#The Dove Affair | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

theoxenfree · 1 month ago

Text

IMPOSTER

possessed scholar!husband x reader |3.9k| 18+

In an unforeseen act of self-preservation, your family marries you off into an exorbitantly wealthy family, to a reclusive and reticent scholar who provides you little affection. He is suddenly called away for the handling of his late uncle's final will wishes and estate. He returns to you not himself, and with unquenchable lust.

warnings; dead dove do not eat; extreme dubon, explicit sexual content, mentions of (not explored, not described): orgies, heatplay, robbing a mortuary & drug use, masturbation w/ metal dildo, mirror sex & masturbation, hypnotism, power imbalance, murder, body horror, gruesome imagery, classism, detail & prose heavy, roughly proofread.

this is a concept piece, possibly preluding a full story! if you have any interest in having me build a larger piece out of this concept, PLEASE reblog + interact and let me know! I'm only going to go forward with it if folks express interest!

read to the end for author's notes!

In the airless dark of your bedroom at night, you knew the man lying next to you under covers was not your husband. Once he had been, but now he no longer was.

The revelation had come to you before noticing the stillness of his broad frame in bed, certain stiffness which seemed more alike to rigor in a days old corpse rather than a man wrapped in the comforting spell of deep sleep.

His breaths were silent, if he even breathed at all, reminding you of childhood where the floorboards wouldn't creak so loudly if you sucked all the air out from your lungs into your throat, snagging it, holding it firm. Suddenly, you'd be lighter; effervescent; floating across the wooden slabs towards the kitchen past midnight, or out the front door during the years where testing your parent’s patience and fraying the head maid’s nerves was your favorite thing to do.

You’d learned later on, after the loveless vows and complicated legality behind joining your two families, that your husband had a knack for slipping away at night as well. Only, he wasn't at all the sort for flirtatious gallivanting and loquacious rendezvous with secret lovers in dim rooms, smells of mildew masked by a numbingly sweet, perfumey fog.

He was reclusive and reticent; one of those outstandingly brilliant scholars who believed the rest of the world was below him because he hadn't found an equal in conversation or thought. Social obligations—no matter the occasion or person—pained him to where he intentionally brought you as a buffer between himself and whomever was trying to speak to him.

Some of the talk was so astronomically beyond you that parroting the long-winded answers he spoke softly into your ear back to his audience made you burn under the collar from embarrassment and his proximity to you. His peers could not understand why he simply wouldn't talk for himself; meanwhile, they also wondered why someone without their level of formal education had even accompanied him.

At night, he became one with darkness and retreated to the depths of his study across the massive house you shared together. It was part of one of his family’s various estates dotted across the country and his favorite, due to its location near the university where he worked (at his leisure), and its closeness to his only relative he actually cared about.

“My uncle—he has passed. Of complications caused from tuberculosis, I've been told. I was the only family member placed in his will, therefore it falls to me to settle all remaining affairs he may have overlooked,” he said, letting you help him into his heavy, wool coat he left on a hook near the front door. At his side was a hulking suitcase; one he often used for trips that were days—weeks away from home, from you. “He was a far more private man than I, so there's no telling what I'll come across while I'm there. I cannot tell you how long I'll be away. I'm sorry.”

You expected nothing less from him. This man who had only ever touched you once, on your wedding day. He did everything that he was supposed to: tonelessly regurgitate scripted vows he committed to memory, hold your hands, and kiss you at the altar for more than two seconds but less than five, and then gently lead you away once both families were pleased with the performance.

Right after, now as newlyweds, he poured bourbon into exquisite crosshatch crystalware and examined the glistening amber under wan lamplight. He apologized for kissing you, that he wouldn't have had at all if it hadn't been so important for your families.

At the time, it made you feel very ugly and undeserving of the silk and ornate lacework decorating your body. The gold band fitted around your finger was a lofty symbol of acquired wealth, heavy and unforgiving.

“Write to me every once and a while,” was all you could think to say at present, managing your composure well enough as he gripped the handle of his suitcase and leaned into its heftiness on that side. “It'd just be nice to know how you're doing. If you find anything interesting. When you'll be coming home. It gives me something to look forward to.”

“I'll try to,” he said, but looked through you, pierced you, as though trying to see something else. You saw this look most often at events or parties where he'd fixate on a specific point (usually you) and seem to recede inside himself, into his thoughts, perhaps trying to dissect them or make them congeal into something linear.

“Uncle was an eccentric man. There's no telling what he's left behind for me to find. I must go. Be well, my dear.”

Once again, he left you behind without remorse.

Four months passed with agonizing, gripping slowness from the crisp mornings of late autumn into the icy vise of winter and a shimmering white-blue landscape outside your windows.

In those days, you occupied yourself as best you could with guests and alcoholic merriment, whisked yourself away to parties and dinners after wringing out the invitations from friends, and spent many sleepless nights sprawled across the floor beside the fireplace coveting self-pleasure.

You imagined it was your husband there with you, immediately a renewed man after his return and finding you boundlessly desirable, fucking you with his cock rather than the freezing metal dildo you thrust inside yourself.

Even once you were finished, fucked out by your own hand and the object gaping you wide, you kept masturbating until you lost sensation, the motions and metal numbing you inside—until the intimacy and thrill of self-discovery had lost meaning to you.

Sometimes, you were found the next morning by a maid like that: thoroughly debauched with the phallus having rolled away nearby or still shallowly pressed inside. You only needed to threaten her livelihood once for her to never speak of it, pretend each time she hadn't witnessed a regrettable case of personal depravity.

It'd eventually become a frequent enough sight to her that she knew better than to look directly at you when she entered the room. Rather, now, she carried a laundered pair of trousers in with her. They were draped neatly over a bent arm, along with a warm and soapy rag in her hand, which she used to lightly clean you of dried fluids. Afterward, she helped you into the new garment.

“You have received a letter from the Master,” she said unexpectedly one morning, after fastening your pants and tucking your blouse inside them. “It's strange, though, because it doesn't feel like a letter. Not enough… substance. Shall I open it for you?”

“No! No, that's alright.” You took the long, pale envelope from her once she revealed it to you, realizing that she was right. There was nothing to it. Light as a feather, but completely sealed on the back with his personal emblem hastily stamped, or more appropriately, smeared, with red wax dribbling away from center towards the bottom of the envelope as if sudden jerkiness had unsteadied his focused pour.

You flipped the thing front to back several times, testing the way the opposite ends fluttered from nothingness within, and glanced aside to your maid.

She looked to be just as thrown.

“You're sure this is from him?” you asked, bemused. “Who delivered this?”

“Why, a courier on horseback, of course!” she said with conviction, so you knew she wasn't lying to you at that moment. It wasn't her habit to weave tales to get a rise out of her employers, anyway. “I even spoke to the courier for a while because I made a comment about it being so light. He wasn't sure about it, either, but the description of the man who hired him matched the Master almost exactly.”

You had found a letter opener on the desk nearby and made a quick cut under the wax to break the seal without ripping the envelope itself.

“Almost? What does that mean here?” you raised the intact flap with the messy seal attached, freeing all of the residual tracks of wax from the paper so that they fell to the hardwood below like pebbles shaken out of a shoe after a stroll through the yard. “The man was either my husband or he wasn't.”

The maid tried to subdue her intrigue of the envelope, turned, and moved onto bunching up the soiled sheet you'd spread out on the floor last night. “Please don't misunderstand. It was him. But, the courier described him as ‘a very interesting and friendly fellow to converse with’.”

