carbonfiction - Tumblr blog

carbonfiction · 2 years

Text

Sweet mother of Christ this is literally the best thing I’ve ever read🫠 everything about this is just so so hot. ily for this❤️😵‍💫

make a move | daemon targaryen x reader

summary: Modern AU. You arrive at a Targaryen party on Criston Cole's arm… but soon find yourself in Daemon's company.

warnings: SMUT. it has an actual plot, but like… 😆 this is the most wh*re you'll catch me being on main. f!reader, employer/employee relationship, language, minor references to inc*st, adult!rhaenyra, some fruity stuff and f/m/f fantasies, dom/sub dynamics, consent is sexy, semi-public sex, teasing, overstimulation, fingering, oral, protection not stated, vaguely inspired by succession, just.... sry i snapped 💀 title taken from the song "meteorite" by banks, aka my horndog queen... i— can only apologize. I STILL SAY I AM NOT A SMUT WRITER.

You were staring at a Caravaggio worth ninety-seven grand in a pair of your roommate's Manolos, bored out of your mind as you gripped your fourth champagne glass of the night, wondering whether you'd made the right call in coming as Criston's plus-one when you could've been at home, in bed with a face mask, watching an old movie instead of swapping pleasantries with a cabal of middle-aged women who thought you were an escort.

Well, at least one of them thought you were an escort—you weren't. You'd been an analyst for two-and-a-half years, but Criston was in Legal and his godfather - some said his actual father - was a major stakeholder and so, yeah, the overly Botoxed bitch thought you were an escort. There was no way the six-course meal would be worth it.

But this… you’d never be so close to this particular Caravaggio again. It was privately owned - by the same people who paid your meager analyst's wages. And did you mention you'd had to borrow your roommate's shoes?

You huffed into the coupe, taking another sip of overpriced champagne. The bubbles fizzed pleasantly on your tongue. You were just regretting the fact that the price-tag did indeed make a difference when your solitude was interrupted - by the man who stepped next to you, tall and quietly assured. At the scent of expensive aftershave and money, you squared your shoulders, sent them back.

"He overpaid, if you ask me. Caravaggio is vastly overrated but Wife Number Two’s into History of Art… He wanted to impress.”

“I read History of Art,” you pointed out, imperious, not taking your eyes off the painting.

He turned his head - you could practically hear the smirk in his voice. “I know. Double-majored in Finance, too. I’m surprised you came with Criston… You're not his usual type, are you?”

“And what is his usual type?”

“Predictable. Boring.”

Now when you turned your head, he was staring at the painting, not really looking, just taking a drink out of the glass of scotch in his hand. “Does your niece know you think so ill of her?” you asked. His smirk grew. He glanced at you out of the corner of his eye. You had no business making a statement like that. You were an employee, a corporate lackey. The help. Like the servants in a period drama, you ought to be pretending not to notice when the upstairs folk got tangled up in scandals.

“Oh, Rhaenyra’s not his type either,” he replied. “The only reason he wants her is because she told him to fuck off after he’d scratched that itch. Hence… you.”

“Are you warning me off,” you asked, cocking your head to the side, “as a concerned superior?”

“Please… Do as you like, I'm not HR. But I will say… there’s no way you're actually fucking him. Not in seven hells. Or least… if you are, he’s not doing a very bang-up job, in any occasion.”

That’s when he looked at you, leering, openly crude.

You didn't flinch, didn't back away, and you certainly didn't blush. You knew all about his reputation, how he’d slept with half of King’s Landing, or so they said, how he wasn't opposed to taking interns to bed - or, more accurately speaking, taking interns to office, lift, or conference table. Any usable surface was fair game, or so the rumor went, and you believed it. Part of it, at least.

You weren't immune to curiosity. Daemon Targaryen had money, charm, and looks enough to ensure he’d never be without a willing companion. Up until a few months ago he had been denied nothing, not from anyone, and that carried a status that was almost mythical among his underlings. Even his enemies were envious, pretending not to want what he had but eventually giving themselves away through their telling remarks. He exuded power. One could argue that he'd been born in an iron cradle, lined with silver and gold, that anyone born under those circumstances would carry the air of a conqueror regardless of temperament, regardless of character. But you doubted it. In observing him from afar, you even struggled picturing him as a child - he was too blunt an instrument, too fully formed. Inscrutable. Volatile.

A rogue, they called him. The Rogue Prince. Lazy… Empty-headed billionaires were a dime-a-dozen, but this one had more between his ears than they would care to admit.

You found him thrilling, every atom on high alert, every instinct honed… like a hunt. But who was beast and who was prey?

He certainly thought himself a hunter - confident, experienced - from the loose way he pinned you with his gaze. A corner of his mouth remained upturned. Instead of coming off as obnoxious, you found your chest fizzing, as if with champagne. There’s no way you're actually fucking him. Presumptuous in the extreme… arrogant, upstart, self-important… You know I could do better - you deserve better…

Ah, so there was the secret, the reason she didn't hit him over the head with the Caravaggio. Take it or leave it. Men like Criston were so eager to please, desperate almost. Uninteresting. Daemon Targaryen, on the other hand, went through life saying, Suit yourself, it's all the same to me.

It’s all the same… the Rogue Prince…

What was that thing your mother always said, about leaving some things up to the imagination? Granted, what she meant was Don’t dress like a whore; boys like girls they can take home to meet their mothers, but in Daemon’s case, imagination could only run wild. He was a man without scruples - without morals, as some would say - and what was that except fertile ground for the imagination?

You could look at him for years and find only what you wished to see.

Pinned by his gaze, the sounds of the party distant in both your ears and attention, you saw yourself as Criston would like - a pretty piece for his mantel which he could polish to a high sheen and present to his ex. See, I'm doing just fine without you. Not that Rhaenyra would care. She didn't - that was the whole point - and it wasn't her fault Criston refused to take no for an answer. He’d fuck you twice a week, bitch about work, complain once you got bored. By the end, you’d no longer be work-mates - you wouldn’t manage even the barest hint of civility, because Criston Cole was a man incapable of seeing a woman unless in direct relation to himself.

You saw it there, all of it, Unfurled Future Number 1.

Or…

His eyes dipped to the swell of your breasts - no strings, no promises, no recriminations once the deed has been done - then flickered back to yours.

There was no denying Criston was handsome, attractive in a way that had some of your colleagues batting their eyelashes and staring as he entered or stepped out of rooms. Dreamy, they called him, which always reminded you of too good to be true. Oh, you’d had occasion to think about it, alright, during late nights spent working on projects together… Criston Cole with his tie forgotten, the collar of his shirt open to reveal the tanned skin of his throat, his sleeves rolled up to muscled forearms… A part of you had always wondered whether he knew how to give head - if he was even capable of learning. During idle minutes you'd stare at his brown, curled head bent over the glass table of Conference Room Four and think about hitching up your skirt, taking his stubbled face in your hands, and making him drop to his knees on the commercial-grade carpet. You wanted to laugh - had actually laughed, and then made an excuse when Criston glanced up at you, smiling because he thought you were cute and had no idea you had just found the fantasy version of him wanting.

