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elliesbebegurl · 11 days ago

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⋆ the only difference between a kiss and a bite is how deep the teeth go.

warlord!ambessa x bene gesserit!reader. men & minors dni.

you do not have to have read or watched dune to understand this.

synopsis: primed to be one of ambessa's hand-picked elite, you have wanted nothing but to be ambessa's top commander. but then she discarded you, chose the kiramman girl instead. she might have thrown you out, but someone else took you in.

cw: bene gesserit!reader, age difference, older woman/young woman, power dynamics, power imbalance, pining, sexually explicit content, cunnilingus, vaginal fingering, oral sex, face riding, impact play, pain play, light sadism, light masochism, dom/sub, switch!reader, switch!ambessa, service top!ambessa,strength kink, face-sitting, face fucking, implications of grooming, slight dub-con (bc of the voice though it is not used sexually), angst, angst with a happy? ending, ambiguous ending, sexual tension, hate sex, misandrist!reader, beefing with your age gap object of affection's daughter because that should've been your daughter.

wc: 8.06k

notes: we're back and more evil than ever. it's me and my lana del rey-length titles against the world. thank you for being patient with me. i'm glad i could return to you with this.

it’s incredible how people tend to misremember the occurrence of an event when they are the ones in the wrong.

you have never misremembered.

since childhood, your memory has been a diamond trap with steel teeth at the center. whatever falls within will never be free. your voice is the same. you have no interest in sounding as honeyed as your sisters. you need the command to be felt and heeded. you understand, however, that if you let your emotions completely consume you, you will be disposed of. the sisterhood does not need weakness, nor does it require a fractured image. so, you stay silent and beautiful. therefore, you are in control and tolerated.

(you are more than tolerated. you are loved. you have not seen this yet.)

the day starts as any other. you wake earlier than the others, sliding out from around the curled body of one of your sisters. her hair is bone white, made that way from trauma from what you understand. she has a young face, one with no tired lines and an open horizon. she sees differently than you do, often has nightmares, and climbs into your bed. you hope her vision never fades. it is good to have a soft heart.

the two of you were called lambs when you arrived. the reverend mothers would hide a smile behind their hands as they called after one of you, asking, “where is the other lamb?”

the sentiment echoes across the empty floor of your mind as you gently stand, adjusting the blankets behind you so your sister is not as cold as you are now. she is one lamb, but you are not the other. you used to be, but that has been stripped from you underneath harder hands. and you weren’t even chosen for the slaughter in the end.

your face twitches, and you try to refocus, sitting on the floor in front of the long mirror in your bedchamber. carefully, you weave your hair into a plait but find that your hands only remember what she taught you when you were still her lamb.

your hair is dragged tightly into a tight war braid, your scalp screaming for mercy. you never listen. fear is the mind killer, and pain is the strengthener.

from there, you rise, sliding into your well-loved woven navy robe. you had bathed late last evening, and now it was so early that the morning could still be confused with the bite of the night. somewhere outside, an animal is howling, or maybe weeping. you cannot tell the difference.

maybe it is you making the sound.

you slide on your headdress, the metal webbing across your face like a second skin. it is fine as chainmail, but heavy with wealth. each link is adorned with a gem the color of a bruise: deep sapphires, violet amethysts, the muted red of garnets too dark to gleam. a lattice of silver threads drapes over your crown and temples, with tiny golden hooks pulled at the skin just behind your ears to keep the veil in place.

it is beautiful. it is painful. the weight reminds you.

the metal burns against your lips, and you think of how you wish to always be shielded.

you walk the halls. it is cool here in the shadows of the tall, cool, black stone. you are sheltered from light as you wisp silently across the floors, feet bare and hot with a phantom heat from a ground that is far too cold, that it almost burns. the stone dispels into feathery grass, the blades kissing your calloused skin as you continue to hike further and further out into the landscape.

you are glad you are here, that you are one of them. you are glad to have sisters. outside of here, back home, no one seems to understand that you are angry. here, they understand, and they still call you the other lamb. in a way, you suppose you are. sometimes, you graze.

you walk and walk, trespass over borders until the ground begins to change. the terrain buckles, the grass falling away to reveal rich dark soil, then veined stone, marbled like muscle. this place is old, untouched even by the sisters who pride themselves on touching all. you do not come here to pray. you come to see.

nestled in the earth is your mirror.

not glass. it is too breakable, highly mortal. what rests here is a polished slab of clearstone: thick as a sword’s width and just as sharp, its surface tempered in volcanic heat and alchemized by bene gesserit archivists. beneath its sheen, a hundred visions have burned away and returned.

the clearstone is set in obsidian, carved into the rock like a wound that never closes. it is an echo of you. around it: salt lines, laid by your own hand. a single strand of your hair. a ring of pressed primrose and dried bloodroot. you learned this watching one of the older sisters in a trance.

you learned this the way you learn everything: precisely, completely, without permission.

you kneel, sliding the veil of your headdress back so your breath might warm the surface. you place your hands on either side of the scrying stone, fingertips just brushing the edge. it’s cold. it always is. it demands something before it gives anything back.

so you feed it.

a memory. the scent of iron and smoke. the last time she looked at you, the feel of your heart splitting cleanly into six pieces. you breathe in. you begin.

your voice does not rise. it drops, low and guttural, like an incantation slid through gritted teeth.

"reveal her. bring her to me."

the mirror clouds, then clarifies.

and then, she is there. ambessa medarda. warlord. mother. deceiver. betrayer. the only woman your soul has ever known.

she’s crouched low, speaking with someone. blue hair, rigid posture—caitlyn. you do not taste jealousy. you taste rot. this is your fruit left too long on the branch. you taste all the years wasted carving yourself sharp while she looked elsewhere. you do not speak. your cheek bleeds; you have bitten down.

you wait. you watch.

eventually, she is alone. she leans forward over her knees, rolling her shoulder, her back to the mirror. her muscles glisten in the waning light. the moment stretches like a taut wire.

then, she stills.

the voice is not needed now. she knows.

you keep the window open, watch her face tense and shift as she registers being observed. she looks up from where she is hunched over those open knees, her muscles rippling under that dark, regal skin. you keep waiting because she is intelligent, highly so, and you know that she will find you.

she does.

ambessa medarda straightens herself and turns, looking over her shoulder with those cruel, bright eyes, and stares into the looking glass across from her. you do not flinch. you do not fear. fear is the mind killer. it is stronger than her, and now you are stronger than both of them.

you let her watch. she turns to better see you. you preen just slightly underneath the attention, but the sweetness soon sours. you make ambessa medarda stare at your reflection. you are the weapon and the girl she forged.

you are the woman she discarded.

your veil begins to retract. not by your hand, but by design. it was always made to reveal, never to shroud forever. layer by layer, the silk and metal webbing slides away from your face until the sharp planes of you are shown. you are not what she remembers. you are something else now.

you hope she is seeing the edge of you: gleaming, bitter, and perfect.

the connection balks. you hold. the veil closes.

you hope she knows you will once more make her choose. or you will kill her.

time will decide.