“What?”

You were responding to two things simultaneously right then: what your maid had just told you, and the fact that the only content inside the envelope was a single shred of paper torn from an unlined journal.

The maid fluttered back over to your side as you plucked out the slither of paper, letting the envelope fall freely from your hand to the floor. Leaning into your proximity, she read aloud the same three words that your eyes skimmed:

“Father Marius DuMonde.”

Just as you had done before with the envelope, you flipped the scrap back and forth as though trying to magically flip something into existence. Your husband's handwriting was recognizable in the lettering, but it was impatient; scrawled across a page in one journal in his vast collection like he hurriedly walked past, and then ripped it out.

Nothing else was revealed to you in the seconds after, nor in your long, contemplative stare.

“Who is that?” you asked the maid to alleviate a fast yawning gap of uneasiness beginning to make you fidget and fluster. “A priest?”

The maid beamed in awe of your fast deductive skills and nodded eagerly. “It would seem that way! The city has more places of worship than it does homes for the hungry and sick. Although, I suppose a church offers some of those services.” However, the lightness sank out of her face when you didn't reciprocate that enthusiasm whatsoever. “You’re unhappy? What's wrong?”

“My husband is a scholar. A rigid man of science,” you said, bending over to pick up the discarded envelope to closer examine the disastrous wax seal. “He denounces faith in all forms. Why did he write a priest's name to me?”

That maddening thought followed you for days afterward, sufficiently distracting you from all the regular vices you'd come to rely on to fill the void of your husband's absence. Fulfill the needs he'd never tried to meet even while he was around.

You spent your days brooding in the window seats in whichever room was warmest, molding against their domed shape while leaning a cheek flush to frigid glass, eyes bloodshot and watering against the sun’s searing neon reflecting off of a lawn of undiluted, glittering white.

Seldomly, a finch or small vermin would come into your view—hopping or lunging through the snow, making tracks, digging holes, disturbing your beautiful wonderland and almost arousing you into unreasonable outbursts which then inevitably became the servants responsibility to contend with, should any be nearby to provoke you.

It was the early evening during one of your normal watches, just after dinner and a glass of red wine, when a great clamor carried swiftly to you from the foyer of the main entrance. The servants’ voices were a feverish amalgam of nonsensical babbling, high-pitched, and accommodating in a way that made you think of groveling dogs with flattened ears, wagging and tucked tails, bellies upturned to their masters.

“Come! Come quickly!” called your maid from the sitting room door, her shrill, excitable voice a violent jostling in your head, scrambling your thoughts and anger with it. “Master has returned! He's asking for you.”

You delayed the reunion, waiting several minutes after she had gone before standing. You realized that the anticipation you felt swelling in your chest, rising like growth—a malignant tumor into your throat, thickening your tongue and fouling your taste and smell, was because you were uneasy, haunted by the cryptic message he had presumably sent you weeks ago.

A while later, you entered the foyer to see most of the staff had already dispersed and the ones left behind were your husband’s most loyal. There among them, speaking so unremarkably, so casually in a way you'd never witnessed, was your husband. His good spirits and animated gestures as he handed off all his things to many hands were an odd sight, staggeringly unlike his typical dour.

So, the rumor was true. There was something discomforting in that.

Whatever topic he'd been engaged in fell wayside once he took sight of you: standing, waiting, subtly shifting your weight, picking your overgrown cuticles to remedy how nervous you truly felt in that moment. You'd always been a little uncertain of how to deal with him as he was hardly affable, but this—

“Oh my… there you are, my sweet!” his voice was exactly the same, but his way of speaking was too jarring, almost lilting. Unnatural. No one else seemed to notice. “I was worried you may have been cross with me for being away for so long. As it turned out, uncle had far more beneath the surface to find than I once thought. But, all is well! The old man has been laid to rest forever. The estate is in the right hands. I've come back to you.”

Could this man really be your husband?

He came to you in brisk strides with a certain clumsiness to the way he moved, somewhat off. You thought about seasoned drunkards who could walk along a path, but never on a straight line without gently swaying on and off of it. Mostly in control, but never so well to appear normal.

But, you didn't detect that stiff, hot, fermented reek of alcohol on his breath nor any subtle odor sticking to his clothes as he gripped you tight in an embrace. The only one he'd ever given you. Where you should have been over the moon in joy at his profound change in heart, the little sweetness was like an anchor—arms of a sinewy willow pinning you to an even stronger trunk.

“God, you're breathtaking.” He even sounded winded as he spoke, lifting your face up with both hands to see his dark, dark gleaming eyes. You startled from his cold touch, fingertips pinpricks of pure frost and ice as they pushed into your skin, but you felt trying to reach much deeper than that. “Come with me, my love. Let me show you just how much I've missed you.”

As if fantasy had become real, he fucked you relentlessly that night next to the fireplace, consuming you so completely that every orgasm made your insides churn in agony.

He laved at you with his entire mouth, tongue and teeth hardest at work while his hands bruised and fondled you, fingers thrusting up into your tight hole oozing his saliva and your arousal. It was shameful to think that it took this sort of handling from another person to get you off, squeal like a sow.

He fucked you however he could, wherever he could. Rutting you from behind and against furniture, pressing your bare chest flush to frosted over window panes to make your nipples erect and ache from the cold biting them.

Then, you were settled on his lap in front of a mirror hanging adjacent across the bedroom, his thighs spreading you wide open before your own reflection where you watched his cock plunge deep, filling you to the base of his shaft, balls slapping your sticky skin.

“Touch yourself, darling.” His throat rumbled, turning over stones and shards of glass, overall sounding very husky. There was something of wheeze that trailed the end of his every word, like he’d been patched for a long time. “Touch yourself. Watch yourself while you do it. Fuck yourself like the whore you are.”

Although the things he said were horribly uncouth, unbefitting of a man of his status and who you'd known him to be, there was great allure in hearing him, obeying his wants. You'd only had one glass of wine that evening, but your head and body warmed and buzzed like you'd had several.

His voice was a raspy whisper in your ears, seeping deep into your mind; spreading; fitting the grooves of your brain like the slow sprawl of sap through the gaps in bark. You were hardly yourself those minutes, those hours onward where you witnessed your reflection stroking throbbing parts, moaning, weeping, cumming until it hurt, and then doing it all over again.

The person in the mirror seemed to be someone completely different, whether simply disassociation from yourself or some hallucination evoked by exhaustion and ecstacy. Your husband had faded into the background, his voice creating sounds and noises, holding the cadence of language while seeming entirely unprobable, unknowable to you.

You couldn't understand him, yet you could, and the things he said were vile and disgusting and moralless. He told you of every way he'd like to fuck you, watch you be fucked; but, mostly, he wanted you to fuck yourself with the bulbous bedposts, the metal phallus held under lashing flames to be inserted next to his own cock.

He suggested orgies where the servants could take turns with you. He had almost convinced you to call for your maid so he could watch you suck on her breasts and lick her clit, while he rammed you from the back. He suggested drugs and whores, robbing the mortuaries, and worse and worse and worse and worse…

The next morning, you were stiff and immobile, bedridden unless two servants came into your room to help you squat on the commode. Your abdomen was tender and your genitals were untouchable, forcing you to lie in bed without undergarments to alleviate the raw chafing that could happen with fabric.

