't help but chuckle at that, which makes him feel as though you're not taking him seriously. "What do you want, exactly?" You ask, after sobering up.

"I want you."

"My Prince–"

Jace wasn't pouting before, but he certainly was now. He tilts his head like a puppy.

He's cute, you'll admit to yourself, at least. He's cute, trying to gain the attention of an older man, thinking in his youth and naivety that something long lasting will come of it.

He plays the innocent card, with that pout. He's more clever than he paints himself to be, as he'd lured you into his chambers under the guise of "feeling unsafe" and cornered you against the end of his bed.

He wants this, wants you, and has clearly been planning for it.

"Alright." You concede with a sigh.

Immediately, Jace is pushing you onto the bed and beginning the long process of removing your armor. You know it is the familiarity of the belts and buckles of armor that makes him so quick, but a part of you thinks that it's because he's imagined removing it many times before, looking at where each piece separates and clasps together like looking for an enemy's weaknesses.

But he is all too eager.

"Wait, boy." You grasp at his curls and tug, causing him to wince. You'd be lying if you said it didn't turn you on, tugging at his usually perfect hair and seeing how quickly he comes to a stop. "I will not bed you before you are wed."

"What?"

"I will use your thighs," Jace pouts, ready to protest, but you give his hair a tug again. "and you will stand it, because it is all I will give."

"But how?"

Jace's breath hitches when you pull him onto your lap. He lets out something of a whimper when your hands land on his hips. "You were so eager to disrobe me, focus on that first."

His movements are more sluggish at first, slowed by a feeling of defeat, but as more of you is exposed, he starts up a lustful fever again. Your armor is gone in seconds, clanging on the floor without a care, but then there is your underarmor clothing. Finally, as your chest is exposed, Jace slows. His breaths grow ragged.

The hair on your chest speaks age, strength, the mark of a man. Jacaerys himself does not have any, not yet, at least. It's why he almost seems enamoured.

His hand follows down the hair on your chest to the trail on your abdomen, his first time seeing a happy trail so prominent.

When his hands find the top of your trousers, he hesitates, the first time of the night. "Ser?"

"Yes?"

His eye is on the shape of the arousal in your pants, you realize.

"I want it."

He sounds so sure of it. It's adorable, because he's pouting again, because he wants something he doesn't even know that he can't handle without sweatwork.

"You may not have it." Your words leave no room for negotiation.

Jace hurries again, to undo your trousers and take them off, pulling along with them your underwear, as if throwing a fit.

He does not take the time to admire the shape of your cock like he did your chest. For a moment you think he might undress and force himself down on it, in defiance of you, but he doesn't. He's obedient like that; and though you know he doesn't like it when you order him around like his mother, he does not disobey, either.

He lays down on top of you, stubborn still with the way he presses his cheek against the warmth of your chest and looks away from you. His clothed thighs squeeze around your cock, but then he lies still just like that, because you hadn't told him how and he's unwilling to ask.

If he's so determined to be defiant, you'll do it for him.

Jace gasps when you part your legs and his lower half falls onto the bed. He thinks you're mocking him further when your hands, sickeningly slow and gentle, caress a path down his spine. He hates that it brings dragonfire to his cheeks and that it leaves shivers in its wake.

He hates even more so that when you reach the curve of his ass and squeeze two handfulls, it sends a shock through his nerves.

He thinks he's subtle, or maybe it's instinct, as he sinks lower down your chest and right into your hands. You push him back up, though, making him whine embarrasingly. He was just looking for your touch and you're pushing him back?

Your hands leave his rear, and he'd like to complain, but then they're pulling down his trousers and pants. It almost seems like his asscheeks bounce when the material is past the swell of them, making you chuckle.

The dragonfire in Jace's cheeks burns with embarrasment.

You know what you're filling pressed against you from his still covered front. You're not ashamed of unveiling it, but you're sure he is.

"S-Ser?"

You ignore him, lifting his hips with one hand and pulling the trousers off with the other. When you let his hips fall back down, his hard-on presses against your abdomen, providing just enough friction for a desperate Jace to moan.

His eyes immediately slam shut, and your hand comes up to his cheek to keep him against your chest, to caress it.

"Yes, sweet boy?" You answer now.

"Nevermind..." He replies sheepishly.

You push his trousers down as far as you can reach, revealing all the soft, unmarked skin underneath. He's just a prince, unworked, only trained, never been in a real battle. It makes it feel like a novelty, to be the first man to touch him like this.

"You wanted to know how, yes?"

"Y-Yes."

"Keep your thighs together. Use your knees to move and hands to keep yourself up." You help him at first, hands on his outer thighs and helping them up and down. "Do you feel what muscles that's using, boy?"

"Yes, Ser."

"Then use them."

He's sloppy at first, when you've just stopped helping him. His legs try to part instinctively as his knees dig into the mattress, but he remembers to squeeze them soon after.

He grows more coordinated and purposeful soon enough, getting into the rhythm. Soft sighs escape his mouth, not just because he's happy to please you, but because he's grinding his dick against your abdomen each time he comes down.

You grab a handful of his hair, just a hold. It's a reminder of when you tugged his hair, so when you speak, he listens. "You're grinding down on me, Prince."

"I'm sorry." Jace says quickly, in a cry, but he can't find himself stopping. Sighs turn to obscenities uttered under his breath, as you've finally coaxed his mouth to open. "Fuck."

He sounds desperate to stop, and yet he can't stop himself.

"It's okay." You say, the hold on his hair turning into a caress. "You can keep doing that, can't you?"

"Yes, Ser, I can." He says, resolute.

His thighs around your cock, squeezing...they're soft, so soft, like fucking into a cloud, one of those he flies into, and his skin is smooth, too, unblemished, unmarked, unused.

Your hands are on his thighs again, not helping, but feeling. Jace's moans grow a tad louder as you touch him.

You squeeze and meld the flesh of his thighs without a thought, just mesmerized by how good they feel around you and how malleable the fat of them seems to be, squishy under your hands.

"Ser!" Jace exclaims.

Startled, you ask. "Prince?"

"Ser..." You realize later that he is merely moaning your title as you provide him pleasure.

You look down at him, only noticing that he is blissed out of his mind based on his facial expression before another matter takes your mind.

Further down, you can just barely see the tip of your cock peaking out not from between his thighs but from below the curve of his ass. That too is unmarked, and for the night, yours. For the first time, really, he's someone's, yours.

You reach to grasp his asscheeks, and then, truly, you cannot see your cock.

Jace, on his part, cannot think about the perverted way you hold him as he chases his own pleasure. With each movement of his hips, he grinds his cock down on your abdomen unabashedly.

"Oh, Ser."

"Just like that, boy."

Your voice is a dirty whisper into his ear that has his body working past his limits.

This isn't what he wanted, but it might as well be.

It's, what? Delicious? The shock that rides his spine each time he presses down against you, to know that squeezing his thighs around you is pleasing you. He knows the pre that's making the slide of his thighs easier is yours, but he can't help but think if it like the slick of a cunt.

Jace shivers, his head melded against your chest. The hairs of it tickle his ear and chafe the side of his face with rough burns, but it's you, so he doesn't mind.

This is what he wanted, to have you.

He doesn't know that it's quick, but it is, when he finishes.

You push him down by the ass and still him, let him rest. He's a sweaty, spent mess against you, but you know he's happy.

"That all you wanted, prince?"

You don't expect Jacaerys to shake his head. He gulps back built up drool and speaks, "N-No. You too, Ser, please."

He tries to move his hips again, but between exhaustion and your hands, he can't. "I can't ask that of you."

"Let me see you finish, or...or let me do it!" He's eager for it. On shaky hands, he pushes his chest up and looks at you, with that pout.

"Princes don't pout, Prince Jacaerys."

He wasn't looking for the pleasure, not really. He was looking to fuck you, and you specifically, and in his mind, that only ended with you cumming.

"Please?"

"Alright." You concede with a sigh. You lift your hands, but then he's straining his knees and hips again. "Ah-ah, prince. Sit up. Use your hand."

Jace does so, gratefully. He sits up, on his knees, and his hand quickly gets to work.

It's like you've given him purpose, and he's resolute once more.

Unlike his thighs, his hands have been worked, training with swords, holding reigns and saddles and dragon spikes over the years. Still, he is a prince, less worked than any man you have ever been with before your servitude as a King's and then Queen's Guard.

That only means he's more dextrous and his hand works you up and down fast. He stares down at your cock, admiring it, as he hadn't earlier.

He still wants it.

But he'll obey you, like he usually does.

As you finish, Jacaerys smiles. You finished because of him, and he's content with that.

"There." You say, after regaining your breath. "Satisfied now, prince?"

He ticks some things off his spontaneous mental checklist: no kiss, you weren't inside him nor the opposite, no cuddling; but you wouldn't do any of that, either. You'd never let him.

Jace sighs, "As much as I can be."

[burgojo]

curious about who my faves' fave tumblr author is...

my fave meaning you <3

twirling my hair giggling and kicking my feet <3 thank you, that means a lot :)

i rotate a lot of old fics tbh and some of these people haven't posted anything in a bit, but sometimes old is gold, yknow? no @'s because otherwise i might die. idk if you wanted recs or not but i added links anyway lol and i can't choose just one. smut writers only because i am a degenerate :D

havensins, yuanology, gingeralecranberry, tricksh0t, kunazz, narcissistshandler, dvlboy, hurlingdown. im an incredibly normal and well-adjusted person in society, as you can tell!

[aesxocnet-archive]

hi luvs ♡! without further ado, lets welcome ::

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♡ member jae ♡ @luckycnes-a

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♡ member gia ♡ @honey-tara​

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[contaiinedarmageddon2]

always hilari0us to tricksh0t a post int0 weird areas.

it's like smuggling.

[ps-evident]

haven’t seen the dippers in a while soooo, this ask is for all of them! what / who makes them smile & if they were to describe their s/o, how would they describe them? (if they don’t have one you can replace it with their best friend or anything else they treasure) thanksss!

[DIPPERS HAVE RESPONDED]

[ARLOW] ::

“Ah, I think wholeheartedly just Jae’s existence makes me smile.” he coughs scratching his cheek before regaining his composure.

“He’s like a bunny always overly curious about everything, easily lovable, but can easily be in danger if not looked after. You have to treat him with care and spoil when needed.”

Jae can be found @/tricksh0t

[TARŌ] ::

“What makes me smile? Being surrounded by people that I know care about me just as much as I do for them. Knowing we got each other’s back through thick and thin… is something I wished I had in the past.” Tarō responds enthusiastically before perking up at the next question.

“Remi is someone that needs to be protected. Not because she isn’t strong, it’s because she’s too precious to lose. She’s an amazing and very caring person and the fact that someone had the audacity to take her kindness for granted and make her life miserable. I won’t forgive them for that. However, I’ll do whatever I can to restore her happiness by being there for her… forever and always.”

Remi can be found @/fav0ritefreaks

[JIAN] ::

“Baking. I know I’m probably going to be the odd one out, but there’s some sort of satisfaction creating something that you know everyone will enjoy. Plus, it’s in a way my coping mechanism for stress so in a way… baking can always bring a smile on my face.” Jian smiles bashfully before her face turns serious.

“First and foremost— Angie is beautiful. Let’s set the record straight and end the false rumors. Two. She’s cute but scary at the same time I don’t know how she does it. Three. A literal angel she’s so sweet and caring I can just melt here thinking about her…”

Angie can be found @/svnspirits

[XINYI] ::

“I suppose making my friends and members laugh at my clownery, as Sookie likes to call it, puts a smile on my face. Being able to literally turn their frowns upside down and make them feel better makes me feel better.” Xinyi laughs.

“Liling is more than what meets the eye. Did I say that right? Anyways, she is lovable and did I mention adorable when she gets excited. Plus, she tolerates my jokes! A caring soul that no one and I mean no one deserves. Not even me!”

You can find Liling @/hshtag

[RIM] ::

“Food. If I could I’d be doing one of those Mukbangs. Give me food and I’ll be sedated for the day.” Rim responds rather bluntly but there’s a smile on his face.

“Here we go with the love life questions again except with options. I guess, I treasure a peoples views about me. I’m not bothered by the verity of opinions of me because I know the people that really take the time to know me see the real me.”

[SOOKIE] ::

“What makes me smile?” Sookie says before pausing to roll her eyes to laugh. “I guess when I see everyone having a good time/in a good mood. You can’t help but he like hey they are happy so I should be too.”

“The thing I treasure the most is sleep. It’s so hard to fall asleep easily especially nowadays with practice. I miss the days I get lucky and get at least eight hours of sleep.”

[AERI] ::

“Affection! Whenever, I feel down the members always give me hugs, cuddles, and kisses to make me feel ten times better. It’s so comforting and reassuring that I’ll be okay.” Aeri says.

“Hm, Im actually not sure. I guess my group members. They helped me through the rough patches of my life and help me be a better person.”

[ SPARKZ HAS RESPONDED ]

“Sorry about the lack of updates anon TwT. I’ve been moving and I finally got settled. I’m trying to get into a new routine I guess lol and I’m a procrastinator… Anyways they’ll be slow updates but thanks for your support 🥺🥺

[tricksh0t]

Sub Cregan gets overstimulated by husband to the point he starts begging for him to let him take a break after returning from the Wall. He said yes after he comes one more time the last time he makes Cregan squirt and he screams so loudly the whole castle can hear him.

★ moaner, groaner, or screamer?

☾ cregan stark x top m reader

𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘴𝘩0𝘵 ⛥ chat if I may ask why do we thirst for this guy? he showed up once in the whole reason, and I honestly don't like his cadence. don't get me wrong, I wrote this damn fic but it's cause the plot was good and he's a looker (if it's abt the book okay)

𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘵𝘴 ⛥ 1.52k words

cw: anal penetration, handjob (cregan receiving), very subby cregan, multiple rounds (not depicted), begging, overstimulation, male squirting, screaming, dacryphilia

Cregan's not sure he's got much left to give anymore.