𓃖

the bene gesserit do not accept contracts; they orchestrate them. you do not request. they summon. but time decides so, they have agreed to one.

ambessa medarda is no fool. her empire swells, but her bloodline thins. there are threats the blade cannot cut, ones that fester in secret folds. so she sends word. the sisterhood replies.

you know who will be chosen before the reverend mother superior dictates her law over the land. when your name falls from behind her teeth, you expect it. you expect the way the other name falls, too. you feel the sister settle beside you as you bend in deference and accept the assignment. you are comforted by the way she watches you with a lack of interest.

so, they send their two: you, and the sister with whom you’ve always walked in parallel. you share no friendship, but your silences are aligned. you trust her. enough.

you arrive at night. it is not meant as secrecy, but it is loaded with intention.

the soldiers of the medarda camp are already at their posts when the air shifts. low fog unfurls across the stone, rising like breath from an unseen lung. the horses smell it first, and then the men. the silence tastes different. charged. ionic.

two figures begin to descend the path carved into the cliffside, ceremonial hoods low but posture unbent. they do not speak. they do not need to.

the first is robed in burnt saffron and oxblood. pansa. broad-shouldered, flanked by iron cuffs, the oldest girl-child of a desert house long swallowed by sand. her presence carries weight similar to the feeling of seeding conflict, and her silence is an elegy. there is power in the pacing of her movements.

beside her: you. [name], though they are probably unaware.

the more in the dark you were, the more ambessa could provide you with “light.”

your indigo robes ripple like stormwater, sheer in places where flesh must feel the air, the cold, the world. this is your house’s doctrine: truth borne by skin, suffering made visible.

chains run down your sleeves like adornment, but the glint of each link speaks of restraint, not vanity. at your throat, a collar forged of black steel, inset with bruised stones: garnet, tanzanite, onyx. each is a sigil of mastery, a tale of blood. the veil over your face is gauze-thin and luminous. it doesn’t hide you. it is slightly uncomfortable to be so revealed.

you move as one, you and pansa, like a hymnal in a dead tongue.

the camp watches. no one dares to speak. but she knows you’ve come. you know this.

ambessa emerges from her command tent the way storms break: abruptly and unrepentant. she's dressed as always for conquest: dark leathers, sleeves rolled, arms dusted in the pale film of exertion. her hair is coiled high, braids tight at the sides, a crown of discipline. your scalp aches in understanding. she halts when she sees you.

she does not kneel. you do not offer her the comfort of a name.

the air is dry and perfumed with spice.

she does not speak to you first, but you feel the throb of her recognition in your spine. from behind her emerges caitlyn with her hair thick around her face and her face flushed pink as if she has been eaten by another mouth. you think of what pansa said as you traveled here, how the girl was primed for betrayal. how ambessa would be blindsided by it as long as she remained unaware. you’d laughed at that.

now, a smile twists at your mouth before guttering out. for a moment, the fire crackles loudly.

a sound like an organ crushed rings out, though no one else reacts. the melody may just be playing for you. it is not the first time.

you stand just beyond torchlight, veil drawn. still, silence.

“come to finish the job?” she finally asks.

the question irritates both you and pansa. it is her request that secured this audience, but even now, she plays for power despite not fully having it.

“that depends,” you answer, smooth and unhurried. “have you decided who you are today?”

pansa continues, “yes. which are you? warlord or mother?”

ambessa’s jaw tightens. you think you hear it crack. her eyes narrow, alight with annoyance. there’s something close to a smile on her mouth, though it does not reach her. she speaks louder, addressing the air.

“so they sent the one who hates me.”

pansa’s voice comes low, deliberate, and polished.

“no,” she says. “we brought the one who understands you. best there be no surprises. ”

a beat. ambessa looks between you both.

“and you?” she asks pansa.

“i do not hate you,” pansa replies, steady. she does not give any more.

a rustle passes through the soldiers behind her, but ambessa holds up a hand. no need. she knows what this is.

you watch her then. watch her watching you. she cannot help herself. she was always a student of strength, of shape and bearing. you wear your body like it is both a weapon and an altar. she built the first half of you. now, she must contend with the rest.

you bow your head, barely, and only to the ritual. you do not kneel. pansa, without question, remains standing. her head never dips.

and ambessa, once your ruin, now your ally by necessity, tilts her head and laughs under her breath.

“then let’s begin.”

𓃖

the decision comes at dawn.

ambessa gives the order to break camp, her voice slicing clean through the cool morning air. no one argues. no one ever does.

you and pansa are offered horses. you refuse. when your hand presses into the small of pansa’s back, she accepts. the path is remembered by your body.

it will carry you.

ambessa rides ahead, all ceremony and command, but you keep your pace slow. it is not surrender, only familiarity. you’ve made this pilgrimage before. when you pass the red rock outcrop that juts like a broken tooth from the earth’s skull, you remember the blood it once drank. yours.

the palace rises in the distance like a mirage made of bone. you feel your own ring with memory. neither of you is beautiful in this place. you are exact.

inside, you remove your veil. you are not a guest here. you are a returned variable. a ghost that knows the way the light’s path runs alongside the architecture. you know every inch. you are mapped the same way.

you are led to chambers that had once been yours. nothing has changed. this is intentional. you leave your robes folded like memory and dress in metal instead. you drape yourself in what you survived. you are practical now; the ceremonial is no longer necessary.

when the door opens hours later, it is not ambessa.

it is the girl.

she does not knock. she walks in as if it were her right, and perhaps, here, it is. she carries the signature ease of someone born into hierarchies like these.. her boots barely make a sound.

“you must be [name]. i am mel,” she says. “my mother asked me to attend the meeting. i came early.”

you turn only slightly.