“I'm sorry, my darling. I—I lost control of myself. I got carried away,” your husband confessed later on, his sallow complexion keeping a weird, waxy sheen to it. A mask that fits, but not quite perfectly. Some of his former somber nature had returned to him as he sat on the edge of your bed, caressing the side of your face. He was still ridiculously cold. “Forgive me. I never meant to hurt you. I didn't realize just how desperate I was to see you again until you were in my arms. And then—and then, it was like it was all a dream.”

You thought the very same. You could believe he forgot himself in an uncharacteristic blaze of lust, as men were never taught to be any other way, and most men couldn't fathom the level of restraint he’d had until last night.

Everything else, you'd wanted to believe, was simply imagined after drinking more than you once thought and getting inside your own head full of sinful indulgences.

Still, one thing bothered you: Father Marius DuMonde.

“I need you to go to the city and find him. And show him this paper. Explain to him everything that you know, you hear?” You'd handed your maid the old envelope and scrap of paper, and handed her a generous bag of coins from your own safe.

She looked at you, everything else, in bewilderment. “Don't ask questions. If you're able, bring him back here. Beg him if you must. If it's all nothing, he will simply be an honored guest we feed well, house, and send off gracefully the next day. Should it be something…”

“Are you afraid of him? The Master?” asked the maid, perhaps out of faithfulness to him. Perhaps out of devotion to you the most. “What do you think happened at his uncle's estate?”

It would all be speculation and unjustified gossip without proof, of which you had none. So, you told her that you couldn't be sure of anything right now. “Wait until sundown. Take the old pony in the stables, the one that usually lags behind all the rest. Be silent. Be careful.”

The maid did as you asked and left right before the final light was extinguished by indigo nightfall. You were able to move to one of the windows, seating yourself gingerly, watching her lead the sluggish old pony into cover of tree tops and then nothing else.

But, five days later, the maid hadn't returned from her mission, nor had you received any correspondence from her, nor the priest that she was supposed to retrieve.

A week after that, it was revealed to you that neither she or the old pony had made it out of the woods. The details of the old pony were so gruesome you couldn't bear to remember them.

But, the maid was found nearly decapitated, head twisted around to face backwards, her pale skin hideously purple and black and swelled where it had been stretched like a strap of wrung leather. It was mentioned she had been disemboweled as well, but you promptly burst into tears and ran from the room before the visiting coroner could finish speaking, leaving him to discuss the rest with just your husband.

That night, you lay next to your husband in bed. The deep silence of night filled your ears with static and crunching cotton, whereas a hum resonated inside your head, your chest, seeping into your bones like a cold blanket of rainfall.

The black air took on weird shapes: imagined appendages curling, reaching across the ceiling towards the bed, towards you. Your eyes couldn't focus enough to ward them off, nor the depth of dark your husband's silhouette had at your side.

He was faced the other way, his clothes back to you, completely unmoving. You ventured closer to listen for the thin breathing of sleep, the automatic rise and fall of his body, and yet he could've been mistaken as one of the dead. As dead and gnarled as your maid.

“Who are you?” you asked him. Asked the swirling nothingness in the room. “Where is my husband?”

“You've nothing to worry about, my sweet,” he said readily, so clearly anticipating to have your voice ring out at some point in the night. “He is here with me. Such a selfish, unlovable man. I am the one worthy of this vessel and you. Not he.”

Then, he rolled on top of you and kissed you deeply. Your bedclothes were shucked from your bodies and he pushed your thighs apart to seat himself inside of you. He took you with greedy thrusts, face fitted against the arch of your neck where his breath left a moist film across your skin, but the rest of him was freezing.

Your whimpers of pains were dwarfed by his hot moans into your flesh, teeth suddenly sharper and sinking deep when he bit into your neck. You were trapped staring at the ceiling, wrapped in agony and pleasure, feeling his body under your fingertips beginning to distort and change into something far more monstrous.

a/n; this is heavily inspired from me reading the exorcist, recently. the section with the maid's head swiveled around was a nod to the scene with director having "fallen" from a height and dying similarly. a lot of my most recent reads have been extremely graphic, so my writing has been reflecting that and it's been interesting!

quick q&a!

is father marius dumonde the same father marius from your vampire priest fic? yup! if I go forward with writing the longer story, father marius will be a central character later on, and father shaw will make a reappearance as well.

what would the main differences be in a full story vs just this piece?

a) the husband would be given a more solid identity, appearance, and name. he'd have more depth to build an emotional rapport with his character.

b) existing scenes would be expanded, smut scenes grittier and more graphic, more development between mc and the husband, the maid would have a more important part and given an identity. essentially, most elements from this price would be fleshed out and expanded.

c) I intend to add a "mystery" element to this where mc tries to unveil what happened during the husband's stay at his uncle's estate.

d) I would open up multiple polls to help influence different aspects of the story such as the husband's name, appearance, overall disposition, whether the majority would vote for a happy ending with the husband vs the ending with the demon.

if you're interested in seeing a full story, make sure to reblog and share your thoughts with me!! I'd love to hear feedback on this to know what you'd like to see in the future!

#demon x you #demon x human #demon x reader #monster x human #monster x you #monster x reader #monster smut #monster fucker #monster story #monsterfucking nsft #oc x reader #oc x you #original character x reader #original character x you #original fiction #writing #reader insert #reader interactive #monster romance

680 notes · View notes

aduh0308 · 2 months ago

Note

Since Yeonjun's mixtape advance came out I can't stop thinking about drugaddict Jun who sells his body to reader to be able to pay his rent and drugs... yaeh

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁2:57am [choi yeonjun]

summary: yeonjun has to find some way to pay for what he needs. genre: smut, pwp, fwb, non-idol au warnings: drug addict yeonjun (drug isn’t specified), sex worker yeonjun, dom!yeonjun, sub!reader, yeonjun refers to himself as ‘jjun’, calls reader ‘baby’ and ‘doll’, handjob, blowjob, face fucking, protected sex, cunnilingus, references that this isn’t a one time thing, reader’s lowkey falling for him, yeonjun’s a douche, roommate beomgyu, your conversation with beomgyu goes an interesting direction… word count: 3.6k 🎧 — illicit affairs (taylor swift) + boyfriend (dove cameron) + f**k it I love you (lana del rey) + my strange addiction (billie eilish) + a&w (lana del rey) a/n: happy spooky season! here to give a little taste before my kinktober starts~

It’s late when you get the text.

It’s customary, of course— Yeonjun never bothers you during the day, only in the most unholy hours of the night. He swears it’s to avoid too much attention, but you secretly believe he just likes the power it gives him to know you’ll come running the minute your phone lights up.

You do come running, though. You can’t help it. The opportunity is always too good to pass up, walking to Yeonjun’s apartment in the pitch-black of night, hood pulled up and over your head to try and remain unnoticed. The time of day is only a minor inconvenience compared to what the next 30 minutes always holds in store for you. The price you pay is entirely worth it.

You throw on a random sweatshirt from the pile of dirty clothes in your room. Sneaking down and out the front door, you’re once again grateful that your roommate is a heavy sleeper. You can hear his soft snores as you pass by the door to his room, smiling to yourself.

The walk is only five minutes, and you take the stairs up to the second floor two at a time. It would be an understatement to say you know the way by heart now— you have it memorized, the amount of steps it takes to get from your front door to his (817).

Knocking twice, the door opens on its own. The latch wasn’t fully closed. This isn’t unusual, Yeonjun’s never been one to check things like that. You step inside, the familiar smell of his apartment welcoming you.