“And how would you know a thing like that?” you asked Daemon.

His eyes danced. He raised the glass to his lips. You tracked the ripple of his throat as he swallowed, and when he did you saw that his lips were damp, glistening. I just do.

You were hit with images like lightning bolts then: an empty lift, Daemon’s trousers pulled down, his cock thick in your mouth… his face wet with your cum… the sight of the carpet as you braced your arms against the desk and he drove into you from behind… Naturally, those opened the door to imagined sensations, imagined sounds. You could practically hear the slap of skin against yours, could feel arousal in your teeth… the smell of his throat… the salt tang of his spend dripping… the head of his cock making you gag… Gods, you normally hated giving head, but something about Daemon made you want to take him in your mouth until he pulled your hair and called you a good girl… Good girl…

Good girls get taken home to meet their mothers.

You were pulled taut as a string. Of course your mother had nothing so obscene in mind - would've had a heart attack if she could peer into yours. But Daemon… it was apparent in his eyes… as your imagination had raced, so had his, conjuring pictures of… what, you on your back? on your knees? However you want, he seemed to say. I can give you what you want…

“Criston!”

You beamed as he put an arm around your waist, planted a kiss on your cheek, willing your body to accept it, to enjoy it, to be seen as enjoying it.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, love… Daemon.” Criston offered you a martini glass, and in the universal language of men, nodded in Daemon’s direction, a grudging acknowledgement and at the same time a warning: keep to your own side of the fence, mate.

Daemon’s smile was unfazed, indulgent. “Criston… Have you seen Rhaenyra yet? I hear she came tonight with Harwin Strong.”

He drained the last of his scotch. Criston’s jaw tightened, and before they came to blows - or rather, before Criston made a fool of himself by taking a swing at the prince, you said, “Darling, we really ought to pay our respects to the hostess.”

Oh, darling, is it? Another smirk from Daemon. You narrowed your eyes, daring him to speak, to contradict. You wound your arm tight around Criston’s and took his hand, tugging him gently in Alicent’s direction.

“Right,” Criston said. “Fucker…” He was still seeing red and unable to resist getting in the last word but let you lead him away, yielding as a lamb. As you edged past Daemon he shot a pointed glance down at your interlocked hands. If that’s what you really want, he seemed to say with a shrug… But I doubt it.

---

Dinner was a cosmic joke. There was no other way to describe it and you were glad most of the guests were members of the board and well-known shareholders, business partners, and their significant others. Unless you had a real horse in the race, there was no way you’d end a night like that with a modicum of respect for anyone seated, their grievances aired, their dirty laundry put on display - implied, if not explicitly - through double entendres and vicious glares.

It wouldn't take a genius to know that Alicent - the second Mrs. Targaryen, though she had kept her last name - and Rhaenyra could barely stand the sight of each other. You weren't a genius, but you had known Alicent for years, and so you knew the secret parts of their history, ones underscored by a longing the devout Alicent had no hope of naming but which you recognized almost on sight.

Shame she had been persuaded to marry Rhaenyra’s father… You supposed he was a decent man, not the worst in his circle, but there was something off-putting about him, a staunch blindness, a weakness you found it hard to respect. Then there was Alicent’s father, the serpent voice in his ear. You wouldn't trust him as far as you could throw him, but Criston thought well of him and so you bit your tongue, especially because Otto invariably found a way to become apprised of even your whispered words.

It was Otto’s wrath, not Viserys’s, which everyone feared.

Of course, Daemon’s wrath went neck-and-neck.

And lo, and behold… either your luck had an interesting sense of humor or Daemon had orchestrated a way to get you and Criston seated at his right. They made a cross, the figureheads of House Targaryen: Viserys and Alicent at the heads, Daemon and Rhaenyra bisecting the shorter end of the table, each square with its own watchful dragon. Fires were managed, conversations were steered, candles burned - candles, not an electric light to be seen inside the austere dining room. It was positively medieval. And Daemon was hell-bent on putting you through the rack.

“So, how long has this been going on?” he asked, pretending harmless curiosity, gesturing towards Criston and you. Rhaenyra took an interest as well, though she hid it. Her eyes were sharp and alert and brightly intelligent. It was not the gaze of a jealous lover, more the eagerness of a woman favoring amusement more than she liked to admit. Her lips turned at the corners. She was holding back a smile, regarding her father’s brother with fond reproach.

You replied, “A while,” and dabbed your mouth with a cloth napkin, praying to all Seven Gods that Criston would keep his wired shut.

“A while… and all above board, I hope.” Daemon leaned in as though sharing a secret, bracing his arm against the back of your chair. “I only ask as your concerned superior.”

You turned your head against your will, knife and fork poised in your hands, stopped - the sound of cutlery made that much louder by the swift narrowing of focus.

The look on his face was taunting, coy. Any onlooker might think you were lovers, or that you wanted to be. You worried Criston might get the wrong idea and blow a fuse.

“Criston! I’ve been meaning to say, smart job on that Baratheon deal,” Harrold Westerling spoke from Criston’s other side. “Very nicely done.”

“Thank you, Harrold.” Whether he suspected you or not, you never knew; he was soon engaged by the older man.

And Daemon was still staring at you.

Of all the ways to spend the night. Tip-toeing around a jilted man-child, provoked by a high executive, forced to ignore the domestic drama of Viserys Targaryen's home life, and now this: beneath the antique table and folds of pristine white linen - embroidered by septas, probably - you felt Daemon’s hand upon your knee, the signet ring he always wore falling heavy against the flesh of your inner thigh.

“What is your problem?” you hissed, keeping your volume down.

“It’s a dull night, darling. Don't take it to heart.”

“Fuck. Off.”

“Then tell me to stop.”

“I am!” He squeezed a handful of your thigh, a dull pain followed by a sliding caress. Liar. You felt his ring ghosting against you, tapping at your peak in invitation. All you had to do was slide your hips forward, sit closer to the edge of the chair and he would give you what you wanted. What he thought you wanted.

Once again he angled his body so that it seemed he was sharing a joke, just Daemon being Daemon, chatting up the analyst at his side. “That isn't stop,” he said. You stared at your plate as the courses were changed. Rhaenyra was speaking with Rhaenys Valeryon, Criston speaking with Harrold and sometimes with Lyonel Strong - what a brownnoser, a sycophant, a spineless tool—

He touched you - he actually touched you through the damp lace of your underwear, and when your legs fell open he had the audacity to turn to Lady Beesbury and compliment her on her brooch - her brooch! Stroking you with the pads of his fingers, he drew circles that made your hand shake as you took a sip of cold water, willing the shock of ice to numb your throat. And all the while he laughed charmingly at something Lady B said about her grandson, Alan, only flinching to an imperceptible degree when he felt your hand gripping his. Immediately, he stopped, his fingers going slack, and was on the verge of moving his hand back to the table when you ground the heel of his palm against your cunt.

You rocked into him as you watched his jaw tic, smeared your wetness against his fingers, felt the ruby against your clit. His smile was wiped entirely clean. You had well and truly shocked him, and you felt victory making its way upon your face.