“to see me?”

she looks at you. you’ve redone your hair with brutal precision: braided back, coiled tight, a single sphere of amethyst nested in the center of your plait. it glints like an eye in the candlelight. you look, now, like one of ambessa’s elite. one of her many trainees. but the set of your jaw is not hers. the clear grief, the loose fit of this fighter’s skin? that is yours.

mel continues to watch you, eyes tracking the way you stand in a simple black high necked gown, cinch a belt and gaping open like a slit belly in the back. you say nothing and only adjust the vambrace over your left wrist. she notices you’ve stripped yourself of any further ornamentation save for the onyx collar at your throat over the fabric and the house-mark inked into your back. coordinates.

she doesn’t comment on either.

you are militant, clearly, but dressed like a religious devotee.

“i see now,” she says after a pause, “why they said you were hard to read. i see they just lacked the language.”

you meet her eyes. still no warmth, but no dismissal either. just a sort of studied apathy. briefly, mel realizes you scare her.

“i don’t need their filthy mouths to define me,” you reply.

mel tilts her head in interest. you mimic the action in the opposing direction, so that she can see the dog that she is. she corrects herself, embarrassed. good. she cannot be so open with her enemies when she reads them.

you wonder how much of her is her mother’s and how much is something still forming. if whatever is being birthed will reveal itself to be something softer, still steel, but in a different shape.

“strategy room is this way,” she says finally, gesturing.

you don’t thank her.

you don’t have to.

the chamber is circular, high-ceilinged, and domed with shadow and the illumination of high-rising flame. the table is long and set with terrain markers, silk maps, and crystal pieces shaped like predators. medarda excess masquerading as military efficiency.

caitlyn is already seated, her posture composed but frayed at the edges. she looks…unwell. waxy, as if someone has drained her of life and ordered her to keep living. she stands when you and pansa enter, as if uncertain of what this demands.

pansa nods once. you only look away from her.

ambessa stands at the head of the table. she is not dressed for battle now but for rule. deep crimson and gold fabrics wrapped sharp to her body, armor only in metaphor. her hair is bound with golden wire and restraint. the grey takes nothing away from her beauty. you feel the weight of her gaze before it finds your face.

you hate the way your stomach flushes with warmth. she used to never look at you.

mel takes her place beside her mother, heir-apparent and new to its gravity. she observes more than she speaks. you and pansa move in tandem, flanking the table. you do not sit. you rest your hands lightly on the wood. palms down. no invitation to softness.

ambessa doesn’t speak immediately. she’s watching. no, reading. you can feel her taking inventory: the way your sleeves continue to hide your arms, the way your shoulders square instead of slouch, the house-stone in your hair, the absence of veil, and the bareness of your back as you twist to catalogue the meeting’s attendants.

she looks like she wants to say something just to see how you’ll respond. if she speaks, you might strip her of skin.

mel notices it first: the standoff framed in silence. caitlyn shifts in her seat. you look at her again, think of how red her blood would be against the navy of her ponytail. she tenses, and you smile. it’s a quick, white slash of teeth. there is a sapphire inset upon each of your canines.

pansa, unimpressed by drama, begins:

“the sisterhood sends us for information, not flattery. shall we get to work?”

ambessa’s mouth plateaus. she leans forward, bracing both hands on the table. she still doesn’t look at pansa.

“of course,” she murmurs, but her eyes never leave you. “if you’re ready.”

mel tracks everything: caitlyn’s nerves, your coiled silence, the flicker in her mother’s voice that is not annoyance nor command, but something else. she doesn't dare to name it. she just watches.

the first question comes from an officer. some minor strategist, brittle with pride.his face sags with the crueler marks of age, and you feel a twist of disgust. men are like animals to you. most of the time, you ached to put them down.

“why them?” he asks, gesturing at you and your sister with a flick that should cost him fingers. “why not a neutral envoy?”

before ambessa can speak, before pansa can scold, you answer.

“because we are not neutral,” you say evenly, almost pleasantly, “and we’ve never pretended to be. it is almost always personal, officer.”

the officer falters at your impeccable use of noxian to address his station. you continue.

“i was trained in piltover. groomed, they’d call it. measured for dresses i wasn’t allowed to pick, instructed in the politics of voice modulation and eye contact, given tests of how well i could wield a weapon whilst walking alongside an empress.”

you tilt your head toward caitlyn, toward the other lamb.

“i was meant to be you, commander.”

a ripple cuts through the room. caitlyn’s jaw clenches. you keep going.

“i passed every exam. i aced every simulation. i made the right friends, attended all the right parties. and then, when the moment came to choose who would be elevated, who would be adored, i was told it would be her. to this day, i don’t know if it was a result of house influence or if i was always meant to be humiliated. if that was my ritual.”

there’s no venom in your voice. that’s what makes it worse.

“i was escorted out of the kiramman estate with grace. that’s where they held the decision night,” you clarify. you can feel ambessa’s attention. it is a relentless, gravity-inducing pressure. “they gave me a coat for the cold. i was seventeen.”

you like eyes with mel. she’s very still. she is the same age you were then.

you tilt your chin, and your voice softens, but only in pitch.

“that night, cassandra kiramman came to me. said she felt sorry for the way it had ended. said i should be proud to have helped in training someone so luminous, to have trained beside her precious light of a daughter. that some of us were made to support the light, not stand in it.”

your emotions are beginning to rise. you sip your wine despite seeing the reflective sheen atop it. poison does nothing to you. the mere attempt makes your voice begin to rise. men were such putrid, leeching, pathetic creatures. so insipidly stupid and devoid of any worth.

it burns going down. your expression doesn’t change. but your voice curdles into something slow, sticky, vile.

“she told me i had a future still. that the world needed girls just. like. me.” every word is its own person. “quiet, composed, and eager to serve.”

you take a step forward.

“and then she tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. the way a mother would. the way she knew my mother never did. it was meant to be reassuring.”

you close your eyes for one brief second. a single, crystalline snowflake falling behind your lashes.

“that was when it rose. the voice. not the one they trained. mine.”

a hush settles over the room like ice over a lake.

“i screamed. and then i spoke. she bled from her nose. her eyes. her mouth.”

a hush settles over the room like ice over a lake.

“i screamed. and then i spoke. she bled from her nose. her eyes. her mouth.”

mel inhales sharply.

“i saw her skull shudder beneath her skin. a crack formed across her cheekbone. her teeth fell out one by one. i hadn’t touched her.”

caitlyn’s chair scrapes. she remembers her mother in perfect image: cold, an incredible force, and mutilated unexpectedly on her left side. she rises, fury blooming in her throat. “you—”

you don’t even turn your head. your lips part and your throat expands, a word expelling.