It’s a wreck, of course. Clothes and things everywhere, there’s an empty pizza box on the table that you can see grease marks on. People say rooms are a reflection of the person, and in Yeonjun’s case, that’s exactly right. He’s passed out on his couch, messily-cut red hair falling in his eyes, and you poke him once on the shoulder.

“Yeonjun,” you hiss.

He blinks bleary eyes open and shifts to an upright position slowly, as if he’s too out of it to move. Honestly, he probably is. He’s got dark circles under his eyes, his shirt is stained, and he stumbles over the tin bucket of coins and paper money on the floor when he moves to greet you.

“Didn’t think you were coming, weren’t as fast as usual…” Yeonjun mumbles. His hand makes its way to rest on your shoulder as he props himself up.

You scoff. “I don’t live to exist at your every beck and call.”

“Sure seems like it,” he shrugs, and his shirt catches on his lithe frame in a way that makes your heart skip a beat.

“Can we just get this over with?”

“Baby, what’s wrong with you? You come all up in here to fuck me like we both need and you’re telling me that you want to ‘get it over with’?” He bites the plush of his bottom lip, and you have to look away.

“Yeonjun, it’s 3 in the morning. I’m tired and I don’t want to be walking back to my apartment at four. Bad things happen when women walk home alone at night.” Your arms cross in front of your chest almost involuntarily.

Yeonjun’s fingers wrap around your wrist and pull you closer until you’re pressed flush against him. “Just stay here tonight, I can sleep on the couch.”

“Beomgyu’ll be waiting for me.” It’s true, your roommate’s texted you at 6am wondering where you were too many times for your comfort.

“He’s not your boyfriend, is he?”

Your jaw falls slack and you scowl at him. “Of course not. You think I’d be here if I had a boyfriend?”

He shrugs. “You even being here in the first place shows that neither of us has any sort of morals. I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Keep questioning my morals and I’ll walk back out that open front door of yours.” You have to bite back from insulting his morals, which the both of you know are out of the window.

“Please don’t, baby, I need this today.”

And so the both of you settle on his stained, torn up couch, you between his knees. This was how it worked— you suck him off, maybe he eats you out, then you fuck, you pay him, and you leave. It was routine after your escapades turned weekly the past few months.

It’s not like you need to fuck him on a weekly basis. You have plenty of other options. But something about Yeonjun was so real, so raw, and it kept you coming back every time.

That, and how perfectly he fits between your thighs.

He lets out an elated sigh when you unzip his jeans, tugging him from his boxers. For lack of better words, Yeonjun’s got a pretty dick, and no matter how many times you’ve seen it, it still gets you drooling.

Slightly longer than average, tip flushed the pink of his lips, you can’t resist pressing a kiss to the underside of his length. Yeonjun shivers above you at the gentle touch and you giggle, licking a long line from the base of his dick to the tip, where the precum beads up again immediately after you lick it away.

He rocks his head back the moment your tongue meets him, pretty neck on full display, god, how you wish you could mark it up. But that was one of the rules. There were only the two— no kissing, and no hickeys. Yeonjun liked to joke you’d have to pay extra for those two, but you knew that he struggled with the intimacy of it all.

It’s one thing to have a quick fuck, get some head, maybe give head, but it’s entirely another to actually kiss while doing it. Yeonjun’s slipped up only once, and you didn’t see each other for an entire month after. It was torture for the both of you.

So now you abide by the rules like it’s your lifestyle.

Hand in your hair while you suck him off, Yeonjun’s a sight to behold above you, eyes screwed shut and jaw hanging open. He’s in his element like this— you swear he’s never looked sexier, except maybe for when he’s the one giving you head, face between your thighs and eyes on yours, the way he comes up with the lower half of his face shiny with your slick… You’re pressing your thighs together at the memory.

You suck at the head of his cock once, squeezing the base of his dick, and the noise that falls from his lips is purely pornographic. “Fuck, baby, y-you’re so good at this…” he mumbles, hips fucking up towards your mouth.

You gag on him a little bit as he hits the back of your throat, but he only pins your face to his pelvis, nose flush to the warmth of his skin. “Doing so good, doll, so pretty, taking my cock like this…”

You feel him twitch in your mouth and brace yourself for the taste of him, familiar after all this time, but he pulls back out of your mouth with a hiss.

“Don’t wanna cum in your mouth, don’t think I have more than one in me today…” he whispers, drawing you up until you’re sitting in his lap.

His dick presses right up against your clothed clit and you have to bite back a moan when he rocks his body against yours, face in your neck. “Let me fuck you? Please?”

You nod, and he helps you slide off your shorts. They hit the ground with a thud, followed by your panties, but he lets you keep your sweatshirt on.

This is typical, you don’t think you’ve ever seen Yeonjun shirtless, nor has he seen you. You have no idea when that started, but it’s stayed the same since, and honestly, you have no problem with it at all. You’d rather not be tits out in front of some weekly hookup.

Yeonjun pulls a condom from the pocket of his jeans, tearing it open and rolling it onto himself, and you both let out simultaneous sighs of relief when he’s all the way inside you. Your walls flutter in thrill, fitted perfectly. Yeonjun’s hips thrust up towards yours so harshly that you squeak, arms wrapped around his torso. He slows at your noise, looking up at you in his lap with a look of concern uncharacteristic for him.

“You okay?” His voice is soft, tender almost, and your cheeks go hot.

“Yeah, just fine, jus— hold up, for a second? Need to get used to you again…”

He’s always been almost too big for you, walls stretching to take him, but it’s all worth it when he somehow manages to hit all the corners of your insides at once.

Yeonjun nods, face falling to your neck again, where you can feel his ragged breath on your skin. When you finally give him permission to start up again, he’s slow, languid with his movements in a way that makes the tingles in your stomach run all up your back.

“H-have I ever thanked you? For this?” He mumbles, raising his head so his eyes meet yours.

You’re surprised to see tears wetting his lashes. “Yeonjun… you know I always would. Getting railed so you can pay your rent and whatever else you need—“ Here you look at him pointedly. “—is nothing. Hell, at this point I’d give you the same amount of money even if you didn’t fuck me.” Your eyes go wide. “That doesn’t mean stop fucking me, please, I really enjoy it.”

Yeonjun’s lips press together in an effort to hide his laughter at your outburst. “I would never.”

“Then fuck me harder, please? I can take it.”

“I know you can, doll, always taking me so good…” he coos, and the pace he starts is so brutal that you can hear the tops of his thighs slapping your ass with every upward movement.

You bury your face in his neck, fingers threading through the hair at the back of his neck, and Yeonjun loops his arm around your form, holding you tight to him. He can hear every one of your noises so perfectly in his ear like this, and every single one of them sets off something in him.

“Sound so pretty, baby, don’t hold back, wanna hear,” he tells you when you put a hand over your mouth.

You shake your head, embarrassed. “Don’t like it, sound stupid.”

“Never… not stupid at all, do you not know how pretty your sounds are?” He cups your cheek in a palm. “Gets me so worked up, could cum from your pretty moans alone.” Yeonjun’s voice drops half an octave. “That, combined with the way this pretty pussy takes me so good, s’ tight and warm, don’t think I can last that long at all…”

“Me neither, gon’ cum, fucking me so perfect…”

The fucked-out tone of your voice is music to his ears. “Yeah? Jjun fucking you so good? Bet you waited all week for me to text you, hm? Getting yourself off at night and wishing I’d call, weren’t you?”