He's cum what, five, six times? Two of those have been at the hand of his husband's skillful cock, and the rest of those–three or four, whatever makes the math work–have been at the hand of his hand.

Cregan's sure you, his husband, have reason for this. He must miss him, after his dutiful visit to the Wall. Furthermore, the Lord of Winterfell at the hall, even after the days long journey from the Wall back to Winterfell, looked exquisite. He looks a lot more delectable and pretty now, splayed upon the bed, legs spread like a common whore.

It does not befit him, not as the leader of House Stark and certainly not as the Warden of the North, but it has always been pleasing to see Cregan give way to your command.

That there must be the reason.

He doesn't know what to think, his mind is a spinning mess of a blizzard. Actually, he can barely think.

In fact, these thoughts aren't even his.

You have one hand on Cregan's cock, constantly and incessantly pleasing him, while the other cradles the back of his head, a recent development, to hold it up to look at him.

Cregan Stark, your husband, does in fact look pretty splayed out like this on the bed, limbs all limp except for his knees. He looked slightly less exquisite dismounting his horse, but nonetheless, it seduced you to his bed.

And yes, you do miss him. He has been gone entertaining a southern prince for far too long. Thirty-nine days and thirty-nine nights, for that matter, and nineteen of those were spent on the road.

It is jealousy as much as it is a need to see Cregan rest, and a Stark as dutiful as the young lord only rests after he is thoroughly spent.

Finally, and this you can admit to even to the Maester himself, much to Cregan's chagrin, you do so very much enjoy the sight of your lord husband mindless and obedient.

You're fairly sure he's not got much to give anymore, based on his endless babbling, spasming hips and the fact his last orgasm hadn't produced much in the way of seed.

Between moans, babbles, and the squelch of the movement of your hand around him, Cregan mutters something awfully coherent.

"What was that, love?"

When your thumb runs over his apple of his cheek, Cregan's eyes finally snap open once more. A whimper begins from his mouth first, then a word. "Please."

"Please what?" You ask, voice soft. You give him the mercy, even, of slowing down the movement of your hand.

Overstimulation, regardless, fogs his mind and slurs his speech. The pain of consistency and being overwhelmed course through his veins like a sedative. "I...need a break, please, husband."

"A break?" You say, as if the very idea offends you.

In truth, it is amusing for him to ask for a break, rather than to simply stop.

"An hour, at least! Some water, r-respite for my body." He pleads, eyes fighting to roll back into his skull even whilst he locks them with you. "Please."

"Does it feel good?" You ask, speeding up the movement of your hand.

"Yes!" Cregan exclaims, a touch too loud. With how many hours this has lasted, you're sure someone knows by now, if not, the whole of the castle.

"Then what reason there in stopping?"

He moans in what sounds like desperation, foot coming behind you to push at your back in some instinctual retaliation. His eyes dart down as the force of his foot only has your long-forgotten cock rutting further into him, only stimulating him further. Cregan moans at the feeling.

"Careful."

Cregan cries out a sob. "I'm sorry, my husband, but–oh, fuck."

His eyes do roll back, this time, without control, as you thumb at the skit of his tip, practically calling him to cum once more.

"A break, you said?" You hum, swirling your thumb around the head of his cock almost as if it is a motion you make when in deep thought.

"Yes," Cregan breathes out shakily, "yes, a break, husband. Please, please, please."

You still your hand. He will have his break, if only it lasts five minutes.

"Wait!" Cregan wails, hips bucking restlessly and helplessly into your still hand. "Wait, I was so close!"

You laugh, letting his head fall back onto the pillow. When it does, it does so with a thump, as Cregan was very much not minding its weight.

"What will it be, my Lord Husband?" You use the title mockingly, wiping a stray tear off his cheek. "A break or continuing?"

"Ohhh," Cregan whines, like he does on his bratty bouts, "one more! Just one more, please. I want it so bad."

...you do so enjoy it when he begs.

When you pump your hand slowly up and down his cock, it has his hips shaking as the slow speed urges him to not buck but follow along the movement, having him use the last of his strength.

You stop after the third pump, causing him to whine again. "Beg."

He does so without question. "Ple–"

"And look me in the eye when you do it."

His eyes hazily come back into focus when he opens them again, and you can clearly see the slow way they return from when they rolled into the back of his head. "P-Please." He sputters pathetically.

You reward him with a quick movement that has his hips fruitlessly fail to follow. "Say it like you mean it, Cregan."

"Please." Cregan's voice is whiny as well as shaky, with the way tears are beginning to form in his eyes. "Please, husband, I want it. I want it more than I've ever wanted anything. Please."

"I'm not convinced–"

"Please!" He exclaims, and it's loud. "Please, my love!"

When your hand falls from his cock, a sob escapes his lips, but it is quickly replaced by a moan as you snap your hips into him.

After how long ago his last orgasm accompanied by your cock was, he had forgotten the feeling.

Cregan's eyes roll back again, and his legs wrap around your waist. "Please, please, please!" He begs, though you hadn't asked.

"Ah!"

Cregan's wails grow loud and wet, the loudest thing coming out of the room, but you're sure that the thudding of the bed can be heard from the neighboring rooms and even downstairs, and the slapping of skin can be heard from outside the door.

When you lean over him, nose buried into his jaw and hot breaths against his neck, Cregan embraces you, if only to enact revenge by clawing at your back.

That pain doesn't stop you from continuing, snapping your hips into him with a strength and speed that befits your Northener blood.

His cock moves wildly with each snap of your hips, slapping against his abdomen and weeping precum once more like a steady stream.

"Fuck, oh, husband!" Cregan only grows louder. "Mmgh!"

His moans grow more girlish the longer you continue, pleasure and pain running at his nerves not like a fire but like ice so cold it burns.

And then you wrap a hand around his cock once more, and Cregan wails.

The feel of it has him cumming in a shock, cock spurting the last of what his balls had.

His moans die down a little as his voice grows hoarse, but they remain a constant anyway as you fuck him through his seventh or eighth orgasm and begin with yours.

They turn, finally, into hums of relief as you fill him full for the third time, this count you can be sure of.

"I–"

You cut him off as you press further into him, pushing his head against the headboard. "One more."

"My love?"

"One more."

He's too sensitive, but his softened cock grows to full mast with just two tugs.

Your hand is so fast his mind can barely keep up. His moans do, however, growing just as quickly in volume that it's a wonder no one has come knocking at your door yet.

You pay attention to the whole of his cock, from the base, where your fist makes contact with his drained balls, to the red, swollen tip; and that is why he's cumming again so quickly.

Cregan screams.

He screams so loud that you're sure the whole castle can hear him—even, maybe, the small folk outside its walls.

There is no one at your door, you remember, because this is not the first time.

You watch as his cock spurts high peaks of not cum but something else. He's not just cumming, he's squirting, high peaks of it, so liquidy they quickly run down his sweaty body and add onto the mess on your sheets. He finishes in three spurts of it, each lower than the last.

"Well done." You whisper against the crown of his head, before kissing it.

Cregan can only smile and laugh deliriously.

It is only when he speaks that you realize how hoarse his voice is. "I love you."

[tricksh0t]

★ a spot fit for a king

☾ viserys iii targaryen x dom male reader

𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘴𝘩0𝘵 ⛥ don't blame me, blame the tiktok

cw: blowj*b (m receiving), facial, c*m eating, handj*b (m receiving), light praise

A Targaryen Alone in the World.

You imagine that would be his stage name if he were a whore, even if it wasn't exactly true, with the existence of his sister and all. Regardless, whatever whorehouse he'd land himself in would be considered quite lucky.

By all means, he is a Targaryen, the kind people can only whisper about like legends after the Mad King's death fifteen years ago.

He is gorgeous, with his wavy, silver locks and violet eyes and pretty face.

You count yourself lucky to have him.

You're even luckier to have him kneeling before you. You'd have thought that his prideful attitude and his claim for the Iron throne might've prevented him from stopping so low—but you were wrong.

Viserys isn't good at sucking cock, he's never had to, but he's good at suckling at your tip like it's a hard candy.

"Mm." He hums around it. He looks like he's thoroughly enjoying this: wrapping his lips around your cock, tasting a few shallow inches before pulling back and lapping at it.

It's the fact that his eyes are closed that you're sure he likes this. Not because he doesn't want to look at you, not because he wants to power through. No, because he's moaning around it, you.

Pretty mm's and awh's; audible, palpable pops from his lips as he pulls off because of how hard he'd sucked.

You tangle your hand in his hair and scrape your nails into his scalp, making a smile appear on his face. "You're doing so well."

A nice little "mmgh" follows your praise.

What he can't, or rather won't attempt to, take into his mouth, he treats with his hands. Hands. Not necessarily because you're big, but because, it seems, he likes to hold it.

One hand pumps you, nice and steady, while the other tilts your tip up towards him or slaps it against his tongue.

He's cockdrunk, enchanted, even.

"I'm gonna cum, y'hear?" You say, grabbing a handful of his hair. "Viserys?"

"Got it." He replies, a throaty, quick thing.

Viserys laps at the head of your cock one final time before he pulls off. His eyes finally open, if only to tilt your cock higher and shift his position, to get himself ready.

Ready?

His eyes close again and his hand pumps you faster. It's clear what he wants, your cum, but you're not quite sure where he wants it, and you don't know if he does either.

Either way, swallowed down his throat or dripping down his face, would tarnish his reputation, but he doesn't even seem to care.

He licks periodically at the head, continuing to hum dreamily; however, as he pumps you farther and you get closer to your release, he stops.

When you finally finish, the brothel-worthy moan he lets out almost makes it seem like he's cum too.

Viserys keeps his mouth open as your cum lands over him. Some of it lands on his tongue, which he is quick to savor, but the rest of it lands on his eyebrows or his forehead, and it all slowly drips down his face. His knitted brows are the only sign of any displeasure at the feeling.

But he moans a throaty "mm, fuck" and you've never been surer in your life that Viserys likes it.

"You look so beautiful." You say, wiping off a bit from his cheek. He practically whines about the "loss" of it.

You're quick to make up for it, though, easing the pad of your thumb onto his tongue. He immediately closes his lips around it with another pleasured hum, lapping at your cum and swallowing it; eager to do so, as if it weren't salty and bodily, but rather sweet as sugar, a treat.

He seems so happy. Maybe you'll keep him kneeled before you forever. He sure seems to prefer it.

[tricksh0t]

★ not tired, not nearly enough

☾ simon "ghost" riley x top m reader

𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘴𝘩0𝘵 ⛥ hello cod fandom

cw: no dialogue, porn with plot?, mentioned multiple rounds, messy, mentions of pregnancy kink but only to confirm there isn't any, rlly short

Simon's heels dig into your back as you pound into his ass; not like there's no tomorrow, but not slow either: a good, hard pace. The same one you've given the past couple hours.

It's filthy, is what it is; Not in the hot sense, in the disgusting sense: cum in his hole, cum on his stomach. Stained white, he is, but fuck he can't complain, not when it's this good, not when he likes the warmth of you between his legs and the warmth of your cock inside his hole.

It's been hours.

But you're not tired, not nearly enough. You know tired. You know how tired he is coming home from his job after months of deployment, you know how tired you get after coming home from work. You know how tired you get driving him home for the airport, and that has its purpose: bringing him home.

This has its purpose too. It's tiring, but it's not tiring enough.

What purpose? Fucking him dumb isn't particularly it. Simon's hand clasps the back of your neck and pulls you down for a rough kiss. It's hardly a kiss at all, just breathing hard into each other's mouths and relishing in the proximity. He's lucid enough to drink it in.

Fucking him full? Simon's never wanted kids, and you're no pervert, fulfilling your fantasy or dream of having kids by pumping him full every weekend and pretending you're trying.

Fucking him. Fucking him, is all, because you've missed his hole.

You've missed the way it clenches around you, how by the end of it all he'll be gaping. You love that it's hairy, love to lick the cum that gets slowed down and tangled with his hair. You love that it's yours.

And you've missed him just as much.

So no, you're not tired, not nearly enough. You'll keep going until muscle failure, just like he trained you.

[tricksh0t]

★ helping hand (Hamburger Helper)

☾ jaime lannister x m reader

𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘴𝘩0𝘵 ⛥ dw about the hamburger helper its a joke

𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘵𝘴 ⛥ 2.14k words

cw: handjob, frotting, spit, sub Jaime, dubcon, swearing

Jaime is stressed. Actually, Jaime Lannister is stressed, because all his troubles seem to stem from his house duties.

Jaime knew that his father, Tywin Lannister, Hand of the King, seasoned army commander, war winner, and expert at giving disappointed looks was likely to strip him of his titles and send him back to Casterly Rock to continue the family line if he so much as made a single mistake, even going as far as taking back his words of disowning him, now that his little brother, Tyrion, was a very persecuted criminal. A breeding mare, he would be, because as much as Jaime hates to think about it, he is a one-handed knight who lost his sword hand.

If there's something he has, it's his cock, and it works; but he can't say it stands proud anymore, because his secret sister-wife Cersei denies him so much as a hand and he is nothing but blisteringly loyal to her.

So here he is, sexually, emotionally and physically frustrated, without his usual duties to fulfill like flaunting his sword.

The only thing that's not Lannister about his troubles is actually Tyrell, or rather, the cocky knight his new to-be-in-laws have brought with them from Hightower to become part of the King's Guard, you.

Already, you think yourself a God not to be fucked with, the second coming of Ser Meryn Trant, not for the asshole's skill but for his arrogance and blatant discourtesy.

What you have over Ser Meryn is actual skill as a swordsman, something you are right to be proud of, if you weren't so arrogant about it. Then there's your looks.

The Tyrells and Hightower love to be pretty. Margaery is a good match for his son already, despite what Cersei says, she is pretty on the outside as well as the inside. Loras, the Knight of the Flowers, is a popular bachelor, even though he has apparent, different tastes, he knows how to use his looks to fool a girl for his house duty. Olenna, though old, still decorates herself with the finest dresses and jewelry, almost as if it is second nature to her.