“sit.”

your voice doesn’t echo. it reverberates.

caitlyn’s body stiffens, jerks, then slams back down into her seat with enough force to rattle the iced fruit in her water. the silence now is unnatural. even ambessa’s protective guard glance at one another, uncertain. mel is rigid, with lips dry and cracked. you slide her the unpoisoned chalice.

you go on, soft again, as if nothing happened.

“i let cassandra live, though i marred her. i thought mercy was strength.”

you look at everyone and no one.

“then, she died. three weeks later. murdered, if i remember correctly.” you have never forgotten. “her face was unrecognizable. her mouth was open.”

you meet the strategist’s eyes.

“i know how to make hard decisions.”

then you look at caitlyn, who cannot move.

you slide your tongue, pink and wide, across the plump plane of your lower lip. you suck off the sticky film of the toxin. you look away from her to the strategist, then to the right of him, where another man has been watching you drink all this time. you speak again.

“pick up the blade.”

with shaking hands, he slides his hand forward without choice and picks up the letter opener sitting neatly before him. you take another sip of wine. again, you speak.

“drive it into your throat.”

his eyes widen in terror, but the command has been given. he must obey. like the animal—no. you love nature’s creatures, the mother’s children. like the parasite he is, you rephrase, he infests himself with the pointed tip of the blade. it pops through with a wet squelch and does not stop until it comes out from the back.

around him, his colleagues either retch or begin to pray.

you step forward, lean down, and let the wine dribble from your mouth. it erodes through his skin.

there is silence now. pansa looks immeasurably smile. the mutual respect deepens.

“i know how to execute,” you say into the silence. “and i know how to live with it.”

you step back, then, and clasp your hands across your stomach.

“any further questions?”

there are none.

you look at ambessa. you recognize the look on her face. you would never misread desire, not when your own threatened to strangle you every night.

“good.” you nod to yourself. “shall we have a break?”

you don’t wait for an answer. you turn and leave the room. you decide there is a break.

you never return, even when it’s over.

𓃖

the palace at night feels like a mouth that’s swallowed its own tongue. silent, damp, vast.

the corridor outside your chambers has long gone quiet. no footsteps. no guards. no pansa in her rustling, soft silks. they’re giving you space. after what you did, they would be fools not to.

you should be asleep. you aren’t.

you sit at the edge of the bed, spine straight, shoulders loose, your hair still damp from the bath you drew yourself. the nightgown clings to you like mist: sheer, pale, and translucent as moonlight poured thin. beneath it, nothing. just skin and breath and heat. you sleep better when nothing cups you from below.

your belly aches. not with pain, but with pressure. with wanting.

desire has found you once again, heavy in the belly with the water threatening to break.

found you is a wishful phrase. it has never lost you.

you told yourself it was residual power, the lingering echo of your voice having snaked to life when you revisited cassandra’s cruelty. you told yourself it was the adrenaline. the blood on his hands, his body collapsed like a snapped bowstring after having stabbed himself, and ambessa’s men frozen in place by what you had ordered.

but that was hours ago.

now the ache is something else.

you hear her before you see her. the door opens slowly, deliberately. no knock. no hesitation. just a push and a presence. you understand her best after all. you, therefore, will best understand her intentions.

ambessa steps into the room as if it were her bedroom and never yours. she’s softened herself with her luxurious oils and long, silk robe, but the leather smell still clings to her like duty, like instinct. she’s done her hair in a row of four neat cornrows. you always liked it best that way.

her eyes sweep over you. it feels like a trial by fire.

your bare feet press against the cool floor, your toes twisting as she appreciates how the candlelight ghosts over the curves of your breasts through the nightgown and your open hands.

she closes the door behind her.

you don’t speak.

she does. “you’re not afraid of the implications of what you did.”

“no,” you answer. your voice is quiet, but still steeled. “he tried to kill me. i defended myself and my sister, albeit rather dramatically. a point had to be made. if anything, be grateful that pansa and i have not decided to contact the reverend mother superior.”

“i agree.” ambessa takes a few steps closer. “you’ve grown stronger, little one. the way you did it was so final. so fast. my advisors have been silent ever since.”

“good.” you tilt your chin up, meeting her gaze like a blade to a whetstone. “let them speak to each other, if they’re so desperate for noise.”

your brow furrows. you say something more.

“do not call me that.” the voice rocks through her imperceptibly. "i am not little.”

she halts a pace from you, the flame pulling the sharp lines of her face into something less severe, maybe even tired. “that,” she says, “is a horrible feeling.”

“it’s not meant to be pleasant,” you tell her.

she nods. “you didn’t flinch. earlier.”

you look at her. not away. at her. “would you have, if it were mel’s chalice?”

ambessa tenses at the mention of her daughter. you smile as you glance down, cold and mean.

“is that her full name?”

ambessa makes a scoffing sound somewhere in the back of her throat. your smile widens.

“she’s a good girl. weak at the moment, but good. most likely will be formidable. and your son…” the silence is thick. “kino, right? the one with the silver tongue. i take it he is the weakness you wish to iron out?”

you glance over your shoulder then and find her with her mouth pursed in barely concealed fury. family was always a bruise on the skin for her. you didn’t have the same attachments coming from your house.

“well, we’ll begin properly tomorrow. i trust pansa did nothing but lead the room in circles without me there. she is cunning. she will never plan without another sister there to reinforce her, which is smart. that’s why she was chosen, if you were wondering.”

ambessa doesn’t answer. she just looks at you. really looks.

“you’re not wearing anything beneath that,” she says at last, low, rough.

your lips curl, just barely. “you shouldn’t. it’s bad for circulation. and your cunt needs to breathe.”

that earns you the smallest flicker of her smile. the one that still cuts you with its honesty. once, her happiness was all that you could ever imagine.

“i never imagined the bene gesserit would teach such wisdom.”

“it wasn’t the bene gesserit,” you say. “it was cassandra.”

her eyes sharpen, just a little. you rarely speak of the woman in a benevolent light. but tonight, the air is already split open. you smile wryly.

“she always knew i wasn't a true contender. she pitied me. i was the one with my foot in the snake’s mouth with no knowledge of its venom.”

ambessa’s eyes flick. a blink, maybe. or a tremor. but you’ve studied her too long not to notice the way her jaw ticks, just once, at the name. cassandra kiramman was as strong a ghost as she was when she possessed vitality. that woman’s memory would always cut like wire through wet flesh. it would destroy her daughter in the end.

but ambessa does not bleed. when she speaks, it is in that too-light voice she uses when she's balancing the edge of a blade on her tongue.