He turned to look at you as Lady Beesbury went on about Alan. You propped an elbow on the table and smiled winningly in his direction. Did you think I was quitter? For a moment he looked almost angry at having lost the upper hand and you felt a frisson of fear - he was your boss, after all - but, curiously, you were more afraid that he might give up the game, that your time was up, that he’d pretend it never happened.

And then he returned your smile - it was oddly boyish and made you want to laugh. Mischievous… that was the word. It’s a dull night, darling. With Daemon Targaryen there would never be a dull night again.

You pushed back against your chair and excused yourself, straightening the hem of your dress. Daemon’s gaze followed you, inquiring - where are you going? - and it was your turn to shrug, and still with that bubbling urge to laugh, you asked one of the uniformed servers for directions to the loo. She sent you to a powder room fit for a princess - marble walls, brass faucets, towels white and soft as clouds.

You shut the door and went directly for the sink, turned on the faucet to hide the silence and your galloping heart. You gripped the porcelain sides, breathing fast as you stared at your flushed face in the mirror. You looked frenzied, your eyes shining wild, your chest rising and falling with each harried breath. Underneath your cocktail dress, you knew you were dripping, soaking through your underwear, and even now you felt a trickle of arousal weeping down your thighs. You closed your eyes like it would erase the last hour of your life. He was your employer, a partial owner in the whole bloody enterprise! You’d worked long and hard to be useful, to build a reputation out of nothing, to gain the respect of men like Beesbury and Westerling, men whose respect was actually worth having, and now… were you putting it all on the line by making yourself another notch on Daemon’s bedpost?

Annoyed, you gripped the edge of the sink until your fingers hurt. Logic was one thing; what you really wanted was to hitch up your dress and find a bit of relief before walking back out to the party.

You grazed a hand down your front. If you didn't open your eyes maybe you could pretend you weren't thinking about Daemon as you made yourself cum.

Before you could do anything about it, the door clattered open and shut. You heard the lock give a resounding turn and had just opened your eyes when the gasp in your throat was stopped by a hand against your windpipe. Your hips crashed into the sink. You didn't mean to but you moaned, your back flush against Daemon’s chest. “You can’t just barge in here!” you protested, his palm cupping you, pressing down upon your swollen core as you ground into him, hips undulating between his hand and his stiffening crotch. Your hold tightened around the sink.

“Then you should've locked the door, but you didn't, did you?” He planted a blazing kiss down the side of your neck. “You wanted me to follow, wanted me to find you like this… fuck, look at you…”

You were rubbing yourself on his hand, turned on beyond belief by the sight of your face and Daemon’s head bent over yours. You whispered his name and he moved the hand at your waist to fumble at his belt and trousers. Instinctively, you angled your hips back, especially when you felt him pull down at the paltry lace - felt him, blunt and hard, a mere second before he pushed all the way in.

The force of it shoved you further into the sink and made your hipbones smart. Despite how slick you were, you felt him splitting you open, the pain sharp, lodging in your throat so that you couldn't hold back a pleasured moan.

Again.

You met his eye in the mirror and nodded once.

Again.

He drove into you with greater speed, circling your clit, mouthing your neck with a sloppiness that had you seeing stars. Half-dizzy, you couldn't so much as gauge your own reaction, couldn’t know whether the entire house could hear him pounding into you, but somehow you did hear him boast, “I knew you’d be good… Look at you, look in the glass…”

You did. You looked cock-drunk and desperate, and you had the breathy moans to match. Daemon’s hair was a mess. A lock of silver-blond fell into his eyes and something about the smug look on his face made your temper flare.

You pushed against him, spun away from the sink and tried not to give into full-bodied disappointment when he slipped out, still hard, still coated in your shining slick.

A part of you wanted to drop to your knees and suck him off but you knew he would love that. So you refrained, gripping porcelain behind your back until you were no longer in danger of giving in.

“On second thought,” you said, breathing fast, adjusting your underwear and your dress, “I’ve decided I don’t need you.”

What? You had shocked him a second time, not a small feat where it concerned Daemon Targaryen.

As you passed him by, you patted his shoulder the way you would for a small child or an entertaining dog, a petty gesture meant to provoke and to distract him from the half-fucked, wobbly sway of your knees. “I assume you know how to take care of yourself?” you inquired, glancing down at his cock. A mistake. Gods, but he had a pretty one… how was that even possible?

Refocus.

You flicked your hair out of your face and made for the door. At the last minute Daemon seized your upper arm and yanked you back, hard. “Are you sure you want to play this game?” he growled into your ear. You were still so aroused that every touch from him made you waver. I should’ve let him finish me off before making a point.

Ah well, there was no lamenting it now.

“Who’s playing?”

Grabbing the back of your head, he slammed his mouth into yours, forcefully delving in like you had no choice in the matter, cupping handfuls of your ass until he was notched right where you needed him, right where you had denied him the chance to finish.

“By tonight’s end, you’ll beg me for it,” he vowed.

You hid your shiver with a smile and placed your hand on his check. “Who knows,” you replied, “maybe it’ll be you who ends up begging.”

---

Were you out of your tiny mind? You felt like you’d had a nervous breakdown. If it wasn’t for the ache between your legs, the emptiness, the too-vivid memory of his grunts and his breath in your hair, the hand at your throat - Gods, were you into that sort of thing now? - you would've believed it was a fever dream. A drunk fever dream. And yet, you felt strangely like you were riding a high. You had arrived on Criston’s arm expecting nothing except a way to pass the time and sate your curiosity about what went on at fancy company parties, the ones that resulted in second- and thirdhand gossip come Monday morning. You never expected Daemon to know who you were, what you'd majored in at university, your projects, for him to flirt with you, let alone finger you at dinner in front Lady Beesbury, for heaven’s sake. And now…

You weren't a fool. You knew Daemon slept around - you weren't special, you had simply turned out more of a challenge than he had initially thought. But that was why your heart was racing. It wasn't about him, not really, although you had to admit he had most other men beat for sex appeal and you didn't think you would ever encounter another who’d compare. It was about you, the mad, stupid daringness, the knowledge that you had turned the tables on Daemon-fucking-Targaryen and come out of it unscathed.

Horny as hell, sure, but unscathed.

You were proud of your parting words until you saw a silver-haired woman making her way up the hall. She stopped when she saw you exiting the powder room, and you stopped, like a deer caught in headlights. Or a whore in church.

“Rhaenyra,” you said, feeling your cheeks grow hot.

You hoped Daemon was too busy wanking to come out behind you and you thought, Was your hair alright? Were you sweaty? Were you hopelessly covered in her uncle’s scent? All Rhaenyra did was watch you for a second, open her cigarette case, and gesture towards the balcony at the end of the hall. It was not an order, per se, but you felt no desire to say no. Such was her power, and she used it well.

She took a deep breath after her first drag, exhaling into the clouded night. “I can’t believe you're still here. Anyone else would have left an hour ago.”

“Criston is here.”

“Ah, yes, Criston. He’ll stick around as long as there’s an arse to kiss.” She lifted a pale shoulder and let it drop, leaned against the balcony rail and offered you her lit cigarette. You hesitated, then took it from her hand, your fingers brushing against hers. “We hooked up - once. He refuses to let it go.”

