#IF IT CAN TAKE DOWN TRUSS

[yeyinde]

extremely dubious consent. power/class imbalance. implied breeding. manipulation.

but regency era John Price paying off your chaperone to get you alone in a carriage for few hours and the whole time, your guardians think you're being properly supervised during this unorthodox courtship.

And sure, he's so much older than you, a widower with specks of grey along his temples and peppered in his beard, and more established in class and life compared to you, the poor thing that only just entered society and already got snatched up by the surly, gruff Duke. But it's John Price. Despite his temperament, he's such a respectable man, isn't he? They can trust him to protect you, of course.

And he does.

Your virtue, however? Not so much.

He does away with that little problem on the second outing he takes you on, smothering the protests that draw up, shaky and uncertain on your lips when the chaperone your guardians paid to watch over you walks away, swallowing it down with a searing kiss. Shushes you through it as he slips his thick fingers over the seam of you, arm buried beneath a dense layer of fabric, snuffing out those little gasps.

Don't worry about it, he rasps into the burning apple of your cheek. "s'how it's supposed to be, mm?" and when that doesn't quell the quiver in your brow, he adds:

"s'what I want, love. Jus' a little taste, mm?"

And the problem with gently reared girls is that they turn into such obliging women. Your eyes flicker downward—soft in your acquiescence even though your shoulders draw up cutely towards your ears. Pretty little thing. He couldn't possibly resist.

So he doesn't.

Taking such a lovely creature on the dirty floor of the carriage with your prim, proper skirts trussed up over your hips, shift in utter disarray from the scorching attention he lavished your breasts earlier is nothing short of euphoric. Aided by the adorable little whines you make when he finally notches his cock against your soft flesh. Worry flashing over your brow because he's just too big, too thick, for you to take, and maybe we shouldn't, Mr Price—

But you swallow him just as sweetly as he imagined you would when he pushes inside of you. Pussy fluttering around him in a panic at the blunt, thick intrusion, unused to such brutal treatment. And it's heaven, of course. Nirvana between the split of your pretty thighs. Pussy just made to take his cock. Loving it so tenderly like this

"Taking me so well, aren't you?"

Tears on your lashline. Nose scrunched up. He's sure it's a trial for you, but this is just a prelude. Ripping the bandaid off.

A necessary evil.

And if the altruistic facade falters under the blunt weight of his desire, his greed, then at least he has a failsafe to keep you in his pocket should your guardians decide he—in his age, his callousness—is not a good fit for their daughter. They are the doting type, after all. Romantics. Idealists.

(If they can't come to reason and see why he's a good match, then the swell of your belly in a few months time will surely sway them—)

The thought breaks across his spine, molten heat puddling in his loins. Fuck—

Despite the viciousness of thrusts at the idea, you take his desire so goddamn well.

It doesn't take him much at all to reach the apex of his pleasure, not when your hands press tight to chest as he bears his weight down, grinding his throbbing cock into the deepest part of you. Your moans, delicious little keens ringing so sweetly in his ears. Letting him ride you hard against the dirty floor, chasing his pleasure even as your knees dig into his sides, brows pinced but nodding along when he rasps in your ear about how good you feel and how it'll only get better, and next time—since you're bein' so bloody sweet f'im—he'll show you how to suck his cock between those damnably soft lips, keep his fingers buried inside of you while you fold yourself over the bench on your knees, mouth swallowing him down deep—

It sends him over the edge with a grunt. A belly deep groan. And just in time, too.

After he puts your clothes in order and slides you back into the seat, groaning when you squeeze your thighs tight together, keeping his cum from spilling out, your chaperone arrives with a nervous smile and a glint of guilt that's easily diminished with another slip of cash between palms. You stare, dazed and flushed, out the window, and barely even flinch when he lays his hand on your thigh, hold possessive. Proprietary.

"Time to go home, mm?"

And if he brings you back to your guardians flustered, limping, and a little dazed—well. The roads were just terrible, weren't they, sweetheart? Quite the rough ride, mm? He's sure next time will be better.

[yanderedrabbles]

Thinking about getting into an accident - nothing too bad, just a little fender bender. But you've had a long day, and you give the guy a lot more attitude than you should.

Snapping that this wouldn't have happened if he didn't brake check you. Asking if he can even afford insurance or if you're supposed to pay for this shit out of pocket. Snarling that your daddy is going to sue the living daylights out of him.

Thinking about the yandere mechanic just off his shift who's too fucking tired to deal with your bullshit. Prissy fucking thing, ain'tcha? Thinking you're so much better than him. Sneering at his truck and his clothes like honest work is the filthiest thing you've ever seen.

Yandere mechanic who's been on the end of his rope for a while now. Pay is shit, boss is shit, can't hold onto a girl for the life of him. All he wants is to go home and have a cold beer. But no. Some little bitch is yelling at him.

Yandere mechanic who's spent his entire life on the the wrong side of the tracks. Kind of guy who's had more than a few run ins with the cops. Who's probably served a year or two in corrections, and who's barely holding onto his parole.

Yandere mechanic who finds himself reaching for the tire iron peeking out of his toolbox without even realising it. God, girls like you are the fucking worst. Prancing around in your short skirts and high heels and turning your nose up at anything that bothers you. Daddy's money bitch that needs to be taught a lesson. Needs to brought down a few pegs. Needs to be fucking humbled.

Yandere mechanic who swings the tire iron right at your temple, and never mind that his mama told him to never hit a woman.

You fold like a fucking marionette, passed out as his feet in less than five seconds. Still breathing, not convulsing. Good. Didn't hit you too hard.

Yandere mechanic who shoves his tools off the backseat and tosses you into his truck. Not so fucking mouthy now, are you? Who rips a pack of zip ties open with his teeth and ties you up with the same casual efficiency he uses to change a tire.

Your skirt rides up a little when he hauls you onto his backseat, and he runs his palm down your thigh before he slams the door. God, you've got such nice skin. Bet you taste like sugar and vanilla.

Yandere mechanic who takes you home and then comes back to dump your Audi way out in the sticks. Anything coulda happened to you. And if he's smart about it, no one will ever catch on that he was involved in your sudden and tragic disappearance.

I'm especially thinking about what it must be like to wake up after he knocks you out.

Your head pounding, your eyes aching. Confused. Disoriented. Not sure where you are or why you can't move your hands.

Thinking about noticing him for the first time, sitting in an armchair a little ways from the bed, legs spread and a beer dripping condensation at his feet. The room dark, the only light coming from the moon and his cigarette.

A real blue collar bastard, still in his wife beater and work pants, stained black with grease.

Just watching you.

The tip of his cigarette glowing with each pull and giving you a second or two to see his face - the mean smirk, the too jaded eyes.

"Not so fucking mouthy now, are you?"

You scream.

No use. It's muffled by the gag. Some random scrap of cloth that tastes of motor oil and digs into your cheeks. You try and sit up, but he's got you trussed up good and proper.

He watches you try and get loose, watches you thrash and scream and cry. Until your hair is all over your face and clinging to the tears on your cheeks.

Thinking about the way he grinds out his cigarette. Thinking about that last bit of light going out and the way it's like a kick to the face.

Thinking of the way he finally stands, and you realise just how big he is compared to you. Not pretty boy gym rat muscles either. But the hard shit you build hauling machinery and parts all day.

Thinking of the way he walks towards you, boots so damn heavy on the floorboards. Already reaching for his belt buckle.

"Gonna take real good care of sweetheart. Just gotta fuck all that attitude out first."

[lokisgoodgirl]

Like a Queen [Loki x Reader]

A Link to my Masterlist is HERE Summary: Just a dirty, praise-filled railing. Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI. Smut. Loki x Female Reader. Mirrors. Language. Established relationship. Smut. (w/c 1.2k)

"Urgh, gods..." Loki slurs as his head falls back.

A year. It's been a year. But every time you see that face lost in the pleasure only you can give it's like the first time. In the mirror at the foot of the bed, the hard angles of Loki's jawline set like an anvil. He tips his chin to the ceiling and sinks so deep, so slow, it's like he never wants it to end.

Your best lingerie clings to damp skin, the modest slit in your crotchless panties tugging against Loki's thick cock. Slow, liquid thrusts slip against your walls and slurp when he circles his hips; hands guiding your ass against him. He teases himself at the entrance while you moan his name before easing back in with a groan.

"What did I do..." he breathes as his sex-drunk face falls forward and he meets your eyes in the mirror. "What did I do to deserve this sweet, perfect cunt?"

You clench your fingers against the bedsheets, swaying on all-fours. Loki slips his cock from your pussy and slides it against your throbbing clit, still swollen and humming from the worship of his mouth.

He watches with dark fascination as you start to squirm at the halt of his movements, knuckles whitening. “Well?” he asks again with playful menace.

"I'm just made for you I guess," you sigh as his large palm skates down the ridges of your spine, settling at the base. There’s no getting any sense out of you at times like this; he should know that by now. And he does.

"You are,” he growls approvingly, rubbing the curve of your ass. “Made to take me like a Queen. Made to take my cock like a Queen; made to fuck me like a Queen.” Queen.

The word sends a thrill down your spine that blossoms new fire in your pussy and you clench tighter around the tip of his cock. Loki pushes back in just when you’re tightest. “Norns,” he gasps, half-lidded eyes smouldering down from his station.

There’s something about when he fucks you from behind that’s utterly primal. Like he’s mating you. Like you’re a bitch in heat and he’s powerless to resist the scent he craves; the urge beating through him like the drums of war.

He’s not a god in moments like this. He’s just a man that wants to shake you up and fuck you out and love you harder with every filthy, curse-laden groan from his throat. “Talk to me,” you plead as you sit back against him, inhaling the fresh sweat clinging to his hair, his cock never leaving the grip of your cunt. Where he belongs. Your fingers skate up his cheek. His heartbeat thumps between your shoulder-blades, the flat planes of his chest and stomach pressed tight to your back. Your thighs spread as he readjusts on the mattress, guiding you down to the root of him with a rumble of pleasure. Loki moves hair from one side of your neck, placing a messy kiss on the curve and pulling the flimsy strap of your lingerie between his teeth. It stings your heated skin with a tight thwack.

“You love when I talk,” he goads low and filthy in your ear. “You love when I talk, and you love when I fuck.” “Only me,” you whine. Loki chuckles darkly. “Only you, my Queen.” His thrusts make your body rise and you lose yourself in the fullness of your walls fluttering to the rhythmic lilt of his hips. Loki’s hands massage your breasts, palming upwards, pinching your pebbled nipples as he does it. “No one,” he groans as you reach between your legs and graze his balls, “no one has ever carnally eviscerated me like you can.” They tighten beneath your gentle touch, drawing lazily against the velvet skin.

“When I fuck you… all realms cease to be,' he chokes, 'Only b-burning worlds and…f-fuck, erupting galaxies when I…”

He jolts against your ass, a hiss searing between his teeth. “When I see you trussed up for me like a gift,” he pants, tugging at the flimsy lace cupping your breasts, “when I feel your pussy grip me like wax on a finger.” A wet groan erupts from your mouth into his and Loki’s fingers move to your clit, rubbing slow, wet circles just the way you like it. His kiss is hungry and dark and dangerously loving. He still tastes like your cum. “The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he mutters as climax tightens in your belly, tensing your thighs, “is your face when you come undone for me.” You whimper, the hand wrapped around his neck clutching at long waves of his sex-damp hair. “Yes, my beautiful queen,” he praises, unable to keep the tremble of impending orgasm from his voice as his thrusts become heavy. “Take me, use me; use my cock like no other in the nine realms can. Give me what I need.” “Not yet,” you beg and he smiles against your cheek. The mirror shows what the two of you are: sweaty and unbearably perfect together. He’s huge behind you; a colossus of muscle and lean lines and luminous skin. His dark hair hangs against your shoulders, his exquisite profile nuzzling into your neck. The god of mischief works one expert hand between your legs, the other grasping against your chest like you might vanish as his powerful thighs pump slowly beneath you. Obsessed. He’s obsessed. Another threat of orgasm rises in your centre. Loki groans loudly and his shoulders tense as you clench, feeling the thick vein running down his length throb. “I think you may take me a little too well,” he chokes as your grip on his hair tightens.

A series of feral grunts burst from Loki’s throat at the smallest increase of speed against his cock. He's ready to burst. Wetness coats the inside of your thighs, his knuckles, his mouth, your fingers. You cover the hand working against your clit, feeling his fingers while they lightly strum you over the edge. He knows your body like it's his own. “Loki,” you moan like a whore, head falling back to his shoulder.   “I’m yours,” he whispers, breath catching. The hand cupping your chest flies to your stomach and he pulls you closer with a stuttering gasp. The flat of his abdomen curls to your back: sweat sticking, curses thundering, stars bursting in front of your eyes. He erupts with a long, guttural groan that shakes the bed. The swell of his cum is immediate; squeezing against the tight throb of his mighty cock and the final, fluttering spasms of your cunt. You see it glistening in the mirror, dripping down the thick root still buried inside you and pearling at the curve of his balls. Loki’s mouth fastens to your cheek like he’s trying to eat you - and maybe he is. His pants are hot against the skin as he slides down your face, top lip dragging before his forehead comes to rest. “What did I do to deserve…?” he pants quietly as he feathers weak kisses along the angle of your jaw. You silence the impending question with a kiss, pulling him closer. “I’m your Queen,” you say with utterly feigned humility. Loki bites his lip, glancing to the mirror. His eyes drop to the sight of him still sheathed deep in your pussy, a thick spindle of cum dangling to the mattress. “You are,” he whispers lovingly in your ear, eyes nailed to yours in the reflection. "Always."

