Chapter:
Lonely Hearts and Jagged Edges
Part One
Warnings/Tags: Sibling Incest, Modern Muggle Au, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, heavy Dom/Sub tones, Self-esteem issues that get resolved as story progresses, copious amounts of Praise Kink, slightly sexually naïve Haraella, Masturbation, Daddy Kink galore, Angst, HEA.
Jon Snow & Haraella
I
The message pings midday just as Haraella Targaryen was sitting down to a nice cup of tea and some biscuits at the kitchen counter. It was nothing suspicious at first, a text from Hermione with a small stroke of writing and a photo attachment.
Sounds just like what you were looking for.
The screenshot was from one of those subreddit pages, those only the truly desperate visited, not so tastefully titled Heat and Rut Hook-ups, helpful little tacked on arrow pointing to the topmost post recently left to join a long, long list.
London based; Twenty-Eight-year-old black haired, black eyed Alpha seeking Omega for one rut only. Must be between 20-25, lithe, below five-five preferred, and has curly blond hair. The lighter and curlier the better. Must be willing to wear contacts and obey orders. Pm for specifics.
Evidently, the thoughts come fast and hard.
Firstly, that, given those parameters, Haraella had, recently, turned twenty-one. She uncannily fit into the needed shape and size quite well too. Curly hair? Why yes, terribly so. Blonde? Whiter than snow. Short? Thanks to her mother, and the curse of the Omega genetics, Haraella was barely five-foot-one if you rounded up. Omega? Well, that was what had gotten her into this mess in the first place.
Tick, tick, tick.
Secondly, that yes, black hair and black eyes was exactly what she had told Hermione three days ago, too deep into a bottle of Ogdens, after being asked about what she was going to do about her upcoming first Heat.
You can't do black hair and black eyes, obviously, but the sentiment of those being attached to someone she would inevitably do was understood unfortunately, well before Haraella could stumble out some diverting question or ramble her way to sweet, sweet confusion where Hermione would drop it and never pick it up again.
Where that secret belonged.
In the dark where it could never see the light of day.
Hermione, of bloody course, had to go and reply with the worst possible response.
Bit like your brother, Jon, isn't it?
Haraella had spluttered, looked justifiably ruddy, and groaned out a fucking gross at just the right time. What she did not say, however, was that was the whole point.
The terrible, terrible point.
Ever since she had come home from University for the holidays, ever since Jon, her middle brother, had come back from his tour with the army, with those ridiculously crisp grey shirts and that just-fucked bedhead he refused to cut -that hair belonged in a shampoo commercial, not under a Lieutenant's beret-, those dark eyes were all she could think of.
And it was wrong.
Horribly wrong.
GSA is a thing, Haraella rationalizes just to make herself feel better. Genetic Sexual Attraction was a… thing and she's not a monster for it, she was not Tom Riddle. Familial bonding between Alpha's and Omega's happened, rarely, true, but they did happen, often in family lines already heavy with the practice, and it wasn't illegal, Alpha's and Omegas naturally carried seventeen duplicates of genetic coding, making inbreeding defects impossible, and-
And it wasn't like Haraella and Jon had grown up together. Her mother, Lily, had been murdered by a serial killer, and Haraella had been, in a monumental fuck-up by social services, put into foster care and lost in the system before her father, and their other Bondmates, had come home to the nest from their work retreat.
Rhaegar had only found her five years ago, the scrawny sixteen-year-old street-kid she had been, when she had aged out of care and her files were released.
The construction of anything remotely like family had been a slow build for them. A slow and hard build, as old hurts were reopened.
She met Rhaegar months before she even met Elia and Lyanna -how her mother survived as the only Omega to a four strong bond of Alpha's was anyone's bloody guess-, and it was a whole year later before she was ready to meet Aegon, Rhaenys, and Jon, her siblings.
It had been going well.
So fucking well.
She had breakfasts with Aegon when he wasn't busy sketching blueprints for his new architect project. She had Sunday movie nights with Rhaenys, who similarly enjoyed Monty Python reruns. She visited her father, Rhaegar, at his law firm over in Euston to have lunch most days, and sometimes told that prick Attorney Baelish to go suck a tit as she passed him in the hall. Elia was always taking her down to the Sunspear cookout, and plying her with so much food she almost burst, uncle Oberyn sneaking her Dornish red wine, the good stuff, the strong stuff he whispered, beneath the tables with a wink. Lyanna went horse riding with her down at Stark Stables every Wednesday, and gifted her big fluffy blankets and all the pillows a teenage girl could ever dream of.