Naturally, you must be pretty too. You're not a Hightower kind of pretty, though, you're handsome, more rugged, scarred. You wear the Tyrell colors, their embroidery, their style, and yet you remain in Jaime's eye different.

It's too bad you're an asshole. He might've been good friends with you.

Jaime doesn't know why he's thinking about you while he's doing this. Initially, he'd just screwed his eyes shut to try to empty his mind and think of better things.

He tries to drift his attention towards what he usually likes, another's soft hands he's proud to have kept soft; long, flowing, and wavy blonde hair, emerald green eyes; but then he finds himself thinking of you again.

Rough hands that might just feel good on him, short hair, narrowed, mocking eyes, and another mocking smile to accompany them. Then muscles beneath armor, then muscles beneath nothing, then sweat and that sword hand wrapped around your sword and then imaginatively, wrapped around his cock.

And it's getting him off.

Imagining the hand he's got around him is yours is a filthy, guilty pleasure he'll never admit to, but it only helps that it's his left hand, because it feels foreign.

"Need a hand?"

Jaime jumps. His eyes snap open and he flings his hand away, only to sloppily pull up the sheets of his bed to cover himself decently.

"Just what are you doing here?" He asks, because he knows you've heard of knocking.

Evidently, you spy on the fact he hasn't gone soft. You continue taking steps forward. "I asked you a question first."

Jaime steels his dignity to speak next, "Jerking off is a one-handed thing, I'm afraid."

"Not going to take my so very kind offer?" You only stop nearing when you get to the edge of his bed.

You look down on him like you're in some position of power over him, even though he has all levels of seniority on you, because that is how you are. Cocky and arrogant and self-entitled.

Jaime sits up, but you push him back down, placing a hand on the unlaced front of his sleeping tunic, on his chest. His weak flesh hand comes up to fight yours, clutching at your wrist. His gold-plated, heavy hand is useless, and thus though he may not surrender, he cannot push you away.

You suddenly place your other hand beside his head, making him jump pathetically, but he is unable to go elsewhere as you lean down to whisper, "Let's not pretend that you do not fancy me, Kingslayer."

Your hand plays the part of a seductress, pushing his tunic loose around the top to caress at his hairless, toned chest. A warm touch, and he was right: a rough one too, the pads of your fingers are calloused.

"You swore an oath when you joined the King's Guard."

"You did too."

Jaime clicks his tongue at your audacity, looking up at you with narrowed eyes. You only return a smirk, that damned smirk, audacious and playful.

And then the seductress trails a path down the line between his pecs, down his sternum and abdomen, slipping below the covers to do so.

Jaime doesn't fight this time, in fact he lets go of your hand, and you can tell it's because he wants it.

His narrowed eyes change expressions, from an angry glare into a look that tells you he's watching you.

They only narrow further when you lift his tunic to trail your fingers not around his cock like you know he wants it, but down his happy trail. You take your sweet time swirling the short, thick hairs around your fingers in circles, thumbing at the end of the trail and the beginning of the tactile, trimmed bush. You switch from your whole hand to two fingers, tracing down the messy, crooked trail until you're almost at the base of his length.

Jaime is about to complain about how you edge right around it, but then you're suddenly grasping the base in one full hand.

He gasps.

Rough, is his first thought. Rough because of how tough the palm of your hand is, calloused and worked, and rough because you spare him no mercy in how tight you grip him.

"Softer, ass–" Your eyes silence him, that smirk again, you're in control of his pleasure. Jaime sighs, "please."

The pleasure lighting up in your gaze brings him no pleasure, not until you move your hand and, "Shit."

He tries to keep stoic, biting his lip to keep his mouth closed. It's a fight in it of itself, one he can fight. Though he has lost his swordsmanship, he has not lost the discipline and endurance that come with it.

However, the simple motion of your hand makes him want to roll his eyes back, even though you're barely doing him any good.

Already an electric shock fires through his body. His left hand feels foreign, yes, but it is slow and the fog of pleasure forming in his mind would make it sloppy. Your hand is perfect; actually foreign, big and motivated.

Jaime hasn't been the best swordsman in Westeros in a long time, and so he finds that he is losing his patience. The sexual frustration and this very moment are evidence of it, because he finds pleasure in all of it.

When your face leaves his view, it makes his eyes refocus. He looks down at you as you lean over his cock and not take it in your mouth, but let your spit drool over it.

"Fuck."

It's a sight, the new asshole of the Red Keep pleasuring him willingly, eagerly at that.

You spread the drool over his length evenly, but then only pay attention to his tip, thumb pressing against the slit and swirling.

His hand finds the back of your neck, an outward, sudden thing through the fog of pleasure and unmediated strength. "Don't make this impersonal, at least."

"If you can sit a while, darling."

Jaime rolls his eyes, but sits back and waits.

He's seen your body before, your boundless muscles and scarce scars, but of course he hasn't seen your cock.

You don't make a show for it, but his anticipation only makes things feel slower as he watches you undress. Just the faulds and scale groin guard, and then your pants and underwear, and the wait is much too long.

He reaches out to help, but you push his hand back against the headboard roughly. Jaime scoffs, and you only laugh in turn.

"Asshole."

You take your time, and Jaime takes his to watch. He bites his lip at the sight of your V line, but he focuses more on your hairy happy trail, lets his eyes follow it down the more you expose.

Your cock slaps your abdomen when you finally free it, and Jaime has to bite back an exclamation when he sees it.

He hadn't noticed, but precum had been dripping down his length as he watched. You press the tip of your cock against it, against his, collecting and spreading the pre around the both of you.

Jaime groans.

"Is it personal now?"

"Uh-huh." Jaime huffs breathlessly, eyes glued to what you're doing to him.

You straddle his legs and slowly press your cocks together lengthwise. He has no time to dwell on the size difference, before you're wrapping your hand around the both of you at the same time.

Jaime's breaths grow to match the pace of your hand, slow for now. His eyes close.

"Jaime."

"Hm?" Lazily, they open once more, only to widen when you part his lips and keep them open with your thumb at the corner of his lip.

Drool gathers at the bottom of his mouth forcibly, and he can't do much about it, not until you tell him to spit into your hand.

With his mind truly lost now, he obeys, and you soon spit into the same hand and use the mix to continue jerking the two of you off.

It's disgusting, a mix of your spit and his that will soon be accompanied by both of your seeds.

There's a wet squelch each time your hand reaches the top again, and that's disgusting too.

It's disgusting, but a part of him feels like he's missed this. A foreign hand, a sexual partner, pleasure like he's never had before, and he could only ever want more.

It's disgusting, but it's so fucking good.

Jaime's hips buck into your hand, wanting more and only more.

You're not selfish, either. The attention you pay to his cock makes it swell all the harder. It's almost as if you're servicing him, and only him.

When you add more spit into the mess, right on the tip of his cock, he yelps. His hand reaches for your wrist, and yet it does nothing to stop you.

He can't stop the moans from spilling from his mouth anymore, a steady "uh uh uh".

The coil in the pit of his stomach turns and turns, coiling and making him clench his stomach. He's close, so very close.

More pre weeps from the tip of his cock, and you swirl your finger around the tip, spreading it around.

Jaime's eyes focus once more on the movement. He winces, "Please."

But you're an asshole and he's forgotten that.

You wrap your hand around the both of you weakly, languidly dragging it up and down your cocks. It's not enough for him, not after how mind-blowing you were, not while he knows how mind-blowing you could be.

In a spurt of determination, Jaime's hand wraps right around yours.

No longer weak, his left hand guides the movement again, rough and fast that has his reactive hips bucking in tandem too.

You're very clearly amused but he does nothing about it.

No, he's in control now, doesn't need you.

Jaime chases after his pleasure, as he deems he rightfully deserves. He uses your hand like a vessel, a puppet, just to get off.

Hips bucking, pre and spit squelching, tip swollen red; it's instinctual, animalistic, the way he chases to snap the coil in his stomach with no regard for his energy.

When Jaime finishes, it's his first in a long time, and it has his entire body going limp.

His cum washes over the both of your lengths, but he's already got his eyes closed when it does. He doesn't know when you finish, only that it's later.

"Do I get a thank you?"

Jaime opens his eyes and looks at your now clothed body, then at his cock. His spit, your spit, his cum, yours. His nose turns up.

"No."

[tricksh0t]

★ really good girl

☾ matthew murdock x top m reader

𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘴𝘩0𝘵 ⛥ papi's home and he brought takeout 😎 poured like 6 hours into this hope you like it <3 (title is a reference to "I'm a really good lawyer")

𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘵𝘴 ⛥ 3.10k

cw: this shit long, catholic boy swears, a little bit of talk about catholicism (why swearing bad) but not as dialogue, feminizing Matt (mostly nicknames, a thong, pretending his hole is a cunt), soft Matty as well as humor, daddy kink, missionary, creampie, lotta teasing, dacryphilia

"Oh, God, look at you, sweetheart. You're beautiful."

Matt blushes under your praise. You're talking like he's in this beautiful gown, head to toe in mother of pearl or tule, as if that imaginary gown hugs all his curves–the bounding hills of his biceps, the muscled thickness of his thighs, the fat of his pecs–or is revealing enough to leave just enough to the imagination...but no, Matt's just wearing a thong.

A women's thong, practically bursting at how hard he is, it leaves nothing covered in the front, and it does the same for the back. That's what you're looking at.

It's in a pretty pink, like ballet shoes you'd said, the pinnacle of grace. On him, it feels like the opposite, it's making him stiff. He never thought about how clenching your ass is visible from the outside until you'd pointed it out.

"Ease up, sweetheart. You look great."

"You said that already."

"Please?"

Matt arches his back some more, just for you. He tries to relax his glutes, and he's not sure if it works, but you're not complaining.

At a certain angle, you can see more than how the singular one-inch-wide fabric disappears between the perky globes of his cheeks. At a certain angle, if you sit up a bit straighter, you can see his hole.

You can see the way it gapes, how wet it looks... it's lube, but, "You're so wet for me, Matty."

Matt audibly gulps.

"Yeah, you heard me right," God, he just looks like a delicacy. "come here."

Matt remains on his hands and knees as he crawls towards you, slowly, inch by steady inch.

He knows just when to stop, right in front of you without even touching your lap. He looks up at you. His signature red glasses are gone, letting you gaze into those puppy brown eyes that despite being dysfunctional still find yours. "Good girl." You praise, cupping his cheek.

Matt doesn't often swear. It goes with his little Catholic boy thing, to put it lightly. To expand on it, however, it's ingrained in him. Maybe he does swear when he's out there being Daredevil, but according to the sparse things about Christianity you've learned, any swear is slander; and he'd never dare to slight you.

Yet, a shiver goes down his spine, shakes his body, and makes him say, "Fuck, Daddy."

"Why's a pretty girl like you using curses, hm?" You hum, and the worst thing of all (for Matt) is that it's a genuine question.

"I'm-I'm sorry, Daddy–" His voice is on the verge of a whine, it's pathetic.

"Oh, sweetie, don't be." Your voice is soft, genuine. He can hear the smile in it. "Daddy was just asking you a question. Go ahead, try again for me, okay?"

Matt nods his head just slightly. "It's you, Daddy." He catches himself, catches his tongue, quickly. "I don't mean to blame you, D-Daddy, sir. It's just, you make me feel so good."

"Do I, baby?" Matt hums a yes. You continue, "I haven't even touched you yet, sweetheart...apart from your cheek, that is, but I haven't kissed you neither."

"It's what you say to me." Matt says in a little whisper, in a lack of confidence. He's afraid. It's adorable.

"Can you say that again?" You ask, pushing a strand of hair behind his ear. "Couldn't quite hear you."

"Daddy, please." He breathes out, knowing you did.

"Didn't hear you." You repeat, relentless, ungiving, stern. You haven't even called him anything: darling, sweetheart, baby, good girl. Oh, he is getting absolutely railed tonight.

"It's what you say to me." Matt repeats. In fact, he doubles down, pushing past your hand to lay his head on your thigh. "When you call me "baby girl" or "good girl", Daddy, it drives me nuts."

"Good girl." You praise, it drives a shiver through his spine, and you follow it with a finger. "Would you look at that. It really is what I say."

The tracing of his spine, the trail your finger leaves, makes him arch his back just that bit more. You can reach just far enough to cup one of his asscheeks. It lacks precision, but makes Matty moan all the same. You dare to dig a finger below the waistband of the thong, watching it go entirely taut around the rest of him, squeeze his hips just that tiny bit more. You don't even have to pull the fabric away, just slip your finger out of its confines, to hear it snap against his skin. That makes Matty moan too.

He moans so nicely you just want to hear more. "Can you get on your back, sweetheart?"

"I wanna...blow you, Daddy." Matt admits shyly instead, head inching closer and breaths hitting the shape of your clothed cock. He wants it, and you know it.

"Another time." You promise, pulling back, "Now, go on."

Matt does as you wish, because he's yours; and you're his Daddy, and he really really loves being a good girl.

He lays down on his back and he spreads his legs wide open, you don't even have to tell him to. He's obedient like that, always a pleaser. You could never ask for more.

"Hips up, please? Thank you, sweetheart." You prop a pillow under his ass to prepare.

Just the thought of it, of how considerate you are, has Matt leaking. You don't address his hard cock, your eyes don't even glaze over it. It has a certain shame burning through his chest, but at the same time, in the pit of his stomach, there's excitement.

"Thank you." Matt mutters.

"Thank you, who?"

He blushes, "Thank you, Daddy."

"Hands on–" You watch as Matt holds the underside of his knees and pushes his legs up for you, before you can even ask. "Good girl."

He's all trained for you. "Mm, thank you, Daddy."