♥️x

[winterscaptain]

focus. (18+)

Aaron Hotchner x Fem!Reader a joyful future fic

a/n: this is texting-as-foreplay, lets be real also, derek and emily being nosy is canon behavior. follow up tomorrow!!

beta'd by @ssaic-jareau who basically should be credited as a co-writer at this point.

words: 6.9k content advisories: language, sexual content, oral (m&f receiving), sexually explicit language, if ur grossed out by bjs (like haley lmao) go ahead and skip a lil bit of this, sexting

minors dni and i'm not kidding!!!

summary: “texting is a supremely secretive medium of communication - it's like passing a note - and this means we should be very careful what we use it for.” --lynne truss. november 14th, 2011.

Your finger traces your lip as you stare through your computer monitor, completely lost in the rather distracting and intrusive memory of about 10 hours ago. You haven’t moved, scrolled, or typed anything in eight minutes. 

“That’s it, baby, let go. Let me see.” Aaron’s hand slides up your chest in the valley of your sternum and stops at the hollow of your throat. “You’re so pretty like this, so—“

Your phone buzzes. You jump and grab it. 

Messages Alpha Bravo Hotel (1)

8:04am Hey. Focus.

You swallow, taking a breath and shaking yourself out of it. You can almost feel him watching you from his office. 

8:04am I was focused.

8:04am Not on your work.

8:05am Focus is focus. 8:05am And what, did you want me to start writing a report about last night?

8:06am Depends. Are you citing sources? Quoting directly from the text? 

Your lips press together, fighting a laugh as you reply, your thumbs flying. 

8:07am You have a performance review coming up. There are team evals in there, you know. 8:07am You should be nicer to me.

8:08am Sweetheart, I know you don’t have any complaints about my performance. 

Your stomach flips. Your pulse kicks up—so violently that you have to set your phone down and turn away from his window. 

And that is exactly when Derek walks up, arms crossed, his eyes far too critical for this early in the morning. You can almost hear Aaron’s stupid little chuckle from your desk.

He’s probably so pleased with himself right now. 

“Alright,” he says, tilting his head. “What’s going on?”

You school your face into something neutral. “What?”

“That.” He gestures to you, his eyes narrowing. “That little smug thing you’re doing.”

“I am not—”

Your phone buzzes on your desk.

Derek’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh, no way. You’re texting someone. Someone who’s putting that look on your face.”

You pointedly pick up your pen instead. “No. I’m working.”

Upstairs, Aaron leans back in his chair, watching this unfold with entirely too much amusement.

Your phone buzzes again. You pick it up, ignoring and combatting Derek’s attempts to read it. 

8:10am We really need to work on your poker face. 

8:11am “Working.”

Your jaw tightens. You’ll just keep it in your hand. 

Derek, watching way too closely, tips his head. “You sure about that?”

Another buzz.

8:11am You owe me an email, you know. We’re both in that thread with CARD. 

You exhale through your nose.

Derek leans in. “Who is it?”

Your phone buzzes again.

8:12am Whatever you do, don’t glare at my office.

Your eyes flicker toward the window—before you can catch yourself.

8:12am Good catch! 8:12am You’re terrible at this. 8:12am :)

Before you can shut Derek down, Emily strolls in with her coffee. “What’s going on?”

Derek betrays you instantly.

“Oh, nothing, just that someone is texting us, making us smile like an idiot during business hours.” 

The royal “we” is absurd. 

Emily’s entire body perks up. “Oh my God, who?!”

You groan, pressing your fingers to your temples. “You are both insufferable.”

Derek smirks. “And you have a man.”

Emily gasps, delighted. “Is this the same man?”

Your phone buzzes.

You do not look at it.

Emily zeroes in. “You didn’t even check that. That means something. Who is it?”

Derek leans against your desk. “Wouldn’t say.”

Emily presses her hands together. “Who do we know?”

Your grip tightens around your pen.

Another buzz. 

8:14am I’ll rescue you if you want. 8:14am But you’ll have to ask nicely. 

You let out a slow breath. Jesus, Aaron. 

Emily gasps, pointing at you. “Ohhh, it’s someone we know.”

Fuckin’ profilers. 

Derek nods, arms crossing. “See? I knew it. It’s gotta be someone in the Bureau.”

Emily tilts her head. “Or adjacent. Task force? Military? Hill staffer?”

Derek rubs his chin. “Nah. She’s the one smiling. He’s gotta have the upper hand.”

Emily squints. “It’s an instructor.”

Derek snaps his fingers. “It’s totally an instructor.” He turns to you. “You have a teacher thing, right?” 

You take a deep, steady breath. “I do not have a ‘teacher thing.’”

Bzzt

8:15am News to me. 

If he makes me laugh right now, I swear… 

Emily gasps again, her brain working overtime. “It’s an agent in another unit.”

Derek nods immediately. “That checks out. You like the brainy ones.”

Emily’s eyes widen. “Oh my God, it’s SWAT.”

Derek tilts his head. “You do have a type. Tactically competent control freaks, mostly.”

Your eye twitches. “Can you just? Go back to your office and work on something?”

Derek grins. “Are you working?”

“We’re just asking questions.” Emily sips her coffee, looking way too proud of herself. 

You take a deep breath, willing yourself to stay calm. “I hate both of you.”

Derek pats your shoulder. “That’s love, baby.”

He and Emily do, in fact, make their way out of the bullpen, looking over their shoulders every couple of steps. 

Your phone buzzes. 

8:18am Enjoying yourself?

You reply. 

8:18am Fuck. Off. 

 The reply is near instantaneous. 

8:19am Make me. 

You walked into that one. And you nearly, nearly start typing before you catch yourself. You drop your phone face down and lean back with a sigh that is, unfortunately, also a smile.

Bzzt 

You turn to your computer and take a breath, replying to that thread Aaron mentioned, just for the bit. 

Bzzt

It’s hard to keep a straight face, but you figure now is as good a time as any to practice your impression of Aaron. You make a point of responding with alarming efficiency to emails he and Derek are CC’d on, totally neutral. 

Bzzt 

...

Bzzt

Some case notes. Very clean, very crisp. 

Bzzt

You glance at your phone, face down on the desk. 

He really wants my attention…interesting. 

Your email chimes. 

FROM: Morgan, Derek F SSA <derek.f.morgan@fbi.justice.gov> SUBJECT: I stand corrected So you actually are working?? — SSA Derek Morgan, JD, MS

You roll your eyes and reply. 

Bzzt 

You ignore it, your fingers flying. 

TO: Morgan, Derek F SSA <derek.f.morgan@fbi.justice.gov> BCC: Hotchner, Aaron B SSA <aaron.b.hotchner@fbi.justice.gov> SUBJECT: I stand corrected I’m always working!! Xx :)

You answer another—this one actually from Aaron, with a deliverable, no less. You flick the finished attachment into the email and send it, sitting back in your chair, finally picking up your phone. 

Messages Alpha Bravo Hotel (7)

Seven?!

You turn in your chair to look and find him minding his own damn business (for once), his right elbow resting on the desk, his jaw resting in his hand, his left hand on his mouse. 

With a short little interested hum, you unlock your phone. 

8:20am That face you’re making isn’t very professional. Do you need a break?

8:21am I looked over your notes from the CARD briefing. You missed a line in your summary.

You absolutely did not. 

8:23am Probably distracted. Long night.

8:27am Be honest. Are you working, or are you writing a very detailed mental recap?

8:34am  If you’re sore, you can blame me. But I don’t think you’re complaining.

Alright. Amping things up. You take an even breath through your nose and resist the urge to shift in your seat. 

The effect he has on you really isn’t fair. 

It’s never been fair, but now he knows. 

The next set? Back to back. 

8:41am You looked so sweet last night, your pussy holding onto me so tight. I almost felt bad making you cry. 8:41am If I sat you on my desk right now and spread your thighs, how wet would I find you?

And then—a laugh.

Sharp. Stunned. Shocked. Uncontained.

You slap a hand over your mouth and spin slightly in your chair, eyes wide—no one in earshot. No witnesses.

Thank God.

You exhale hard through your nose, heart pounding like he touched you, like he whispered that filth against your skin instead of wrote it, in front of God and everybody, on your phone.

You dare to glance up.

Aaron’s at his desk. Stoic. Unreadable. The very picture of professionalism.

Same posture: Left hand on his mouse. Right hand curled under his chin. Not even glancing your way.

Unmoved. Untouched.

Like he didn’t just send you… that.

You recover, returning to your work, and decide to ignore him. 

+++

You answer emails. 

Update a case file with some unsurprisingly salient notes from your conversation with the case officer yesterday. 

Finish the interdepartmental CARD summary with irritating precision.

You sip your coffee. Adjust a typo.

You don’t look up.

Behind the glass, Aaron’s dying. Phone balanced on his knee. Seven messages and no reply.

Not a glance. Not a twitch. Not even a ghost of a smirk. A glassy lake, placid and serene. 

You’re pretending he doesn’t exist.

And he’s pretending not to notice.

+++

You scroll through the messages again.

Each one, slowly.

Letting them settle. Letting them simmer.

Your jaw tightens. Your mouth twitches.

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling.

It doesn’t work.

Your thumbs move fast.

8:56am Awfully big… ego you have up there, Agent Hotchner.

Send. 

Delivered.

And then?

You set your phone down. Face-down. Spin back to your monitor. And get to work.

Like you didn’t just throw a match.

Like you’re not waiting for the smoke.

+++

His phone buzzes and he’s almost embarrassed by how quickly he picks it up and unlocks it. 

Messages Second (1)

He shakes his head. Just one? You’re joking. 

8:56am Awfully big… ego you have up there, Agent Hotchner.

He exhales hard through his nose.

A soundless laugh. A blink slower than the last.

His jaw ticks once, just enough. He checks on you. 

Unmoved. Insane. 

And it’s not even 9am. 

+++

You continue to work.

Actually work.

You finish two emails. Format your draft for that consult follow-up. Review a request for cross-divisional resource hours.

You even refill your coffee.

It’s virtuous, really. Professional.

Except your phone stays face-down.

Not even a glance.

Just enough self-control to make him suffer.

Just enough to make yourself ache.

And then—conveniently, mercifully, maybe even a little cruelly—you remember the consult analysis. The really good, publishable one you both started in the spring before Pakistan, finally rounding out with your contributions. 

You need his signature. 

You could scan it later, you could wait until lunch, you could even pretend it’s not urgent—but the printer is right there, and you’re feeling generous.

Or reckless.

Or both.

You hit print.

The pages whirr out behind you.

You take your time walking it upstairs.

+++

He doesn’t look up right away.

His pen scratches against the page—form review, by the look of it. His brow is furrowed in that way it is when he tries to pretend he’s concentrated. 

A legal pad open beside him, mug near-empty at his elbow, tie just a little crooked.

God, he’s trying to act normal. It’s absurd.

You knock your knuckle twice on the doorframe and step in, the file in your other hand.

“Need your signature on the consult analysis from the spring. Strauss is looking to publish.”

He looks up—slow, measured.

His gaze tracks from your face to the paper, then to your eyes.

And there’s a beat.

Just one.

One breath of awareness, of weight, of memory.

“Of course,” he says. Like it’s nothing. 

You step forward, set the page in front of him.

He doesn’t touch it right away.

Doesn’t pick up the pen.

Just looks down, eyes catching on the line above his—your signature already there.

He stares at it.

Just for a second too long. He lets himself imagine for a moment—

Same page. 

Same line of text. 

Same name, different hands.

That’s enough of that. 

You watch his eyes move—slow, reverent. Like the presence of your signature has undone him more than the texts ever could.

Then his pen moves.

He signs.

A flick of ink. A practiced stroke.

The crossbar of the A forming the crossbar of the H in a familiar, unbroken, almost star-like shape. 

But it’s deliberate. Personal.

“You gonna read my section?” You almost hoped he would. It is, honestly, really good. 

He shakes his head. “Don’t need to.” He pauses, his voice smooth, but tight. “Anything else?”

“Not right now,” you say, your voice just as even.

But when your fingers brush as you take the page back, his hand lingers.

And your pulse jumps.

+++

The ride home is quiet. Your car is “under recall” this week so you can drive in together in the mornings. 

Jack is in the backseat, almost snoozing in his car seat after a full day of kindergarten. 

The sky is soft with dusk. The traffic hums low and steady. Your hand finds his on the center console like it’s muscle memory. His fingers slide between yours without looking.

And that’s it. Nothing else.

Just that small point of contact—warm, grounding, maddening. His thumb strokes yours once, absentminded.

And the ache rolls through you like a swelling tide.

You know those fingers. You know that pressure.

You know how those fingers feel deep inside you.

How they move when he’s coaxing you open, when he’s making you come apart.

You know how those hands pin you to the mattress, cup your jaw, catch in your hair, press bruises into your hips and thighs.  

But here, in the car, with Jack humming to himself in the backseat?

He’s just holding your hand. Like he’s done a thousand times. Like it’s innocent.

But it’s not. It’s excruciating. Every red light is a punishment.

Every slow turn another second of not kissing him.

You glance over once.

He’s watching the road, jaw tight, the tendons in his wrist shifting as he adjusts his grip on your hand.

“You okay?” You ask, voice low. 

He nods. Swallows. “Yeah. You?”

“Fine,” you lie. Your thumb drags over the pulse point at his wrist.

It jumps.

Neither of you say anything else.

+++

You’re still shaking out of the tension when you walk through the door.

But Jack barrels ahead—backpack flying, shoes kicked off, jacket on the floor.

“Can we have quesadillas?”

Aaron looks at you. “What do you think?”

You’re a little touched he’s asking you at all. “I think that’s perfectly fine as long as they have a green friend.” 

Jack groans. “Carrots aren’t green.”

“They are not,” you concede. “But lucky for you I think we have some buttery garlic broccoli.”

He pulls a face. Aaron smiles. 

You pause, your brow crinkling as you study the little trail he’s made. “Shoes and jacket in their spots please! All items in this house have homes; let’s make sure they get there.”