“At least you’ve moved on nicely,” you pointed out. “Harwin’s sweet.”

“Hm.”

You both knew sweet wasn't enough for Rhaenyra. Viserys expected her to do better than their Head of Security but she looked happy enough for now, more relaxed than you’d seen her since her father wed.

Not that you were on intimate terms with the heir to the Targaryen throne. You’d shared a few projects, spent a few late nights as she tried to learn the ropes of her father’s company. She was more hands-on than the other contenders, curious, quick to learn, not afraid to ask questions or admit when she was at a loss. She was special. No wonder Alicent grieved her loss.

“Listen—” you began, feeling the need to explain.

She held up her hand. On the ring finger shone another ruby - red, for the color of their House. Red like the stone her uncle wore. “Sweetheart, whoever you choose to fuck, it’s none of my business - though I will say, in both cases you could do much better.”

“Me?” you asked, nearly choking on the smoke.

“Oh come now, don't tell me you buy into this whole blue-blooded shit! You actually earned your place here, you worked for it.”

“As Criston Cole’s plus-one?”

“For now.” She took a final drag and ground the butt with her shoe. You found it funny and somewhat perverse that she didn’t fling it over the railing and into the street below but chose instead to litter her own home. “But you’re looking to play with the big-shots, aren’t you? High stakes, high reward.”

“I would like a bigger flat in a nicer part of King’s Landing.”

“Oh no!” Rhaenyra laughed. “No, you don’t. If you wanted that, you could easily get it somewhere else - the Westerlands, maybe, or the Reach. But you’re hungry for something. Maybe not power, but… importance? Not to be bored all day, from 9 to 5.”

“More like 7 to 12,” you joked.

Quick as a whip Rhaenyra grabbed your wrist which had been resting on the rail. Her fingers were cold, her eyes glittering like jewels. “Whatever it is, don't let Criston or my uncle get in your way. Don’t stop for anyone, do you understand? You’re free. There is no one to stop you.”

“Are you saying I should be more like you?”

“Gods, no. But I am saying that the next time you want an invitation, just shoot me a text, for fuck’s sake. Don’t put yourself at Criston’s mercy. And don’t sleep with him if you don't want to.”

The him was uncertain. You were speaking of her ex but she was too urgent for someone who took Criston as seriously as you did, which was not very seriously at all. She had seen Daemon come after you - if ever you doubted it, that was over and done with now.

Still, it was almost sweet that she was looking after you. You didn't think she’d noticed you enough to care.

“You think I have your number?” you asked on a laugh.

She shook her head at you and removed her phone from her clutch. After tapping the screen for a while, there came the sound of a sent email and you knew you would find her personal number in an unread message in your inbox. “Stop waiting around for permission,” she scolded. “Oh, and the next time Jason Lannister poaches one of your ideas and presents it as his own? Speak up.”

“How did you—”

She winked, then she left you on the balcony in a swirl of white silk.

---

Was it coincidence - you wondered after rejoining the party, which had moved into the great hall - that two Targaryens had sought you out tonight? Fool me once… Rhaenyra may be warmer than her uncle but it wasn't false modesty making you second-guess her motives. There was too much tension in the air. You could see it falling electric among the guests. Otto and Alicent with their pinched faces, Viserys wearied, the Velaryons watchful as hawks, and Rhaenyra on guard, reminding you of her particular choice of words - You’re free, implying that she wasn't.

And Daemon… what was Daemon’s role in all this?

Let Criston schmooze with his betters. He was being an inattentive date, more concerned with the Sycophant’s Circle Jerk than with making sure you were looked after. Which was for the best. You liked not having to feel guilty about letting Daemon inside you while he chatted, obliviously, with various executives.

Swallowing down a martini that was mostly - alright, entirely - made of gin, you tried to forget the heat of his hand, the rhythmic pounding of his hips, the way he said I knew you’d be good…

I knew you’d be good.

Why was that the line sticking out most in your mind?

He was on the other side of the hall speaking with a dark-haired woman; beautiful, of course. Mysaria was from PR and also one of his rumored on-again, off-again girlfriends. Ugh. You gnashed an olive between your teeth and did your best not to scowl. You were frustrated, confused, your victory in the powder room had taken its toll, and you felt something was fucking going on, just beneath the surface, and you were out of the loop because you weren't one of the chosen few.

Like hell.

And just like that, in a haze of alcohol and an emotion you were quick to stow away in a box labeled “NO FURTHER INSPECTION,” you knew. The puzzle forming itself before your very eyes made perfect, albeit morally twisted, sense, leaving you with a single thought: You have got to be shitting me.

You weaved past maesters and lawyers and accountants and communications consultants, all above your pay grade, all part of the outer rings of the inner circle, giving unmeant apologies for knocking hips or shoulders with some, for not, fucking what, curtsying as you passed?

Well, they were just going to have to get over it, and so was Mysaria, because once you’d made it past the throng of Very Important People, you dug your hooks into Daemon’s arm and yanked.

“Excuse me just a sec,” you lied as you went. “I’ll bring him right back, okay?”

Uninterested in her reaction, you all but dragged him out of the great hall and into the corridor beyond. Daemon’s expression cycled from momentary outrage to annoyed to just plain surprised. Now it settled on the easy, devil-may-care amusement that earned him his roguish reputation.

“Change of heart?” he asked, smiling. You shot him a look that said, What I really want is to punch you in the face.

“I know what you're doing. Your brother has a shiny new wife and her father just happens to be on the board? Some say he moved the needle against you, convinced Viserys you were a no-go for successor and that Rhaenyra would be the better pick. Rhaenyra - who, up to that point, had been mostly kept out of the company… Leadership is changing.”

“Are you actually out of your fucking mind?”

Had you blasphemed the old gods and the Mother, spoken treason, repeated the rumors that the Targaryens fucked their own kin, Daemon would never have looked so incensed.

He glanced towards the open doorway, then pulled you up the corridor, ungently, by the bone of your wrist. His jaw was locked, and his face looked like thunder, and if you felt a thrill of anticipation along with a current of fear, you told yourself you weren't being sick - it was the aftermath of what he had done to you, his whispered promise in your ear, You’ll beg me for it.

Of course, that didn't explain how much you wanted it.

You’re hungry for something. Maybe not power, but… importance? Not to be bored all day, from 9 to 5.

Daemon threw you into a room you could only call a “sitting room,” which made you want to burst into giggles. It was probably one of multiple on their grand estate, and here you were - a person in borrowed shoes with a flatmate waiting at home.

It was lit by the same golden light that seemed to permeate the house, the color of candlelight, like fire glowing from carefully placed sconces and fixtures. The effect was long shadows thrown across the walls, an air of secrecy, of quiet despite the not-too-distant sounds from the party. Daemon stood in front of the door, blocking the exit. Really? Does it look like I'm quaking in my boots?

“What do you think you know?” he asked quietly. He clasped his hands in front of him and leaned his head against the paneled door.

Focus… Why did he make it so hard for you to focus?

“Hightower has his hands in almost everything as your brother’s health has declined. Sorry, was that a secret?” you asked, being facetious. “Not a very well-kept one, I'm afraid. The analysts gossip.”