"Let's get this thing off you, shall we, sweetheart?" Matt nods his head subtly, though the question was rhetorical. You begin to pull off the thong. You'll mourn its pretty pink loss, but first you'll watch the way it presses against the fat of his thighs and makes it spill over like a garter. By the end of it, you take it off one of his ankles but leave it on the other, and watch it slide down.

It's crude; like you've picked him up off the side of the road for a quick fuck.

Nevermind that. "Look at you, all wet and leaking for me." Matt's asshole clenches and unclenches around nothing in anticipation. It's pretty and pink, not quite ballerina but more sultry mauve, and puckered. The only displeasing part about it is that it can still close fully.

You press your thumb against one edge and watch it open, awaiting. "God, if you could only see yourself, baby girl."

"Ple-Please, Daddy."

You look at him. You look at the way his eyes aren't quite focused, but still on you, glassy. Glassy. Pleading, begging, you don't even know if he's doing it intentionally.

Matt Murdock wants you. His body wants you. Daredevil is all trained instincts, Matthew is too.

"I know. I'm getting there." You promise, hovering over him, holding his cheek, staring. Gosh. "Just...you're beautiful."

You press your thumb into him eventually. Your eyes are preoccupied, but you can still feel the way his hole sucks your finger right in. He clenches around it, and you can feel that too.

It's no cunt, but it'll still take you all the way. You shudder at the thought of it.

Matty does too. His toes are already curling. The pretty ballerina pink thong still hangs around his knee, wet at the very little fabric in front. Wet and drying, you can smell it, and you're sure he can too. He's probably ashamed—but to you, it's all the same: evidence of his arousal, the anticipation.

"Pl-Please." He stutters. He really can't wait, can he?

"Puh-lease." You taunt almost immediately. It was instinct, your insatiable, quick wit—you swear.

"Daddy..."

"Sorry, baby." You chuckle, and despite the apology, you continue. Driving your thumb in and out of him is consolation enough. "You know, I really think you'd look rather pretty in a skirt, or lingerie. A bath robe, too, the frilly ones...maybe I just want to see something wrapped around your pretty little waist. You know, it's a fight every day not to pick you up by it and prance you around like a prize: the new, hot commodity."

...

"Am I making you blush?"

Matty is about to snap back with a little something when suddenly your breaths ghost over his hole. It makes him jump. His senses are already going haywire, with the cold air around him and the bursting anticipation. You're probably one of the only people that can startle him.

Your thumb is out, but he won't complain, not when you press a kiss to his hole.

"Such a pretty pink." You hum before diving in, pressing increasingly open-mouthed kisses before beginning to lick and suckle. You don't speak the abcs into it, you haven't the luxury of surface area for that, but it still has his toes–and ignored cock–twitching.

Matt moans. He melts further into the mattress, arches his back a certain way that makes his rear press into you.

You laugh into it, and Matty can feel the reverberations of it in his body, in the air, in his ear drums. It's a pleasant sound, has his heart beating fast...or maybe it's your tongue.

"Oh, Daddy..." He moans richly. Rich like a perfect steak sauce, a good, long taste; a good long moan. Fucking exquisite.

But it's no scream.

You might just know a remedy for that though. "You want Daddy's cock, baby girl?"

You don't have to tell him twice. "Yes–" He's breathless already, and yet he cannot leave you unanswered, even though he'll have to chase his breaths, "Yes, please, Daddy. I really need it."

"How badly?" You part from his pretty cunt with a kiss to prepare, lube up and all, leaving him to answer.

He does so without any complaints at all, fingers twitching in their hold on his knees with excitement, "Really badly, sir, Daddy."

"Can you be a bit more descriptive, sweetie?"

He can hear you lubing up your cock for sure, the schlk schlk of it. It has his cock twitching too. "I've been waiting so long, Daddy. It's been too long since you last fucked me, already so long since you even prepped me. I...I miss it. Please."

"Good girl. Wrap those legs around me?" Not even a second later, "Good girl."

Matt's breath hitches when you drag your length against his hole, let its tapered edge catch along his rim. He's holding his breath, and it's adorable.

You pause, suddenly, "What was it you said about missing my cock?"

"Please." Matty breathes out, exasperated.

"Okay, okay, alright." You chuckle, "I'm sorry."

He doesn't even realize that his nails are digging into your bag when you begin pushing in. It's a slow process, but it does nothing against the fact that you're stretching him out. Your fingers just cannot compare. It's just so...so goddamn wet; and for a moment, he can imagine that it's his.

Matt can imagine that he's all wet for you, pussy just sooo excited and warmed up in anticipation. He moans at both things, that thought and that delicious stretch, and the way your pelvis feels pressed up against his ass.

You wince once you've all bottomed out and only then does Matt realize that he's dug his nails so far down your back.

"I'm sorry, Daddy." He's quick to apologize, pads of his fingers replacing his nails, soothing over the trail they've left.

"It's okay, baby." You breathe out, slow, "Can hardly feel it, actually. The feeling of you? So much more powerful."

Matt gasps when your hand finds his happy trail and your fingers play with the hairs. It's almost like you're playing with his clit...and then moving? Fucking into him?

Like a koala, Matt clings to you: arms around your neck and legs around your waist. He wants—no, needs to feel you. Every single inch of you.

Sweaty and hot as it is, he needs to hold you, because he loves you, loves this. Loves to feel your tender skin below his palms, the flesh of you between his legs, your muscles at work, and your cock driving into him, stretching him, keeping him full. It's the gentleness in it, the absolute love he feels radiating from you.

It's not a sixth sense. It's the fact that your breaths are calm and that your grip on him is soft and yet your heart is beating so terribly fast. Matt doesn't sense emotions, but he can sense this.

So again, he fucking loves it, and it's no slander.

"Want it a little harder, baby?"

"Yes." He answers immediately, through a choked gasp, "Yes, please."

"Sure thing." A kiss to the top of his head, and Matt smiles.

He starts to hold on a little harder when you speed up. The bed rocks underneath your movements, and Matt is struggling to keep up. His palm cups the side of your neck, thumb ghosting over the front, looking for a pulse, looking for something grounding. It doesn't help, even when he finds it.

But it's just instinct. Matt doesn't mind getting lost in a sea of senses, not with you.

"Aw, fu–" The curse is on the cusp of his tongue. He doesn't give it the time of day, though only because he moans again. "Ah!"

And again, "Ouhh."

Normally, Matt has no trouble keeping quiet, but he cannot keep up with your thrusts. Harsh once, then prolonged and awfully loving, as if an apology.

He cannot think.

And then your voice penetrates through it all. "Good girl. Taking me so well, aren't you?"

Oh, you really are driving him nuts.

"Huh, sweetheart? Think you can answer that for me?" Someway, somehow, you break from his strong just enough to look at his face. His eyebrows are screwed up and his eyes are closed, it's adorable.

"Yeah! Yes, yes, yes, sir." He spews uncontrollably. It only takes the smallest display of disappointment, the click of his tongue, for him to correct his mistake. "Yes, Daddy."

"Good girl. You look so pretty, you know?" You fiddle with the thong, pulling it back and letting it slap against his thigh. "Just for me?"

"Just foryou." Matt slurs. He slurs, because it's all too much. It's all you, you, you, you and that cock of yours. "'S so good, Daddy."

Oh, he's lost his mind. It's all too much—he can hear the creaking of the bed, smell the lube and all that he's leaking, feel a wetness glass over his eyes, and taste the growing amount of mucus in the back of his throat...

Not long after, there's a hiccup.

"Oh, you're crying, baby, am I that good?"

"Y-Yeah!" Matt cries.

Isn't he a sweetheart? So overwhelmed by all that you're giving him, and so thankful for it too...though not explicitly, not for a little while. "Matty, baby, where are your manners?"

"Thank you!" He gasps, thighs squeezing tighter around you. Aside from sharp gasps, he can't even speak. "Th...shi–shoot! Th-Thank you, Daddy."

It's adorable just how much he's avoiding swearing.

"No, thank you, sweetheart." The kiss you place to his throat has his next moan come out choked; and then you're kissing up his skin, past his pulse point, and up to his ear. "You're so damn fuckable, baby girl. Cunt open, just so wide for me. Bet you won't even be able to close after this."

Let alone walk. You chuckle into his ear, baritone and deep and so attractive somehow that it has Matt's eyes rolling back on pure instinct.

"Please."

"Please what?" You pull back suddenly and Matt's hold around your neck breaks. His hands fall onto the mattress, where they immediately grip. His knuckles go white. "Hm?"

"Go–shi..." Matt sucks in a breath through gritted teeth, it comes in as a wince. "C-Can't, Daddy."

"Can't what? Can't speak?" He nods, frantically. You decide to take pity on him. "Alright, I'll play your little guessing game. You want me to fuck you?"

No, too easy. Though he nods anyway. "Want me to kiss you?"

He nods, and you peck him on the lips, but both gestures are tiny. He's still unsatisfied. There's no skirting around what he wants. "You want me to leave you gaping, don't you, sweet girl?"

"Yes!" Matt cries out.

Well...who are you to deny your baby girl?

You redouble your efforts; faster, harder, more precise, even, right where he wants it: right into his prostate.

His tears begin streaming down your face, even jerking around with each harsh thrust that has him being drilled into the mattress. The pretty pink thong around his leg jumps up and down his calf too.

Even his legs fall from your waist, unable to do anything except jolt around and take you. Instinctively, they close around you; but you take Matt's knee and push it against the mattress, keeping him open. It makes Matt yelp.

"Please!" Matt moans. For what, he's not even sure. "Fuck, Daddy!"

He has all he wants right here.

A steady "uh, uh, uh" falls from his lips, head tilted up to the sky. Between the crying and the chanting, he almost looks as if in prayer, angelical.

He looks so fucking beautiful. Oh, you love ruining him, love to see the way those tears slide down his cheek, and the slobber and spit leaking from the corner of his lips, and his weeping, hard, red dick.

Maybe that's what he's begging for.

You hook one of his knees around your hip, leave it there, and then wrap a hand around his cock.

"Oh, Daddy! Yes!" Matt screams. His hands are on you again, gripping hard at your shoulders. He spews more words, gratitude, nonsensical things.

He keeps spewing, keeps sobbing and crying, as you fuck him harder and harder, and "Oh!"

He screams again, when he finally cums. Not not "yes", not an obscenity, but Daddy; and then softer as you fill him up with your own spend, in a pant: your name.

When you pull out, he's not just gaping. He's leaking too. "Try clenching for me, baby?" You ask, soothing your palms over his thighs just one last time.

Matty does as you ask, and he clenches around air. Air. His hole cannot fully close.

"Good girl."

[tricksh0t]

★ exes on good terms

☾ sam wilson & james barnes x top m reader

𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘴𝘩0𝘵 ⛥ finishing the brunt of something and then leaving it for a long time just to come back and finish the last little bit is my curse

𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘵𝘴 ⛥ 2.40k

cw: pre-TFATWS, face-sitting, riding, bj (reader receiving), insert is kind of secondary character, little corruption kink, jealousy, voyeurism, threesome

You don't know why James still comes to your apartment without warning. You don't know why you still let him, or why you invite him inside, or why you let him eat your food or shower with your water or sleep on your couch.

You don't know why he looks the way he does, hair greasy and wet, almost drowned, eyes down, lips frowning, you don't know anything except that he looks like a kicked puppy.

That just may be why you let him in.

It must also be why you let him wrap his arms around your midriff as you cook for him, for the both of you, as if you're still his.

"You smell good." You hum, stirring a pot of something.

Frankly, he smells like you. He smells like your shampoo and like your conditioner and like your soap. It almost tricks your brain into thinking he's still yours.

"Don't say things like that." Buck grumbles, like he usually does. "That's weird."

You didn't say that when we dated, is what you would say, but you don't want to turn things sour.

You know that in his little head he's pretending that everything's fine and that you're still together; and that saying something, reminding him you're not or even anything about the past, will urge him to run away, like he usually does.

So you remain here, laughing and smiling, "Sure."

Mac and cheese. Not Kraft Dinner, for once, however good the processed and preserved cheese and thin noodles might taste.

No, James deserved something better.

"What did you do today?"

"That's classified."

Between the metal arm and occasional blood smell Bucky gives off (nevermind the fact he was America's number 1 threat a couple years ago), "Yeah, I know. Was worth a try, anyway."

Bucky picks at his dinner. "You've got better small talk."

You roll your eyes, "If not what you did, how did you feel?"

"Hmm." Bucky hums, his eyebrows raised. He's a little surprised at the question, despite it being 'how are you' but like in the past tense. "Lonely, but you knew that."

"Did I?" He stares up at you when you say that, expression full deadpan. "Alright. Yeah, I did."

He huffs a small laugh through his nose and you relish in the fact you at least brought that out from him.

You insist on him sleeping in your bed tonight (with you) but even after all that begging, you're surprised to find him there, body half under the blanket, when you slip out of the shower.

He looks yours.

He's wearing your pajamas he borrowed, he's on your bed, under your covers, cleaned in your shower, filled with your food. He's reading a book, even, which isn't yours, but it is domestic.

"Hey." You whisper almost breathlessly, before you're crawling into bed and into his arms. He always liked being big spoon.

"Hey, you." Bucky puts the book down without a fight. He scoots down to laying, bringing you down with him.

You're leaning your body over his, half on the bed, half on him. Your head lays on his chest, hearing his heartbeat. He's superhuman you think, from all the hints he's given, and yet his heart beats just like yours, soothingly. His hand is in your hair, calloused as it is, it feels great when he runs his fingers through your strands and touches your scalp. You won't get to feel the other hand. It's too cold, he used to say, but at least he's considerate.

He switches off the light.

What is it that makes superheroes attracted to you?

In the morning, someone rings your doorbell while you were making breakfast.

It's Sam—you know, the Falcon? He's got his usual bright smile that never fails to incite a matching one on yours, that morning run sheen over his forehead, and...groceries?

"Hey, sweetheart." He greets, as if he's not knocking on your door unwarned, with groceries you're sure aren't his because he lives far from here.