+++

The kitchen is warm, lived-in, as the two of you work side by side

You dice peppers while Aaron taps butter into a pan. Jack sets the table and gets started on homework. You’ll have to re-set the table. 

Aaron brushes past you once, then again, his hand grazing your back every time—like he can’t help himself.

“You’re in my space,” you murmur, sing-song. 

He hums. “You like it.”

He’s got you there.

+++

Jack talks about a classmate’s science fair project and how his teacher said he was good at reading aloud.

Aaron listens like he doesn’t already know this—like he didn’t read the progress report that morning. 

You keep one eye on the broccoli, one ear on the rhythm of their back-and-forth, and think, maybe, that this is easy.

Too easy, almost. 

It’s not alarming. 

Jack clears his plate without being asked. You rinse, Aaron dries and loads the dishwasher (incorrectly, but it’s fine). 

When you pass him a glass, he takes it and kisses the side of your head without thinking.

You freeze, the dam broken. 

Then you keep going.

+++

Jack brushes his teeth. You read the first few pages of Charlotte's Web while Aaron finishes an email on the couch.

Already dozing a little, Jack asks, “Will you be here in the morning?”

You lean down and kiss his forehead. “Yessir. That’s the plan. Dad and I will take you to school tomorrow if you’re okay with that.”

He nods. 

You continue to read. 

+++

The moment his son’s door clicks shut, the air shifts.

You don’t even make it halfway down the hallway before his hand catches yours—spinning you into his space like a secret.

You gasp, stumbling slightly, and then he’s right there. You let him pull you into his chest, hands flat, fingers spread across low across his abdomen, under his ribs, the heat of him radiating through the soft cotton of his t-shirt. He exhales slowly, but you can feel how tightly wound he is. You can feel it in the way he leans just enough to rest his forehead against yours, like he needs the contact to settle.

“I’ve been thinking about you all day,” he says, voice low enough that it brushes against your collarbone. “That look you gave me in the office… you knew exactly what you were doing.”

You smile, slow and shameless. “Of course I did. And you started it.”

His hands slide down your back to your hips. He doesn’t grip hard, but the pressure is steady, heavy. “You have no idea what it did to me—watching you work, ignoring me, knowing you were doing it just to get under my skin.”

You tilt your head and kiss the corner of his mouth, gentle and facetious all at once. “I think I have some idea.”

He groans softly, then leans in to kiss you fully—deep, thorough, with the kind of patience that makes your knees weak. His mouth moves like he’s trying to make up for every minute he had to keep his distance. You feel his restraint thrumming beneath the surface, taut and barely holding.

“I watched you dice peppers,” he murmurs against your lips. “I stood beside you and tried to pretend it wasn’t killing me.”

“You’re very dramatic,” you whisper.

“You’re very mean,” he returns. His nose brushes yours. “And I love it.”

You laugh, quiet in the dark, and that’s when he crowds you, walking you backward until you hit the wall with a light thump, just enough to jar you. He doesn’t press—just stands close enough that your chest brushes his with every breath. He braces one of his hands on the wall by your head. 

“We made dinner together,” you murmur, still breathless. “Cleaned up. Read bedtime stories.”

His eyes are darker now. “And I only touched you once.”

“That sounds like a personal problem.”

He grins, actually grins, and kisses you again, a little rougher now. His hand moves under your shirt, skimming your skin, reverent. His mouth wanders down, under your jaw, under your ear. 

“I want you,” he says against your throat, almost like it hurts. “I want all of you. And I want to take my time.”

Your hand slides between you, drawing his face back to yours with a hand on his jaw. You kiss him back, and it’s messier this time. More honest. He’s pulling at your shirt and breathing hard and you’re already thinking about how fast you can get to the bedroom.

“You better,” you say between kisses. “I’ve been thinking about your hands since noon.”

He laughs into your mouth. “You want to start a list?”

“Already done.”

He presses his mouth to your neck, to the hollow behind your ear, and you feel the heat pulse between your legs like muscle memory. You could come undone right here, just from the promise in his voice.

“Bedroom?” you ask, already breathless.

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes.

“You’re not sleeping at your place tonight.”

“No,” you agree. “I’m really not.”

“Good.” His voice drops, lips brushing your cheek. “Because I plan on keeping you up.”

He kisses you like he’s nineteen again and never learned patience. You return the favor. 

It’s messy.

Open-mouthed.

Teeth and tongue and lips that won’t stop moving.

His hands are under your shirt, on your hips, your ribs, your bra. He can’t decide where to land, just knows he needs skin. You’re already gasping against him, fisting the hem of his t-shirt, dragging your hands up his chest, raking through his still-long hair. 

He palms your ass like he’s trying to memorize it. 

You laugh breathlessly against his mouth. “You good?”

He shakes his head and kisses you again, harder this time. “Not even close.”

You tilt your head to deepen the kiss and he groans—actually groans, still quiet enough for the hallway—into your mouth, pressing you firmer against the wall. Your knees go soft, but he’s already there, already holding you up with a thigh between yours, grinding slow and heavy, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

“You’ve got me,” you whisper, just to say it.

His breath catches.

“I know.”

He kisses you again, slower this time. Still messy, still hot—but with a kind of wonder that makes your chest ache.

You stay there like that—teenagers, idiots, completely obsessed—for another full minute before you both remember you have a perfectly good bed down the hall.

And then you’re leading him, taking him by the hand to his own bedroom while he walks behind you, a stupid grin on his face. 

The door closes behind him. 

You move quickly then.

Turn. Step into his space.

You crowd him back until his shoulders hit the closed door. Not hard. Not aggressive. Just enough to remind him who has the upper hand. Who’s in control.

And the shift is immediate.

He exhales—shaky. His jaw tightens. His eyes flick down to your mouth. His turn for muscle memory.

But this time?

He’s waiting on you. 

You lean in, slow and certain, your voice soft and dangerous as it brushes against his lips.

”So,” you start. “Those sneaky little texts today.” You press your lips to his and he moves to reciprocate. You pull away. He chases. He runs out of leash. His eyes narrow. 

“You think about laying me out on your desk and having your way with me?”

You tilt your head. Sweet. Mocking. A blade wrapped in silk.

“Hmm? Is that what gets you through? Thinking about how wet I’ve been, all day, just for you? Hm?”

And Aaron—

He dies.

His head tips back against the door with a dull thud, eyes fluttering shut for half a second like you’ve knocked the wind out of him. His breath leaves him like a man in freefall.

“Ahh, fuck—” he groans, a hand coming up to your waist, not to stop you, just to hold on. “I lose. It’s over.”

You giggle, dropping all flirt. “Was that even a question?”

Even after everything you’ve said—how sharp you were, how in control—you can see the shift in his expression as he lets it hit him all at once.

The humor. The heat. The play. The way you’ve been messing with  him all damn day like it’s nothing.

You watch him grin, slow and helpless, that rare little huff of breath through his nose like he can’t believe his luck.

“You’re ridiculous,” he murmurs, his voice still rough from everything you’ve stirred up.

You raise your eyebrows. “I’m not the one who got flustered by a desk fantasy, Agent Hotchner.”

He shakes his head, full smile now. “You are endlessly adorable.”

You blink, taken off guard by the softness. “That was not the goal.”

His hands slide up your sides like he’s claiming territory. “Too bad. You’re also infuriating and smart and—” his fingers trace your jaw, his eyes drinking you in like he might never get another chance— “so precious to me.”

And it’s not a line. It’s not a play. It’s the truth.

You feel it settle in your chest like something warm and permanent.

You kiss him again, and this time it’s different.

Less teasing. Less push and pull.

More give. More yes.

You take his hand and back toward the bed, this time without the fire of a dare.

This is just you and him.

Falling.

And when he pulls you into bed, laughing softly into your neck, he says, “You’re trouble.”

You breathe, smiling against his mouth. “You love it.”

You kiss him with that same mischievous little smile you wore by the door—but he’s not laughing now.

Not when you sigh into his mouth.

Not when your hand drags up under his shirt.

Not when you lean into him, feeling his arousal through his jeans and he groans like he’s been holding it in all day.

Because he has.

He’s been hard since that text exchange.

Since 8:30am. 11 hours ago. 

Since the second you looked at him across his desk like you knew what you were doing.

He rolls you under him with aching care, like you’re precious and breakable and his.

His lips find your neck. Your collarbone. Your jaw. 

His hand finds the buttons on your pants and gives himself a little space to slide his hand between your legs. 

He freezes for a second. “Wow.”

“I wasn’t kidding,” you tell him, your fingers tracing up his shoulders, into his hair. “All day.”

He kisses his way down your body like he’s mapping familiar territory, hands under your thighs as he lays you back and slides your pants down. The mattress dips with his weight, and he settles between your legs without a second thought—like it’s his rightful place.

His tongue parts you gently. He starts slow. Testing. Tasting. Worshiping. And then he finds your rhythm and locks in like a man with a mission.

You arch with a gasp, hips rolling against his mouth. Hands locking him in place by this hair. 

“Jesus, Aaron—”

He hums. “Jesus isn’t here. Just me.” 

You laugh and he retaliates.

His fingers curl under your knees, spreading you open just enough to angle deeper. He licks like he’s starving, tongue flicking fast, then slow, circling just right, pressure building in your spine. Your hands scramble for something—his hair, the sheets, your own chest—and then it crests, all-consuming. So fast you almost can’t enjoy it. 

You fall apart in a gasp and a moan, thighs trembling around his ears. Your stomach clenches, chest rising in sharp waves, breath stuttering out of you.

He doesn’t stop until you twitch.

Only then does he sit up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, wearing the most satisfied smirk you’ve ever seen.

“Wow,” he says, voice warm and cruel all at once. “That was fast.”

You glare at him through half-lidded eyes, flushed and breathless. “You’re such an asshole.”

He grins and kisses your knee. “You’re welcome.”

You’re still catching your breath, panting softly through your nose, thighs twitching as you come down. Aaron’s weight shifts next to you, one hand trailing up your ribs as he slides up your body, the other smoothing a hand over your face like he can’t stop touching you.

You press a slow, messy kiss to his mouth. You can taste yourself there, warm and sweet and heady, and you hum against his lips, smug.

“Your turn,” you whisper, already pushing gently at his chest.

You ease him back against the pillows, straddling his thighs as you kiss a line down his stomach, your fingers dragging light as static. He’s been hard. Already warm in your hand. You stroke him once, twice—just to see him twitch. Just to hear the sound he makes when you squeeze gently at the base. You kiss his hip. 

“Wait.” His voice is low, rough as he sits up on his elbows. “You don’t have to—”

You tilt your head and smile. “I want to.”

Maybe just for one second he’ll let himself enjoy something. Maybe. 

“You’re gonna kill me,” he says. You can see it behind his eyes, the worry, the hesitation, the discomfort (you imagine) at being the sole object of your attention. 

You look up at him with the most devastating set of doe eyes he’s ever seen , his cock resting against your cheek. “Then die grateful.” 

You kiss the tip, letting his precum string from your lip to the head. You make sure he sees it.  

“Let me show you something,” you say, lips brushing the tip.

He groans when your mouth wraps around him—hot, wet, patient—your tongue flicking the slit, collecting what’s left. You start slow, lips plush, hand curling at the base. You use your tongue like you’ve got time, hollow your cheeks until he hisses. His hand settles in your hair—not to guide, just to ground. But you want more than that.

You hum low in your throat and sink lower. The stretch burns behind your jaw. Your throat starts to resist. You fight through it.

You use that trick, where you tuck the thumb of your non-dominant hand into your palm, squeeze with your fingers. It works. 

You breathe through your nose. Let your hand work the rest of him while you adjust your angle, relax your mouth, let gravity help.

And then you take him all the way.

The stretch is obscene. You choke. Just a little. Your eyes water immediately and you swallow around him, pulse pounding in your ears. His thighs tense under your palms. He makes a noise like he’s lost the ability to form words. You pull back with a slick gasp, drool catching on your lip—and then you go back down, slower this time, your hand moving in tandem.

“Fuck,” he groans, voice cracked. “Sweetheart…”

When you look up at him through your lashes, eyes glassy, mouth full of his cock, he swears under his breath. His hand scrabbles uselessly against the covers.

And then you grab his wrist. Guide him. Place his hand at the base of your skull and nod, pulling off with a pop. “Use my mouth, baby. Show me what you want.”

His breath catches. And then he does.

It’s gentle at first. Testing. You keep your eyes on his. Let him see how much you want it. Then he gets bolder—deeper, slower thrusts, like he’s watching every reaction, every tear tracing down your cheek, every stretch of your lips around him, every gag. His hands hold tighter, giving him a view. 

When you moan around him, he actually believes you like this, thrusting into your mouth with a little less fear. 

Not brutal, not fast. Just enough to make you choke a little, enough to make you drool, enough to have you making pretty noises every time he hits the back of your throat. 

Your nose brushes the soft skin of his abdomen with every stroke. Your throat works, swallowing around him. You’re soaked to your thighs, your orgasm minutes ago complimenting the throbbing of your clit in time with your pulse. You keep one hand wrapped around him, jerking him off when you come up for air. 

Your other hand slips between your legs, addressing the ache one orgasm hardly touched. Your sounds grow more desperate, turning up the temperature until he feels like he’s going to burn alive. 

When he pulls you off, spit strings between your mouth and the head of his cock. You’re breathless, dazed, panting through parted lips.

He drags you up for a kiss—deep and messy, his fingers still tight, pulling your head where he wants it, his hand sliding between your legs. And when he finds how wet you are, he actually groans into your mouth.

“Are you seriously getting off from having my cock in your mouth?”

You nod, wordlessly, still catching your breath. He groans again, almost a disbelieving sound. 

“I have to pick between fucking your mouth and filling you up?” he murmurs, breath shaky. “That’s cruel.”

“Then make a choice.”

He turns you around, rougher than usual, but careful in all the right places. You’re already on your knees, chest pressed to the sheets, back arched, when he guides himself to your entrance, running the head of his cock through the slick. 