Jon-
Jon didn't like her.
Well… Perhaps didn't like her was a tad harsh. You had to actually engage with a person to come to not liking them. Jon had always stood back, stood away, always on the outskirts when Haraella was around. He shook her hand, a sharp up and down and a hasty let go, while Aegon hugged. He nodded his greeting, and his goodbye, while Rhaenys asked for one more cup of coffee. He called home saying he wouldn't be back from training camp on her birthdays and Graduations.
It was fine, really.
You couldn't win them all.
He was busy being G. I. Joe.
Haraella was used to being hated by so called family.
It wasn't anything new.
At least Jon wasn't violent like Vernon… He was just… Distant.
Very, very, very distant.
And cold.
Cold like winter snow and January sleet and David carved from ice.
It had not been a problem -really it hadn't-, until Haraella, like all those designated Alpha and Omega, so much rarer than those lucky bastard Betas, reached twenty-one and faced the prospect of her first ever heat.
Or so the Doctor told her the night Jon came home and she was rushed to the ER when she started growing incredibly hot to the touch, burning up from the inside out, peaking into a dangerous fever.
The suppressants that had been pumped into her that night had stalled the Heat, but it would not be stopped indefinitely as nature never really could be.
Haraella had three months at most to prepare from that day.
That was two and a half months ago.
Childhood malnutrition and abuse had pushed back her presenting for years. Hence the dramatic awakening, and for most of her life, all twenty-one years of it, Haraella had thought, as everyone else had thought, she was a run of the mill, plucky, perhaps if a little short, Beta.
Everything had been sunshine daisies, butter mellow as Ron would say.
Of all the times to come toddling back to their parents for some 'well earned down time', Jon had to choose just the month she was on spring break, and, unwittingly, kick off what was going to be the worst week of her life from a designation that there was only supposed to be one in one hundred thousand chance of being.
And now, with heightened senses, she smelled not just crisp linen shirts, but something rich and thick, like mulled wine, and spice, like crushed clove and-
And his eyes weren't truly black. Not really. They were violet, so dark, so heavy, they glimmered black, and-
And god, she was always so hot, boiling beneath her skin, and if she could just get close enough to that wintery gaze, close enough to-
And so, Haraella went out drinking with her best friend Hermione Granger, misery loved company after all, and, after one too many glasses, came up with a plan.
A very Haraella plan, but a plan none the less.
Find someone like Jon and fuck it all out of her system.
If she was going to be forced to do this by her own body, she may as well purge herself of her horrible little fantasies too. Killing two birds with one stone and all that.
Accidently letting slip about her plan, baring naming Jon at all, to Hermione was categorically not part of the strategy.
Yet, it seemed, as always, she had landed on her feet.
London based; Twenty-Eight-year-old black haired, black eyed Alpha.
Haraella, like Jon, was currently London based.
Jon was twenty-eight.
Jon had black hair.
Jon had violet eyes so dark they almost looked black but-
Well…
Beep.
Another text from Hermione, short and sweet.
AthenasRhapsody33. Password Crookshanks89. Use my burner account if you feel safer that way. You only have a few weeks left, and Heats can be incredibly dangerous when endured alone. You did say black hair and black eyes.
She had, hadn't she?
And it wasn't like it was her reddit account, not so inconspicuously named Harrykn0wsth3Snitch, which she had stupidly linked on her very public Instagram, and saved on the family computer, and given to her siblings and… and… Well…
One little message never hurt anyone, surely?
Just to see if this guy was a creep or not.
It didn't need to go any further than that if she didn't want it to.
She was, only a tiny bit, curious about what 'obey orders' meant.
II
Haraella doesn't send a message until well into the evening, curled up under the heavy blankets of her bed at Rhaegar's townhouse, the place she had been since that fateful rush to the ER. Elia wouldn't hear nothing of her returning to her own modest apartment over in Camden, an apartment she shared with Hermione and Margaery, suddenly and extremely deaf, and Lyanna had practically locked the front door on her.
It felt nice to be… Cared for.
Cared about.
Haraella flipped over and fluffed her pillow for the millionth time. This had been how she had spent most of her day. Ruffling pillows, and prowling around the house, stealing blankets from whatever cupboard she had found them stashed in.