You don't know why you let Sam show up at your door like this, or why you invite him inside, or why you let him eat your food or shower with your water or sleep on your couch; except today it seems he's paying you back for the food bit.

"Hey yourself–" You greet quickly, before turning to the matter at hand, "what are you doing here?"

"I was in town." Sam puts a foot into your apartment, and you let him. You let him step inside and leave the groceries on the counter and prop his feet up on the table—not that he does that last thing. "Thought I'd pay you a visit. You still like Kit Kats?"

When you check the groceries, lo and behold, there's the Kit Kats that you like. It seems he remembers a lot more than that, like your favorite cheese, favorite chips, favorite brand of instant coffee, and more.

"Yep, I do." You let out a small laugh. "Thank you. Hey, let me repay you."

"Oh, nuh-uh." Sam raises his arms, rounds the breakfast bar and leans against it so he can put some distance between you and your wallet. "I'm not taking any of your money, y'understand? You can pay me back with those pancakes you've got piled up."

When he actually really looks at them, he realizes that's not a serving for one. His eyebrows furrow before his face lights up again, "Shit, you got a boo around or something? I didn't mean to intrude."

"No!" You're quick to interject, "No, just a friend. No worries, I'll make you some pancakes."

"Thanks." Sam seems to deflate–physically and emotionally–with relief. "Where is he–or she, sorry, they?"

"Sleeping in."

"Alright." He accepts easily. He must've lost the knowledge that you don't have a guest bed.

"How've you been?" You ask, turning your back to him to prepare more breakfast.

You don't have to see him anyway to imagine all of the emotions and expressions on his face. "Peachy. You know, saving the world. Getting called out or stopped on the street for an autograph or a picture. The usual."

"Make sure the world knows you don't live here." You chuckle, "Lord knows the amount of fan mail I got when you were around frequently."

Sam laughs too. "Imagine me now."

Mm, there goes your streak of luck. Just as Bucky struts in, in all his bed hair, sleepy head, pretty face glory, Sam's face turns sour. Bucky, too, sobers up.

"Is that who you're calling your friend?" Sam raises a brow, leaning back in his chair.

"Sam? What are you doing here?" Bucky crosses his arms.

You immediately turn off the heat on the stove, knowing that this is going to be a long ride.

See...you never really told them you dated the other? It never really came up, or rather, you shouldn't take to your partner about your exes.

James came first, so of course there was no telling that you'd date Sam later on. He broke up with you because of his whole Winter Soldier you're-in-danger-if-you-stay-with-me thing, which, though heartbreaking, was understandable coming from a superhero dating a civie.

Sam came after, but he had whisked you so entirely into his world and his charm that you'd forgotten the soft relationship you had with Bucky. He broke up with you because he had to be around the world doing this and that; he was always busy, and he didn't want you to deal with that.

Also, the beef between the Winter Soldier and the Falcon isn't exactly well-known.

Jealous, that's what they are. It's clear in their eyes, in the way they bore holes into the others' faces.

"I should...say something," before the two of you blow lasers through my ceiling, with how hard you stare at each other, "you guys are my exes."

"Exes." Sam mirrors. "Plural."

"You dated this guy?" Bucky asks, like the mere thought of it is repulsive.

"Who you calling "this guy"? We have history, Buck. You talk about history with names, Sergeant Barnes." Sam stands tall and proud in front of Bucky, very nearly chest to chest, demanding respect.

"Sergeant? So should I call you what you will be, in history?" Bucky doesn't back down. "The man who gave up his shield?"

"Don't bring that up, man. This is not about that. This is about you dating my–" Sam cuts himself off. What are you, now?

"Your what?" Bucky hisses back. "Because he sure as hell isn't your boyfriend."

Sam regains his courage, "Well he sure as hell ain't yours, either."

Bucky turns his head towards you, slowly. In a snap, Sam does the same. You can't possibly discern the thoughts of the two men before you, except that they're angry. You're just not sure if they're angry at you too.

"This is where we're supposed to call you a lying, cheating bastard." Sam says.

Despite being angry at each other right now, and generally inamicable at all times, Sam and Bucky have synergy. Right now, they're realizing that you're the common factor in this equation.

You're not a liar, not a cheater, and not a bastard. Just an omitter, a bad communicator.

A man worthy of insulting, by all means.

Or a man worthy of worship, someway, somehow.

Sam's tongue licks hot into your mouth, against your tongue, on your lips. He kisses with a fervor, like today is the last day of his life. He's a man of passion, and he makes sure to show that he is passionate for you.

Bucky's tongue, by contrast, is licking up the side of your length, shoved deep into his throat. He takes it slow, despite the filth of it; the filth of how easy it is to slide right down his throat. His lack of gag reflex means he can take you any time, any day, and his love for you makes it hard not to.

Sam's holding your jaw, forcing your head to turn for him. Standing behind you and the couch, he almost seems to be taking your sight away from the other man on his knees at your feet.

Because if there's something Sam is, it isn't the other man.

James knows, unlike Sam, that you don't need the sight of him to feel the pleasure he brings. How does he know this?

Well, the only way Sam can have his way with you is with your mouth open, and Bucky can hear what keeps it open.

On your part, well, there's only so much yearning a man can take. Cuddling with your ex is one thing, receiving gifts from your ex is another. Both give you the hots for them—a cozy, warm feeling, initially, but it feels like your blood is boiling now, in a good way.

Sam's kisses give you an outlet for your passion and lust. It allows you to kiss back, show some fervor of your own, do something with the adrenaline that burns through your veins from Bucky's...

"Shit, Buck."

He feels so good around you. His throat is tight and wet and hot and so goddamn like the first time that it reminds you that you taught him, trained him; and God, that means his throat is practically made for you.

He doesn't bob his head. It doesn't feel like that. It feels like a glide, something elegant, even. You can't appreciate that at the front of your mind, but your subconscious is glad that, though you're being stimulated top and bottom, Buck's going easy.

He's going easy on you. God...

If this is easy—no, you know how it is when he goes down hard. It's good too, but you can't complain about the pleasure and how you can thrust (lightly) right into his mouth and he won't complain.

And Sam's having none of it.

That's why he takes charge, this time. He takes your cock. Nevermind the fact Bucky's saliva is all over it, it's his now, and he's not going to let Bucky have any of it.

...nevermind the fact Bucky's saliva is in him now. No, nevermind that.

Sam doesn't make up for a lack of anything. He's a plus, a surplus, rolling his hips nice and rough and down into you. He doesn't let it be consistent. He shocks you, bouncing sometimes, lifting up and lets his weight do the work for him.

He's good at it, and it's a fact he knows.

And it's all about focus, isn't it?

James knows it. He knows it so well. So what better way to steal the show than to sit on your face?

It's killing two birds with one stone—steal his man's attention, get pleasure out of it.

Bucky rocks his hips too. Except it's gentle, his way, and Sam's pace gets more and more angry. He's rougher with it, faster with it, less controlled. You feel it thoroughly, his efforts around your dick, and you moan out your approval of it; but it gets swallowed straight into Bucky's hole.

He tastes so sweet, damn near sweeter than he used to be. It's missing him, you think. Something about build up. He probably hasn't had anyone since you.

At least, not in this way. No, you're probably the only man he's ever had. You can only moan about that little fact in your head.

Sam grits his teeth, doubles his efforts till his body positively shakes, but no name will come from your lips. Not with Bucky keeping your tongue preoccupied.

That damn bastard.

He can't even see your face right now. He can only see Bucky's backside, his broad shoulders, the evidence of his strong, heaving chest.

...he can only see his thick thighs, covered in hairs, and his hole's probably hairy too. He can't take a peak of it, but he doesn't even need to peak to see his cheeks. Round, full...

There's more to this, isn't there?

It's kind of...it's arousing to look at. Sam won't admit it in voice, but he'll admit it in his head.

James is a good looking man, and he sounds just as good. He's sat on that face before, used that tongue before, he knows how good you give. The soft moans James lets out are tame in comparison.

Fuck James Bucky Barnes, but fuck him good. Sam could get used to this sight.

[tricksh0t]

★ need a ride

☾ aegon targaryen x dom m reader

𝘱𝘳𝘦-𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘴𝘩0𝘵 ⛥ truthfully this should've been ready like two weeks ago but i put off doing the finishing details (exposition and conclusion) bc i've been busy (tests n stuff!!)

𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘵𝘴 ⛥ 1.28k

cw: thigh riding, comparisons to a dog, humping, finishing untouched, clothed s*x, unspecified but mentioned age gap, light praise kink, sweet thing as a nickname

It's a usual day in the Red Keep. You can only tell that today's King's Landing afternoon is humid and sunny because it streams through the windows. You are kept inside, hidden away, by the Dowager Queen's idle duties after your refusal of the position of Hand and her former sworn protector's ascension.

That is, until the King summoned you.

"Need me to take care of you again?" Aegon replied with a small nod. He's ashamed of that. You shake your head, "No, it's alright."

You settle onto one of his couches comfortably. Any servant would say you are behaving in a way unbecoming of a royal servant, a King's Guard. Neither of you care. "Come here, Your Grace."

Aegon takes his usual spot upon your lap. He doesn't even need any instructing for it.

You'd call your lap a second throne, if it weren't for the fact it was not glorious, not in his eyes. You're his respite, someone to fall back to time and time again, but he can never forget what it is that brings him to you. He can never forget how dependent he is on this.

And, despite all that shame, he always keeps crawling back with every slight inconvenience.

"They're not listening to me, Ser. Not my mother, not my brother, not my Hand. Not my Masters." Aegon huffs, trying to keep his emotions down. It's a valiant effort, for the man you know that he is. "It's so frustrating, Ser."

"You know you don't have to call me Ser." You say, already holding the back of his head and tilting his head up towards you.

"Yes, but..." It almost looks like he's pouting. You're trying to change the subject, he knows. "well, it feels wrong, you know."

Of all the manners lost on him, you're surprised this is what sticks. You suppose it's the fact you've been a knight well before he'd been born. You've always been "Ser".

"A-And you don't have to call me Your Grace." He stuttered. Was it exhaustion? No, he was nervous to say that.

"I should refer to the King with utmost respect." You say, proudly, and that makes Aegon scoff.

"You don't really mean that. I'm a shadow compared to you!" His eyes stray from yours.

You, of many feats. You, of many stories. Yes, you know he respects you, you know he admires you, but you have to make sure that crown doesn't fall from his pretty little head.

"You cast the shadows upon Westeros." You say, gripping his jaw so that he looks at you, correctly. "You, Aegon Targaryen, are the King. Not me, not your mother, not your brother."

You can see that your words are of little effect. You sigh, lifting one of his legs to make him straddle one of your thighs.

The usual position has his cock rising in his pants already.

"Go on." You coo, cupping his cheek. "Take what you need."

It's an art, almost, being able to cum just by grinding down against your thigh, clothed even. It's another art to be the one to arouse him enough for such a thing. With anyone else you'd imagine there is a little shame to this, but Aegon humps your leg like it's the best prize in the world.

What a selfless little dog, he is.

He tries to hide his face into your neck, but you won't have it. You tug his hair to stop him, causing a wince to fall on heedful ears.

"Ah ah," You tut disappointedly. "I'm sorry, my King, but I'll have none of that. Let me see you."

"Y-Yes, Ser." Aegon says shakily.

"There you are, sweet thing." You cup his cheeks, brushing your thumbs over his eyelids to make sure he knows that you do not need him to see you, that he can do anything he wants so long as he sits pretty.

The little gesture makes his cock twitch in his pants, against your thigh. Or maybe it isn't the gesture?

"Good. You're doing good."

Aegon whimpers. His teeth clamp down onto his lip soon after, to quiet himself.

He can't see the amused look on your face, with his eyes closed. He can't even hear it in your tone, mind numbed as it is. You sneak a thumb under his teeth and pry his mouth open. "Don't hurt yourself, my King."

He shakes his head. No, he'll continue biting down, hurting himself. Or..?

"No, not my King?"

Aegon's lips close around your thumb. He suckles lightly, as if in affirmation. No, probably not in affirmation, just sheer instinct and comfort. Maybe you just know how to read him.

"You'll make yourself bleed one day, sweet thing."

That gets a reaction out of him. So it's the nickname, or maybe it's how caring you sound, or maybe it's both.

Whatever it is, Aegon's hips do not stall. He has humped himself dumb on your thighs in much worse cases of exhaustion and fatigue. Tonight, he will do just fine.

Aegon has felt dragonfire before—well, at least near him; close enough to boast at taverns. Though he has never been burned, he knows the feeling of heat upon his skin.

It is not the same as heat in your muscles, not the same as the heat in his thighs begging him for a break.

He'll endure, though, wrap his arms around your neck to stabilize himself and keep going. Not because of the pleasure, no, though it numbs all rationality, but it is because that is what a King should do: endure, because he must.

"There you go."

Aegon's mouth falls open, and though it is a loss to not pacify himself with your thumb, he can't help the moans that befall him.

"Thank you."

He's all but humping your thigh. Selfish in the way he's using your body for it, selfless in the way he does not ask for more.

He's good for you, Aegon the Magnanimous.

Head tilted down, his neck gone slack, Aegon finds himself further undone the closer he gets to release. His hands don't lock together behind your head anymore. Instead, they find themselves upon your shoulders, which he grips tight to push himself closer.

The friction of his cock against each layer of clothing is like dragonfire too. It makes his cock, hard all swollen, he can feel it, burn with rough friction, but he can't get enough, anyway. In contrast, your armor is clean and smooth, befitting of your white cloak yet also making it easier to hump against. He yearns to spoil it, one day.

It burns so bad, but it also burns so good.

Aegon is so so close.

"Please what, lovely?"

Had he said something?

"Please." His lips follow along like they know what to say better than his mind does. "Please, I wanna finish." He blabbles on.

You're amused, if anything, that he thinks he needs permission. "Go on, you've been so good. You deserve it."