You gasp, pushing back. The hand on your hip leashes you, his tip dipping shallow. He can see the stretch already. You need him, right now. 

“Aaron, please, I—“

“Yeah?” He grits out, his jaw tight. He’s playing like he’s in control but he is absolutely wrecked by this phenomenal image in front of him. “You want it that bad?”

“I want to feel you. I need you to fill me up—please.” 

Since you asked so nicely…

He presses in further, still just the tip—and already you’re pulsing, clenching around him and squirming. Already, he’s in the trenches out here. 

“You’re soaked,” he breathes, breath shaky. 

You whine. “Aaron—please—I’m begging, I swear—I need—“

“I know. I know.” He smooths a hand down your spine and finally moves, dipping into you a little deeper each time. “I’ll get you so deep, you won’t be able to walk right until Monday.”

You whine again, gripping the sheets. 

He slides into you until he bottoms out, a delicious pressure you can feel in your ribs. Slow. Intentional. 

Then—he’s not slow anymore. He pulls out almost all the way and pulls you back, strong and fast, until your ass makes contact with his thighs, jolting you forward

You moan. It pulses through your body. You feel the stretch down to your toes, his hand gripping your hip as he pulls back, then thrusts again. Each push sends you forward on the mattress. Each snap of his hips sharp against your skin. The sound of it—slick and rhythmic—is filthy. His hand slides around your thigh, fingers finding your clit with practiced precision.

Your head turns. You’re shaking. You can’t stop shaking. You reach out behind you and he takes your hand, lacing your fingers with his over the small of your back. 

“You liked that, didn’t you?” he says, low and dark against your back. “Taking me that deep. Choking on it. Eyes all wet for me.”

You whimper. He growls.

“I know you wanted me to come in your mouth,” he mutters, voice fraying. “But I needed to be inside you. I needed this.”

He fucks you like he’s trying to reach your soul—deep, slow, relentless. His fingers never leave your clit. You break apart again, pulse throbbing through your cunt so hard it pulls him deeper, makes him swear again.

“Jesus—baby—keep squeezing me like that and I’m not gonna last.”

Your voice is ragged. “Then don’t.”

And when he finishes, he presses as deep as he can go, locked inside you, his hand still between your legs. Still stroking. Still touching. You relax around him, your shaking muscles spent. 

You’re still trembling when he pulls out, slow and careful, like he’s trying not to spill a drop.

It doesn’t work.

You feel the rush of it, warm and slick, already falling down your thighs. Heat snaps from your clit to your chest as you feel his cum slide out of you. It should be messy, maybe even embarrassing, but it’s not. Not with him. Not when he groans like he’s the one overwhelmed by the very sight of it. 

(He is.)

His hands stroke down your back, reverent, steadying you as you rise onto your elbows. He bends behind you, breath hot between your thighs, and then—

“Aaron—” you whisper, already overstimulated.

But his mouth is on you. His tongue lapping at the mess between your thighs, tasting you both. His hands slide up your back, gentle, worshipful, while his mouth devours you like prayer.

You gasp. “I—I don’t think—I can’t—”

“This isn’t for you,” he says, kissing the back of your thigh.

You laugh, breathless. “Oh.” Your newly freed hand drifts back, playing with his hair. “Excuse me, sir.”

“You’re excused.” 

His tongue. Long, slow strokes, chasing the mess he left behind. He groans into you, hands spreading you open like he wants to see everything. (He does.) And then you feel it—his fingers sliding back inside, two at first, maybe three, and he’s careful, gentle.

Too gentle.

You’re already soaking, already stretched, but it doesn’t stop him from using what’s left of him inside you to ease the way. He pushes deep, tongue circling your clit with maddening patience, and your whole body shudders.

When you think you don’t have anything left, he always knows better. 

“Aaron—” Your voice cracks.

He hums like he’s pleased with himself. One long, slow curl of his fingers inside you and you see stars. Pressure climbs so fast it knocks the breath from your lungs. You claw at the sheets, hips rocking back against his hand, desperate.

“I don’t think—” you try, but then his mouth closes over you again, and you surrender to the inevitability.

“Yeah, there it is. Yes, you can.” You can feel his words against your skin. It’s very distracting. “That’s it, sweetheart. You’re right there, aren’t you?”

His voice is quiet but firm, guiding you through it like he’s walking you across a threshold. You can feel it building in your belly, burning behind your ribs, your whole body tightening around the pressure.

“Don’t run from it. You’re doing so good—so good for me.”

His mouth doesn’t stop—tongue laving your clit just the way he knows you need, not fast, not frantic, but devastating in its precision as he speaks into your skin. His fingers keep stroking you inside, curling up into that spot that makes you see white.

“You’re close—I can feel you. Come on. Let go.”

You’re keening now, legs shaking, hands fisting the sheets, your body winding tighter and tighter. You fight to relax, knowing he can get you there without tension. 

“I’ve got you. You’re safe. Just give it to me.”

He sounds like he’s begging now, but not because he needs it. Because you do. Because he wants you to fall apart, to feel everything he can give you.

“That’s my girl. Let me feel it. Come for me, come on—”

And when it hits—when the heat crests and your breath escapes in a broken moan—he doesn’t stop.

“That’s it. There she is.”

He groans as you pulse around his fingers, your thighs quivering. He keeps licking, kissing, letting you ride it out. Falling at your feet.

“Jesus, you’re beautiful when you come,” he murmurs, more breath than voice, his cheek brushing your thigh, his fingers still buried deep as aftershocks roll through you.

“I could watch you fall apart forever.”

When he finally pulls back, he kisses the small of your back. Soft. Grateful.

“You’re unreal,” he murmurs. “You know that?”

You can’t answer yet. Your brain is static. All you can do is breathe, trembling and wrecked, hips twitching when he kisses the inside of your thigh. He guides your hips down, sliding one knee at a time back on the coverlet until you’re flat and relaxed.

It’s slow, and soft, and absolutely sticky with the afterglow. You’re still trembling a little—not quite shaking, but your limbs feel loose and jelly-warm, your muscles useless in that delicious, just-fucked way. You can’t stop smiling, which would be embarrassing if Aaron didn’t look so smug about it.

He kisses your forehead first, then your cheek, then your jaw—working his way back up until you turn your face into his and kiss him full. Sweet, unhurried, a little lazy. You can taste the both of you on his tongue and—

Maybe you did want him to finish in your mouth. 

“Can you walk?” he asks, barely above a whisper.

You huff a laugh and roll your eyes. “Rude.”

“Valid question.”

“Some of us are still young and spry and very capable.”

He grins, presses another kiss to your temple. “Mhm. Tough talk.” He swats your ass and your breath chuffs with a little, exhausted noise. “Alright, my little baby deer. Up you go.”

You do your best to follow instructions, but your legs are indeed so shaky you have to hold onto the bed frame for stability. 

You look over your shoulder. “I hate when you’re right.”

He looks awfully satisfied with himself as he saunters over to you, around the bed to your side. 

You swat at him, but he tucks an arm under your back, another behind your knees, and carries you to the bathroom like the smug, post-orgasmic man he is. You nuzzle into his chest and mutter something about how absurdly hot it is that he can lift you like this after a rousing round of extracurriculars.

He helps you wash up—warm cloth, gentle hands, careful kisses to your shoulder as he towels both of you off. You brush your teeth together in companionable silence, bumping hips when you lean for the sink. You spit and catch his eye in the mirror.

He’s already looking at you.

“Staring,” you tease.

“Admiring,” he corrects. “I’m allowed.”

You narrow your eyes playfully and say, “Don’t make me kiss you again.”

He shrugs. “Make me.”

”That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Why don’t you do something about it, then?”

So you kiss him again, low and slow. He holds your face in his hands like you’re made of glass, his thumbs tracing your cheekbones. 

By the time you finally crawl into bed, your body’s humming, your skin smells like his, and you’re wearing one of his old academy t-shirts. You curl into his side like it’s instinct. His arm hooks around your back. Your leg slides over his. And he exhales, like the day is finally over.

Like this is the part he was waiting for.

“You alright?” he asks quietly, mouth near your hairline.

You nod. “You?”

“Never better.”

You nuzzle into him and whisper, “I believe you.”

+++

tagging: @duchesschameleon @chronicallybubbly @derekluvbot @jhiddles03 @soupyamanda @percysley @viennasolace @youngcowisland @beyscape @reidfile @littlemisskavities @lily43sblog @sochalant @lostinthefandoms11

[multiwreckedmess]

Kinktober Day 17

Prompt: Threesome/Moresome Pairing: OT8 SKZ x fem!reader WC: 4.4k Summary: Maybe after this the term “comeback” takes on a new meaning.

This is a work of fiction, it does not represent any Stray Kids member. On top of this it is an 18+ work. For my comfort and boundaries please if you are under age do not interact with this.

I feel the need especially with “rougher” prompts like this to put the disclaimer - fanfic should NOT ever be used as a guide to relationships or sex. ESPECIALLY SEX. Again, it’s fiction. Stuff gets glossed over for the sake of a good story. Please PLEASE please again, not fact, not a guide, just a fantasy.

Additional TW/CW below the cut.

TW/CW: Gangbang, lots of cum, light bondage, reader goes nonverbal, all consenting, traffic light system and boundaries discussed, anal, piv, oral (male receiving), titfucking, multiple partners, dirty talk, multiple pet names, cumming prematurely(?), some aftercare/during care. 

 Eight pairs of hands. Eight types of touch to match their eight personalities. Sudden squeezes, languid strokes, hesitant brushes, deep pushes, light tugs, gentle pats, intermittent shy caresses, persistent strong grasps. It was Chan’s idea that you’d heartily agreed to.  “The boys have been seeming sort of down lately,” you’d mentioned over the thundering rush of dishwater. “Should I make a cake or something?”  Nose pressed to the side of your head Chan inhales deeply, squeezing the fronts your thighs. The scent of your scalp and the squish of your quads soothing his anxious mind. “We’ve been working hard. I think it’ll turn out well.”  “So…cake? Can you all eat it? I could make a carrot cake or modify-”  Chan grabs a handful of ass, not one to miss the opportunity for a bad pun. “Wouldn’t mind sharing some of this cake. I’m sure we could all enjoy it.”  “You think?”  “Baby, the reason the boys are always excited to see you…”  “It’s not the novelty of Betty Crocker Funfetti?” Chan giggles, grabbing a handful of bum as he grinds against you, an obvious lump forming in his sweatpants. “We could make you into Funfetti.”  “How do the boys feel about pie,” you ask coyly, pushing your hips back to greet him.

 That was how this whole idea started. And now you were tied to a bench, trussed up like a pretty present, holes exposed and ready. Blindfolded.

 It’s easy to sink into the sensation of each of their hands, unique in their own right. You can only really for sure name Chan’s, calloused and firm.  “...and we can do anything?” Jeongin’s voice twangs, tense at the thought. “She really will let us do anything?”  You’re only half listening, indulging in the peace of mind numbing stimulation. Moaning and nodding as your chin wrests on the bench you’re strapped over.  “She knows how to say no. Color system, if she’s unable to speak, two pinches is slow, three is stop everything.”  A chorus of tenor and baritone voices murmur in agreement. Your stomach tingles, chills passing the inches of exposed skin. You’re so ready. You’re beyond ready.

 There’s almost a ghost of a touch, floating down your side as the room shifts.  “We’re going to pass you around like the cheap whore you were born to be.” A deep bassy voice purrs in your ear, Felix. Your back arches exposing more of your holes like a cat in heat. “You like that? You like the sound of my voice, pretty? Does that turn you on? We’re all watching you.”  “Mhm,” you bite your lips and you wiggle against your confinements.  “Want me to tell you everything we’re gonna do to you? Dirty slut. First we’re all gonna give this cute little cunt a try,” you feel him slide his fingers along your slit, staying shallow enough to tease your entrance before catching the rim of your jeweled plug weighing heavily in your hole. “Chris did say we can use you however we want.” Felix muses as he pushes the end closer to your rim, jostling it just enough to earn a whine.  “Hurry the fuck up,” another voice chimes in, two fingers roughly ramming into your wet hole. Seungmin. Impatiently pressing his tip against the cleft of your ass as he fingers you open. “She’s ready, I’m ready. Keep doing your perv asmr thing but I’m fucking her.”

 With that Seungmin pushes into you, sighing with relief. Your spine curls as much as you can, spread over the bench as you are, fingers scrambling in the air.  “Oh fuck!” Seungmins hands wander over the small of your back, pushing weight down on you as his hips rock back and forth. “You have to try this pussy, god damn. Now i see why the old man is so fucking whipped.” He groans again as he pulls all the way out until only the very tip of his shaft is still sheathed. Glistening with your arousal he uses his thumbs to spread your slit wide, watching your walls stretch to accommodate him.  “Minnie’s right, you’re taking him so well. In fact, you’re going to take all eight of us aren’t you?” Felix purrs. “Now, be a doll and open your mouth for me.”  You drop your jaw, tongue lolling out, blindly accepting whatever Felix was going to give you.  Before Seungmin can build any speed and before Felix has his way with your mouth you hear a commotion at your rear. Then Seunmgin being pulled from you, leaving you jaw agape and whining from the loss of fullness.