“My brother is fine.”

“Of course. But why Beesbury?” You stepped forward in your high-heeled shoes, the points digging into the plush carpet as Daemon followed your every move with his eyes. “You think he’ll come for Beesbury first… in the event of a coup.”

There. A flicker of acknowledgment, and dare you say it, of pride. Good girl, I knew you could put two and two together. “Lyman is an old man but he's loyal.”

“To a fault. Why suspect danger when he's been safely in place since the days of your grandfather Jaehaerys? Who would dare supplant your brother’s chosen heir? You really think Hightower would do it?”

“Don’t you? My sister-in-law hadn’t even cooled in her grave before he stuck Alicent in my brother’s path. Rhaenyra is a girl—”

“A grown woman.”

“—a girl,” he doubled down, “with no leadership experience, no idea of how our world really works—”

“She has trained, she has done well. She can hold her own.”

“She is in over her head.”

“So what was your master plan? I’m sure there is nothing I know which you couldn't easily figure out on your own.”

“Criston.” Daemon spoke the name with no small trace of malice. “Would he slip his knife through her back?”

“Do you really need me to answer that question?”

“Does he meet with Hightower?”

You thought about it. “No.”

“And you’re certain of that?”

“We’re friends, after a fashion. And he isn't the brightest tool in the shed, is he? Besides, how much leverage could a guy like him actually have?”

“You’d be surprised.”

“You’re paranoid.” Then you saw his face up close, the seriousness, the pensiveness, qualities you didn't normally associate with Daemon Targaryen. “…And worried,” you said. “Seven hells, is it really that serious?”

“Not a word of this, do you understand? You’re on Lyman’s team, he trained you, and as far as I'm aware, you’re the only one in that department with an actual brain - Rhaenyra said so, ever since you worked together on the Velaryon merger. She says you have a way with people, of not stepping on their toes, of getting them to talk.”

“Gee, is it that groundbreaking in your family to not be an asshole?”

“Fire and blood…” he recited. “Perhaps we do lack in subtlety. But imagine Otto Hightower in charge.”

You frowned, looking at an innocuous painting of flowers that could probably pay for two months of your rent. This had nothing to do with you. Sure, you worked for the Targaryens, but what had they ever done to earn your loyalty? Was one ambitious family not just the same as any other? And yet you couldn't help but feel the gravity of Daemon’s words. A seizure of power would result in bloody chaos, would cause instability during a dangerous time. Not everybody was happy with the prospect of a woman poised to take the lead, which meant that the Hightowers were in line for more supporters than they would have otherwise done.

It was dirty, underhanded, completely without legal basis… but it was sound. It made sense along with everything you knew about Otto, and with everything you had sensed in the other room. But one doubt still remained.

“Why me? What exactly were you hoping to accomplish by getting me into bed?”

When you turned back to Daemon, he was less grave. “Oh, that,” he said. “That wasn't work, love, that was strictly pleasure - and I wanted to know if you could be trusted.”

“You wanted a ‘Break Glass in Case of Emergency.’”

“A trump card, if you will.” If Otto did find a way to get to Beesbury, he and Rhaenyra would need eyes and ears they could count on and no one would suspect a mere analyst of turning spy. “But I know you went to school with Alicent, and you came here with Criston. I wanted to make sure which side you were on. The rest was… incidental.”

“Incidental?” you snorted. “You Targaryens… are you incapable of not giving in to dramatics?”

“Where are you going?”

As you spoke, he had left the doorknob unsecured. You reached for it, said, “Back outside, before we’re noticed.”

“You made sure we were noticed, remember? What were you saying, about subtlety?” Now that business and talk of his family’s ruin was done, he was back to his typically raffish behavior. “You were jealous.”

“Fuck you.” That detail was in a box labeled “NO FURTHER INSPECTION,” thank you very much. You hated that he was right - more than that, you hated that he knew. Hated that he had taken you into his confidence and, still, the greater part of you was overcome by the visceral, animal need to have him inside you. You had worked so hard to be taken seriously, followed every rule in the Good Feminist Playbook for Succeeding in a Corporate Setting. It didn’t make much of a difference. All you’d managed to do was ingratiate yourself with a few useful people, but you were bitter more often than not. Dissatisfied. Listless. Stop waiting around for permission. If you threw the whole playbook away, if you forgot it even existed, what truth would remain?

That you wanted to have your cake and eat it too, and that you wanted in - in on the inner circle, in on the secret plans, the danger, the intrigue, the rooms where decisions got made. And you wanted Daemon to eat you out at two o’clock in the morning, on top of his desk. It was simple, really, once you made guilt take a backseat.

“I was with Mysaria and you were jealous,” Daemon taunted you.

“I was with Criston, and so were you.”

“Perhaps.” He stroked a finger down your hand which was still wrapped around the doorknob. His touch was electric, but it didn’t take your breath away as much as the look of unexpected fondness in his eyes. There was something patronizing in it, as if you were a fledgling bird as yet unbroken. And also a confidence that you would fly. “Do you remember what I said about begging?” he asked in an undertone. The strange lights bathed his profile in gold. Your heart was beating like a bass drum, hard and steady, egging you on.

“Do you remember what I said?” you shot back.

He smiled at that, and would you ever get used to it - these sudden bursts of softness after hearing everyone swear up and down that he was a monster? A man without honor, without goodness, without affection, and certainly without pity… You might have been fooling yourself but you saw more, you felt more, as he looked at you - and whatever it was, you wanted it for yourself.

You pulled him down by his tie and kissed him, not thinking twice. He tasted like oak and ash. You had not been able to appreciate it before but you did now, running your tongue along his lower lip, angling your head so that he could taste you in turn. His breath was hot. He put his hands on your hips and pressed you against the door. You wanted to melt… into the door, into him. Your limbs felt as loose as flowing water, which took you by surprise. Once the decision had been made, you found that you felt no guilt about it - he wanted you, and you wanted him, and he had not lied.

Though you couldn’t say how, you also knew Daemon wouldn’t think any less of you for what happened tonight. You felt safe, you felt desirable, and that only made you want him more.

“Take me somewhere… Now,” you whispered against his lips. “Or I’ll leave this house and not think of you twice.”

“As if you could…” He stroked your hair back from your face before taking your hand and leading you out the corridor, to a staircase kept hidden by shadow.

You felt like a giddy teenager hiding from her parents, exploring second base in the backseat of someone else’s car. You remembered champagne, and the fizz of excitement at doing something you shouldn’t, of getting away with it, of enjoying it all the more for being forbidden.

Daemon opened a door at the end of the north wing. There was a bank of windows to your left, letting in the moonlight, but it disappeared the second he turned on the light. You have expected him to pounce on you, to be all unleashed desire the way he had been downstairs, and to prove his promise true. Instead, he made a point of locking you in, of flicking the switch, and then… nothing.

“Do you want this?” he asked, caressing your chin.

“Yes.”

“Are you certain?”

You nuzzled his hand and kissed the veins at his wrist. “I wanted you the moment you insulted Caravaggio, though I can’t claim to agree.”