“how thorough of her,” she says, her voice low and teetering on the edge of venom. “tell me. do you teach people how to touch you properly, using the voice?”

your spine straightens, your chin lifts, but you do not answer. it is so wildly inappropriate, so surgically meant to harm, you almost laugh. instead, you sit with the taste of it in your mouth.

you recognize the wound she’s trying to carve: jealousy, intended to maim. she can’t stand the idea of you being honed by anyone but her. after everything, she still thinks she can lay claim. your mouth twists. you give her nothing.

just the cold flint of your gaze. only ambessa doesn’t need your permission.

she steps forward, closing the space like she has never lost her entitlement to it.

"you think you’re free,” she murmurs, a thread of smoke in her voice. “but i made you. you came back for me. every inch of who you are, every whisper in that sharp little tongue of yours. i shaped it. i sculpted it.”

her fingers ghost down the front of your nightgown.

“you’ve never not been mine, sister. you are another repeat of the pattern. commander kiramman left, too, then limped back like a little child.” oh, you think, so the deceit has begun, then. you’ll be sure to tell pansa. “it never leaves you. i never left you.”

you inhale slowly, jaw clenched tight enough to shatter. her hand fists the fabric at your chest.

“and this,” she says, almost disappointed as she tears the delicate cloth from your body in one clean rip, “this is thin work. i expected better from a sister of your rank. given your mission. given me.”

the fabric pools like spilled milk at your feet. you don’t flinch.

you look her in the eye and say, “the real one is.”

that stops her, for just a beat. her mouth twitches. then your voice cuts through the space again, low, intimate, deliberate:

“but i know how you are.”

like a wolf who’s caught the scent of blood, her expression shifts into possession, ravenous and half-crazed with hunger. you’ve baited the beast, and you can see her deciding whether to bare her teeth or bury them in you. her hand lands on your jaw. it’s gentle, almost. but the heat beneath it burns with old fury.

she will devour you, if only to prove she still can.

you strike her hard. she falls against the side of the bed. it feels good to move her. you bend. your breasts hover, full and glossy with your perfumes.

“i came back for me. i found my voice. you are like the rest, so arrogant and all too eager to take credit for things you don’t fully understand.” your breath smells sweet as it runs haggardly across her face, like strawberries singed with blackened sugar. “twisting those girls into weapons? yes, ambessa, that was you. but what i am? that is in my blood. you fight because you cannot speak.”

ambessa’s eyes glitter. that jagged, serrated shine that threatens a lineage torn in two. she exhales through her nose, slow, calculating. then, she laughs.

a single, humorless sound.

then grabs you by the throat. just to hold. to show you her hand still fits there. you are young again.

“you say i can’t speak,” she murmurs, voice close to reverent. “but i’ve always known your dialect best. i know what makes you beg.”

your blood thrums like war drums. you let her drag you backwards until the backs of your knees meet the bed. you fall onto it, neither helpless nor defeated. you are not as young as you once were.

she climbs over you with the patience of a beast about to feast. she doesn’t kiss you, not yet. she hovers, her mouth close enough to graze, but never give.

you breathe her in, let her essence sit behind your ribs like a calcification.

“the first step of harnessing the voice,” you say, voice deliciously devoid of feeling, “is learning how to use your mouth.”

and then you roll her. she doesn’t expect it. how could she? you’re twenty-something-summers young, and she’s upward of fifty and built like a living weapon. but you take her with a grunt, your thighs pressing into hers, your fingers biting into that thick, corded shoulder. you move like you’ve been waiting years to do this.

you shift, knees dragging up along the mountainous hills of her ribs, until your cunt hovers above her mouth, eclipsing her face entirely. her eyes flare with something primal as you seat yourself over her mouth. this is not an offering. this is a usage. as far as you're concerned, this is what you’re owed.

she moans against you as she licks into the pink of you, mouth hot as tar as she sucks. she sighs like she's grateful, but you don’t look at her. you only lean backward, sweat beading along your back, one hand braced on one of her large thighs.

you rock back and forth, eyes closed and brow furrowed. her tongue is thick as it fills you, the sounds of her feasting upon your cunt obscene. you grow steadier, more precise. the tempo quickens. you’re truly riding now, tits bouncing in tandem with your impatience.

ambessa trails a hand up until she reaches your cunt, playing with the lips as she spreads it further to provide her with more acces. she lifts you easily, holding you suspended with one hand and dragging a finger from the other up and down. her mouth runs a mile a minute, a stream of filth.

“you’re so tight,” she murmurs against your thigh, the words hot against her veins. "perfect and so eager for me. so fucking eager despite your resistance, aren’t you? you need me, don't you?”

you try to answer, fury rising, but then ambessa slips a finger in and fucks into you. you lose all ability to create a sound. one of her hands moves to rise and twist into your hair, yanking a mass of it as you chase every push. you groan gutturally, the pain so familiar and so fucking good.

but, as always, you regain yourself and your strength. you push her wrist down and out, and sit to once again smother her. she allows it, squeezing your ass as you begin to curl over her.

you grind in tight circles, chasing the peak, your hips drawing runes of impatience onto her mouth.

once.

twice.

your hands shake with pleasure and power. you come with a snarl and tears on your cheeks. it’s messy and furious and decidedly not romantic, despite this being one of the things in life you had wanted most. you grind down until your thighs are soaked and her mouth is slick with you.

you lift off, breath ragged, but she laughs. the sound rings deep in her chest.

“done already? i thought i trained you to be able to withstand, to have more stamina.”

she flips you like you weigh nothing, like you are nothing. in a matter of minutes, she has you belly-down, hips high, your knees braced. a parabola of flesh and fury across the bedspread. her hands spread you open with greedy precision.

she watches both of your holes clench, one slightly loosened and the other tight and puckered. she spits, letting you feel it slide down the crack of your ass into the hot, wet, sticky cavern of your cunt. she demeans you, over and over, only to then:

crack.

the strike lands hot across your thighs. you flinch.

she does it again.

and again.

the pain flays you open from the inside. you cry into the sheets, face sticky with tears, but your spine doesn’t break. your body shakes, but you don’t beg. you refuse. and she’s rutting into you with her tongue, carving you out like she can burn her memory back into your skin. but she still hasn’t given you what you came for.

you wrench upward, spit still shining on your thighs, and when she reaches for something to fill you. fingers, weapon, something blunt—

“stop,” you say.

she stills. you speak again.