 “Asshole, before you fuck her up we all gotta try.” Sharp words with crisp plosives cut through the confusion. Suddenly a thicker intrusion bullies its way between your walls. “Tremendous ass princess,” a hearty smack of a rough hand comes down on your ass cheek. You’re barely breathing with the thick length shoved snugly inside of you, the force of the spank has every muscle flexing to hold you together.  You moan.  Two hands grab each lobe, molding them like putty in his strong grip. Changbin. “Can’t wait to run you through.”  You’d always wondered about the rapper, most closely your type following your own boyfriend. How did his dual persona fit into his bedroom manner, how alike would he be to Chan, was it true what they said about rappers and their tongues? As suddenly as he’d entered you feel the protested drag of your walls, eager to keep him as he exits.  A thinly voiced dragged out “no” escapes your lips.  “Bok-ah, you want next?” Changbin offers, patting your ass.  You’d almost forgot Felix was there.  “I’m okay with just these pretty lips up here,” he says as he thumbs over your lower lip. Dropping your jaw again you remember he’d wanted this to begin with, before the other boys had started tag teaming your cunt.  “I’m okay too,” IN chimes in, “I can wait my turn.” He lowers his voice almost imperceptibly, just enough to sound like a cool mature guy. You could just imagine him standing a bit farther back, eyes transfixed on your glistening lips as they stretched for each of his members.  “Yeah you’re the only impatient one, meathead.” Minho. Of course Minho. His hips roll easily against you, just a taste of what’s to come. His hand runs over your ass, over the other entrance. “Got any toys for her?” He addresses the room, talking as though you couldn’t reply.

 Felix, you assume, finally taps the tip of his length against your tongue. Much to your delight he’s slightly sweeter than you’d assume as you lick against him. Chan’s reply to Minho is inaudible as Felix purrs. “You like that? Been drinking nothing but pineapple juice for you. Chris told me you’d like that.”

 Taking him fully in your mouth you bob enthusiastically focusing fully on him as two more strange new cocks slide into you all too briefly before Seungmin settles back over you, fucking you with a steady and uncomplicated rhythm. Felix is veiny, fun to explore as you run the length of him. He easily guides you the full way down, your nose pressing into his pubic bone as spit runs down your face. “Hey Chris, can we take off the blindfold?”  “Sure man, whatever you want.”  The blindfold flips up to your forehead. Luckily the lights are low enough so your eyes don’t have to adjust much. “Focus on my face sweetheart. Just want to see your pretty teary fucked out face while we ruin you.” Felix smiles as he feeds you his cock all the way to the base once more, watching you splutter and fight back your gag reflex. The tight ring of your throat squeezing him as he grinds into the wet warmth. You battle valiantly to keep your eyes looking up at him as they threaten to flutter shut, tears streaking your cheeks.  Not a second too soon he eases up, beaming down at you, thumbs wiping at your stained face. “Such a good girl for us. Chris is gonna be so proud of you.”  You smile for a second, spit burbling from your lips, before you feel Seungmins hands at your mid back, pushing you into a deeper arch. From one strong stroke you can tell he’s found it, face opening into a groan. “Do that shit again ‘Lix. I wanna see her struggle.”  “You heard the man, you ready?” He watches as you gulp and take a deep breath which is almost immediately punched out of you by Seungmin slamming his hips against you. Your fingers grip the legs of the bench as you are pressed between their bodies as deep as they can go on either end. Groaning around Felix and clasping down on Seungmin the noise in your brain crescendos and violently mutes into a peaceful fuzzy static.  Seungmin laughs as you twitch and spasm.  “Holy fuck, I can’t-” Felix struggles to keep his hips steady, eyes rolling back in ecstasy.  “I’m gonna too-” You can hear the gritting of Seungmins teeth as he speaks.  “Be good and take it all okay, take all I’ve got-” Felix mutters, spilling down the back of your throat. You gag, tears and spit and snot running everywhere as he pulls back from you, still weakly spurting on his thighs.  Barely able to breathe as Seungmin chases his high you mumble his nickname over and over. “Minnie, oh-fucking- ah-” Felix’s hand keeps your head from scraping against the bench as you become boneless, eyelids fluttering shut. Seungmin pulls from you just as you reach your high, whining and writhing in the agony of denial. Hot cum splashes across your ass slowly dripping down your thighs.

 “How’s our girl doing,” a soft melodic voice asks. “What your color darling?”  “Green,” you pant, vision still swimming. “Green green green green.”  He laughs. Hyunjin’s giggle. Good.  Slim and strong, there is always something languid about his movements. His finger tip traces your spine gently. “A beautiful sculpture should be appreciated,” he says slowly. It sends shivers running after his hands. Descending to the curve of your ass he spreads you wider, licking into your puffy oversensitive parts. Tongue lapping at you as you squeal the wet lewd sounds fill the air.  “Fuck, Hyunnie!” You practically rock the bench as you writhe. His tongue ventures to your other hole, teasing the tight bundle until you cry out. All of your fingers and toes curl and twitch as your walls clench around nothing. “Fuck me please,” you beg, voice wrecked with sobs. You’re surprised at your quick rebound but the promise of the lithe dancer is almost too much to bear.  Hyunjin’s lips graze your shoulder blade as he bottoms out in you with a shudder of effort, nearly knocking the bench forward in his attempt to get as much of himself inside of you as possible. Churning in your stomach you feel full again, fuller even. You nearly cum again, world whiting out in front of your eyes.  “That’s right pretty, all for you.” You wish you could see, could watch the man fuck into you more than anything in the world. He feels larger than you’d have ever expected from his slight frame.  Draped over you, the squelching of your two sweaty bodies pervades your mind as he humps quickly and shallowly. Chasing his high more than anything, each thrust punches you in the gut. The sounds that come from your mouth are unladylike wheezes that catch in your throat and turn into grunts. Two long fingers fill your mouth, sticky and salty from the mix of bodily fluids. Hyunjin cums mercifully quickly, spilling inside of you.  “I wanna see the other guys fuck it deeper,” he whispers, sweat dripping from his nose to your cheek. The thought gives you goosebumps.  Strong arms wrap around your back, caging over you as he undoes your buckled down arms to lift you from your post. Your toes barely sweep the floor before he has you on the nearby mattress. Changbin, stronger than your Channie, surprises you with his gentleness. For all the hurrying and jeering he’d done to the other guys, he’s suddenly soft with you.  “Hey,” he smiles all too familiarly, in a way that makes your gut stir. “Tired yet, princess? Told ya we’d run you through.”  You make grabby hands up at him, whining as you try to pull him closer.  “She usually non-verbal?” Changbin actually sounds a little concerned as he turns his head to ask your boyfriend. “Or should we- are you still good? Still green princess?”  You nod.  “If she says go, go.”  Changbin doesn’t waste another second, pushing into you aided by Hyunjin’s cum. The stretch despite the other members best efforts still forces a guttural groan from your lungs. He’s not as long as the others but the change of angle and thickness makes up for it in the best way. You can feel him bullying the plug on the other side of your walls in a way no one else has managed to do. He nuzzles into your neck as he starts fucking into you, only grunts coming from his normally busy mouth. Zoned into the singular thought of filling you.  With your hands finally free you’re able to explore his back as you scramble to hold yourself together. Your fingernails leave little crescents in the otherwise steel frame. Sturdy and unshakable as you tremor below him.  “Bin- I’m- ah-” you start to warn him of your swiftly approaching climax but he’s two steps ahead as your cunt clenches down. Arms wrapping beneath your thighs he pushes your hips just a little bit higher up. You see stars. It’s like he’s fully in your guts as he maintains his pace, fucking right into that spongy spot of yours. Mouth agape you can feel yourself wanting to make noise but your head is so full you can’t tell if its actually happening or not. All of your muscles contract at once as you climax.  “Holy shit did she-” the next thing you hear is a murmur from Jeongin. Release drips down Changbin’s pelvis as you both pant.  “Oh yeah, that’s our princess,” Changbin smiles like a champion as he slides from you, spent. Both of you are soaked in your cum, his cum, and Hyunjins cum. Grabbing the box of baby wipes he starts to clean himself off before he sees Chan start to clean your thighs. You barely notice he’s waddled off and back until you are being propped up between his thighs, a straw passing between your lips. “Drink for a good job.”

 The click of a cap is like fingers snapping, awakening you from your fucked foggy state. You look up and back to see Minho’s upsidedown bemused smirk as he watches the meatheads treat you like the sentient communal fuck doll that needs a tune up. Slowly he strokes himself, appraising you.

 “Jiji, care to join? I think this one has room for two.”  “Huh? Y-yeah,” you hear the taut voice of Han on the opposite side of the room.  “Hey, big boy, move.” Minho is less gentle with him, sliding behind you to take his place behind you, holding you between his thighs as Changbin had. His hands spread you wide open to the room, fingers grazing over the plug still nestled between your cheeks. The nearly icy drip of lube tickles your other hole, sliding around the stem of the plug. A deep breath in helps relax and allow the applier to slowly fuck the metal in and out..  Minho chuckles and smacks your thigh, your hole clenching down suddenly. “Are you tired? Huh? Too many cocks? Be thankful there’s only eight of us.” Thumb positioned on the end of the jeweled plug he slowly teases, swirling in languid circles as you writhe. Each nudge has your stomach tensing, desire growing within you.  Han Jisung is standing in front of you as you look dazed up at him. Blood rushes to his cock so fast he swears he might pass out from the loss to his brain. He watches as Minho finally fully tugs the plug from your fluttering hole and lifts you, slowly spearing you on his cock. Your chest heaves as you slide, mouth open and panting. Minho’s fingers fill your cunt, the sloppy sound of several fluids mixing reverberates in his skull.  “You going to stand there or fuck her?” Minho casually nods down to his fingers. “There’s room. Right, doll?”  You nod mutely, wriggling your ass on him.  Han dives head first into your cunt, eagerly pushing his tongue deep inside of you, lapping at Minho’s soaked fingers. Your legs threaten to snap shut on his head as your oversensitive pussy sends waves of bliss through your body. Minho keeps you locked open as he rocks himself slowly against your ass just barely moving his cock inside of you. It isn’t like he has to do much with Han’s tongue flicking so desperately at your slit.  Groaning, you’re unsure of whose name to call out. Minho or Han?  “Going to cum again? Thought you might be too worn out.”  “H-ha,” you half laugh and moan. You want to boast and brag but the hubris is fucked far from you. Back arching, your hole clenches down on him. You’re so very very close. His hands migrate to your tits, grabbing them, letting the space between his fingers lightly pinch your soft skin. They’d been so neglected and needy that the sudden attention pushes you over the edge, cumming hard on Han’s tongue. He continues to lap at you through it, not stopping until Minho tugs at his hair.  “Jiji, where do you wanna cum, I’m close.” Minho grunts. Sweat travels down his brow.  Han makes a quick appraisal of you, “wannafuckhertits.”  You’re tossed like a ragdoll to the mattress again, Minho easily positioning you on your back with your legs slung around his hips. Han straddles your chest, thighs are warm on your ribcage. His cock is practically drooling precum as he slides it between your mounds, quickly slicking up with your sweat. Squishing the sides together his eyes lock where the head of his cock pops out and disappears. Your tits are so hot around him as his precum slicks the valley between.  “Open,” he commands breathily, waiting for your lips to part. The second they do he drags the pad of his thumb over the wet inner side, pulling them open more. Your tongue naturally hangs out loosely, eyes glazed over. You’ve long given up any pretense of modesty. Of pretending this wasn’t exactly what you’d hoped for. His hand goes to the back of your skull to support your head as you crane forward to attempt to kiss his member. Grunting and straining you’re both working so hard for it as Minho pounds away and jostles you just enough to increase the difficulty.  You feel Minho climax, warmth spreading inside of you. He barely misses a beat as his leg clenches, sinking deeply into you, holding your legs aloft. Your eyelids flutter and toes curl. It feels good to be this full. Feels good to be this filthy. You stretch your tongue just the bit longer and feel contact, hot and salty. Ropes of hot cum jet across your chest and chin and lips as Han’s breath hitches. He freezes and gasps, staring as his cock continues to dribble onto your clavicle.  “Shit I-”  “Ssfine -s’good.”  He stares at his handy work.  “Clean it.” Minho says from behind his back. “Clean your mess.”  Han moves quickly without questioning him, licking across all the streams that he’d shot only looking up, ostensibly to Chan to check if he could clean your lips. The only one to dare to do so, tentatively licking your bottom lip before fully taking it between his lips. Not fully locking into a kiss, not quite.  Your stomach churns as you return to emptiness, only your boyfriend and the youngest left. The others preoccupying themselves with clean up and their own after care.  “How do you want ‘er?” Chan lifts your torso up off the bed and into his arms again, plying you with water. A quick kiss to the cheek asuages any fear that he wasn’t also enjoying himself. “C’mon maknae. Top? Side? Back? She’s got just enough left in her. Don’t you, my sweet thing?”  You nod, “how do you want me?”  It’s only a moment of consideration longer as his eyes linger on your pussy, red and raw. Jeongin’s sweet smile looks all the more sinful as he nears. He slides you into his arms with a surprising ease. A look of shock flashes across your face as he lifts you on to his cock, still standing. Chan had fucked you standing occasionally, but you hadn’t expected this of Innie. Your sweet Innie. Squealing as you let gravity bounce you off his hips, driving him deeper and deeper, clit aching as the blunt pressure hits each time. You’re practically grappled to him, arms locked over his shoulders and ankles crossed behind his back.  Curses spill from your mouth like a prayer. Everything burns bright as you hurtle towards your climax. The thrumbing of your pulse rings in your head and your breath catches. But Jeongin falters slightly, his own breath catching suddenly as well, fingers digging into the meat of your ass. His cock slips between your bodies as he fumbles a few thrusts. A sudden spurt of warmth hits your thigh and stomach. Jeongin is swearing.  “You didn’t- I’m sorry I-”  You blink at him bemused.  He sighs into your shoulder, “I came already.”  “Oh? Oh don’t worry about it I-”  “I wanted to make you cum.”