He pulled you into a kiss that was deliberately slow, his lips parting yours, his tongue warm. He cupped the base of your skull, and you sighed at his fingers, kneading sensually, the tips dragging gently along your scalp. You pushed his dinner jacket off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor so you could run your hands down the hard planes of his chest. He was all power, lean muscle beneath your palms, and you wanted him - you didn’t care if he knew, you wanted him. And so you did nothing to disguise the shaking of your hands as they pulled at his tie or undid the buttons of his crisp white shirt. His hands were everywhere, on the backs of your thighs, on your ass, ghosting along your ribs, thumbs venturing to stroke your nipples through the fabric of your dress. You gasped when he bit down on your neck. Moaned when you had taken off his shirt and could finally press your lips to his chest. He tasted like… Gods, you didn’t know, but you couldn’t get enough of him.

He walked him towards the bed, all the while straining not to leave him untouched for so much as a second. He sat down, planted open-mouthed kisses on your belly, your breasts, his fingers pulling down the zipper on your right side. It was an awkward undressing - you had to pull the dress over your head and then over your left shoulder, but it gave him enough time to undo his belt, pull down his trousers, and kick his shoes to the other side of the room.

He was glorious… a lustful exaggeration, perhaps, conceived in a moment of blinding passion, but you felt covetous, possessive. He was yours - you had chosen him for this and he had chosen you.

He took your hips and kissed your navel, sliding your underwear down until you were naked in front of him. You climbed onto his lap and pushed him down on the bed, urging him up until his head rested against the pillows and you rested on top of him, comfortable, powerful.

He grinned up at you and reached for your breasts.

“No,” you said, and swatted his hands away. Finding his tie among the covers, you bound first one and then the other, and when you were done you hooked both around a spike of ironwork on his headboard.

He issued the command, “Untie me.”

“No.” He could get free whenever he wanted with a little effort - that wasn’t the point. The point was that he’d let you tie him up and now he was at your mercy… for now, at least.

He repeated the command, “Untie me before you regret it.”

“What’s to regret?”

“For fuck’s sake…” He stopped struggling when you began kissing his chest, palming his nipples, teasing the trail of hair that led down to his straining cock. You pulled him out, dragged his last bit of clothing down his ankles, and with a wicked glance in his direction, took him into your mouth.

He was better than you imagined, or maybe you had wound yourself up so tightly that now you had no choice but to delight in the hard weight of him, the tip hitting the back of your throat, the sounds of his straining, his roughened breath. And just when you had gotten comfortable, you found his hands in your hair, unbound, and his low promise of, “My turn.”

He tossed you back into bed like you were nothing, and braced his arms against your legs so that you had no hope of closing them. You were on display, wet and swollen, breasts heaving, and when he put his tongue on you, you might’ve come right then and there. It didn't take long. He wrapped his mouth around your clit and lapped at you until you were seeing stars and then he kept going, sliding his right hand from your thigh down to your aching core to insert a finger, then two, stretching you out, the digits making a squelching sound as he picked up speed and put his mouth on you again.

“Daemon…” you said. “Daemon, it's too much…”

“You know what to do,” he soothed, almost cooing, never stopping. You shook your head. “No? You’ll just have to take it, then,” he said, wrapping his arms around your hips.

“I can’t!”

“Beg me to stop.”

“No, don’t stop… don’t stop - oh fuck, fuck…” Your vision went white. Your body shuddered with waves of pleasure you couldn’t contain, and still - madly - you knew it wasn’t enough. You didn’t want just his hands and his tongue. You wanted—

“Tell me you want it,” Daemon said, kissing along your stomach to run his tongue up the center of your chest. One of his hands squeezed your breast, the other took hold of yours and led it down to his cock, heavy and hot, weeping at the tip. You squirmed when his knee rocked against your aching clit. Tears had gathered at the corner of your eyes - it was too much. Surely you would die the next time you came. Still you felt yourself gushing into the sheets below. You sought the friction of his knee, let him pump into your hand. “Tell me you want more.”

“Tell me you want more,” you hissed, tightening your grip until he groaned. His hips stuttered. He was fighting the urge to cum right then and there but you didn’t want him there, you wanted him in you - needed him inside of you, hitting that spot you never found with just your fingers alone.

Sitting up, you dragged him down until his body was flush with yours. You were overheated and tired, but that was nothing. You might die at your next orgasm but you would die without him, so what was a little death on a Friday night? You kissed open-mouthed, sloppy, more focused on guiding him to your entrance than not getting his face wet. Clearly, he didn’t mind.

“Shit…” You breathed out when you felt him going in. You could feel every ridge and curve, your walls squeezing desperately for him to go further in. He bottomed out and braced his weight on his arms - they were good arms, roped in muscle and veins. You kissed the side of his forearm as he gave another thrust, pleased as punch when he said, “Fuck, how are you this good?”

There was no way around it, he was big and you were over-sensitive from having cum before. You didn’t want to draw it out - you wanted him fast and hard and quick and you knew, you just knew it wouldn’t take much to find another peak. “Mmm, faster… go faster…” you urged.

“No, I want to take my time with you.” His thrusts were deep, laser-sharp, but not fast enough to get the agony over with. You whined. Reaching down to cup the globes of his ass, you tried to convince him to pick up speed, angling your hips so you could meet his thrusts. It made no sense. Your brain said you couldn’t take any more but your body took it, took it and chased it and sought the friction of his pubic bone against yours. Are you a bloody masochist? you asked. In response, you felt yourself tighten and dug your nails into the skin of his back as Daemon’s thrusts shortened. He had listened to you, finally, was pounding into you with delicious speed, your body rocking against the bed, your tits bouncing for his benefit. Why wasn’t it… why wasn’t it working? A minute ago you had felt on the verge of coming undone and now it was gone, eluding you, teasing you with its changing whims.

“What do you need?” Daemon asked, not stopping, doubling down.

You spoke without thinking: “I want you from behind.” As soon as you said it, you knew. He turned you around, slipping out for the merest second before lifting your knees so he could push back in. “Oh fuck… fuck, just like that…” You closed your eyes and remembered how your faces looked in the mirror.

“Like this?” He slid a hand up the center of your back and yanked your hair.

You cried out. “Yes… don’t stop… harder - oh yes! Oh fuck! Yes, go deeper!” You were babbling. Your scalp burned, half your face was smushed against the pillow, and all you could hear was the slap of his balls against your ass, the grunts, his rough inhales, your whimpers of mingled pleasure and pain. He grabbed you by the shoulder, and used his hold on your hair to pull you up. The change in angle made you moan, but you were glad to feel his chest at your back, supporting you, his arm across your belly keeping you still.

“Touch yourself,” he said into your ear. “That’s right, just like that…” You were so fucked out you ran on autopilot, snaking a weak hand down to stroke your clit. Daemon held your hand, guiding you when you faltered. “I thought you said you didn’t need me,” he said.

“I don’t.”

“You will. The next time you put your hands on your cunt, you’ll remember I made you feel like this. That’s right…” he said when your legs begin to spam. Your throat ached. You couldn't tell whether it was from ragged breathing or from the loud, high-pitched moans - was that your voice? It must have been, because Daemon made a trail of kisses down your neck and said, “Sing for me—oh fuck! Fuck…” He swayed on his knees. You were squeezing him for all he was worth and you had to laugh.