You catch your bottom lip between your teeth and nod, and Yeonjun grins “Fucking knew it, doll’s so needy, maybe I should call you up more often, three times a week at least, how’d you like that?”

“Would love it, fuck, Jjun, ‘m gon—fuck— gonna cum…” you grip his shoulders, arms wrapped around his back so tight that he can feel the swell of your tits through the thick fabric of your sweatshirt.

“Go ahead, baby, deserve it, pussy feels so good around me,” he purrs, and oh, the way he loves the way you shake against him when you finally cum around him, walls clamping down on him and coaxing him towards his own high.

He pulls out of you and tosses the used condom in the trash, lying back on the couch and running a hand through his hair. Sweat sticks his bangs to his forehead— the sight of him has you trying to tamp down the arousal threatening to crawl back up your limbs once more.

Catching your breath, you sit up against the armrest of his couch. “What time is it?”

“3:42.”

“Fuck,” you mutter, standing to pull on your clothes. “I have to go.”

“No. Stay.”

Your eyes go wide. “What?” Not once, in four months of this has he asked you to stay afterwards. “Are you gonna charge me more?”

Yeonjun laughs. “No, course not. Speaking of—“ he holds out his hand, and you place a roll of money in it. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

“Don’t tell me you’re gonna use that to buy more of that shit, are you?”

He shrugs and winks at you. “Maybe I’ll put this towards my rent instead. I’m half a month behind.”

You roll your eyes and settle back on his couch. “I’ll stay, but I am not sleeping on this thing.”

“Baby, I already said I’ll sleep here. It’s fine.”

And that’s how you end up in Choi Yeonjun’s bed. The sheets smell like him, like fresh cut grass and the mint toothpaste he uses. It’s dark— there’s no light from outside the room, and the curtains on the window are entirely light blocking.

“Yeonjun?”

The door cracks open a moment later. “Yes?”

“Will you sleep with me?”

He grins at you, and shuts the door behind him. Yeonjun slips beside you under the covers, pressed against the bare skin of your arms; you’ve taken your sweatshirt off, it was too hot. He’s changed into sweatpants and a fresh shirt. Well, fresh as in different from before, not necessarily clean.

“You scared?” He hums, resting his head on the pillow beside you. It’s a cute sight, his lips smushed in a pout, and you smother a laugh.

“A little. It’s too dark,” you admit, and he smiles gently at you.

“You could’ve just asked me to come in here in the first place.”

“Well, that’d be no fun, wouldn’t it?”

You end up with your head on his chest. Yeonjun’s taken his shirt off— for the first time you’ve ever seen, and you can’t even see, can only feel his warm skin beneath your cheek.

“Goodnight,” he whispers, breath ruffling your hair.

“Night,” you hum in response. You can hear every breath he takes, it lifts your head up just a little bit, but it’s not unwelcome at all.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

The next morning, you wake in the same position. Head on Yeonjun’s bare chest while he sleeps, you stay still. The time on your phone lets you know it’s seven in the morning, as do the six texts from Beomgyu. Gently, as to not wake Yeonjun, you scoot to the side and type out a response letting him know you’re at a friend’s house.

Ha. Friend is funny. You’re not even sure if Yeonjun is your friend. More like a rando you fuck.

Yeonjun shifts in bed beside you, then blinks his eyes open. A slow, dazed smile makes its way over his features when he sees you. “Morning, baby.”

“Morning, Jjun,” you smile back, lying back beside him. “Sleep good?”

“Definitely.” You pretend not to notice his gaze dropping to your lips, but it stays there for a good 15 seconds before moving to your eyes again. “You?”

“Once you were here, yeah.” He smiles even wider at that.

He gets up to make coffee, and you stay in bed— he promised he’d bring you a cup when he came back.

And he does, settling beside you again. You take a sip of coffee, unsure what to say. This is weird, being with him like this. You’ve never spent more than an hour together, and here you are, in his bed, drinking coffee side by side.

Yeonjun’s still got his shirt off, and you’re having a hell of a time trying not to look at him. Honey-gold skin with curves of muscle beneath, he catches you looking and smirks. “Eyes up here, baby.”

You look away, cheeks hot. “Wasn’t looking.”

He laughs, looking away. “Mhm…”

You’re sitting in comfortable silence when Yeonjun puts his coffee cup on his bedside table and sits to face you. You follow suit, and the two of you are sitting criss cross across from each other.

“Yes?” You say after a moment.

His eyes flick down to your lips for a split second, then back up to your eyes, and you lose it all.

Yeonjun opens his mouth to say something but you’re pressing yourself against him, lips on his, and fuck, they felt better than last time. Plump lips meeting yours, Yeonjun’s kissing you back so hard you’re breathless. Your hands splay across his back, and your tongue meets his.

But he pulls back so fast it makes you jump. “What the fuck?” He says, eyebrows furrowed. “What happened to the rules?”

“Fuck the rules!” You exclaim, sitting up straight, swiping the drool off your chin. “I want to kiss you, you want to kiss me, what’s the harm?”

He’s sputtering, cheeks red. “The harm? Fuck, the only thing that’s supposed to happen here is that you pay me to fuck you. That’s it. That’s the harm.” He folds his arms across his chest. “You’re gonna have to pay me extra.”

You stand, grab your sweatshirt, and toss a twenty into the tin of money he moved into his room. “There you go.”

And you’re out his front door without another word.

You stumble into your apartment five minutes later, wiping underneath your eyes to try and hide the fact that you were crying. “Gyu, I’m home!” you call.

He steps out into the hallway, brown hair mussed in the back. “Finally!” Beomgyu catches sight of your red eyes and the way you’re slumped against the door. “Hey, pabo, you alright?”

You shake your head and he pulls you tight to his chest, arms wrapped around you. You take a deep breath in, getting a whiff of his scent, and the clean laundry smell is setting you off all over again.

“‘m sorry, got my tears all over you,” you laugh slightly, wiping your nose.

“It’s fine. What happened? Something with your friend?”

He looks so sincere that you could start crying again. You sit down at the table in your kitchen, put your head in your hands, and tell him everything.

It feels like a weight off your chest— finally, someone else knows what you’ve been keeping a secret for months. Surprisingly, Beomgyu keeps a straight face. You’d expected him to at least say something snarky when you explained how you’d been fucking once a week for the past two months.

“So let me get this straight—“ Beomgyu leans forward, chin in his hands with his elbows on his knees. “This rando fucks you so he can pay his rent?”

“And to pay for drugs.” You nod.

“Damn.” Beomgyu runs his hand through his hair, leaning back in his chair once more. “So why are you crying?”

“I kissed him.”

“Oh. Fuck. And that was one of the rules, right?”

You let out a noise of exasperation. “Don’t get me started on those fucking rules. They’re only there in the first place because he’s scared.”

“Of what?”

“How would I know? He doesn’t talk to me. Other than calling me doll and telling me my pussy’s pretty.” It sounds childish now, but when it came from Yeonjun’s mouth… It had you on your knees.

“Is it?” Your jaw drops, and Beomgyu back tracks, throwing his hands up. “Not the point, sorry.”

“Yeah, it’s not the point, stupid.” You scowl at him, and he apologizes again. “It’s fine. The answer’s yes, by the way.”

His ears go pink and he looks away, visually collecting himself before turning to you. “You shouldn’t see him again.”

“Yeah, I don’t think I will. I was spending like six hundred dollars a month for some dick.” Beomgyu starts to laugh and you shut him up with one look. “Don’t start. I know it’s stupid. I just thought, he’s hot and it wasn’t like I was spending that money on anything else. It’d be the same as buying clothes and jewelry in a month.”