The praise, the permission–he is borne of ash and fire, but his nails do not dent your armor as they dig into your shoulderplates, nor do his thighs squeeze like a vice around yours, nor are his teeth upon your flesh.

He's a soft thing, a good thing. You wonder, when the Gods flipped his coin, which side he landed on.

Aegon moans one final, strong time, hips jerking then halting abruptly, then stuttering. He pants, regains his breath, your sweet thing to dote on.

"There. Feels good, sweet thing?"

He'd just finished in his pants, like dirty dog, humped you to release, like a dirty dog; but all he can think to do is collapse in your arms. "Yes."

𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘵-𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘴𝘩0𝘵 ⛥ anyone notice aemond's is "need a ride?" and aegon's is "need a ride" ? i think im so clever

[tricksh0t]

★ need a ride?

☾ aemond targaryen x top m reader

𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘵𝘴 ⛥ 2.04k

cw: very subby aemond, dom top m reader, riding, one spank, mean reader, begging, daddy kink, dacryphilia, sort of humping, the L word but you don't really mean it (love) though it's not implied enough, written with an age gap in mind

To have one of the princes of the Seven Kingdoms on your cock regularly was a privilege. What you've done with that is declare that you prefer him riding you over fucking him, just because of how pathetic it makes him. This time, you make him face away from you, tall, pale body tilted towards a mirror in front of your bed.

Aemond is more focused on the movement than the mirror, but if he looked, he'd find that your sight is more focused on what's in front of you, of course, his ass and the way it ripples every time he slams down hard.

It's rare, though. He's uncoordinated, a mess teetering on the edge of release, just waiting for your command. Seeing your cock disappear into his hole is pleasure enough, though.

"Please, daddy." Aemond sobs. Both eyes cry.

"Please what, sweet prince?" You tear your eyes away from his ass to watch him in the mirror, to watch how the tears stream down his cheeks and how his nose is wrinkled.

Aemond is usually fierce, usually aggressive, so ready to become a usurper, and he's crying on your cock.

"I–" Aemond shakes his head, hands gripping the sheets in front of him. He can't find the words, not between sobs and sharp inhales.

When your hand comes down upon his ass with a sharp slap, it shocks him out of his sobs. "Fuck!"

"Calm down, Prince Aemond." You call in a calm tone he'd find mocking if his mind were with him.

From a pit in your heart you do not often find in you, you grant him mercy, letting him take a break.

He moans when you grab his hips and make his take you whole, but leave him there. "What is it that makes you cry?"

Aemond moves to wipe his cheeks, but you catch the movement in the mirror and stop him; partly because you like the way he looks with his cheeks wet and, "Don't rub your cheeks raw, sweetheart. Just talk to me."

"'S good, daddy." Aemond says weakly. You're proud, at least, that he doesn't stutter.

"So why are you sorrowful?" Your hands rub circles into his hips, and that has them shuddering, rubbing your cock inside of him.

"I am not." He denies vehemently, shaking his head. His eyes finally meet yours through the mirror. "It's–they're happy tears. I think."

"Mm, that kind?" You hum.

Your low voice invokes a reaction in Aemond. He squirms a little on his knees. "Yes."

"Then what is it you plead for?" His mouth opens to speak, but you continue, "You have everything you could want. You have my cock, you have pleasure, you have Vhagar, you're a prince, you're wealthy."

"I–" So it wasn't just the crying that was stopping him from talking. He hiccups suddenly.

"You're embarrassed. Is that it, sweet prince?"

He nods his head just barely.

"Speak your mind." Your voice is commanding. His eyes shy away from yours. "We have known each other intimately, inside and out. You can barely stand being clothed around me. You bare yourself to me often. Surely that must merit a loose tongue."

"Please fuck me, daddy. I need that, I need it, please." He begs so sweetly.

When you give no response, he tries to turn around, but you swing him right back with hands on his shoulders. You click your tongue, and the combination of all that–your cock still in him, the disappointed sound, the manhandling–makes him flinch. "I did tell you that I wanted you to ride me, yes?"

Confusion spreads across Aemond's features along with some kind of hurt at not being able to see you outside of your reflection. "Yes?"

"Yes, who?" You ask roughly, slapping one of his dreadfully pale asscheek just to get a reaction.

"Yes, daddy!" Aemond practically wails.

"And you will do whatever your daddy wishes you to do, won't you?" You didn't even wait for him to reply, because it would matter little to you. "I told you what I wanted, and you didn't object. You do not get to change your mind now, boy."

"I–"

Your hand lays on his pale asscheek, and that reminds Aemond of, though he might not be able to see it, his other now red, stinging cheek. It shocks him into obedience. "Yes, daddy."

"There you are." You raise your hands up to hold his hips gently, a big contrast from how you handled him earlier. "Go on then, sweetheart."

Eyelids snap shut over violet and scarred blue eyes as Aemond gets back into a rhythm, or as best a rhythm as he can muster.

Riding you makes him feel like you're splitting him open, which he should like–love, even–but the movement makes his thighs burn and his knees ache.

He can't deny, though, that it feels fucking good. His gummy walls clench around your cock just to feel you more.

Aemond's bad at this, but he doesn't even realize it.

You do, plain as day. He's slow, never consistent, he finishes too quickly.

You do kind of like how sloppy he is, and how it takes him so long that your cock'll stretch him gaping. What he lacks in skill he makes up for in effort, and you know he'll always want to please daddy. Your praise misleads him.

You grasp his cheeks in both hands, making him gasp, and then you guide him. "Like that, sweetheart."

It's fruitless, as when you let go, he continues at his own pace. It's amusing, anyway, to see his face scrunch up with effort, truly believing he is doing as you asked.

"Yeah," You coo, hands settling back onto his hips and rubbing, "you got it."

You can see sweat trails on his back.

Aemond's giving riding your cock his all. He's always particularly enjoyed being full, and he wants that now. You'd call it milking. Redness burns in his cheeks.

Nevermind what you'd call it, Aemond wants it. He doubles his efforts, wanting it before, or even while, he cums himself.

He clenches the sheets, knuckles ghostly white against his already pale skin.

He can feel it, coiling up in his stomach. It's like dragonfire, the way it spreads throughout his body and excites him.

Aemond rides you faster after that, chasing his release. He wants it. Wants it, wants it, wants it.

The dragonfire turns to ash as a real fire burns, making his limbs ache.

"I can't." Aemond breathes out, out of breath with a dry tongue. Exhaustion makes itself evident the same way as pleasure did, spreading from his core to his knees to his arms. When he speaks next, there's a sob, "Daddy, I can't."

"What do you mean you can't, sweetheart?" You ask, pressing a thumb against the base of his spine.

There's sweat there, a thick sheen. "I'm–"

"Exhausted?" You click your tongue, and the burning shame of disappointment accompanies Aemond's exhaustion. "You've barely been on my cock for an hour, sweet boy."

"Please." Aemond begs. He slides his body down, pressing his chest to the sheets and arching his back; still on your cock and still on his knees, but you can see how they're about to give.

He's presenting himself to you, showing you what you can have.

"You can do it, Aemond. You've done it a thousand times before."

Aemond shakes his head. He doesn't even care for the way it makes him rub his sweat and tears onto the mattress below him. "Not this time, daddy please."

"Get up."

"Daddy–"

"I said get up."

He obeys, upper half lifting off the bed in a struggle. His calf slides out from under his knee in an effort to stand, but you grasp it harshly.

"I said get up, not stand. Turn." You almost regard him like someone that needs taking care of constantly. "Turn around now."

Aemond does so, gladly, happy to see your face even with the tears blurring his vision and even if he has to slip off your dick. You pull him further to straddle your hips.

"You," You begin, grabbing a handful of his hair to tuck his wet face into your neck. His chest presses against yours. "will keep going, and you will continue until I finish, you understand?"

"Y-Yes, daddy." His voice is shaky.

"Say it like you mean it. I've made this easier for you, I'm holding you up, you've got me to hold onto, and you'll be rubbing your cock right against me like a dog. So again, say it like you mean it, Aemond."

"Yes, daddy." Aemond says. You can hear it in his voice that he understands what you're giving him and that he's grateful. You're right, of course you're right. "Thank you, daddy."

He rolls his hips, a whole lot better than the bouncing he was attempting earlier, not for feeling but for how much less work it takes.

Pressed so close against you, sweaty skin against sweaty skin, with each roll of his hips he's pressing his dick against you. It's not intentional, just a byproduct of the proximity, but before long it becomes intentional.

He humps you more than rolls his hips, losing his mind in the pleasure. That slick feeling of his pre and your sweat making it good and easier only reminds him of Sylvi.

That only makes him feel better, imagining it.

Aemond moans, but it turns into a gasp when your fingers thread through his hair, stuck together with sweat.

"What did I tell you?"

His mind is lost to him, so he answers literally, "That you–you've made it easier."

You chuckle, "Well, haven't I?"

"Yes." Aemond breathes out. He doesn't even need you to correct him or ask, "Yes it does, daddy. It's so good, daddy. Thank you, thank you."

When he rolls his hips, it's shallow, barely rising up, but it feels good anyway. It's more about being full, taking his daddy's cock like he's made for it.

He already knows he'll be sore in the morning, hole melded to the shape of your cock.

His thighs burn again, but this time he'll get over it. It feels too good to give up.

You cradle him like he's entirely yours, a warm, guiding hand on the small of his back and another on the back of his head, keeping him against you. It's almost like you care for him.

You can still see his back, through the mirror. He rolls his hips too softly for it to be a sight, but you can still see the effort he puts into it. Furthermore, you can watch your cock disappear in and out of him, watch the way it stretches him, how it almost looks like he's sucking you in. That is what turns you on.

"Keep it going, sweetheart." You whisper into his ear.

"Yes, daddy."

You place a tender kiss at the top of Aemond's head and he shudders.

He's darn beautiful, he is. Clean shaven, everywhere. No hair on his arms, his chest or his legs. You know that special little attention to the cleanliness of his shaved hole is for you, too.

Outside of dragons, death and politics, he is rather sweet, you suppose; and no one else knows.

His lips grow apart, looser the closer he gets to release.

It's hot against your neck, your sweat and the remains of his tears, his everconstant pants, the overabundance of his messy hair.

He can't keep still, neither his hips nor his head. Sometimes his teeth find your skin, sharp like a preadator's. He'd never bite down, anyhow. Doesn't have the mind to.

"Daddy?"

"Yeah?"

You'd been too caught up with thinking about how he was all yours, and with his cute little backside, that you didn't notice he was so close.

"There you go. Love you, yeah?" You murmur, pressing your nose to the top of his head.

Aemond can barely moan a "cumming–!" before he's finishing all over your front. He slumps right over his own mess in exhaustion, breaths slowing as he relaxes.

He think it's all over, blissed out as he is. He forgot his own promise.

Aemond hums deliriously, "Hm? Oh, love you too."

You flip the two of you over, ready to have your way, as Aemond had before. You hadn't finished yet, after all. He'd understand.

"Wait, daddy–!"

[tricksh0t]

★ comfort

☾ jaime lannister x top m reader

𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘴𝘩0𝘵 ⛥ prince charming jaime lannister (s1 jaime) is my fav; also genuinely the first fic of mine where the pairing kisses lip to lip

𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘵𝘴 ⛥ 3.0k words

cw: long intro, lighthearted s*x, reunion s*x, soft, cheating, light incest (don't sue me, it's game of thrones, they're very distant cousins however many times removed) , calling your lover names playfully (bastard, asshole), more plot than porn (entire second part is s*x, but not focused on the s*x)

"Did you grow up with boy-cousins, Lord Tywin? Sons of your father's bannermen, squires, stable boys."

"Of course."

"And you... never..?"

"No."

"Not once? Not in any way?"

"Never."

You were never destined for anything.

You were born a Lannister, yes, but you were so far from the main line that you were set to inherit nothing. You were only a Lannister by name, long lines of second sons marrying outside of important houses over and over until your blonde locks were nothing but dirty.

Your father did not own a large sum of Lannister fortune. His greatest achievement was being the squire of one of Tywin's lesser brothers; but his brother never lead any wars, and so that was hardly a feat anyway.

When you were born, it seemed like you would follow in your father's footsteps. There was hardly anything Lannister about you.

Your greatest feat would probably be setting foot in Casterly Rock to shovel horse shit to and fro. At least then you'd get to admire your distant cousins, the glorious ones, the ones you'd use in your fantasies as the shoes you'd like to wear.

Except, one day you stole a sword and caught the eye of Tywin's lesser brother, the very same that your father had squired for. He showed you, in turn, to his brother, Tywin Lannister.

Under the Lord of Casterly Rock's eyes, you showed promise.

Before Jaime Lannister ever took up the sword with a purpose that wasn't "because daddy told me to", there was you in the training grounds as far as he could remember.

There was you, strong, barely a teen yet.

You became friends, then, under the sword. Tywin bid you an example for his son. As a boy, you were hardly fit to be an example, so instead you became friends.

Between his overzealous sister, his outcast brother, his jealous cousins and the frightened servants, you were the best friend he could ever have.

From friends, you became... not lovers, but something close. It was hardly romance, it was hormones, it was just boys being boys, and it was only fooling around. A kiss or two, sometimes longer, sometimes with tongue; playing at maturity.

With you, Jaime got a taste for breaking the rules and the thrill of sneaking out of his bedroom under the bright cast of moonlight. He got his first taste of romantic companionship, and he liked it.

You were only a couple years older then, but Jaime's dislike for letters caused him to be bound to the book for several hours a day, and so you were the stronger swordfighter.

He admired you. You were more literate than him, though most people are, and stronger, taller, more built, more worked.

You knew hardship and, as the heir to Casterly Rock, he didn't.

He got his first taste of hardship when you were summoned to become a King's Guard, and he did not like it.

Jaime had never begged before. "Don't go. Please, don't go."

And you had never denied him. "I must."