Naturally, she realised what she was doing, something the pamphlet the doctor gave her called nesting, and she was quick to return said stolen blankets right where she had found them.
Undeniably, she grew cold again, and what harm could one or two more blankets cost?
And then she realized, again, under a mountain of downy feathers, what she was doing and the cycle would rinse and repeat.
It was a loosing battle, but one Haraella was adamant on waging.
Just on principle.
In her mind, the longer she held out on all the softness, the blankets and pillows and comforters and sheets, and that blissfully pliable fur scarf she had found on the coat rake, the longer it would be to her Heat.
The maths was sound to a girl who had spent her childhood in an under stairs cupboard and not at school, where these things were taught.
It had to be.
Haraella rolled again, tossing.
It just wasn't soft enough, not enough layers to snuggle down deep in, and how was she supposed to-
Her bedroom door was ajar.
She wasn't alone.
She scented him in the air, cool and fresh, long before she saw him.
Jon, in that bloody grey oxford, sleeves rolled to elbow, and black slacks the right side of tight-
Wrong side of tight, Haraella mentally refuted herself, stood at the crux of her door, leaning against frame rigidly, not daring to take a single step into her room.
He couldn't even bring himself to look at her, not her eye, not her bed, no where near her.
Haraella's stomach dropped and rolled.
"Dad, Elia and mum are running late at the office, and Egg and Rhaen are stuck in traffic. It's just going to be us for a few hours. If you… Need me, I'll be just down the hall."
The oddest urge came swift and relentless. The need to crane her head back, to flash the glands buried below the curve of her jaw to ear, to show him just how swollen they were, how needy, a purr bubbling somewhere deep in her chest and-
And she stomped down hard on that urge.
Stomped until there's nothing but aching muscles.
Why?
Because Jon choked on the word need, as if it came accidentally, unwantedly, swallowing heavy around the vowels.
Instead, she squeaked.
"Jolly good."
And promptly winced.
Morgana's tits, apparently being mildly horny turned her into a 1940s air force pilot on helium.
Fan-fucking-tastic.
Jon nodded briskly from the shadowed hallway, and then he went. Gone. Down the way to the last room on the right, which Haraella knew was his own when he visited, leaving as if he couldn't get away from her fast enough and-
And nothing.
Nothing at all.
Was she truly that bad? That he couldn't even look at her? Stand to be in her presence for more than two minutes? Maybe…
Yes.
Look at her. Who could ever want someone like her? Scarred and swearing like a sailor. Barely any tits to write home about. Years of malnutrition hadn't given her many curves, but it did give her a lithe sort of muscle, muscle that wasn't typical of an Omega. Always running around in sports jerseys from her boarding school days, and grass-stained knees.
He hated her, didn't he?
Just like Petunia and Vernon and Dudley, and all those other foster families that sent her sailing back to the foster home after a month of withstanding her existence, realizing too late that she wasn't a cherubic little baby they could coo over and pose, nor an independent teen on the cusp of adulthood that didn't need much help, but something between, something damaged and livid and hurting like an open wound.
An open wound that didn't look too great in family photos, weeping all over the place in third state hand-me-downs.
Haraella curled in deeper below her blankets.
Her pillow sank, hitting the others crowing her head.
Something slipped down, knocking into her hunched shoulder.
Her phone she had left on the spare pillow.
Haraella stared long and hard at the black screen.
Someone had wanted her.
Someone had described her, in abstract strokes, yes, but her all the same.
The contact wearing request was a bit unsettling, but, then again, most people found her surprisingly green gaze unnerving full stop.
Maybe she would like having blue or brown eyes for once.
Maybe she would like a lot of things.
The phone was in her hands before she could truly think it through, clicking open the reddit app.
III
Haraella didn't quite know how to start. How does one typically request a week long sex-fest from an online stranger? Good evening seemed too formal, and Alright mate was something she would say to Ron, and her childhood friend was the last thing she wanted to be thinking about while trying to get down and dirty.
She settled for something simple and to the point;
{Hello}
And then she panicked, badly, because she couldn't just send hello with no follow up, and she had not gotten that far in her plan yet, and so she just types, and types, and types, and hoped something bloody stuck, and that she didn't come across half as stupid as she felt.