“Yeah, sure. Except I don’t know anyone spending that much money on some necklaces.” Beomgyu’s eyes look everywhere but yours. “I don’t know why you’d even think about spending that much.”

“Like you wouldn’t to get in some hot girl’s pants.”

“I mean, sure, but it’s not like you don’t have free dick just down the hallway.”

His gaze is fully on you now, watching you carefully, and it takes you a moment to realize he means himself. “God, Beomgyu, you’re such a pervert.”

“What? You’re hot, I’m hot, I’ve got a dick— a pretty good one, if I do say so myself— why wouldn’t we fuck?”

Oh. So he’s not kidding.

Your cheeks go hot. “I’ll think about it, okay? I don’t know if I’m desperate enough to bang my roommate yet.”

“‘Kay. Just let me know, alright? And if you’re worried about me not being a good fuck, you can always ask around. I’m sure you’ll hear good things.”

How does he manage to look so comfortable right now? One leg crossed over the other and leaned back in the chair like he’s not talking about putting his dick in your cunt.

“Leave it alone, Beomgyu. I already said I’ll think about it.”

And you do. For about four days straight, and when you knock on his door on a random Wednesday night, he smiles up at you with such a smug look on his face, he didn’t doubt you for a second.

#adas hard hours #txt smut #txt hard hours #txt hard thoughts #yeonjun hard hours #yeonjun smut #yeonjun x you #txt yeonjun #yeonjun x yn #txt x you #txt x yn #txt x reader

563 notes · View notes

venusbyline · 1 month ago

Text

Sickly ࿐ྂ Kinktober. 14, oct.

— pairing: Rhaenyra Targaryen x daughter-in-law!reader

— type: smut, angst, Kinktober (House of the Dragon Edition)

— kink: thigh riding

— summary: Motherhood was sickly, sickly enough for a grieving mother to mourn her son's death while kissing her widowed daughter-in-law's lips.

— word count: 3.1k

— tags/warnings: kinktober 14th day, female!reader, Cregan Stark's twin sister!reader, Rhaenyra!mother-in-law, Jacaerys Velaryon's wife!reader, DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT, thigh riding, nipple licking, lactation kink, fingering, breast worship, overstimulation, crying, disturbing themes, mommy kink, death themes, grief/mourning, mother-son relationship, mother-daughter relationship, praise kink, oral (female receiving) mentioned, vaginal sex mentioned, creampie mentioned, Jacaerys Velaryon's daughter mentioned, labor mentioned, motherhood themes, nightmares, age gap (older woman/younger woman), sexism, implied Targcest (mother/son) BUT NO REALLY, minor Jacaerys Velaryon x reader, implied Rhaenyra Targaryen x Jacaerys Velaryon BUT NO REALLY, mild dark, Joffrey Velaryon lives, canon divergence (the Blacks win the Dance of the Dragons), porn with plot. no use of y/n. english is not my first language.

— tagging list: @baybaybear1 @blessedbymoon @p45510n4f4shi0n @lina-lovebug @moonnicole @badger-reads

— crossposting: AO3

Rhaenyra Targaryen had crossed a very dangerous line.

She knew better than anyone that in her mind, there was a fine line between acting recklessly or acting so promiscuously. From a young age, Rhaenyra let herself be carried away by the thoughts that arose in her brain — or by the lust that wet the middle of her legs.

She was never the best example of chastity. The furtive glances at Alicent Hightower when they were still best friends, the tameless desire for her uncle Daemon since she was a teenager, the loss of her virginity with Ser Criston Cole, the secret affair with Ser Harwin Strong, the kisses exchanged with Mysaria. And now... the unforgivable thoughts and actions with her daughter-in-law.

It was wrong. She knew it was wrong. It was sickly. Disgusting. She was mourning Jacaerys. You were in mourning. A mother losing her firstborn son and a girl losing her husband and the father of her newborn baby. Two women suffering for different reasons.

Rhaenyra mourned Jacaerys' death, the panic she felt during his birth still fresh in her mind. She was so afraid of dying the same way as her mother Aemma that she did not even allow any man to enter during the labor. She did not want any man around. No presence of Laenor Velaryon, her husband, or Ser Harwin Strong, her lover and biological father of the baby she was carrying. Not even Viserys, her own father, should enter and give his opinion there.

Rhaenyra remembered everything perfectly. When Harwin fucked her and she discovered she was pregnant almost thirty days later, when Harwin was surprised and at the same time worried about the idea of being a father in secret, when Laenor was happy with the news, when Viserys celebrated that he would have a grandchild — believing the baby was the result of Rhaenyra's marriage to her husband.

Rhaenyra remembered the nausea, the tiredness, the strange feeling of her belly growing to adapt to the baby that was developing inside her. Sometimes she wished she had drunk the Moon Tea to avoid it, and other times she was happy at the thought of giving birth to a beautiful little girl. The princess was sure she was carrying a daughter. Just as she wished Aemma had given her little sisters.

The pain during childbirth and the fear of dying made her wish that if anyone in that body had to die, it would be the unborn baby, not her. Rhaenyra Targaryen was still so young and had a long life ahead of her. If the baby died, she could try to have another in the future. Or perhaps not. Perhaps she should never have children, especially when they were outside of marriage. Either way, Rhaenyra was aware that if she had to prioritize her own life or the life of her child, she would not think twice about saving herself. She would not make the same mistake her father made with her mother.

It was a surprise when the baby was finally born. A boy. She had longed for a daughter throughout her entire pregnancy, trying to hold on to the possibility that having a daughter would be like being able to follow her mother's footsteps, but without that tragic ending.

Her mild disgust at the midwives' enthusiasm that she had a healthy boy soon changed to panic when she noticed the small thinning strands in the baby's hair. Even though he was so tiny in her arms, she could clearly see that he would have dark hair like his biological father, the Targaryen blood not being so strong anymore.

But now, so many years after that desperate night, Rhaenyra cursed herself for three reasons: for having cared so much about Jacaerys' damned hair color, for having despised him for a few days until she got used to the new routine of being a boy's mother and not a girl's mother, and especially because she said at that time that she would not save Jacaerys during labor.

She would do anything to go back in time and never have thought about that. Now, Rhaenyra would do anything to die in every cruel and painful way possible if it was enough to bring her firstborn back.

Rhaenyra and Jacaerys had built a mother-son relationship over the years. It was not automatic like it was with Lucerys, Joffrey, Aegon III and Viserys II. It was not even like the few seconds with her Visenya. She did not love Jacaerys immediately like she did her other children. She did not long for his life. She was a mother for the first time and each particularity of her connection with Jacaerys was created little by little. She learned to love him and she learned to protect him.

Rhaenyra learned almost everything about being a mother. But she never thought she would need to learn to live without her first son.

As for you, there was a painful feeling also rooted in your chest. It was not the same as what the queen felt, it bordered more on concern than guilt. You had nothing to blame yourself for.

When your twin brother, Cregan Stark, used you as a bargaining chip to ensure Rhaenyra's steadfast loyalty to the Northmen, you were not even surprised. That is what you and all the noble ladies were made for. Always used to bargain alliances and produce heirs.

Like brood mares, no woman had the right to say no.