That's why, when you left for the King's Guard, he was left in despair. Despair caused impulse, and he fell back to his sister.

You did not send any ravens the years you were gone, so you grew apart. Jaime held some resentment too, for the first couple of years when he became a King's Guard, so you grew further apart.

He had his sister now, and she was a jealous woman.

The older you grew, the more you thought of your little youthful escapades as just that, things of the youth, inconsequential to anything else of your now adult existance.

Jaime came around eventually.

He became the better swordsman. He was quite fine with letters, and stronger, taller, more discreet, more dutiful.

You were lovers once more, but only that. This time, you knew how to please a man, but again he was only learning. You pleased each other under the influence of wine, or maybe not. Maybe sometimes your minds were unobstructed, and instead, you were more truthful, softer... and some rare nights, you only talked, you shared heart-to-hearts.

But you weren't friends, not by actions. You did not talk often enough, freely enough, unguarded. You were just lovers.

Regardless, to Jaime, there was great comfort in knowing that you were somewhere in the Red Keep, still there for him, still alive. It was one of the things he fought to remember during his year-long journey back to King's Landing.

When you open your door to leave your chambers, you are quickly pushed back inside.

Jaime's there. He's different, but he's there, and he slams the door behind him. You take it as another moment where he seeks the comfort of your body, especially after what you heard had happened to him. The idea occurs naturally to you, even after a year apart.

You kiss him roughly, cupping his cheeks in your hands, because you've missed him.

Jaime breaths hard into the kiss. He's breathing hard in general, and it's more evident when he pushes you away.

You lose your footing in a daze and land on a chair. It'd be a great position, and you'd be quite excited in anticipation, if it weren't for the look on his face.

"Jaime?"

"You didn't come see me." He says, angrily. His arms are crossed, hands—hand folded over his inner elbow.

Standing before you is a shadow of the man Jaime once was. His hair is shorter, darker, his skin is tanner, he's got dark circles under his eyes. He looks worn.

This is a man who has gone through hell. This is a man going through his second war, a man who was held prisoner for a time, who had to kill his cousin, and who tracked through mud and shit to get back to his home. He was missing a bloody hand!

And you didn't go see him.

"No, I didn't." You sit up quickly, fixing the smirk on your lips to a neutral one. "I thought Cersei would keep you, or that you'd be busy recovering...or that our family would want to see you."

"Cersei saw me." Jaime said pointedly. The next moment, he's climbing onto your lap, bracketing your legs with his. "I saw Joffrey and Tommen. Myrcella is gone, and I just found out. Tyrion had his opportunity. Father wished to do nothing but scold me. I was recovering from my journey in my chambers for three days. You didn't come see me."

"I didn't... and now I see I have no excuse." You keep your eyes on him. Past his heavy lids and dark circles, his eyes are the same as you last saw them, a beautiful green.

"All I could think about was getting back to you." He says through gritted teeth, and though it was a lie, you would believe it. He shifts his hips to rub against your length, a subtle grind.

It loses all subtlety when he continues, over and over. Pleasure rises.

"You are." You say with shaky breaths, heavy enough to mirror his. Your eyes close instinctively, head tilted down to the source of your pleasure.

You haven't had him in a year. You miss him, his body. A brothel whore cannot compare.

"Look at me." His teeth are still gritted. He grasps your face with his hand, squeezing your cheeks in the pull to make you look at him.

"Jaime." You say, acknowledging him, looking at him once more.

He looks angry. It's in his gritted teeth and wide eyes and his heaving chest, it's in his words—but he's not violent, no, never to you.

You kiss him, lick into his mouth to urge his tongue to meet yours. His teeth separate, not with a screeching difficulty, but easily. It's almost familiar, the way his tongue feels against yours, the taste of his saliva.

You have known this man longer than you haven't. Perhaps he is missing a hand, perhaps he is wrinkled and older, but he is still the same man you tousled with in your youth.

You find yourselves eventually on the bed, like you have a hundred times before. You on your back, him on your lap.

Except this time it is not quite as swift, and this time he is struggling with the clasps of your armor.

"Let me."

"No."

You do it anyway. Jaime watches you sit up and he sighs. He thinks of himself as helpless, a mope of a man settled on your lap like a peasant sitting on the Iron Throne.

He sighs out of his nose once more, but to you, he only seems like a sad puppy. "Knights can hardly do this themselves. That's what squires are for. I'm sure you've never heard of a one-handed squire."

"That's not helping." Jaime huffs.

"Look," You say, with all the parts of your chest plate, shoulder parts and neck pieces off. You fix his arms around your neck, "you can still wrap them around here. That's all that matters, hm? All you need is to hold on tight enough."

"Asshole." Jaime says as he pushes you onto your back again, though there's a bit of a lift to his lips.

It's the third time he pushes you. "Pushy."

"Asshole." He repeats.

There's little else to remove after that, just the flowing scales covering your crotch that he removes easily with new determination, and your shin guards, but those won't obstruct the path to your dick.

He undoes the laces of your pants with two harsh tugs and then your cock is free to him. With the way he's looking at it like a meal, you're sure he's missed it.

"Do you still keep oil behind the curtains?" Jaime asks, already reaching behind the canopy's bedpost, where the curtain is usually wrapped securely around the flask.

"No." He looks disappointed then, for a moment. "At least it means I've been loyal to you?"

"It can just as well mean that you've only been visiting brothels." Jaime laughs, leaning his forearms on either side of your head to kiss you before you can protest.

You like this, it's easy; it's carefree and humorous. You can feel his smile against your lips.

He shifts his position to press his ass to your cock and grind against the length of it, swallowing your groan with his lips. You hardly noticed when he tugged off his own pants.

For a moment you think that might be how he gets you off, but then one of his arms leaves the mattress, and his fingers are gathering precum from the tip of your swollen head.

It sacrifices his balance, and you catch him before his full weight falls on you. "Bastard." You breathe out a laugh.

"What?" Jamie returns a grin, though it falls open just slightly when he stretches himself out with your precum as lubrication. Quite the sight.

"One journey from the North to King's Landing on foot, and suddenly you don't care for cleanliness?"

He winces slightly, "One, I was also tricked into drinking horse piss. Two, you're cumming inside sooner or later, it's not very different, is it?"

"One," You mirror with raised eyebrows, "what in the Seven Hells? Two, fair enough."

Holding up his thinner body with one hand is easy enough, and if it weren't, you'd have sacrificed the possibility of him falling onto you for the opportunity to hold his face.

You cup his cheek. In another time, a year ago, your fingernails would've been tickled by boyishly long hair. Now, his hair is only prickly.

"Will you grow it out again?"

Jaime thinks on it. He thinks about how it stuck to his face whenever it was dirty with muck or grime, about how easy it was to tug at his hair, how it was used to tug him backwards into horseshit or some other crazed punishment... but he also thinks about how much you liked it, how you often sweetly pushed it off his forehead when it stuck, how tugging at it did feel good in intimate situations such as this.

"I might." Is what he settles for, and he relishes the sight of your smile.

He's good at prepping himself and keeping a smug face. You've seen it thousands of times before, when he's tired of being ordered around and decided he needed to take control for once. You've seen him the other way around just as many times, quite willing to give up the reigns because he's just so tired.

There's just something about another person's hand.

"Oh..." Jaime moans as you push his hand away and replace his fingers with yours.

Furtheremore, you let him slump forward. You're almost—nay, you are cuddling in this way. Your legs even tangle. You've got him right on top of you, one hand over his back and the other prepping him, letting him just relax.

"That feel good?"

He's practically melting on top of you. It's rather funny how nonchalant he replies with the subtle nod of his head and, "Yeah, uh-huh."

You drag your other hand over his spine and up to hold the back of his head. "Tell me about your journey."

"Okay," He hums pliantly, "Robb Stark captured me in an ambush... which, though it cost me hell, is quite admirable for a boy born after the war. I spent several months travelling behind the army convoys as a prisoner, without a roof, without a floor. Just a stick in the mud and a shitty cage."

He recounts the journey while you prep him languidly like you have all the time in the world.

You don't have all the time in the world. You'll only have tonight, and perhaps the next night, thought it is quite unlikely. Before long, you're sure, Cersei will stop this grudge of hers and Jaime will be gone again, only crawling back after another lovers' quarrel.

"Are you listening?" Jaime suddenly asks, voice rather soft. He looks up at you, beautiful green eyes batting under his eyelashes. Yes, you're looking.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm listening." You say dismissively.

"Hold on a moment."

Jaime sits up to straddle you once more. You watch him go up all the way, eyes locked onto his. He's beautiful; different, worn, but still beautiful.

He shakes his head with a small laugh, "What are you looking at?"

You're so distracted with his face that you don't realize him sliding down onto your cock in one swift motion. "Fuck."

"Fuck is what you're looking at?" Jaime teases.

"Bastard."

"Ah, ah, ah," He tuts his tongue, hand on your abdomen as he rolls his hips. "you already used that one once. Be a little more creative, for once?"

You roll your eyes yet reply anyway, "Dickhead."

Jaime grins, "Better."

You settle a hand on his hip, helping guide his movements as well as make sure he doesn't lose his balance, what with the hand and all. It's... he's probably fine, but you can't help but be cautious.

You wrap your other hand on what remains of his wrist, almost as if to hold his hand. He notices the gesture.

His voice is soft when he says, "As I was saying?"

You nod your head, "As you were saying."

"About losing my hand... suppose I was way in over my head. I'd managed to convince that bastard of a man, Locke to leave lady Brienne untouched. I thought I could convince him to do more, to give me a decent meal and a fire, but instead, he convinced me that he was following along with my orders. Next moment, his men are pinning me down and he cuts my hand off himself. For the next months, he ties the bloody thing around my neck and I can't even take it off."

Grueling business to talk about while he rides you, but you've never held off from venting during these moments. It makes release all the sweeter, releasing your problems as well as your pent up sexual frustrations.

It's soft, all of it. The hand holding, the slow pace and desire to clench around every part of your cock, the eye contact, the easy way he tells you the entire story without sparing details to save his dignity.

"I should've gone after you." You sigh, kissing his bandaged wrist.

"No, you're a King's Guard, not a foot soldier." Jaime shakes his head, heaving a sigh. "You–"

You flip him over easily. "I should've gone after you." You say, and it's almost like you have authority over him, leaning over his body. You do, really, you're in control of your pleasure now.

Speechless, Jaime doesn't fight you. "Yeah."

You start up slow again, but quickly build up in chase of his pleasure. Jaime breathes out a shaky sigh, breaths growing heavier with each thrust.

"I'm sorry for all you've been through," Jaime has half the mind to protest, but you give him a look and continue, "and I wish I could kill every man that wronged you myself. I'm glad for Catelyn Stark, and glad for lady Brienne. I'm also happy that you're back, back to me. Happier than women leaving Maester Pycelle's room."

He wraps his arms around your neck, like you'd showed him earlier, and his legs around your waist. He's holding you close, for comfort, as if to make sure you're really there.

It's silly to do so. You're in front of his very eyes, your cock is fucking him open, and you're very much real.

"I'm happy I'm back with you." He mirrors with a grin, "Happier than even your cock is, I'm sure."

You kiss. No teeth, no tongue, just him and you holding it for as long as possible.

Maybe he will go back to Cersei. You think it almost inevitable; but at least you're sure there's a little part of him that loves you dearly, even if you might never admit it to each other.

For tonight, he's yours.

Yours to lavish, yours to pleasure, yours to fuck.

Yours to love.

[tricksh0t]

★ goody two-shoes

☾ gregory house x cop male reader

𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘴𝘩0𝘵 ⛥ just a quick thirst, don't start freaking out, also sorry if he turns out ooc cuz i've literally only watched tiktok clips from the show

𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘵𝘴 ⛥ 1.26k words

cw: suggestive thirst, but no nsfw, trying to corrupt a cop

You've seen everything in your time as a traffic officer. Specifically everything about traffic, of course.

Men, that could possibly be great-grandparents, taking a little too long to move after the red light while driving the family hatchback, doing their grandkids a favor by driving his great-grandkids home.

Old men speeding because their reflexes are just not the same or they can't tell how fast they're going or their vision fails them and they read the speed limit sign wrong.

Men in their mid-life crisis driving the restored version of the old car they yearned to have in their childhood, speeding because they want to feel that rush thet felt lacking in their life.

Younger men speeding in their beatdown cars because they slept in one day and ended up being late for work, fearful of a paycut.

Young men speeding in their flashy sports cars because they're rich and apathetic, because they think the world revolves around their money.

You thought, however, that this shift would be boring. Hoped for it, even. It was a late night. You were just looking to kick your feet up on the dashboard, park under a shadow and fuck around on your phone.

You were wrong, though. Of course you were.

You've seen a lot of things, but not this. A graying man speeding late at night like he has somewhere to be that isn't home. No, no, who are you to judge?

...is that a cane on the side of his bike?

House sighs as sirens follow him. He should've known that dark shadow was a perfect spot for a cop.

He pulls over, like the good citizen he is. He gets off his bike, like the good citizen he is.

"Officer." He greets cordially, placing his helmet on his bike with a sigh. "Let's get this over with, shall we?"

You raise a brow. You can already tell this old man is going to have an attitude. "This will take as long as it needs."

The man has the audacity to roll his eyes and cross his arms. "Look, I've got a busy night ahead."

"Tell me about it." He opens his mouth, but you stop him. There's some satisfaction in making him look like a gaping fish. "While you look for your license and registration and proof of insurance."

He gives you more attitude when he looks to the sky as if muttering a quick prayer before digging into his decidedly tight pants and fishing his license out of his wallet.

You inspect it, but he stays still as you do so. "Look for your papers, sir."

Not expired, good...address isn't too far from here to justify speeding...he certainly looks like his picture. His name is Gregory House.

"I don't have them."