{I've not done this before, so apologies in advance.}
{I mean message on a Hook-up thread, not on Reddit. Of course I've done that before. I helped a woman find her cat once. The menace bit me. Not that that's anything special. And not that I'm bragging, but it did lead to my best friend getting the girl for once so silver linings, as they say.}
{Well, I guess people born before the seventies haven't used Reddit, I suppose.}
{Wait, sorry, look.}
{What I mean to say is I've not done anything like this before.}
{On Reddit or anywhere else, really.}
{I saw your post on the Heat and Rut Hook-ups thread.}
Oh, God, she was crashing and burning spectacularly.
Oscar worthy, really.
Remind him of his desperation.
Yes.
Perfect way to go.
{Not that it's a bad thing.}
Wonderful, rebut something that wasn't even implied.
{I'm on here too… so…}
And now finish the flurry with a mesmerising show off of how hopeless she was.
The perfect trifecta. Blunder, insult, and end with a bow of self-humiliation.
May as well just get it all out there at this point.
{I matched the post. Twenty-one, Five-one, blonde bordering on albino so curly it's hard to get a comb through. So I thought I'd message and test the waters.}
She sighed.
{Sorry for forcing you to read this… If you do actually read this and this account hasn't been dropped. God, I hope it's been dropped.}
She grimaced.
{What I mean is I hope you've already found someone, and aren't, like, dead or something.}
Jesus Christ on the mound.
{Right, well, that's enough making a complete prat out of myself for today. Again, sorry.}
Haraella very nearly closed the app and threw the phone away from herself, as if mortification could so easily be expunged.
But then she sees it.
Three little dots indicating someone typing, and suddenly she can't breathe properly.
{I think you're the first person on here to make me laugh.}
She hoped that was a good thing, and not a this bloody chic is mental, kind of way.
{and you don't seem like a prat. You seem just right.}
Well.
That shouldn't have affected her half as much as it did, by the heat blooming on her cheeks.
Just right.
Haraella hesitated but typed back.
{Apart from black hair and eyes, what else do you look like?}
There is, after all, a reason she has come hurtling down this extreme road.
A reason that was currently down the hall in his grey oxford.
{Like most Alphas, though I am on the shorter side. Five-eight. Not going to be a problem, is it?}
Problem?
Oh no. No problems here.
Only a palpitating heartbeat Haraella might have to go have checked out at some point.
Five-eight was Jon's height.
{I can send a pic.}
If he sent a pic, she would see it wasn't Jon on the other end, and if she saw that, the fragile fantasy would pop, and she just wanted a moment to… to… Pretend.
Haraella rushed to reply.
{No.}
And then cringed at how curt that came across, and hurried to ease any feathers she had ruffled.
{Just what I was looking for, actually.}
The three dots appeared, and then disappeared, and for a moment, Haraella had thought she had gone and fucked it all up as she normally did. Just as she was about to lock her phone and mentally bemoan her lack of social skills, a reply came pinging through.
{And what exactly are you looking for?}
What was she looking for?
Someone to fill in Jon's shoes so she could work him out her system.
Fast.
Before she could do something foolish and ruin the only good thing she had going in the last few years.
Jon would obviously run to Rhaegar, and Rhaegar would kick her out, ban her from coming to family celebrations, and then where would she be?
Back to orphanhood watching Hallmark videos and wishing.
That's where.
Merlin, what a mess.
Saying that, however, seemed detrimental to the course.
Alpha's typically didn't enjoy being equated to other men.
Egos to match size nines and up and all that jazz.
So Haraella settled for the truth, or as much of it as she could give.
{I don't know, really. My Heat is coming up, two weeks out. It's my first and I think I just need}
A moment, lingering.
{Help. I need help.}
Three dots, three seconds, and Haraella's heart stops.
{Be a good girl and I can help.}
IV
At first, she spooked at the sudden rush of warmth between her legs, the tethering in the very pit of her stomach, not painful but… Pulling. She dropped her phone and delved a hand beneath the blankets.
Her inner thighs were drenched, and for a moment she thought she had an accident, had a surprise visit from aunty flow, but it felt warm, too warm, and slippery, and-
Slick.
There was slick on her thighs.
Actual slick.
That had never happened before.
She jostled underneath the sheets, and her thighs brushed as she tried to move-
Blinding hot pressure burned between her legs, as if someone had just set off a firework in her belly.
But it was a hollow sort of light, an empty sort of tension, not deep, not full.
She groaned and collapsed back down on the blankets.
That was… new.
That was… nice.
Very nice.
Really nice.