“get up.”

she rises as though she can’t help it. she cannot. her knees betray her. her body conducts itself according to your code.

you slide on a shirt, something old and scent-worn from one of your chests, and begin to walk. you are barefoot through the dark halls. bare soles kiss the cold marble of your pilgrimage. each step echoes, lonely as a bell. you are a shadow gliding down a corridor built to swallow noise.

ambessa’s breath is still hot on your skin. you don’t have to look back to see if she follows.

it is not difficult to navigate these halls, to find your way to commander kiramman’s room. you spent so many hours doing the same steps while deciding whether or not to kill her. to mutilate her just like her cunt of a mother.

the doors, when you find them, rise before you, gold and inlaid with the kiramman crest. your heart twitches with violence at the sight.

the doors creak open with a sound like a death rattle. wood gives. dust lifts.

the room is dimly lit, velvet-draped, and humid with something that smells like sweat and something softer. a traitor’s comfort. you step in, barefoot and borderline blissful at the dense presence of subconscious fear that floods your mind. even the air folds around your voice like it’s afraid. you’re trembling with the anticipation of it.

ambessa is still following, caught in your undertow and half-naked, though covered enough and glistening with your need.

the bed is absurd in its grandeur, wide enough to bury three bodies and posts like cathedral spires.

caitlyn, ambessa’s beloved right-hand-in-training, is curled into another woman’s side. their limbs are tangled like there is a grave and they are preparing to both lie in it. her throat is blotched red, pale collarbone smeared with kisses. neither breaks from the other at first, but then you purposefully shuffle over the floorboards.

caitlyn hears you first and then bucks against the fleshy prison of her lover’s arms when she sees you. the other one—short, stocky build, and a shock of pink hair—lets her go after a moment’s confusion, limbs scrambling upright as she follows suit in taking you in.

you step forward lazily, every muscle in your body drawn taut like skin stretched back over a corpse’s bleached bones, sinew humming with ancestral effort. with you comes ambessa, eyes glazed over with a horrifying detachment. your mouth opens, and what comes out is more vibration than sound. it is something warped, raw, and cruel in its precision.

“and to think your mother died for this.”

caitlyn flinches and shifts, her foot slipping off the bed and touching the floor. her mouth parts. her shoulders drop a fraction, and in that fraction is submission.

“stay on the bed.”

she gasps, small and sharp, and rocks in place. her eyes lock on your face, wide with a personal terror. she knows you will never care if she lives or dies. the pink-haired woman, violet, remains in her place. good, she’s more than just sloppy drinking and bloody fists.

caitlyn is unable to look away from you. you with your shirt too big and riding high on your hips, inner thighs slick with want, and your most personal war. those glacial eyes flicker behind you, to where she sees ambessa just behind you, sweat-beaded and dazed, her lips parted like she’s forgotten how to close them.

she swallows. she has never seen mental control up close like this. it is always so disturbing the first time.

at least it was for others.

your gaze pins her like a blade tip to the breastbone.

“do you really think i care about strengthening a bloodline that is not my own?” you ask her, voice low, guttural, awful.

neither of them answers.

you step closer.

caitlyn curls instinctively toward vi, who twitches like she might fight. her breath even hitches like she might cry out, but for whom? you? but it’s already clear: you are the most dangerous thing in the room. even with no earthly weapon. even with your thighs still trembling from the last time ambessa buried her mouth in you. still, you warn her,

“don’t be stupid, violet. the wealth she inherits does nothing to obscure her perception of your inferiority. the indoctrination takes years to bleed out. ideally, you would like to live long enough to see if i’m telling you the truth.”

the only sound is the drip of something unseen. candle wax, or blood. your voice has stilled the room. your voice has ruled in silence before the verdict. you take one step forward, and caitlyn tries to recoil. her stupidity bites at you. her hand clenches the sheets like she might find safety in fabric.

that makes you laugh.

it is as you said in the strategy room. you are never a neutral creature. there will always be a side you lean towards. tonight, you are evil. there is no grey. there is just the black against the “white.”

ambessa hasn’t spoken since you ordered her up. her silence is leaden. the command has worn off. you made your utterance weak on purpose. she stands right behind you now. her chest is rigid, and her throat bulges with the constant swallow of her rage. she is silent, imperial with wide eyes and the shine of your wetness still glistening on her lips like sacrament.

she should look terrifying. she does. but she also looks small.

they all do.

you speak then, softly.

“i hope she was worth it, ambessa. your toy soldier. your little court pet. you gave her what was mine, and you did it knowingly. my title. my power. my place at your side.” it is so still that one could hear the fall of dust in a corner. “pattern this and pattern that. you thought i would never come back. you understood i was warped. a deviant.”

you tilt your head, as if curious. as if this is academic.

“and this is what you built your empire on? a woman who cowers at the sound of me?”

you laugh. all this joy is intoxicating.

vi places herself between you and caitlyn, squared like a wall of flesh and instinct. that almost makes you smile again.

like putting an ox before a landslide.

you lay down your law.

“three lives. one decision.”

you step back, a slow pivot on your heel until you're one end of a triangle, the other ends crowned by the lives arrayed before you. the geometry seals shut: you are the point of origin, they are your consequence.

“one death. or three.”

you don’t need to say any names. everyone understands their place.

you look to ambessa. from your sleeve, you draw what you hid before leaving your rooms: a hand-held sickle, curved like a stolen smile. you place it in the center, between you all.

her mouth parts. yours opens.

your face changes. it contorts: godlike and grotesque. a twisting mask of recollection made monstrous. this is your grief made primal. grief too wild, too large for the bone.

no one has ever understood just how angry you are.

your cheeks flush hot, then frost. your eyes glisten, salt-hot with unshed joy. you sway under the weight of what’s to come.

they see it. they see the end.

you will not leave empty-handed. you are hideous with your hunger for vindication.

caitlyn begins to cry, body jerking awkwardly under the command, you spit upon her. she is right to weep. ambessa, the empress who has had your thighs over her shoulder like spoils, who’s felt your voice pour into her spine like acid, does nothing. that is the medarda way

loyalty is expected. never returned.

besides, she couldn’t have saved anyone if she tried.

your voice doesn’t rise, but it erupts. it shatters the bedposts. curls the fireplace flame. peels the paint. your body bears it all: sore and aching. raw, desecrated, and divine. your lungs expand with relief as you let it go.

it is final.

it is lacerating.

it tunnels into ambessa’s mind, snaps her bones, and robs them of marrow.

it drags itself out of you, twisting the skin at your jaw. your veins stand high. your eyes rattle in their sockets as it scrapes through every last one of you.