Cregan was a good brother, despite everything. At least he had kept you in Winterfell until a truly necessary and promising betrothal came. Jacaerys Velaryon, the heir to the Iron Throne if Rhaenyra won the Dance of Dragons, would have you as his wife, and in exchange for that, the Blacks would protect the North and provide more resources for the harsh winter. It was a fair exchange and it would ensure that they would not simply ignore the treaty at any time. Lord Stark was a man of his word and demanded the same from Jacaerys' family.

You understood his reasons. It was better to marry someone kind and caring than an old and rude random lord who saw you as just a fertile young woman to produce heirs.

It did not take long for you to love Jacaerys. He was so handsome and affectionate trying to make you feel comfortable in Dragonstone, that you even kissed him a few days before the wedding ceremony, and you were not at all afraid of the consummation of the marriage. It was incredible. Especially when you noticed how shocked Jace was when you closed your legs around his hips, pushing his cock even deeper, allowing him to spill his seed inside your cunt. He did not want you to feel used just to procreate, he did not want it to be a sacrifice.

Jace did not plan on having heirs anytime soon. He wanted you to fuck with him because you liked it, because he gave you pleasure. But never out of duty.

And you enjoyed every second. You never had to fear what would happen to you if his seed did not take fast. Just as you never had to fear how he would react if you gave birth to a girl and not a man heir. Sometimes you even thought he longed more for a daughter. After all, he had lived with brothers his entire life and had never even met his little sister Visenya, who was stillborn. If the baby was a girl, he would name it after his sister. If it were a boy, he would name him after his younger brother Lucerys.

You never had to fear many things when you were married to Jace. However, you always feared for his safety. And, Gods... You were right to do that.

Now, even after Queen Rhaenyra's victory, you feared what would happen to you and your newborn daughter. You were afraid that the Blacks would break the treaty since you were just a widow of a dead heir. You feared what would happen to your people if Rhaenyra went back on her word. You feared what would happen to your daughter Visenya now that her father was dead. Rhaenyra would reign for many years to come, but what would happen to her granddaughter? You were not someone who was greedy, but you did not know if Rhaenyra would name Joffrey as the next heir to the Iron Throne, or if she would let Visenya reign in the future.

If your daughter's succession to the Throne was not considered, you feared that she would hate you or her father's family. If she were named as the legitimate heir, precisely because she was the eldest granddaughter and the result of the marriage of Rhaenyra's murdered firstborn, you feared that Joffrey would hate Visenya and you, as well as his own mother. You feared yet another war between family members. Another Kinslayer, just like Aemond Targaryen.

You feared what Jacaerys' absence would do to your and Visenya's lives in the not-so-distant future.

You and Rhaenyra felt different emotions about Jace's death, but both of you loved him and cried every night missing him.

It was not a surprise when Rhaenyra began to comfort you through your routine nightmares, all that involving the death of your dead husband. Rhaenyra also had nightmares every day. Always about her family's deaths.

She had regained what was rightfully hers, but at what cost?

It was not a surprise to her when you started hugging her while you had crying spells after dreams. It was not a surprise to you when she let you cry on her shoulder. It was not a surprise to her when you begged her to think about your daughter Visenya's future. It was not a surprise to you when she asked for forgiveness for not being enough to protect Jacaerys.

None of this was surprising or unexpected. Not even when the nighttime cuddles intensified. When caressing your hair and hugs were no longer enough. When Rhaenyra began pressing you against her full heavy breasts as you cried. When you started to put your hands under the nightgown Rhaenyra wore and caressed her soft skin.

It was wrong. Very wrong. It was sickly. It was disgusting and repulsive. It was too cruel to the memory of Jacaerys. How would the boy feel if he knew his mother was fucking his own wife?

Neither of you had any way of knowing the answer. Jacaerys was dead, after all. He never returned from the Battle of the Gullet. He and Vermax had been hooked like fishes and engulfed by the waves of the sea — Always wanting so much to have pure blood, to be legitimate... To end up just being a Velaryon rotting inside the ocean. It was ironic and you could not tell if it honored him as a Velaryon or just proved that the Strong blood running through his veins had cursed him, the last moments of his life in the middle of the place where a true Velaryon would belong, but never a bastard.

Rhaenyra hated herself for wanting you. You hated yourself for wanting her. Jacaerys would hate the two of you for this. And yet, both of you could not deal with the grief any other way. You needed each other.

You loved Jacaerys. You loved your late mother, Gilliane Glover, who died so soon after you and Cregan were born. You did not have time to live with her, just as Rhaenyra did not have time to live with her stillborn daughter.

You had lost your husband. Rhaenyra had lost her son. You needed a mother. Rhaenyra needed a daughter.

It was disgusting, very wrong. It was sickly. And you could not stop. You did not want to stop. It was the only way to deal with Jacaerys's grief and keep the boy's memory alive in your minds.

"How was the nightmare tonight?" Rhaenyra asked softly as you sat on her lap, your teary eyes closing. You let her wrap her arm around your waist, your hips bigger after you gave birth to your daughter Visenya.

"About the sea. About pain. About blood... About him." Your voice came out trembling and muffled, your face buried between her breasts, so full and heavy that you could barely breathe, even if you did not make the slightest effort to move away. You wished she still had milk to breastfeed you like your mother had done. She wished she still had milk so she could breastfeed you like she had done with Jacaerys. Like she should have done with her Visenya, if the little baby had not been born dead.

The content of the nightmares that tormented your mind was nothing new. They were always about death, just like Rhaenyra's. And she always wanted to know yours. She always wanted you to tell her what you had dreamed of. But she never shared her own nightmares. And everything was fine. You did not really want to suffer over Rhaenyra's thoughts either. Were you too selfish for not wanting that? Perhaps. And perhaps she was too masochistic, always wanting you to explain every detail that haunted you in the early hours of the morning and disturbed your sleep.

You did not mind telling her. It felt good to share all of this with someone who understood. It was good to seek comfort from a mother.

Rhaenyra moaned when she felt your tongue circle her pink nipple, your teary eyes made you look like a child being soothed by a mother's breast.

She stroked your hair, thanking the Gods that you did not have silver or blonde hair. Thanking the Gods that Alicent did not let her marry Jacaerys to Helaena Targaryen. Thanking the Gods for allowing Jacaerys to annul his betrothal to Baela Velaryon when Lord Cregan Stark demanded that his army's loyalty would only be agreed upon if the prince married his twin sister.

She could never seek that comfort from Helaena. Her sister had always been too pure for her own good. And Helaena was too much like Rhaenyra herself. She could not picture Jacaerys in Helaena's place because of her hair.

Just as she could not seek comfort from Baela. Her stepdaughter had Laena's appearance and the rebellious and tameless personality of her ex-husband Daemon.

Joffrey had the same dark hair as his older brother, but you... You were everything she needed. You had dark hair like Jacaerys and you were a girl like her stillborn daughter. You were everything she wanted currently. A daughter. But also a concubine.

"It feels good?" Rhaenyra questioned when her hands went down to your nipples, sensitive from your lack of breastfeeding. You did not breastfeed Visenya often, preferring that she be fed by a wet nurse. Looking at her reminded you of Jacaerys and that made the moment difficult. Your milk would dry up quickly if you continued looking for Rhaenyra and leaving your daughter aside. You knew you needed to act like a mother, however, you liked to enjoy your time like Rhaenyra's daugther and affair.

You did not judge Rhaenyra for imagining her son licking her breasts when you did that. You knew she had never seen him in a sexual way. It was an innocent nostalgia, even if you were also pressing her other breast while memories of Jacaerys filled her mind. She wanted her eldest son back. You wanted your husband back. She wanted to feel you the same way her son felt you. And you wanted to feel every inch of the woman who gave birth to the man you loved.