Cautiously, she tried again, a quick clench and-
Toes curled and coiled as eyes clamped shut and then sprang open wide.
Very, very, very fucking nice.
Ping.
The phone.
Haraella scrabbled for it, dropped it twice between trembling hands before she got a grip.
{Can you do that for me? Be a good girl?}
She might be able to survive another knife to the heart from Tom Riddle if LordCommander998 kept calling her good girl.
Yet, what was that saying?
Crossing the Rubicon? Passing the point of no return?
That's what this felt like. If she answered there was no more denial that her Heat was imminently arriving. No more denying she was an Omega in the first place. No more denying she was having filthy dreams about her half-brother.
But, Circe, she wanted those firework lights again.
{I can try}
Haraella stretched over to her nightstand, moaning once more at the flare between her thighs, plucked up the TV remote, and switched on the news, upping the volume to something reasonably loud.
The last thing she needed was Rhaegar, Elia, Lyanna, Aegon or Rhaenys coming home and checking in on her because she was groaning.
Even worse, Jon hearing something with those Alpha senses down the hall and coming to investigate only to find her hands in the cookie jar to something a stranger was telling her on the internet.
Luckily, her room had been doused in scent blocker, and there was no worry of him sniffing anything out.
Of anyone sniffing anything out.
It could be her little secret.
If she wanted to stop she could just close the app.
It would be rude but it was an option.
{Are you on a phone or laptop?}
Haraella dropped the remote back where it came from and turned her attention to her phone.
She just needed the burn to go away.
{Phone, with the app.}
His replies came faster.
{Can you message with one hand?}
Years of Snapes detentions said yes, yes she could.
While not even looking at the screen for long.
{I can.}
{What are you wearing?}
She winced at her attire but couldn't find it in herself to lie right then.
Could hardly string two coherent thoughts together, in truth.
{An old jersey of mine and knickers. Everything else feels too tight and itches.}
That stopped him short. Haraella thought that might have been it, a brief, very brief, affair, her first of any kind, that she had finally scared him off, when the dots came back.
{Sports jersey?}
{Yeah, and old one from my team captain days}
She swore she could hear a groan.
Perhaps it was her own.
It could have been Santa Claus's by how thrown she became at what he delivers next.
{You are a good little Omega, aren't you? Keep the Jersey on, but take the knickers off}
A beat.
{Slowly.}
It wasn't a request.
And it definitely wasn't a question.
Haraella thought that was the only type of movement she was capable of then. Slow, trembling, like a leaf falling from a branch in an autumn breeze.
She was carried away by something stronger.
She shifted her hips, and the cotton of her underwear peeled off from the cloying slick.
Ruined.
Morgana, she was drenched.
{Where are you?}
{Bedroom}
{On a bed?}
{Yes.}
{Does it have a headboard? A sturdy one?}
Her fingers faltered on the touch screen.
A bloody headboard?
This better not turn into some decorating daytime TV show. Not when it felt like her flesh is on fire, and they were clearly only just beginning.
{Yes?}
{Sit up and get on your knees. Face the headboard as close as you can get.}
It seemed like decision time was over.
And that too does… Something.
Made her legs shudder, another wave of running warmth down her thighs, made the breath in her lungs a little sharper, made the heat below the surface just a little hotter.
And she doesn't question it.
Doesn't even think to.
She just does it, on shaking legs and with limbs that tremble, she sits, and turns, and props herself as close to the headboard as possible up on her knees, knees threatening to fold, facing the merry yellow paint of her bedroom wall with her phone in her hand. Anticipating.
No Alpha voice needed.
Just want.
Aching want.
{Balance your phone on the headboard. Keep it in your hand.}
She does as she was told, and she waits.
He doesn't leave her hanging for long.
{You're on a bed, so I know you have pillows there. Find your favourite. The one you sleep on. The one that has your scent all over it. Take it.}
She finds the pillow easy enough, a soft rectangle slab in a silk cover.
She snatched it up from the pile.
{Now spread your knees just enough. Only enough and slide the pillow between them.}
Slick was still coating her thighs, getting lower, more.
Yet contrarily not enough.
{I'll spoil it. My-}
She flushes harder, dithers over what and how she should say it, voice her state, the filthiest she had ever talked, before throwing caution to the wind.
She had come too far to turn back now.
{I'm wet. It'll get all over it.}
{Trust me, little one, that's not going to spoil it}
Oh-oh.
She likes that.
She likes that a lot.