“choose.”

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elliesbebegurl · 1 month ago

Text

vi x fem!reader ☆ 2.5k words

the two of you decide to make an amateur porn account. 18+ only: fingering, oral, use of strap-ons, switch!vi, reader wears lingerie.

☆ READ ON AO3

I. INITIATION

The video begins with Vi's face—her pinched brow, teeth trapping her lower lip, the bare, freckled skin of her shoulders. The screen shakes as she positions the camera, cussing under her breath when her phone falls on its back with a thud.

After a few moments of struggle, the video stabilizes. “Like that?” she asks, looking over to where you sit just out of frame.

“Yeah.” A hand curls around her bicep, the bust of your frilly lingerie visible in the background. “That should be good, I think.”

She scoots back on her knees to reveal the sheets of your shared bed, then the leather harness hooked over her underwear-clad hips, then the deep purple strap hanging heavy between her legs. Just behind her, head on the pillow, there you lay. Eyes warm as they gaze at her back, shadowed by your lashes.

You're in love. Looking at the screen, at the dopey expression on your face as you follow her moving form, it's an emotion quantifiable through space-time. So painfully obvious that present-Vi teasingly coos at you between wet kisses to your cheek.

Back on screen, she kneels between your spread legs, both your silhouettes bathed in soft blue light from the strips overhead. She drags the tip of the strap over your cunt and, so soft you can barely hear it, says, “Fuck. So wet for me.”

She had eaten you out for the better part of thirty minutes before switching the camera on–a choice marked by impulsivity, catalyzed by, in her words, ‘how pretty you look right now’.

Making a video was your idea in the first place, and because Vi is Vi, she jumped on board immediately. Her only stipulation? You watch it together afterward. So here you are, cuddled up in bed with your laptop open at your feet, the video playing fullscreen and the volume almost maxed out.

“Please, baby. Need it so bad,” you whine, reaching for the plush flesh of her thighs.

“Yeah?” She smacks the silicone against your pussy with a set of wet plaps, exhales a laugh when you begin to whimper and complain.

Finally, she feeds the entire length into you in one smooth stroke. You gasp when she bottoms out, reaching out your arms to pull her in close. She covers your body with her own and kisses you, tits squished against yours, hips rocking soft and rhythmic.

You blink back to the present when plush lips press against your neck. The dip of the mattress as Vi rolls onto her side to face you, to trail wet kisses along your thrumming pulse. Your attention switches back and forth between her and the video—the creaking bed, the dulcet moans, the sight of her glistening strap fucking in and out of your cunt.

“This is so hot,” you say, voice breathy, throaty in the way it always gets when you're wet between the legs.

There's something so titillating about being a voyeur to your own sex life. Having the outsider’s point of view to your moans and facial expressions and the way your bodies work together. To put it simply: yeah, it's fucking hot.

Against the skin of your throat, Vi hums in agreement, hand splayed over your lower belly. “We should post it somewhere.”

Her fingers slip beneath the hem of your underwear, a calloused fingertip ghosting over your clit—effectively scrambling the white matter of your brain.

“You think so?” you breathe, hooking a leg over her thigh to open yourself up. Hips twitching and needy.

“Yeah. Everybody needs to see how pretty my girl is,” the wet schlick of fingers sliding into your pussy, “but you'll always be my girl, huh?”

You whine against her mouth, a hand curling around the nape of her neck. “Always, baby.”

On the screen of your laptop, she parrots her own words, fucking you hard and deep, hands gripping the headboard for leverage (her athleticism never fails to amaze you).

My pretty girl, my needy pussy, mine mine mine.

II. www.myhouse.com/users/dreamgurls1

You find a website for amateur porn. Real couples��of all genders and sexualities and shades—having real sex. It's only a few years old, and as such, the user base is smaller than other sites. Perfect for what you and Vi are interested in: just a place to share your videos with a like-minded audience, without the potential popularity.

It all goes back to your moment of realization. Enjoying the idea of being watched. The appeal of voyeurism as a whole. You fuck your beautiful girlfriend on camera and the people watching wish they could take your place (or take hers). Maybe it's an ego thing, a love of attention that Vi already gives you in wonderful excess. But this is different. Sharing your girl to the world then claiming her as yours in the same instance.

You both talk about making an account for a while. How it could change your relationship, the pros and cons, protocol for any number of predicaments. You decide on rules during filming, and after two weeks of waiting for a driver's license verification, the login page greets you.

Hello, dreamgurls1!

Vi hates the name, but you think it's cute. Catchy.

“It sums us up really well, I think. Ya know, meeting the girls of your dreams.”

Next to you in bed, Vi winces. “It's so… boring.”

“Okay, well, I'm not exactly the creative type.”

She curls into your side, shoving her face quite dramatically between your tits. With her mouth muffled against your shirt, she says, “Don't worry. I still love you.”

And so it begins.

III. SUBMISSION

Vi's been in a mood lately. A very submissive one.

It started a few days ago, when you woke up that morning to her curled up against your back, thick arm trapping you in place. Needy even in sleep. Then throughout the day, clinging to you every chance she got—cuddling you on the couch, molding to your back at the kitchen sink, kissing you in the shower more than actually getting clean.

She gets like this sometimes. Needs reassurance but would rather die than ask for it. Fortunately for Vi, you know exactly how to scratch that itch.

You have a secondhand camera and tri-pod now; multi-colored lights of blue and pink and green and purple that transform your bedroom into an indie arthouse film set; new sheets of fake silk that shine like the real thing.

Sure, the revamp of your bedroom enhances production value, but it's also a nice space to relax in. Cuddling in bed has never looked so aesthetically pleasing.

“Here's what I'm thinking.” You stand before Vi's seated form, both of you already naked. “Face down, ass up. I eat you out a little, make you cum a few times, then I pull out the strap.”

Her brows raise clear to her hairline, hair mussing up from the force of her nodding.

“Alright, then,” you smack her on the thigh, and she gives a teasing ooh in response. “Ass up.”