“You were saying?” It was only in jest but you squirmed away from him, recalling the moment you left him blue-balled in your week.

His grip turned to steel. “Not again.” He tamed you with kisses, his hand coasting along your chest. He no longer trusted you to get the job done yourself, so he swept your hand away and circled your clit with expert precision. You were entirely pinned - pinned by his cock brushing against the wall of your cervix and his hand on your front.

You reached for the back of his neck and pulled him in for a kiss. “Daemon, I'm going to cum…”

“I know… Gods, I know… cum for me… cum for me, I want to hear you. I want them all to hear—”

You were expecting fireworks, an explosion, or a violent death. Instead, the world went really quiet, like the times when you’ve stuck your head below water to hear the dense silence. You gave a shuddering sob and felt your orgasm hitting you, your face pressed into the valley between Daemon’s shoulder and neck. He held you there, held you up as you came undone and dissolved, kissing the side of your elbow, meeting his own release.

He spilled inside you with a gasp, breathing through it, fucking his spend back into you even as some trickled down your thighs. You hummed when you felt it, feeling satisfied as a spoiled cat. You turned in his arms and kissed him properly, laid your hands upon his shoulders and let him lead you back into bed.

Your head sunk into the pillows. He watched in amusement as you stretched out your limbs, giving credence to your feline comparisons. “What?” you dared to ask.

He shook his head, then propped it in his hand so he could lounge with the other upon your belly, not moving, simply resting upon the rise and fall of your breath. It was dangerous how quickly you were becoming acquainted with that look on his face - not the Rogue Prince but Daemon Targaryen, the man who liked to spin a web and cause some mischief, not a monster, not a rogue, just a man with his own duties and functions, responsibilities, fears. That man watched out for his brother and kept his family safe, and kissed you like a woman deserved to be kissed - thoroughly, and with the boon of his attention.

“Where the fuck have you been hiding, then?” he asked, lips quirking at the corners.

“Twenty-third floor,” you quipped, “for the past two years.”

“Please tell me you’ve never done that with Criston.”

“Why, would it make a difference?”

“Well, for one, I’d have to kill him.”

“Ooh, if you’re compiling a list of my past lovers…”

“Only him. Honestly, I’ve been looking for a reason.”

“I’ve never slept with him,” you confessed after a beat. “…But I am not promising that I never will.”

“Oh yes, you are.” His palm curled possessively around your middle and you laughed, an un-self-conscious giggle as he propped himself over you once more, mock threatening, openly jealous.

“I’d be lying.”

“Try it,” he warned.

You pushed him back with a hand to his chest, and in the most reproachful voice you could manage in your post-orgasmic, giggling state, you said, “I am not your property, Daemon Targaryen, I can fuck who I like.”

“But you don't want Criston.”

“No, I don’t want Criston. But I might want others… Rhaenyra looked especially delicious tonight—” He lunged at you with a growl. Pressing into his throat, you dodged and bore up with your hips until you were on top, straddling him.

Had he wanted to, he could have easily pinned you to the bed but he didn't. His let you squeeze his throat. His eyes sparked with desire.

“Does that get you off, then,” you asked, “thinking of us together?” You rubbed your core against his abs. You weren't crazy enough to go another round, but it was nice to tease him, to watch him helpless, even if by his own choice, as you smeared your slick upon his skin. “Would you like to watch?”

“Enough,” he ground out. This was fucked up territory. Rhaenyra was his brother’s child, his niece, and yet tongues had always wagged, and now that you considered it, you weren't immune to the idea of your head between Rhaenyra’s legs as Daemon railed you from behind.

“Is it?” You pressed your thumb into the side of his neck, rocked your hips. Daemon’s smile grew into a hunter’s.

“No,” he said. He sat up to kiss you, his hand winding around your hair. “It isn’t enough, not nearly…”

#this is a masterpiece ✨#ty for this!#carbon is violently horny for Daemon Targaryen #thinkin thots #now if you'll excuse me #I’ll be in the pits of horny jail #✨bonk✨

530 notes · View notes

carbonfiction · 2 years

Text

Stay quiet

As a sucker for Bucky and DBF fics it's only obvious that the first piece I've ever seriously written/posted is a mashup of that! With that being said absolutely any feedback is more than welcomed! Also a huge thank you to @becca-e-barnes for inspiring me to finally get out of my own way and pursue something I love! 💕

Pairing- DBF!Bucky x reader

Words: 2.1k

Summary: being in a secret relationship with your dad's hot best friend may be classified as a sin, but teasing him under the table at a family dinner is another.

Warnings: age gap (Bucky's early 40s readers early to mid 20s) lil swearing, secret relationship, reader being a tease, Risk of being caught? hand job, oral (m receiving), Nieve parent's?, a good deal of dirty talk? kinda subby Bucky?? I think that's it!

Minors do not interact, you will be blocked!

you and bucky have been seeing each other for a while in secret. It's something that you've had to both keep quiet about bc let's face it? Dad finds out his (not so little) little girl is actively screwing his best friend? Shit will hit the fan biiiiig time.

You'd always had a stupid schoolgirl crush on bucky since just before before you'd left for college. When you'd first met him he was getting over a divorce and in his late 30s, working alongside your dad. He seemed nice enough, funny and always made sure you felt comfortable around him if he was over and your dad got called away. But it was hard not to see what was in front of you and it just so happened to be your luck that sweet, respectful James "jus' call me bucky" Barnes was also quite possibly the most attractive man you'd ever set eyes on.

You'd had a steady friendship for a while, until Bucky had tagged along on a family vacation and one look at him on that beach, his toned body covered in tiny droplets of water, and in the most delicious pair of black shorts that seemed to perfectly hug every sodden inch of his lower half, had you hooked.

But You'd figured you'd grow out of it soon enough, you'd spend some time around college guys and gals and forget all out your dads best friend.

but that never really happened, your mind seemed to stick onto him,and him alone. No amount of one night stands or date nights with a glass of wine and your vibrator could quell the urge for him.

But then Fast forward to your birthday party and one two many drinks with friends, of whom knew far to much about your little crush. And After being dared to call him, barely able to string a coherent sentence together hes pissed, worried about your safety and decides to picks you up. With drunk words being sober thoughts and and enough liquid courage in you to sink a ship, one thing leads to another and you end up waking naked together, wrapped up in his arms.

And from then on the rest had been history. The time spent not studying was with him. Always with him, even if you were simply laying together on his couch, relishing in a moment of peace. You loved him, and God did he love you back. It was wrong, you both knew it, but from the moment your eyes opened for the first time in his arms? You lost every ounce of guilt or shame. He was it for you, you knew that much.