Perhaps even more than good girl.
Perhaps even more than Jon's hair, and Jon's eyes, the star of her dirty dreams lately, and that was saying something.
She slips the pillow between her bare thighs.
It doesn't sit high enough; she realizes too late.
She's short, but she has long legs comparatively.
Can't reach-
The burn-
The-
But he knows.
Of course he knows.
{Brace your other hand on the headboard but keep the phone in your grip. Now, lower yourself gently. Not all the way. Only enough to cradle.}
Silk meets slick and skin in a slip and a slide, and Haraella is irrevocably lost.
One touch, and she croons.
Nearly weeps.
It's not a fire in her belly anymore.
No fifth of November fireworks.
It's a goddamned inferno, a gnawing need made from clove sparks and mulled wine hues, and winter pine needles.
{You still with me, little one?}
With him?
No.
She was up between the stars, between heaven and neverland, and Ursula major.
{It feels good.}
And it does feel good, to have something there, something between her legs to clamp down on, to squeeze.
{It will.}
What did he mean will?
The answer came swiftly.
{Sway your hips. Back and forth. Slowly.}
What little breath she had floods out, as does the slick down her legs, drowning in a silent little oh, as her hips shift just as she was told, back and forth, a long soaking swipe.
A swipe that leads to another.
And another.
And another-
{Don't be naughty now. Not when you're being such a good girl for me. I said slowly}
Shit.
How did he-
Of course he knew.
You don't post the kind of post he did on an open forum without having previous experience.
She wanted to carry on, ignore the phone now that she was chasing-
Chasing something just out of reach, but she doesn't.
She stops.
She slows.
Like a flip switched, she obeys.
It's not like her at all. Haraella was a girl of rebellion, of revolt, the kind of girl who stuck her finger up to the authority and told officers to piss off.
A girl who was forced to face a serial killer time and time again because no one believed her.
It was just the way Haraella was.
The way she had survived years on the street.
Always weary.
Always defiant.
Always in control.
But she didn't have that here, that control, and it felt wonderful. Like a puppet finally free of its strings, a weight was gone.
It felt better than it should have, seen as it was a faceless stranger taking that control from her.
Not a stranger, her brain supplied.
It doesn't have to be a stranger.
It could be Jon if she imagined it.
And boy, did she imagine it.
She pictured him in her room, in the little chair by the window, watching, dressed in those slacks and shirts, with those dark, dark eyes.
Maybe that would be all he did, watch, as she mewled and ground down against a pillow. Silent and glaring as he always was around her.
{Do you like that? Dip your hand to your folds. See how wet you are. Tell me what you feel.}
Jon would say that too, in that brisk, harsh way he spoke, years spent with his cousins in the North of England overpowering his London accent. Maybe he would move his own hand while sitting in her chair, watching her sway and sing as he inched it to his belt, sneaking leather and buckle free where nimble fingers disappeared between the pleats of a zipper.
Fingers make contact down below, finding nothing but scorching wet heat.
{I'm soaked. There's so much slick.}
{I bet you're swollen too. Hot and swollen and greedy. Tell me what you need little one.}
What she needed was Jon. Jon with those harp hands that could reach places she could never hope to, pluck strings she could not see, and a beard that would tickle her neck as he sucked bruises on her glands, and broad shoulders that could heave her up and throw her down on all the blankets she could gather, and he would be proud, of course he would be, a good little Omega making a nest just for them and-
{Empty. I feel so empty. It's not enough}
Haraella was catching on something, she could feel it, a crest down below, swelling, hot, growing, but it wouldn't break, wouldn't burst. It was always going to be there, she panicked. A big empty hole.
There was a barrier holding the wave back somewhere between her thighs and fingers with Jon's name written all over it.
{Faster now. That's it. Fast and hard. Slip two fingers in, and grind against your palm.}
She obeys, but her knuckle hooked uncomfortably before it could fully slide in.
{Can't. Too tight. Hurts.}
The bed rocked against the wall, thudding against brick and plaster, only drowned out by the voices from the TV.
Another lost groan in a sea of lost groans.
Hers?
News Presenters?
The Winds carrying her away?
Haraella didn't know, but it was deep and it pricked up her spine causing her to shiver, and she doesn't fucking care as she can't tell up from down and in from out anymore.
She was nearly there, so very nearly there, just a bit more, muscles in her thighs jumping, knees locking, back arching, nipples catching on the yarn of her jersey, she was almost there.