 The puff of air from your short giggle tickles his throat. Your lips are warm where they kiss his cheek. “You’re so cute.”  As your arms start to burn you’re ripped from Jeongin’s arms and tossed unceremoniously to the bed again. A strong grip wraps around your ankle and tugs your ass to the edge of the mattress. This was how you’d assumed Changbin would be. Instead you see Chan’s wide grin looking over you.  “You look so fucking hot babe.” He praises you as he pushes his cock into your ass, watching your eyes roll back into your skull. “Love it when you’re fucked out like this. When all you can do is take cock.”  You shudder. Tired and overwhelmed and needy under him. Sticky. He feels…good. Its the only word your tired mind can center on. You feel good.  “Innie- you wanna make her cum right?” Chan asks over his shoulder. “Grab that er…big white thing with the blue buttons and c’mere.” Momentarily he leans forward to kiss you, letting his hips gently rock into you. You whimper. He nuzzles you. “Doing alright, sweet thing?”  You nod into his shoulder. “Tired.”  “Don’t worry, princess, I’ll do everything,” Chan pushes the sticky strands of hair back from your face and turns to his group mate. Jeongin barely weighs the bed down as he crawls to your side. “She’ll cum quick so make sure that fucker is set low okay? She’s had a long night already.” Jeongin nods. The toy whirrs to life and he starts to lower it. “Check it on yourself first, bro.” Chan knocks the toy back. “Inside of your wrist.”  You hear a few clicks. Chan locks eyes with you, he looks like a god between your legs. He carefully stretches one to kiss your calf. His cock stirs your insides, thick bastard. You moan and close your eyes. You trust him.  Jeongin carefully places the toy over your mound, your back arching away from the bed. Chan instructed him well.  “Talk her through it.”  “Huh?”  “She likes it when you talk to her, she won’t talk back but she’ll sound really pretty.”  You gasp and whine. He’s right.  Jeongin’s voice is smooth above the buzz of the toy, talking just under his breath enough for only the three of you to hear. “Our prettiest girl did so well for us. Making all your boyfriend’s friends cum. You really are made for taking cock, no wonder Channie hyung keeps you all locked up. Just imagine the trouble we’d get in if he let you into the practice room.”  Another gasp. You can see it, you’re there with him and with Chan at the same time.  “Couch broken. Mirror streaked with sweat and cum. We’d ruin it. But you’d like that. Show everyone who’s girl you are. Right? You’re our princess.”  Your legs are shaking as you nod. Chest tightening again your gut coils in anticipation.  “Can our princess cum again? Please?”  Your legs tremble in answer, hand reaching out to wrap around Jeongin’s bicep. He can see the tension in your neck as your muscles clench all the way to the top of your skull. You’re so so so painfully nearly there.  “Tight lil’ hole ‘s likea vice-” Chan manages to slur. “Ah, fuck, baby-” his voice crackles as he sucks in air through his clenched teeth,”-cum with me darling. Be a good girl.”  Everything happens in a flash, your breath hitching, head thrown back. A magnificent groan spills from your gaping mouth, almost loud enough to rattle the vibrator back. Chan slows as your hips stutter and kick, his warmth spreading inside you as your walls milk him. Jeongin stares wide eyed, vibrator dropping off to your side, as he watches you flood his friend’s pelvis and thighs. His own stomach caves as weak spurts of ejaculate dribble down to the bed.  Chan pulls from you and bundles you into a little ball on your side. Kissing your arms and legs as he instructs the rest of the boys in their clean up duties. You’d done enough, you didn’t need to worry about this, you never needed to worry about this part of the night. Chan made sure of that. Your tired limbs are lifted to a warm tub, eyes too weary to open. Many trusted hands hold you as they carefully wash the filth from you. Their touches are less distinct now as you lean into them. All warm, all sure, all caring. One or many, you couldn’t tell. Your boys, all of them.

ngl i blacked out and wrote this. i have not re-read. i’m sorry if its not coherent.

[covetyou]

stars and stripes

ao3 ⋆ main masterlist ⋆ series masterlist

pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader rating: Explicit (18+ only!) warnings: nipple play, novelty underwear, balls, anxiety, democracy, the pledge of allegiance, friendly brotherly contest, alcohol, prelude to oral sex (m! receiving) word count: 5k summary: Roles are reversed this Fourth of July when you surprise Joel with a little festive treat of your own.

A/N: happy 4th of July to folks in the US and happy general election day to my fellow UK pals! If you haven't exercised your right to vote yet, and you're registered, you have until 10pm BST tonight to get to your polling station - as long as you're in line by 10pm, you'll be able to vote. do dress up Joel proud, and go do a democracy.

I make absolutely no apologies for anything in this fic. not a single thing. especially not that thing. tis the season. happy ballidays, pals!

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As it turned out, Joel knew a guy who knew a guy who could fix your AC, and within two days your house was a safe haven from the burgeoning Texas summer.

Easy as that, apparently. Your desperate attempts to call around HVAC companies the week your AC busted seemed stupid now that it was all a matter of simply knowing a guy.

Not that it was all easy. Letting someone else into your house after everything that had gone on suddenly felt scary, and it took Joel promising you he'd dip from his own job for the afternoon to keep an eye on things for you to feel okay with any of it.

But, even that left an odd feeling in the pit of your stomach.

You'd told him to let himself in, though this time you'd given him a key, and that felt like something. For as many times as he'd broken in, and for as long as you'd left your house open and vulnerable - and, by extension, yourself - handing over your spare keys to Joel for the day felt more vulnerable than you'd ever felt with him wandering your house at unknown hours of the day and night.

It felt like something all over again when you handed them over to him the next week too - there was a jammed drawer he wanted to fix, and he said he could get in to see to it before work one day.

Even when you opened the door to him on the nights he didn't have Sarah - his daughter, you'd learned - it felt like something. Especially knowing that that spare key now sat attached to his own, jingling in his pocket each time he walked into your home, invited.

And the more somethings it felt like, the less you felt like figuring it out.

It continued the same way for weeks. Him moving back and forth the short distance between his home and yours, while you stayed safely cocooned in your own, cool, four walls.

Then, barely one month into this officially unofficial something that you were, it was finally time for you to make that short journey down the street to Joel's.

Being honest, the thought of it had terrified you, and you'd almost backed out multiple times.

Not because it was Joel, or Joel's house - at least, that's what you told yourself - but because a "the whole neighborhood is invited, bring snacks or beer" type of Fourth of July party wasn't the kind of way you'd envisioned your first time in Joel's home. You figured maybe it'd be dinner, or a movie, or a quick fuck against the stairs with Joel's balls trussed up in something. Normal things.

Not loud peopley things.

Still, you readjust your top once more, take the briefest of glances in the mirror, and head out the door anyway, nerves be damned. You can totally handle a Fourth of July BBQ at Joel's house.

You think you can all the way up to Joel's driveway, when the nerves come back with a vengeance and you stand there, feeling sick, listening to the sounds of people and music coming from the backyard.

You try to tell yourself it all makes sense. It's a new place, a place that should mean so much because it's his, but try as you might you can't fight back the panic rising as you think of the very many faces that are going to be in this new place too. Familiar faces, faces you'd seen most days as you went about your life down this street you called home, people you'd shared small talk with and said good morning to almost every day as you left for work.

Then there's this stupid outfit you're wearing. The you from weeks ago chose it the very same day you said yes to Joel's invitation, and the you of today didn't have the energy or inclination to think of anything else. Wear whatever, Joel had said, it's just a casual thing. So, you'd gone for casual.

Braless is casual, right?

Not that that was a specific choice, more a necessity. You'd chucked the third bra on the floor in a huff, cursing your shitty outfit choice and lack of bra to fit it, and instead decided to stick on some nipple pasties and be done with it.

All that's done now, and now here you are, still standing like an idiot in the driveway, closer to Joel's home than you have ever been, psyching yourself up to go inside.

With a deep breath of the dry Texas heat, you head for the open back gate, the soft sound of your shoes on the paving stones so loud in your ears as everything wooshes and fizzes in your head.

It's somehow both better and worse than your expectations.

You're immediately greeted by a sea of recognizable faces, the bottle of wine you forgot you were even holding whisked out of your hand and taken inside before you can even get your first round of hello's in. You don't have much of a chance to be nervous, or self conscious, or any of the things you'd worried about being in the days leading up to being here, because there's just so much of everything around you. Noises, smells, people.

Everything, except for Joel. You've not caught a single look at him since you got here - minutes ago - and you wonder if he's even here and not relaxing back at your place on the couch.

Then you see him. At least, you think it's him. His back is to you, locked into conversation so fierce he hasn't noticed the commotion about your entrance.

You think it's him, but you're also certain you don't know of anyone else who would dress head to toe in red, white, and blue candy stripes. The sight of it makes you forget your own outfit worries as a grin forms on your face, and that familiar rumbling of something in the pit of your stomach comes back all over again.

"Not eyein' the very slightly younger model, are you?" comes a gruff voice that has you twisting rapidly on the spot, the smile barely given chance to fall from your face when you spot the actual, real life Joel standing right there next to you, cold beer in hand.

In your own defence, real life Joel isn't dressed much better than the other Joel stood over the other side of the yard. He's probably dressed worse, actually. He's head to toe in stars, all the way from the novelty headband on his head to the flashing star lights clipped to his shoes. It's gaudy, and camp, and so perfectly Joel that the smile that dipped from your face for all of half a second is back, and you're grinning up at him, that feeling in your belly violently boiling away now that he's right there.

"Oh, him?" you say with a wave of your hand. "Nah. He's like a dollar store version of you."

"Really? I'll be sure to tell Tommy he's Dollar Store Joel from now on. He'll love that. Hey, Tommy!" he calls over the yard, before slipping his free hand behind your back. "C'mon. Let me introduce y'all."

He guides you over, hand never leaving the small of your back, touching you out here in front of all these people as if you are actually officially the kind of something that everyone should know about. And maybe you are.

But then, you're looking into familiar friendly eyes, so similar to the ones you've been staring into and dreaming of since Christmas, and watching this familiar strangers face light up so brightly you briefly wonder if his joy is misplaced until he's wrapping his arms around you in a tight hug.

"Shit, he weren't lying," says Tommy as he rocks on his feet with you in his arms before releasing and looking down at you. "You are real."

Before Joel can land a firm whack to Tommy's shoulder, Tommy's pulling you in for another hug, telling you how nice it is to finally meet you, because he's heard all about you, dropping in a few choice words about his asshole brother here and there as he chatters to you, and Joel, and even himself.

At some point, whether it's during the fourth hug or the eighteenth, you're not sure, Joel slips off to grab you a drink, leaving you with his bizarrely dressed brother.

"Ain't never seen him smile so much without Sarah around," he says, the moment Joel's out of earshot, giving you a nudge and another fond smile. "Y'know, I think he might like you."

"Mm, I think I might like him too."

Small talk with Tommy is easy - the man's a talker, if you ever met one. He's a charmer too, and if you met him in a bar you might think he'd be coming on to you with the way he so attentively talks to you, only directing his attention elsewhere for the briefest of moments.

"What's with the outfits?" you eventually ask, with a flick to his striped top hat. "Joel never said it was a dress up party."

"Oh it ain't, this is just a family tradition. Dad always used to dress up in dumb shit for the holidays, make us laugh, and it just sorta stuck. 'Course, added in some friendly competition over the years too, and then this," he says with a dramatic sweep down his body, "was born."

"Competition?"

"Mhm. Joel'll tell you, won't you brother?" Tommy says with a wink over your head before ducking sideways to raid the snack table.

"What am I s'posed to tell you?" he says, handing you your drink, letting his fingers linger near yours and stroke a trail of burning heat gently up your arm before falling back to his pocket.

"The competition."

"S'easy. Stars or stripes," Joel points to himself, decked out in stars and then to his brother where he stands loudly chatting to yet more guests in his candy stripes. "You gotta pick. Most votes, wins."

"I've got to pick?"

"'s the rules, darlin'."

"So you want me to pick between you, or some costumed guy I don't know - a practical stranger?" you say, with a glint in your eye, watching Joel's face drop in faux offence.

"You wouldn't."

"Don't underestimate me, Joel. I think you know exactly what I'm capable of."

Your eyes meet in a silent stalemate, the glint in your eye never leaving as Joel bites at his cheek to hold back a laugh. Tommy was right - you do like Joel, some days too much, and moments like right now, you think maybe it's reciprocated, and you like him just the right amount.

Poking him in the chest, finger pressed to the middle of one of the sea of stars decorating his body, you let yourself break first. "Stars, Joel. I pick stars."

With a roll of his eyes, and a kiss pressed lightning quick to the side of your head, Joel's hand winds back around your back.

"Thank fuck for that. Let's get you a votin' card so you can make that official."

⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆

As the evening draws on, you think you've talked to just about everyone in your street several times over, and then some. It also turns out that Joel and Tommy take their little competition very seriously, and always have, if your neighbors are to be believed.

By the time the votes have been counted and Joel in his star spangled outfit is declared the winner, Tommy has sunk to his knees, his hat toppled off in his despair as he hangs his head in shame.

You're still listening to them bicker as you sneak off to use the bathroom, their voices only disappearing when you've slid the patio door shut and taken your first official step into Joel's house.

"The headband swung it."

"The headband is Sarah's, and your massive skull is breakin' it..."

Even through the mess of the party, you can see that this place is distinctly Joel, with hints of a 10 year old girl dotted around the place. From the pictures on the wall to the cushions on the sofa - mostly a rich navy, but one soft pink nestled in with the blue - through to small ornamental carvings on a side table and the drawings stuck on the refrigerator.

You're looking at one - not a masterpiece by any means, but very decent attempt at a bluebonnet - when the pressure inside the house changes again with the slide of the door.

It's Joel, arms laden with bottles, and the headband flopping forward pathetically on his head. "You snuck off quick," he says, dumping the bottles onto the counter. "Get lost findin' the bathroom?"

"Distracted. Never had chance to sneak around your house looking at your shit before," you quip with a smile, trying to get comfortable with the very uncomfortable thing that brought you two together in the first place.

"Then shoes off. Lemme take you upstairs, give you a little tour, and you can use the bathroom up there. Probably in a better state than the one down here now anyway."