You nibbled on her nipple after gasping as Rhaenyra she placed a hand on your mound, squeezing it rough enough to make your breast milk start to flow out. "Good girl..." She growled softly, admiring your embarrassed smile.

Rhaenyra ran her fingers through the milk before bringing it down between your legs, rubbing the liquid into your already wet folds. "N-Nyra..."

"Mother." The Queen corrected while you squirmed under her touch. Your milk was supposed to be to feed Visenya. And here you were, letting your mother-in-law rub it on your clit. It was so disgusting and depraved. Motherhood was a sick thing.

"M-Mother..." You whimpered the way Rhaenyra suggested, even though the word brought a bitter taste to your mouth. Was this how she felt whenever she was eating you out? Did she pictured her son cumming inside your cunt so many times at the beginning of the marriage, filling you with his seed until it flowed, the same way his biological father had done to her in secret? Was this how Rhaenyra felt whenever you rubbed your face between her large breasts? Did she remember how difficult it was to get used to breastfeeding her firstborn? Was this how she felt now with her hand wet with your milk? Why did not she hate you, already knowing you would rather her do that than force you to breastfeed your daughter Visenya, while she did not even have the chance to feed her Visenya?

You wanted to know if she also felt disgusted by it all. You wanted to know if motherhood was really that sick for her too.

You wanted to know a lot of things, and you chose not to ask any of them. Ignorance was bliss. The answers were on both of your faces. The way she moaned as you pushed your fingers hard into her cunt, fucking the tight walls that had once dilated so baby Jacaerys could come into the world. The way your breast milk that was supposed to feed Jacaerys' little daughter had a different use now, soaking your own cunt as you took advantage of the additional liquid to ride harder against Rhaenyra's thick thigh.

You both felt sick and dirty, mentally begging for Jacaerys' forgiveness as you came, moaning each other's name. Your fingers were still inside her and your sensitive and sore clit was still pressed against her soft white skin, your cum and milk running down her thigh, while Rhaenyra kept your face against her chest.

"Thank you, Mother, thank you..." You sobbed, making no move to get off of her or release her walls. You wanted to prolong the feeling of self-loathing, enjoying the overstimulation of having your bud pulsing along with the continuous tremors of your body, just as Rhaenyra was enjoying feeling your trembling hand inside her, the four motionless fingers spreading her cunt like if you were preparing her for labor. Jace's birth or yours, you could not say. Both, perhaps.

"I love you, my dear daughter. My new daughter." Rhaenyra kissed the top of your head, caressing your dark hair. It was true. You were everything that kept Jace's memory alive in her mind. She loved her firstborn and she loved you in a sick way. After all, motherhood was sickly, sickly enough for a grieving mother to mourn her son's death while kissing her widowed daughter-in-law's lips.

HOTD Edition - Masterlist

Criminal Minds Edition - Masterlist

Venusbyline's Kinktober 2024 - Masterlist

538 notes · View notes

shooting-love-arrows · 1 year ago

Text

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄! 𝟏𝟗𝟓𝟎'𝐬! 𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐄𝐇𝐔𝐒𝐁𝐀𝐍𝐃 reacts to...cheater! reader

Request made by Anon:

Hi! I just read your post about yan 1950 house husband, it's amazing. Can you write his reaction if reader cheated on him? If you don't feel comfortable with this ask, feel free to ignore this. Remember to take care of yourself and have a nice day.

Hello to you too, dear Anon,

First of all, I must apologize but your request suddenly disappeared from my inbox! Thankfully, I have the content of your request saved in my google docs so I pasted it above.

Putting that aside, although this topic is sensitive to some, I am fine with writing about that.

I appreciate your words. It's very nice of you to think about little ol' me. I wish you a nice day too (even if it's not a daytime)!

Thank you and I hope to hear from you soon!

PAIRING: 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝟏𝟗𝟓𝟎’𝐬! 𝐇𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐡𝐮𝐬𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝 x [CHEATER!] reader (gender not specified/mentioned/implied), your lovers genger isn't specified/mentioned/implied either. Don't be swayed by the curses used to describe them; Tw. cheating/indifelity from the reader, cursing, description of a m*urder, delusion (delulu is the solulu), emotional manipulation, gaslightning; A/N: As a person, I do not support this kind of behavior. This is only a piece of fiction, serving for entertaining purposes only.

𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

Denial. Denial. Denial. At first 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝟏𝟗𝟓𝟎’𝐬! 𝐇𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐡𝐮𝐬𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝 doesn’t believe it. No, he refuses to do so. You’re the most faithful and perfect partner known to the human kind. Right then, he's desperately holding on to that image. But unfortunately, evidence says otherwise. A simple photo, sent to him by your lover, secretly taken by some photographer is clearly showing you and (that whore) your lover, in some hotel room, in an intimate position. It is clear that day that you have an affair.

“But what if my darling was forced to do this?”

That question sends him into a spiral of delusion, rage and sorrow. As a defence mechanism, 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝟏𝟗𝟓𝟎’𝐬! 𝐇𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐡𝐮𝐬𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝 made up a story where suddenly you were a victim in this whole situation. It was definitely your lover who has forced themselves on you. Probably blackmailed or worse, drugged you to have a taste of sweet love and burning passion you share while making love with him.

“My poor darling…” 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝟏𝟗𝟓𝟎’𝐬! 𝐇𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐡𝐮𝐬𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝 wailed, clenching his chest like someone was physically ripping away his still beating heart from it. Fat tears ran down his rosy cheeks, smudging his mascara and turning him into a crying mess. “I’ll avenge you, my darling. I won’t forgive what was done to you!”

He doesn’t even blink when he sends your lover into the pits of hell. There’s no hesitation when 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝟏𝟗𝟓𝟎’𝐬! 𝐇𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐡𝐮𝐬𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝 plans this hideous crime, making sure every detail is taken care of. And so, it begins small, like creating false and disgusting rumors about your lover. Day by day, he patiently destroys your lover's life. Until the day when 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝟏𝟗𝟓𝟎’𝐬! 𝐇𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐡𝐮𝐬𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝 poisons them through his signature pie and then proceeds to repeatedly stab your lover until no one is able to recognize them in the first place.

"YOU WENCH!" 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝟏𝟗𝟓𝟎’𝐬! 𝐇𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐡𝐮𝐬𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝 roared at the person who happened to be your lover. "HOW FUCKING DARE YOU?!" With every word he dove the sharp, kitchen knife deeper and harder into his victim's chest. "DIE!!" 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝟏𝟗𝟓𝟎’𝐬! 𝐇𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐡𝐮𝐬𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝 yelled for the final time and knife one last time, straight in this whore heart. He was left alone in the empty and messy kitchen, covered in blood, panting and trying to catch his breath.

In the end, 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝟏𝟗𝟓𝟎’𝐬! 𝐇𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐡𝐮𝐬𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝 begins to gaslight you. Once again, with the patience of a saint, he began to manipulate you to believe that it was in fact your lover who was using you all this time. You were forced into this vile affair and you are a victim.

“My innocent darling, you mustn't think about it (them) anymore. I will make everything perfect once again.”

But isn’t it weird how he started wearing clothes that are scarily similar to those worn by your lover? Sniff…sniff…and those perfumes…

All of the published posts on this account/blog belongs to @shooting-love-arrows. I do not consent to my works being: translated, stolen, published or reposted on this and other sites. Likes, reblogs, comments are highly appreaciated. Thank you.

2K notes · View notes