{Fuck. Yes you are. I could fold you in half over my knee, couldn't I? Would you like that? Bent wide open over my lap? Splayed like ripe fruit? Would you let me have a taste?}
She groaned low and long, the noise rumbling helplessly in her chest as a fresh sleet of slick pours.
She's not going to just ruin her pillow.
She's going to wreck the whole bed.
How he's still managing punctuation is beyond her.
She's typing back before even knew her fingers were keying.
{Daddy please}
Where exactly that came from was likely the same place all her wits had fled to.
There was a thud somewhere down in the house, accompanied by a muffled voice she couldn't discern, could only tell it was deep and gruff.
Maybe Rhaegar returning with Elia and Lyanna announcing their arrival.
Maybe Jesus coming for judgement day.
Maybe it was bloody aliens.
The Raven could have come knocking upon her chamber door saying nevermore and Haraella wouldn't have reacted, wouldn't have cared.
{I'm going to devour that cunt}
It's the image that sentence brings that does her in.
A misty image of Jon where the pillow lied sodden, clasped between her legs, lapping, her fingers in his curls, clutching, pulling, riding-
She breaks, and the world splinters.
Lightning lashed through her veins, and her focus narrowed to a singular point, a singular flash of exploding, and she swore she could feel Jon there, beneath, threaded through her fingers, between her joints and bones as she contorts to a raw nerve left in open air.
Wood chips beneath her grip.
She groans his name as her body bows and she shatters.
And then she was weightless, timeless, immortal in a place amongst places, from the core of one star and another, where nothing like this could ever be thought of as wrong.
V
When Haraella came to, she, embarrassingly, didn't quite know how long she had been left limp in a pool of her own slick.
She had, in fact, ruined the bed.
Her favourite pillow too.
It was worth it.
She'd put the sheets and pillows away in her closet, wake up early in the morning, and dump them in the bin before the bin men came and went.
No one would know.
She would spray the room with more eye-watering scent blocker.
No one would know.
Rush to the store and buy more before the laundry was done.
No one would know.
If she showered in the next ten minutes, not even Rhaegar and Jon, Lyanna and Elia, with their Alpha senses, would be able to smell a lick of anything more than sterile soap and shampoo.
No one would know.
She would leave the TV on, and pretend she had fallen asleep.
No one would kn-
Haraella would know.
She had nearly blinded herself cumming to the thought of her half-brother's face feasting between her legs.
That wasn't something someone could easily forget.
But it was something to get over.
It had to be.
Throbbing and trembling, breathless and boneless, Haraella reached for the phone she had dropped while she had broke apart into a million multicoloured pieces, blindly typing.
{Please tell me you still want to meet up}
Three dots.
Three words.
{Name a place.}
Part 2 Preview:
"I think I have a daddy kink."
Hermione, who had come baring shortbread and chocolate to visit her friend, spluttered around a mouthful of Earl Grey.
Margaery, Hermione's bonded girlfriend of two years, and a friend of Haraella's for just as long, threw her head back and laughed.
Hermione, glaring, tried to mop up most of the tea from her shirt.
It was a hopeless endeavour.
Tea stains like a bitch.
"Harry, you don't just drop that sort of thing as a conversation starter. You gently lead into it."
But then Hermione was beaming a grin that would have put Crookshanks to shame.
"So you did message that redditor, then? Come on them, give us details."
A.N: apparently, 4 am me high on cough medicine is a dirty, dirty bastard. I honestly have no idea where this came from, and I'm quite scared to look lol. This has got to be the grimiest smut I've written to date, so please be kind, I'm still learning the ropes.
I know I was supposed to publish the Oberyn one next, but this just sort of fell in my lap, and I have a bit more to go on the Oberyn one before it's ready to publish. Plus, I'm down and out with the flu at the moment, only the flu thankfully, and I wanted to just write whatever came. This monstrosity is what came hahaa. I at least hope you enjoyed some of it.
This Jon-shot is going to have a total of five to seven parts. I'm not going to lie, they grow more and more out of hand with each part lol. I feel like Doctor Frankenstein. I don't know what the hell I've created lol. This is part one, part two should be coming soon.
Thank you all for the follows, favourites, and of course, reviews. Don't forget, if you have a spare moment, to drop a word or two in that box over there and hit send. The muses appreciate your contribution. I will hopefully see you all soon. ~AlwaysEatTheRude21