He holds your hand in his all the way up the stairs. That something rears its head again, igniting your palm where it meets his, your brain not registering a single word he says as he points to various doors before dragging you through one, into his bedroom.

His lips are on yours immediately - or yours are on his. You can't quite work out who started it, you just know that you're a tangle as your hands roam each other, biting and licking kisses into each others mouths. His hand finds your ass, and you're moaning as he presses you forward, into him, and the soft lump in his pants. You want to grind yourself against him, but the angle isn't right, and a nagging forgotten thing is worming through your brain when Joel pushes your bodies together once more.

Oh. Right. You remember now.

"Joel - mmph - Joel," you say with urgency through his kisses. He pulls back, searching your face with panic and a pinched brow. "I really gotta pee."

With a kiss to your forehead he lets you go, pushing you toward his ensuite. When you exit a few minutes later, he's exactly where you left him, stood with his hands in his pockets, looking sheepish as he possibly ever could.

"I'm glad you came," he says, looking at you and setting that something off roaring through your body again.

"Me too. I... I've had a nice time."

"Just wanted you to know I didn't invite you here just for, y'know," he says, with a gesture to his bed. "Didn't bring you in here for it either. Just, sorta missed you. Not used to not bein' alone with you. It's weird sharin' you."

You don't want to remind him you've barely left each others sides all night. You don't want to draw too much attention to the something, just in case you scare it away.

"Damn. Got nothing for me? Nothing at all?" you joke instead.

"Got nothin'. Nothin' planned anyway," he says with a look around the room, his eyes focussing briefly on a drawer before flicking back to you.

Really, you should be leaving space between you and Joel. Space for the something to flourish, space that is just enough to not magnetize your body to his, smashing yourselves together and turning the nothing into something. What you should do doesn't have the power to stop your feet from slowly pulling you toward him again though. And it doesn't stop you from putting both your hands on his chest when you finally reach him.

"No? Got no magic tricks up your sleeve? I was hoping for a wand or a rabbit or somethin', you do look like you ran away from the circus."

"I'll have you know this shirt is the finest polyester you can find at Party City."

"Mm, sounds sweaty."

"Like you wouldn't believe."

"So you're sweaty and gross, and you have nothing to wow me with? I'm starting to wonder why you invited me." Which is a lie. You know why, and so does he, and you're glad for it, even if it still frightens you to think about it too much. You suspect he knows an awful lot more about you than you've told him. He's perceptive like that.

"Maybe I'm retractin' your invite."

"You wouldn't."

"No?"

"What if I've got a little something for you instead, am I still invited now?"

Joel's eyes light up and soften all at once, turning so bright and sparkling you think he might cry. It's not exactly that you've never done anything for him in the ways he has for you. When he mentioned his favorite snack, you got some in the house for nights you spend watching a movie before devolving into fucking on the floor. You bought new lingerie, which only ever stayed on if it was too difficult to get out of, and once or twice he'd caught you wearing the heart shaped butt plug before leaping on you and pounding you into whatever surface was nearest, thumb pressing down on the base and making you see stars.

Still, for all you had done, you never swapped positions in the little game you'd been playing with each other for over seven months. Each time, he was the one who came to you with some silly thing or trick or toy to tease you with, and each time you loved it. You hoped he would love this too.

"You do?"

"Mhm," you say as you put some distance between the two of you again. Space to breath, space to move, space to let the something calm back down into the pit of your stomach and curl in on itself like a cat settling down to sleep.

Your let your fingers glide up your body, gently pulling your skirt for a moment before they coast up your belly and reach your shirt, flirting with the hem before curling around it and tugging, letting your tits jiggle behind the fabric.

With a final soft tug, you peel the fabric up your body, the swell of your breasts spilling out the bottom of your top.

"Holy shit, baby," he says, a whisper of a moan on his lips. His eyes have been glued to you, wide and curious, ever since you suggested you may have something for him. And now, they're darting from your chest to your face then back down, taking in the sight of your covered nipples.

You had made some choices earlier today, in your nervous state. Going braless was only one of them. The pasties too, were another. And then, there was the shape. You has flowers, hearts, circles, straight tape and, finally, stars. It was a no brainer when you'd rifled through the packet for two that matched that white stars were the perfect choice for today. It'd only really occured to you when Joel had worn his own stars, that you were perhaps better matched today than you thought, that maybe you could have your own little game with him for once.

"Told you I was all in on the stars."

"Damn right you are," he says as he approaches, his hands finding their place on your waist, itching to move upward. "They don't hurt?"

"They're just pasties, Joel. They're soft. Feel."

And fuck, does he feel. His hands cup you, gently squeezing the softest part of your breast before letting his thumbs dance across where the pucker of your nipple should be. The sensation is muted, infuriatingly muffled by the feel of the pasties covering you.

"S'good?"

"Imagine I stroked your dick over your pants. It's good but it's not the same."

"Damn," he curses, thumbs still gently rubbing over your nipples, watching them slowly come to life and prickling beneath the coverings. "They come off easy?"

"Like a bandaid."

"Shit."

And you just know what he's thinking, because you're thinking it too. There's no real way you can take them off right now and let Joel have his way with your nipples like you're both desperate for, even if time and the swathe of people downstairs wasn't an issue. You have nothing else to cover up with and the soft breeze combined with the cold drinks and the age of some of the guests here means it's probably not a good idea to go without them.

That doesn't stop Joel from kissing you again though, more restrained than he has any right to be with your tits in his hands. You know from his frustrated groan when you bite at his bottom lip that he's two seconds away from telling everyone the parties over, only to come back up here and continue with a party for just two.

To your surprises, he pulls your top back down. Not before kissing one breast, then the other, then back to the first. You know he wants to sink his face into them, but he doesn't let himself, and he rises from his crouch with a groan and pulls you out of the room.

"Don't show Tommy," Joel whispers to you as you make your way back down the stairs. "He'll say the contest was rigged."

"Damn, I was so hoping to show your brother my nipples."

⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆

Joel's eyes keep flicking to your chest for the rest of the night. More than once he drags you away inside, either upstairs or into the garage, just to ask you to show him one more time. If you weren't covered, your nipples would have been rubbed and pinched raw by his eager fingers by now, just as your lips were swollen by his eager mouth.

By the time it's all over, you're positively exhausted, propping yourself up on the arm of a chair and talking to Tommy as Joel waves off the last of the guests and closes the back gate.

You had barely left his side all night, and if anyone had anything to say about it, you hadn't heard it. Neither had Joel. And Tommy, a clever man when he wanted to be, hadn't made a single joke about it either. All in all, it was as much of a successful day than you could hope for, initial nerves aside.

Tommy, continuing to be a clever man, doesn't put up much of a fight when you offer to be the one to stay behind and help clear up. Of course, he's already gone around and collected most of the trash, and put the leftover food inside, but he relents at your insistence he head home - you do only live down the street after all.

Neither you or Joel get much further with the cleaning. Once trash bags are dumped in the garage and you've both washed up, his hands are back under your top, damp fingers cupping your breasts and pulling you back into him.

"Stay?" he asks, as if there was any other ending to this night, as if Tommy hadn't left precisely for this reason.

You barely agree by the time his mouth is latched onto your neck, drawing unrestrained moans out of you right there in the kitchen now that you're finally alone.

His hands, of course, find their way back up to your top, stroking over the edge of the pasties once more.

"You really like 'em, huh?" you ask as his thumb brushes the edge of one, starting to curl and pull the point of one of the stars.

"Like that we match. Feel like you picked 'em for me," he mumbles into your neck, releasing one breast and tucking his hand into the waistband of your skirt. "Like that I've had somethin' to think about, somethin' to play with, even with all these people here."

Fuck, if you haven't liked that too. Letting him play had been one of the highlights of your night so far. Being manhandled into the garage, giggling and pushing Joel as he clasped his hands together in a plea to please see your tits. The souvenir love bite you'd let him suck into your left breast after dragging you back upstairs for a second time. You'd spent half the night flipping between Joels hands and mouth on your tits, to being dragged back out to socialize. Your pussy had given up trying to regulate itself after the third session of Joel's teasing, and you'd spent the rest of the evening wet and waiting.

This is a fact he finds out now, as he slides his hand down over your mound to cup you over your panties. You both let out the same curse as he presses and wiggles his fingers back and forth over you, rubbing your clit over your underwear. You had hoped to peel the pasties off before you fucked him, giving him full access to your nipples for the first time tonight, but you don't think you're going to make it that far, not now his hand is pulling your panties aside, feeling for the slick wetness between your lips and dragging it up, up, up to swirl around your clit.

Not a second later you're scaling the stairs for what you know will be the final time that day, this time you dragging Joel as you both kick of your shoes and stumble up the steps. You already ache from all the standing, and if you have it your way, your legs are going to be shaking and trembling too much for the rest of the night to possibly be of use to you.

With his door pushed open, left wide now the house is empty, you pull yourself back into him, only for him to slip his still wet finger between your lips, letting you taste yourself before he captures your mouth, licking your taste from your own tongue.

Then, your hands find his chest, that ridiculous shirt, and pull at it, tugging the fabric taught to his body, eager to get it off and tumble into his sheets with him.

You were right about how sweaty he'd be under the shirt when you finally get your fingers on the buttons, working your way down until you can pull it off. He's shining underneath it, the dark hair of his body slicked down as you drag your hands up over his chest, to his shoulders and then down to his belt.

He suddenly stops you, pulling your hands away, pressing kiss after kiss to your mouth as he fumbles with the buckle. In a huff, after a few failed, distracted, attempts, he pushes you away and pulls off his belt before unzipping his pants.

Joel has barely tugged them down his legs when you're staring wide eyed, howling with laughter, staring directly at his cock. Only, this time, it stares back.

At least, the bald eagle on the front of his boxers does.

"What are those?"

"Nothin'," Joel says, covering himself and trying to tug his boxers over his erection with one hand still trying to pull off his pants. Grabbing his hands, you stop him, pleading as you tug them away from his crotch.

"Show me."

"Look, s'nothin. Just another stupid thing Tommy got me and I thought it'd be funny but..."

"Sure looks like you got somethin' there for me. All this time you were sayin nothin'. Don't tell me you're getting shy on me now. C'mon. Please."

You pout, trying desperately to get him to give in when you have an idea and you're tugging your top off over your head and throwing it to the side, brandishing your star covered nipples to him once more.

"Pretty please," you say with a small shimmy, and Joel's hand immediately falls away, coming up instead to cover his eyes with a sigh.

It's a sight to behold. Really, it is. The eagle is staring back at you once again, still bolstered by Joel's solid length and the heft of his balls behind it. What you hadn't noticed before is it's sitting on a canvas of United States flag, stars and stripes covering his thighs, his hips, his ass.

"Oh wow. Joel those are -" you cough out a laugh "- those are amazing."

He's rolling his eyes. You can hear it in his voice and see it in his posture. "Yeah, real funny, I know."

"No, I like them. Very festive. And y'know what," you say, cupping his cock right over the eagle print of his boxers as you clear your throat. "I pledge allegiance -"

"No, don't you d-"

"- to these balls -"

"Stop."

"- and the cock they sit under -"

"Oh my god," he says, fighting through a laugh, your fingers squeezing and massaging as you pledge yourself, whole heartedly, to the appendage in your hand.

" - one - uh, cock and balls? Is there even a collective word for cock and balls? - under Joel -"

"It's just gettin' worse."

"- definitely indivisible, no divisible balls here - "

"You're killin' me."

"- say it with me now - with liberty and justice for balls."

You try to keep a straight face as you finish. Really you do. But as Joel's whole body shakes and ripples, his balls jiggling in your hand as laughter wracks through him, you can't help but fall into him, letting yourself be propped up by him as you crumple in on yourself in delight.

"You callin' my balls Liberty and Justice now?" Joel finally says through a laugh.

You slide a finger up the leg of his boxers, pulling gently on them as you stare down at the flag adorning his ass and balls.

"Yep. You're Star Spangled Joel with your side kicks, Liberty and Justice."

You give his balls a little squeeze again as you name them.

"Now that you pledged your allegiance, you gonna keep yappin' or you gonna prove it?"

But it's too late, because you're already sinking to your knees, right there in his bedroom, a place you both know you're going to wake up in the morning, wrapped in each other as the sunlight peeks through the curtains.

"Just try to stop me."

next part

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[simp-ly-writes]

Reborn From Ashes

─────── · · Dreams of Dragons (pt.3)

PAIRING: Daemon Targaryen x Fem!Targaryen!Reader

SUMMARY: Realities collide when an unknown man calls you his princess and chaos ensues. A great storm has taken over Dragonstone as an equal one starts to brew in your mind. Will you listen to this man that speaks of destiny? Or will you try and fight it?

TAGS: alternate universe, canon divergence, no use of y/n, second person perspective, female pronouns used, coarse language, protective!Daemon, angst, blood and gore, hurt/comfort, soulmates, time travel, targ-cest, engine-translated high valyrian, not beta read. MASTERLIST | TAGLIST REQUEST | WORDCOUNT: 3,468 | PRIOR | NEXT A/N: Happy after work chapter! Sorry for the heavy lore dumping in advance heh...

─────── · ·

WHAT HAS MY LIFE BECOME?, was all you could think when waking up on your cot in Dragonstone. A great fog had taken over the island, your head fuzzy as you stumbled forwards out of your tent- your knees slipping into the mud as you cursed underneath a breath.

A hand extends to you, yet another glimpse of sparkling silver has you squinting thinking it to be the sun as you grab their hand to stand. But you soon come to realize it is the chain they wear that glimmers so brightly and you can do little to conceal your gasp at the three headed-dragon crest as they smile down at your reaction.

"It has been some time since I last saw a silver sister," the bald man notes, head tilting towards the fortress where many teams were already at work underneath canopies and tarps within the courtyard, you nod and follow behind his steps in order to take in more of his appearance.