She turns around, knees perching on the edge of the bed, face buried in the sheets. You step around behind the trip-pod to adjust the camera, zooming in to focus the shot on Vi's pretty pussy and the tempting hole just above it. She shaved for this—fully bare below the cute tuft of pink hair on her mound. Complained the entire time, mourned over the loss of her bush.

(To be fair, you miss it, too, but you reassured her that one positive of lacking hair is a rise in sensation.)

Vi looks prettiest in pink and blue lighting. The very same you use tonight, a half-and-half glow that bathes the expanse of her back and thick curve of her ass. You stop and stare at her for a long moment, trapped in a moment of disbelief at how perfect she is—and she's all yours.

Once satisfied with the shot, you flip the screen around then press record. Lower onto your knees behind her, palms soothing a trail up the back of her muscular thighs.

“So pretty, baby,” you say, pressing a wet kiss to the swell of her ass.

A thumb parts her labia, circling over the entrance to her cunt, and your lips twitch into a grin when she mewls against the sheets, hips rolling, needy for your touch. Skin soft underhand, scent woodsy from her bodywash. Not nearly wet enough for the stretch of your fingers—yet.

You spread her open, thumbs on either side of her pussy, and lick a long line from clit to hole. Saltmusk coats your tongue, the world between her thighs borne straight from sea and loam. Her hips twitch back then forward, both chasing and escaping the stimulation. You moan against her flesh, lips sealing around her clit.

The bed dips and creaks as she adjusts her weight, and a palm cups the back of your head, trapping you in place. You suck soft and rhythmic at her clit, the tip of your nose wet against her cunt as it begins to drool. A smack to her ass leaves her whimpering, always so sensitive when she's horny. Your needy little Vi, such a solid foundation to those around her, a stone wall of strength that you destroy with a simple thrust of your fingers and lick of your tongue.

Beneath the lights, her pussy shines. Pretty enough to paint. You lean back to show her off, glancing at the screen as the recording ticks by and, fuck, you still can't believe she's yours.

“Oh, look at you,” you coo, fingers circling over her clit, the other hand massaging the back of her thigh. “Already so wet for me.”

Somewhere on the bed, your ears prickle at her muffled groan of agreement. She behaves best when you tease, gets all mushy and sweet on the inside. Her tolerance for understimulation is surprisingly high, but she's blatant about reaching her limit.

A few minutes later, with your tongue still on her pussy, inevitability strikes. She begins to plead, voice a broken, breathy sob. Pathetic as you’ve ever heard it.

You kiss the cheek of her ass, rising to your feet, and she looks over her shoulder with a furrowed brow and pouting lips. A step to your left lands you next to the camera, and you press the button to stop the recording.

“Strap time,” you say, and her body physically deflates in relief. “I’ll be right back, okay?”

She nods her head, and you leave for the bathroom. Beside the sink sits a harness and a dildo of average size, the latter colored a vibrant shade of blue—your toy of choice for tonight. You fasten all the buckles then slot the strap into the ring, and after tightening a few clasps, you’re ready.

Vi groans like she’s been punched in the gut when you exit from the bathroom, and you take a detour to fetch the lube from the bedside nightstand. When you turn around, she's sat on her haunches at the edge, and pulls you in for a lingering kiss. A hand on the back of your neck, fingers plucking your nipple.

“Let's do this,” she whispers, eyelids heavy, the blue of her irises almost swallowed by an expanse of black. The skin of her brow and nose is sweatslick, hair an unruly mess of a halo around her head.

Fucked-out.

You return to the camera, instructing her on where to position her body—scoot left a little, turn to the right—until she's perfectly in frame yet again. A bit more zoomed out than before, just enough for you to fit.

The cold douse of the lube leaves her sighing, pussy so wet that you don’t even need it, but your brain short-circuits at the shine. And when you slide into her for the first time, you swear you can feel the tight, wet heat.

Vi loves the stretch, the little bite of pain as you bottom-out, hips pressed flush against her pretty ass. Everything about her is pretty, down to the perfectly-placed freckle next to her curving spine.

It's a gorgeous sight all around: the stretch of her hole around your fake cock, the hug of her puffy labia, the slick shine on the silicone. The wet noise of her pussy fills the room each time you pull out, and she snaps her ass back on each thrust, smacking your hips against her skin.

“Touch yourself,” you breathe, a hand palming the cheek of her ass to spread her open for the camera. Already, your thighs ache, severely lacking the stamina that Vi possesses. “Wanna see you cum, baby.”

She spreads her knees for balance on the mattress, and you watch through the screen as her fingers appear between her legs, curling over her clit.

From that moment on, you disregard the camera. Tunnel-visioned into making her cum. Fingers tight around her hips, each thrust jolting her atop the bed.

When her legs begin to twitch, when she falls silent aside from a rogue gasp, you know she's close.

And then it happens. Every muscle in her body tenses up, cunt milking your cock stuffed to the hilt inside her. You talk her through it—

Good girl.

So pretty.

There you go, baby.

Until her legs finally give out and she collapses onto the bed, panting into the sheets.

“You okay?” you ask, leaning over her body to trail kisses down the welts of her spine.

In response, she laughs. Giggles, more like. Rolls onto her back then drags you on top of her. “That was fucking amazing.”

As you lean down to kiss her, grin stretching your lips, you completely forget about the camera at the end of the bed, and the video still recording footage.

Nothing else but Vi, with her crystalline eyes and relaxed smile.

You can edit the fucking thing later.

IV. STARDOM

Your first video for dreamgirls1 is a resounding success. A week goes by before it really gains traction, and you wonder if someone posted the link on reddit before the influx of viewers. Comments praise your authenticity as a couple and production value, but most just find the sex extremely hot to watch.

You take turns reading the comments before bed, sharing a bag of chips and amused giggles beneath the sheets.

“Okay, this comment says, ‘mmm’, with six m's by the way, ‘would love for you to fuck me like that’.”

Vi tilts her head to glimpse at the screen, speaking around a mouthful of half-chewed chips, “What's the profile picture?”

You click on the profile of hammerman1407 and are greeted by—

“A dick.”

She nods. “I don’t know what else I expected.”

The two of you have watched your own video countless times. A game formed early on, where you compete against the other to see how long you can keep from touching yourselves. But with only two videos under your belt, the game grows stagnant quickly. Which is why—

“So, we're gonna keep filming videos, right?” you ask, discarding your phone somewhere in the sheets to cuddle up her side.

She snorts, the chip bag crinkling as she gathers another handful. “Do you really need to ask that?”

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