"You don't have them?" You narrow your eyes at him, crossing your arms. "You–"

"This jacket is small enough as it is, and before you ask, it is stylish and protective. Scraped skin is more painful than it is harmful." He locks eyes with you. A man several years your senior, staring you down to try to make you back down. With what, attitude?

Luckily, you have the better hand. You're taller, you're bigger–no, nevermind all that, you're a cop. "You–"

"Exactly why did you pull me over again?" House tilts his head.

"Speeding." You say between gritted teeth. "Twenty over the speed limit."

"Oh, I'm sorry." He says, kicking off his bike to stand upright. He shuffles closer with an awkward gait, yes, that was a cane on his bike. "It's late at night. Age gets to you, you know, officer. I couldn't see very well."

"That's what the lights on your bike are for." You say, shoving your hands into your pockets and breathing deeply. You can't let him get on your nerves. "And you're driving a motorcycle, sir, I think you can't play the age card."

"You don't get to decide that." Despite his bad leg, he stands up tall, challenging you. You see eye to eye, and you notice he's not exactly handsome...but there sure is tension, there.

"Really?" You huff out a laugh. All thoughts about keeping your calm are gone after that.

House smiles. "Really."

"Well, I do get to decide that you are going to sleep in cold jail cell tonight."

His smile disappears, replaced with a frown. "Come on, officer. You're seriously not going to detain me over not having my papers, are you? That's absurd. And it's petty, too. Even you cant deny that."

"That's funny," You scoff, "I'm thinking the same about you."

Out of all things, House looks offended at that. "Fine, fine you know, I can understand that, really, officer. I deserve it. I'm an asshole, I know, but you like it, don't you? You can't help but find my words charming."

You breathe out a huff, something between laughter and disbelief. "Now that is something I've never heard before."

"Something you've never heard before?" He seems to be in disbelief too, "I'm sure you've heard it from some young lady, maybe even another man. You mean you've never heard it from an old man, don't you?"

He takes your silence as a yes. "You know, there's always a time for firsts."

"You're really not as charming as you think you are." You approach. He walks backwards in return, but you follow, up until the back of his foot hits his tire.

"I'm a doctor." House begins desperately. "I'm expected at the hospital tomorrow for an early morning shift. You're not going to stop me from saving lives are you?"

For a moment, you let him think he's got you. You let the words sit in, like you're really thinking, like you're sympathizing with him. "Are you resisting arrest, sir?"

"What? No–"

You take his arm and spin him around, keeping his forearm pinned against his back.

"Hey!"

You use that forearm to press him against the back of his own back and pin him down further. When the first cuff wraps around his wrist, he begins to protest.

He doesn't even say "we can talk about this". He just starts talking. "Oh real funny, yeah. Pin down the helpless old cripple."

Then the other cuff wraps around his other wrist. "I bet this is one of your fantasies. Pinning down an old man and using him as you please. I'm too weak for you, I'll admit that. So why don't you just push me against the hood of your work car and do as you like?"

Staring down at the way his leather jacket and loose shirt ride up, you're certainly tempted. His tight pants do nothing for the imagination, especially with how close you are. You're pressed against him, really.

If he were a woman, with his short jacket and his belted pants, you might've even seen the peek of a thong from this angle...but he's not a woman. Yet, undeniably, the curve of his ass still entices you. His attitude would certainly be fun to quiet.

...but you're a cop.

The handcuffs click as they're pushed as tight as they can be.

"You want to have a fun time?" You ask, forcing him to stand back up with a grip on the cuffs. "Jail's fun. You can imagine the cold as the climate of a skeeing mountain."

As you drag him off towards your car, he digs his feet into the ground. "Wait, my bike!"

"You know the rules. It'll be towed." You continue dragging him.

House sighs. "Fuckin' goody two-shoes cops."

[tricksh0t]

★ gladiator; the larger man

☾ daario naharis x top m reader

𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘴𝘩0𝘵 ⛥ daario is so hot istg i wonder how he's doing in meereen

𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘵𝘴 ⛥ 2.17 words

cw: dom top male reader, sub bot daario, big size diff and size kink, fight scene w/ violence, blood, slight overstim, mention of slavery (it's game of thrones, it's vague and it's very slight), swearing

The smaller man, or the larger man?

Daario Naharis made his life in the arena, playing dirty as much as playing clean, kicking up sand as much as aiming his dagger correctly.

In his journey up to the position he holds now, he has slain hundreds of different types of men. From men just like him, nimble and infuriating, to men twice his weight, his favorite opponents: brutes.

Brutes are slow. They may be strong, but they don't get to use that strength if they miss. Brutes are bigger targets, even, and Daario himself is not one for missing.

When the time to throw away his endless fortune comes, he always bets for the smaller man.

Daario spies the five gladiators in front of him, making guesses to hand off to the man he secretly has bet for him. They each have their own strengths, their own unique weapons, and Daario considers them all, even though he prefers the sword himself.

The man's preference in weapons doesn't matter. If he is proficient, it will work.

What does matter, is the man's build.

His eyes zone in on a man on the smaller end, but not the smallest. He's using a spear. Good, he'll be able to keep his distance and use his size difference.

Once he makes his choice, and tells his "broker", he claps his hands and the match begins.

It's all out brawl, every man for himself. Alliances form when two men target the same opponent, but they quickly break as opportunities to nick at each other arrive.

There is no loyalty in the pit. There are only chances, reflexes and instinct; brutality, bloodshed and survival. Only one man would survive this round, and he would be granted word with the King. The gold he rakes in in bets won't even be his. It'll go to his patron, but if he is lucky, there will be lavish compensation. A whore for the night, perhaps.

Whatever it is that drives these men, whether it be the light at the end of the tunnel or the sand beneath their feet or the pleasure of taking another life, it makes for a grand show.

The man with the direflail falls first. He wasn't the biggest or smallest, just somewhere in the middle. Daario's favored spearman had taken advantage of a particularly heavy swing that has one of the balls falling to the floor to plunge his spear right into the other's heart.

Daario whistles his approval, and his glee only brightens as the spearman continues onto his next opponent.

This one wields a sword. He's the smaller of the two of them, both are still relatively smaller, leaving this isolated battle to be a long one. Each man will dodge the other's strike, or parry, or block, and so on.

At least, that's what Daario expects. The spearman kicks up sand with the butt of his spear, causing specks to fly into his opponent's eyes and blind him temporarily. In a last ditch attempt to defend himself, the swordsman flails his blade wildly, to no avail. The spearman knocks the weapon out of the other's hand with a harsh swing, then plunges his spear into his chest.

If he survives this, Daario's sure the man will earn the title of the Spearman who aims for the Heart, or something of the sort.

Now the smallest man on the field, the spearman locks eyes with the opponent farthest from him, a club-wielder, who is currently fighting the large brute Daario had immediately dismissed.

Their battle had been isolated for the majority of the show, yet nothing had come of it except a couple stinging, but non-fatal bludgeons. Nothing exciting.

That was about to change, however, as the smaller man and the club-wielder quickly form an alliance.

Taking advantage of the fact the larger man wasn't facing him, the smaller man charges forward, spear first, aiming to kill him from behind.

"Oh, son of a bitch!" Daario exclaims, clenching his fists.

The larger man quickly spins around, splintering the smaller man's spear in two with one swing, then decapitating him with another.

His final opponent tries to do the same as the now dead spearman, once again take advantage of the large man having his back turned and having to recover from a swift double swing, only to meet the very same end.

And that's game.

Seemingly unaffected by the blood sprayed over your armor and hair, you, the large man, take your stand in front of the King's seating.

As you approach him, Daario takes note of how ruggedly handsome you are up close. He takes your name first, then sizes you up. "You know, I usually bet for the smaller man."

"Sounds like you still did." The gladiator replies, referring to Daario's emotional groan that was a tad bit too loud to be fit for a king from earlier.

The corner of Daario's lips lifts up with a slight smirk, "Are you talking back to your King, ser?"

"Does the King think so?"

You amuse him.

First you were a surprise winner, then a comedian, unafraid of speaking to the King or referring to him without respect.

Daario's eyes trail over your figure again, taking in the delectable sight of you. There's something about the rugged way the blood splattered over you makes your hair stick to your skin and decorates the rest of your armor and muscles, as well as the defined way the rest of your body is covered in sweat, that makes him think you handsome in an animalistic manner.

He takes in your build, imagines himself next to you. You're likely almost double his size.

Blood flows through Daario's body, desire.

He gestures towards one of his men to come take his word. As he whispers his commands, he keeps his gaze set on you, and even down there, you can see the growing lust in his eyes. "Buy him from his owner, however much he costs. If he is not a slave, escort him to my throne room. Don't bother to clean him up beforehand."

If Daario said he wasn't expecting this, he'd be lying.

In fact, it could very well become a fact to flaunt. To have the up and coming champion of the pit in his bed is one thing to brag about. To have control over him, his strength and his beastly desires is another; but the latter is a work in progress.

That is so because at this very moment, Daario has absolutely no control.

He's hugging his knees up to his chest, not because he wants you to have better access to his hole, but because you force him so.

You're pressed up against him, sweaty chest heaving against his legs as you fuck him.

It's no love affair, but Daario tucks a lock of hair stuck together due to dried blood behind your ear. He's trying to keep his eyes open just to look at you, though it is a hard fight.

There's something about the way you—no, it is how animalistic you look, fucking up into him while your body is covered with fighting sweat as well as fucking sweat and the blood of your parted enemies. It is about how your body is only littered with practically cat scratches, a sign of how easy that battle was for you. It is about how large you are in comparison to him, how your hand can almost wrap around his thigh and most definitely can wrap around his throat.

And it is absolutely about how big your cock is.

You're churning up his insides with the pace you set, and the strength of it too. Makes him feel like he's on fire. The bed creaks with each movement like it threatens to break, and it is a royal bed, made unnecessarily out of the strongest woods.

Suddenly, you lift his leg and try to hook it behind his own shoulder. Daario moan-yelps at that. He grabs your shoulder and pushes you back weakly, only a couple centimeters.

"I'm not that flexible." He says, teeth gritted.

You grunt, but you're no brute that only communicates through grunts. "You should train."

Daario laughs. One, because it sounds like you're suggesting he do so for a later time, and two, because you make it sound so simple. "I'm not usually the one taking it."

"No? But you're such a small man."

He almost sounds delirious as he laughs again, breath leaving him shakily with relief as you put his leg down. "Yes, but–"

In another instant, you're behind him, almost disproving that the smaller man is the quicker one, but that is not what he dwells on. Instead, you're already lifting his knee up for him and entering him.

Daario moans, eyes snapping shut as you stretch him out all over again. "How the fuck are you so big?"

You're pressed up against him once more, but to a much more vulnerable part, his back. With each thrust, your pelvis meets his ass fully, no more need to prop his hips up with a pillow or sheer will.

"Is that your concern right now?"

"No," Daario's practically losing control of his body. The leg you're holding spasms, toes clenching and all, but you keep it right in place with your large hand. "Err, yes, because it's fucking good."

"Thought you meant my body." Your other arm sneaks below his neck, and Daario leans against it almost endearingly.

"I did, well, both." He's breathless. It's amusing.

From the door, to which your back's facing, nobody would be able to see Daario past the knee you're holding up in the air. It would be embarrassing, if anything recognizable about Daario could be seen past your figure, which is a no.

Your body completely engulfs any sight of him, any at all. That's how much bigger you are.

And Daario loves it.

Being the smaller man has always been about advantage, about being quicker, more nimble. Right now, the advantage is joyfully being at your mercy.

The blood is cold now, completely dry, but it's still rubbing off on his body, he's sure.

He opens his eyes, glancing down at his knee and your bloodied hand. When all's said and done, he's going to have bloody hand marks on his hips and his knees, marks of you.

His hand reaches out to intertwine with your free hand, just to prove how much bigger your hand is. It'll be clear to all that the hand marks on his body do not come from his hands.

Daario whimpers at the thought. Whimpers.

"Softening, my King?" In the voice of anyone else, Daario would feel smug at being called that. In yours, however, he knows it's teasing.

"Fuck off."

"Hold your leg up."

Despite his earlier words, Daario obeys quite easily, without a fight. He holds his leg up by the knee, how you did it, like you asked.

"Such an obedient king."

"Fuck."

Then your hand wraps around his dick and, "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck."

He's whimpering again, only this time constantly. He's not got enough mind nor break to even think about being sheepish about it.

There's only your hand sliding up and down his dick and your cock fucking in and out of him with a fervor.

"I'm gonna–" Daario whimpers, mouth slamming shut as his hips chase release.

"Go on." You whisper into his ear. Oh, that voice of yours. Whispering now? He's more used to a voice such as yours shouting battle cries, not this calm, teasing, sultry, fucking arousing trifle that only makes the head of his dick weep.

"Seven hells!" Daario cries out as he finishes.

But you don't stop, not there. You're fucking a king, but you're still selfish.

Daario whimpers again, arm growing tired. You abandon his dick to hold his leg up by the knee, hand over his, holding it up and up and up. He cries out with pain as you push his flexibility, at the strength of your hold on his leg and his hand.

Your cock thoroughly abuses his hole, stretching it to its limit, the widest he's ever taken; the toughest, too, maybe. Hard and fast and relentless, even after he's already cum. Worse so, actually, as the overwhelming pleasure pricks tiny tears into the corners of his eyes.

You don't care for him.

Despite that, there's some kind of pleasure in it, in not being a king anymore, in being yours to use.

When you finish, you don't care for the fact it's inside of him.

Daario shudders as you finally let his leg fall. He thinks you're going to be impersonal, until your hand settles on his stomach and tugs his body impossibly closer.

"Was that good?" Comes your whisper into his ear, awfully caring.

He rolls his eyes. You must know it was good for him, after all the sounds you'd dragged up from his throat. "Fuck you."

You chuckle, thumb circling over his sternum, yet don't reply.

Daario sighs contently as he settles back, into you. He could get used to this. The idea of having you as a new permanent lover flashes in his mind. They never really last long, lovers.

Perhaps you will.