Dancing around family dinners became an occurrence you'd both grown used too, it wasn't odd for bucky to join your family for Sunday dinners, and after a while, turning up to your front door together was almost natural. Your parents so blissfully unaware and Nieve to believe your excuse that "Bucky's closer to school, said he didn't mind giving me a ride anytime we were both headed this way. 'Sides he saves me catching an uber"

So here you sit, next to bucky and opposite your parents as they talk away, catching up with each other. A smile tugs at your lips as you pop a potato in to your mouth, an idea forming in your mind. Bucky looks utterly delicious, his mix of skinny jeans and a shirt your sure has to be multiple sizes too small.

The way the fabric stretches and clings to every inch him is sinful and from the moment you stepped into his car you've wanted nothing more than to slide over the center console of his car and fuck his brains out. But it was a family dinner you we're attending, and your parents may have been blind to what was going on in of them but if you'd both shown up late, cheeks flushed and clothing Disheveled, it was sure to raise a few questions.

But god, what better way to rile your secret- forbidden- boyfriend up than to tease him under the table. And looking like bucky did, you could hardly of cared if you were caught, at least that way you'd get to go home and screw his beautiful brains out a damn lot earlier.

Bucky's thigh tenses when your hand lands by his knee, slowly raking your fingers up him under the table. And when that's the reaction to an innocent touch? When you do finally reach the already semi hard bulge in his jeans, he just about chokes on the food in his mouth.

Having to play off to your parents that he was fine, just swallowed funny.

You don't move for a while then, hand just discreetly resting over his hardened crotch as you finish off the last few things on your plate. Turning your head as he speaks you can't help but try to suppress a smirk while you take a sip of wine. His eyes are almost wide, panicked, shooting warnings glances so obviously at You.

You know what your doing to him, how he feels about showing any excess affection around your mom and dad, but it's just that that makes it all the more fun.

So it's no surprise when dinners over and your mom insists that you two stay at the table, your hand begins to move once more. Fingers Slowly squeezing over his jeans meanwhile her and your father clean up and get desert ready.

Once out of earshot bucky turns, eyes clouded with lust but the telltale crease of anger between his brows. "What'd the hell are you playing at? Your mom and dad we're right there!" you can tell despite sharpness of his tone that he's struggling, hands trying to grasp your wrist, as his cock protrudes almost painfully against the rough layer of his boxers.

It's almost gratifying in the way He's so obviously trying not to crumble and fuck you over your parents dinner table. But deep deep down, there's this little devil on your shoulder that wants him, no needs him, to do it. To take what he needs from your body, and vice versa, to hell with anyone else.

Putting your plan in motion you begin to snake your hand under his shirt, nails gently raking over the toned skin at the lower half of his abs. The quiet groan Bucky makes at the action is sinful, and does nothing to help the throb of your clit, let alone the tight press of your thighs.

"Come on babydoll, please, please, can't- fuck- can't do this here. Your dad would have my balls in a blender if he caught us"

Bucky pleads, desperation filling his words and fuckkk, you'd be an idiot to say that wasn't one of the hottest sounds to reach your ears, and you'd seen, let alone heard him cum multiple times since the two of you started your relationship.

Despite his desperation to not be caught he can't find it in himself to get you to stop when your hand finally Inches just that little bit lower, unbuttoning him and slipping your warm hand into his jeans.

Your on the edge of your seat and he's hot, heavy and throbbing in your hand. You hear your father and the clattering of bowls as they clean up, mentally making a note that you needed to keep an ear out, just in case either of them decided to venture further out of the kitchen and back to the dining room.

They would be a while yet, your mom's prize desert having to be perfect, but you knew this wouldn't take long. Bucky was already hard and ready from the moment you'd put your hand on his leg.

"Oh baby, you don't want me to make you cum? Don't want me to milk your pretty cock under my parents dinner table? Your hard as hell baby, so Why not hm? "

All bucky can do is quietly wimper, hips fractionally arching into your touch without even meaning to, but you can see in his eyes he's afraid to make any other noise or draw attention.

It's almost criminal how you can do this to him, make him loose all sense of control of his own damn body but god is it one other thing he loves about you.

In any other scenario it should be him doing this to you, fingers buried deep inside your cunt, making you cum instead. But he cant find it in him to care because, fuck, its so wrong you doing this to him, but hell, it feels so damn good.

Bucky struggles to hold in a sound as your hand begins to move in a steady rhythm. using the precum that coats his tip as lube. “ do- do want you t' make me cum honey, jus- fuck- just don't wanna get caught."

"Oh baby, we won't get caught," you pause for a moment, sending him a smirk as you dip down and give a teasing squeeze of his balls. "You jus gotta be quiet, hm? Just be a good boy and stay quiet, I'll take care of you buck"

He has to swallow a gutteral moan at your words, biting down on a hooked finger. You shouldn't do what you do to him, he's sure of that much. Your tone is always Innocent, smooth as honey despite your actions being anything but.

Taking one extra look over to the doorway you up the anti, pulling your chair out ever so slightly and sliding round to face him completely. Buckys cock twitches in your hand, a telltale sign he's close. Good, you think to yourself, you have about ten minutes before you know your mom and dad will be walking back through that door.

Bucky's eyes squeeze shut, face cherry red, as you Lean down towards his crotch. by now he's far too powerless to resist your touch even if he wanted too.

The need to cum consuming any remaining hesitation.

If anyone was to peak around the corner it would look as if you'd dropped something, and by then an easy excuse could roll off your tounge.

But right now the only thing you cared about being on your tounge was Bucky. Your lips wrap around him, salty sweet precum on your taste buds as you suckle at his tip. your hand continues to jerk at the base of him and he's putty in your hands.

"Fu-fuck- gonna cum honey. Dont- god- please don't stop" Bucky's utterly wrecked, Barely able to hold back his gasps and groans.

Your head pops off his cock for a moment, spit coating your chin, just to tease him for a moment.

"That's it, good boy, want you to cum, needa taste you buck. Been desperate for it all night"

And with that your head drops back down, tounge rapidly flicking over his slit. Bucky's teeth dig further into his fingers and it's a Miracle that he doesn't manage to bite it off with the grip. Beside him his Vibrainum hand grasps at the table, wood almost Splintering under him.

It only takes one, two more harsh bobs onto his cock before he's spilling into your mouth, hips jerking wildly. His hand has to clasp over his mouth to smother the deep growl that leaves him, orgasm rushing through his body before his brain can even begin to catch up to his mouth.

His thighs shake, breathing eractic, as he watches you reach his eyes, maintaining eye contact as you swallow his load, salty sweet as it coating your throat. Bucky takes a tremor ridden sip from his water as you begin to tuck his still sensitive but softening cock back into his boxers then re assemble his jeans.

The sound of your mother's voice draws nearer just as you secure the button. Turning yourself around just in time for your parents to become visible in the doorway, bowls in hand. Your father shoots you an odd look at your slightly disheveled appearance but you brush it off, dropping into the regrowing conversation that your laces had come undone and you'd reached down and re Tightened them, hense your flushed face.

But just before your parents can get to placing your bowl down bucky leans over, words barley reaching your ear. "just you wait till we get back in the car honey. We may have a short drive but your not gonna stop cumming over my fingers until your begging me to have some mercy on that pretty little pussy of yours. You wanna Act like a little whore, you get treated like one."

#carbonsfics #giving this another reblog #Bc i love it alot

2K notes · View notes