The wind was bitter cold, your cheeks hurting from being pelting of rain and your outer shell of a raincoat was already soaked through, it was as if the sea was down from the skies as much as its waves roared up the cliff face- and the man in front of you practically skipped through the onslaught- as if in his own element.

Feeling your gaze, he looks back and bows his head, "having troubles, silver-haired?" You take his words as an insult, "I can assure you the hair has nothing to do with my age," you fire back watching as his eyes sparkle with humour that he soon stifles before he holds open a heavy oak door, allowing you to walk in first before it slams behind you both, the wind also trying to find peace indoors from the rain.

The entrance hall is empty of people yet the space is filled with the echoes of every sound you make from the vaulted ceilings. Large and imposing trusses hold dark metal chandeliers forgotten to time as artificial lamps brighten up the space. Everything appeared too bright and sterile under the cold lighting, you missed the warmth of open flames and candles alike warming your skin... among other things, you shake your head of the nonsense and turn back to the bald man to find him already looking at you whilst leaning against a carved stone pillar that depicts dragons and native fauna.

"Have we met before?" you question, walking closer whilst trying not to shiver as the cold water had made its way down to your bones. "Have we?" he echoes back, standing up straight- his stance appearing confident yet his eyes are cast to the floor and on your muddied boots.

"Why speak in riddles when we can speak in plain truth?" you counter before shaking your head, why do I even bother?, "who is your superior? Look at me and tell me," you demand, feeling around your pockets for your phone to call whatever manager misplaced their rogue trainee.

"I am meant to be here just as much as you are," he ignores your demands, looking over your shoulder and up the grand stone staircase, "and that means more than you think."

"More than I think? Well, I spent my life studying my ancestors in order to be here and you dare ask- no, tell me my position? I belong here," you cross your arms, partially to warm yourself, the other to guard your heart that feels attacked.

"You are right, you do belong here, I never said otherwise-" you shake your head, turning around to walk upstairs, hand moving to the radio on your hip to page your team. You listen as the man follows behind you, eyes curiously looking over your frame before you stop feeling as they slam into your back before apologizing, "my princess, you must forgive me." And you swear that by sheer force alone your radio crackles- threatening to snap in your hand, "I'm sorry?"

And you receive no response, turning on your step to stare down as he does his best to kneel before you on the uneven steps, "It was never my thought nor intention to offend you, my princess. I ask of your good heart to forgive my transgressions."

You begin to look around panicked, phone, radio, watch, lights... I cannot be back in the past.... can I? You slowly lower yourself to sit on the steps, any rage you once felt had succumbed to the overwhelming fear you felt, am I losing my mind? And so you whisper softly enough for only you both to hear, "but I am not a princess?"

The silence that follows is heavy, you watch as they stiffen, hands gripping the stone steps as do your hands as if competing who would be first to draw blood in their anxieties. "May I speak freely, your highness?" Their tone equally soft as you nod, unsure of your own voice.

"I am an Elder of the Dragonkeepers. I have devoted myself to the old gods and to my kings and their dragons alike. I have been tasked by those above us in a test of my devotion to guide you back on your path..." the man takes a long pause, hesitantly meeting their eyes with yours, "...if you will allow me to?"

And without a second thought you answer, "I think you have the wrong person." You stand, taking two steps at a time, moving past the second level and up to the third and then the fourth.

The man follows like a shadow, "You have dreams, do you not?" You trip, hissing as you slam your face into the uncut stone edge of the stair. A gasp begins to form at your temple, blood seeps down your cheek like a tear.

You hiss at the pain, standing you wobble, gripping the bannister for strength before continuing upwards the seemingly never-ending staircase as tears begin to form in your eyes. "You have read the tapestry, have you not?"

You grab the bannister this time, pulling yourself up as you stagger up the remaining steps and walk through an arched door frame and into a dark hall seemingly yet to be explored. Cobwebs act as barriers that you step through and walk over, you swear to hear the scurrying of rats near your feet yet nothing will keep you from getting away from this dragonkeeper.

"The Rogue Prince has threatened his brother, your father for-"

"He is not my father!" you whip around and yell, "I am not a princess, I am a scholar, I am no one's niece, guide, nor bride!" Your hands curl up into fists, you swear to look manic, dressed in blood and split skin, soaking wet down to the bone.

The Dragonkeeper stands still at the end of the hall, his back basked in sunlight, "please, let me help you understand-"

"You don't understand! I was never meant for this... this insanity! You are only a figment of my imagination, this whole thing is just some large prank, right?" You reach for your radio to speak yet find it dead in your hand, dropping it to the floor, kicking it away in your frustration.

The Dragonkeeper takes slow steps forwards, joining you in the darkness as you fall to your knees, shivering. They offer the cloak off their back, wrapping it around your shoulders as you clench the cloth tightly, knuckles turning white. "The eldest princess was beloved by not only her parents but by the people. It was a great travesty thought to be punishment of the gods when she died unexpectedly in her early years."

You look towards the floorboards, counting every nail you see as the Dragonkeeper takes a seat in front of you, their palms sat in their lap, a silent ask for you to take them as they close their eyes, recounting the tale as is they were reliving through it in their thoughts. "Her body was never found in time for the burial. Some said that she was fed to the dragons for her weak blood, others that witches kidnapped her... but it was us, the Dragonkeepers, that took the child and presented her to the old gods on behalf of King Viserys."

You too, close your eyes, hesitantly reaching forwards for their palms, warm and weathered skin greet you with a soft squeeze of reassurance. "The King knew of a prophecy that had been passed down generations of Targaryens, knew that his daughter he found asleep more than out playing with the rest of the children, who spoke of events way before her time who could see the future in many instances, had to be part of this prophecy, and so he begged and pleaded for your safety and for many years it was unknown if our pleas were heard..."

─────── · ·

Soon the blackness of your eyelids became painted with a vivid scene. Encompassed by black stone walls that formed a colosseum was a fiery red dragon, Caraxes! you yell in a voice unlike your own. You look down to see your long black garbs on fire, you hastily pat the flames out with your hand as your other grips a quarterstaff.

The Dragon cries, its neck swings side to side, trying to be rid itself of its chains. "lykiri Caraxes! lykiri! (calm! calm!)," you shout, trying to walk towards the dragon only to find a wing coming down like a wall that sends you crashing back against the black stone.

You watch as many other Dragonkeepers come forwards, shouting commands, other throwing food, treats and toys towards the creature yet nothing seems to calm down the beast as it roars that soon fall to whimpers as a figure emerges in dark armour that blends into the walls.

Their helmet is held underneath their arm as they confidently stride towards the enraged dragon without second thought, their hand outstretched as it touches the scaled muzzle, closing their eyes with a heavy sigh as smoke exhales from the dragon's nostrils. It is then you notice their face to be covered in blood and that their red hair was unnatural, silver stained by blood.

"Nyke rȳbagon aōha ōdres keskydoso ñuhoso ziry feels kempa isse ñuha prūmia, nyke miss zirȳla tolī, (I hear your pain the same way it feels heavy in my heart, I miss her too)," the man you now know to the Prince Daemon speaks to his dragon, consoling it. The rest of the Dragonkeepers bow their head yet you hide behind a pillar to hear the rest of the conversation.

"Kessa māzigon arlī naejot nyke, naejot īlva, kesi mazverdagon sure hen ziry iā se vys kessa addemmagon syt taking ñuha soul hen nyke (She will come back to me, to us, we will make sure of it or the world shall pay for taking my soul from me)." The Dragon roars in agreement before outstretching a leg allowing for the prince to climb up into their saddle and the pair fly away as you remerge into the pit.

─────── · ·

You gasp, retracting your hands as the Dragonkeeper keeps their eyes closed, smiling softly, "the prince has always cared deeply for the princess... and is but an instance of the madness that ensued after your untimely passing. Yet little did everyone know, even yourself, you were being raised and protected for your mission-"

"But how do I keep crossing between worlds?" you question, cutting the man off as your heart aches in seeing your uncle's pain, "If I am safe here in this time, why do I leave?"

"Allow me to finish the tale, princess." You bite your cheek, closing your eyes and grabbing their hands once more. Memories of your childhood bedroom walls coated in sigils and ripped maps, of your parents, the Dragonkeepers that raised you sitting by your bedside, silver dragons dangling from their necks. Your thought-to-be father appears to be speaking the words of the man before you, their eyes are filled with unshed tears.

"Have you ever questioned how they knew so much about your family's history that has been forgotten to time? Have you not worried over their lack of care for your condition as if it is something normal?" A smaller you sits in their bed, gripping their bed sheets tightly. You cry softly upon realizing my life was nothing but a lie.

"The magic that keeps you here has been dwindling and will continue to do so, the only thing that keeps you here now is your fear," the Dragonkeeper whispers, dimming the lamp beside your bed.

"But what of my life, the people I have met? What about my career and aspirations, everything I have worked so hard towards?" you reach out for their hand to stop their movements, "I do not want to lose it all to be a mere princess."

"You are not only a princess, you are a protector of realities, your highness. Everything you have learned will be worth twice its weight in gold back where you are meant to be, you must allow yourself to let go-" his voice echoes in your mind.

"But I can't!" you stand up and shout as the room becomes darker as you stand alone in the shadows.

"You can, you will. You cannot stomach the world's end due to your own stubbornness. The world you reside in now is not possible if you do not go back... so I ask you to do what you do best, and think," the Dragonkeeper's voice fades, you feel their hands slide out from under yours yet you are unable to open your eyes.

Spinning around, you cannot see your hands or feet in the blackness that surrounds you- nor can you scream or shout- your voice drowned out by a constant hum. Soon fire ignites around you in a circle, the roar of a dragon has you shuttering and hunched forwards by the power of its breath.

Figures emerge standing around the flaming circle, you see the ghost of Prince Daemon's hands shake, his eyes a mixture of grief and pain before turning around and storming away. You then see the Princess, Rhaenyra step forwards, she throws a picture of a grey dragon, the first you ever saw into the circle before she too is dragged away into the darkness.

You meet King Viserys eyes as he nods at you, head held high to support the weight of the crown yet silent tears stream down his weathered cheeks. You hold his stare, watching as he slowly extends his hand through the flames, "be reborn through the dragon's flames," he chants. You look over his shoulder to see the Dragonkeeper standing behind him, he nods his head, silently asking for you to take his hand.

The fire feels warm yet you do feel a burn, you smell as your clothes burn away. The uneven rocks you step upon with bare feet are jagged, threatening to push into your skin yet you persevere. You reach your hand out to grasp the outstretched one of the king and your eyes are met by white light that blinds you and the cold touch of a breeze.

─────── · ·

You find yourself to be in a vast forest of pine trees frozen to time, standing tall in an effort to thaw by reaching the sun. Another breeze casts a light layer of snow over your body, you shiver as the cold bites at your skin, finding its way into your wounds that ache.

Your dress is in shambles- holding on by a mere thread. You reach down, ripping a part of your skirt and wrap it around your waist in an effort to keep the garb up before following the sun in hopes of finding your way out.

Passing by a frozen over creek you kneel down and do your best to analyze your face and wipe the blood that nears your eye. I look like death, is all you can think to yourself, and you feel close to it too if you did not find better clothes or shelter soon. The frozen water cracks, the ground shakes below your knees, you dogs barking and howling in the distance followed by a dozen horses galloping- and you chase after the sound.

Tree branches blur in the background, your feet ache, torn up by the uneven ground below you yet you know you would not survive once the warmth of the sun had vanished, not with the injuries that still sting upon your hands and face. You run as fast as you can before tripping over a fallen branch, scraping your knees on your way to the forest floor.

You shout in pain, trying but failing to pick yourself up and suddenly a stag rushes past you, eyes wide in panic as it belts out in pain. You see an arrowhead sticking out of its neck, a hunt, you raise your head, eyes beginning to freeze over as the high sun reflects off of the snow, blinding you from seeing further.

"HELP!" you shout, "PLEASE!" you beg as the howls become louder. "Please," you whisper, shaking as another gust of snow drapes over your fallen form. You reach out your hand in desperation, waving it in the air, your voice lost as the winds sing and your heart stops at the sound of a low growl.

The snow had suddenly formed yellow eyes that peer deeply into your own. You shake your head, reaching out with your palm, "I mean you no harm," you beg the animal yet know that it has no chance of understanding you, so curl into yourself in an effort to appear smaller.

You startle in your actions feeling as a wet nose touches your cheek, your eyes peek open to see the large muzzle of a wolf staring down at you. Its eyes appear human-almost as they widen, looking over your features carefully before howling loudly. You wince, tucking into yourself again yet the animal stops you part way as it lays beside you, head resting beside your own.

You all but whimper as the warmth of their fur helps to ease your blue fingertips and you await the footsteps that crunch in the snow. Metal clammers, leather boots squeak as they approach your form. The wolf stands tall to attention, you watch as a hand pats the space between the large wolf's ears. You cannot hear the praise or command over the singing of the wind yet the wolf darts off, disappearing into the snow.

A young man now kneels beside you, their long brown hair flowing in their face. His gloved hand picks up your head, his other tries to shake the snow off your hair. You watch as they still- realizing it is not the snow that makes your hair brilliant silver but your natural tone. "A Targaryen?'" a deep voice questions to themselves, "how did you end up here?"

You silently watch as they unsnap the heavy cloak from their shoulders and place it over yours. "Thank you," you breathe out. Their hand swipes away the blood from your cheek, eyebrows furrowing, "were you taken?" You nod knowing it to be the easiest answer.

He bares his teeth, "by who?" The man helps you upright yet you fail to stand on your own, body weak from the cold as you rest upon their broad chest, "I am sorry-" you try yet fail to move away.

The man holds you upright with ease, their grey eyes flooded with concern to match their frown. "Why apologize when it was against your will... unless you wanted to be kidnapped?"

You shake your head rapidly and notice the metal wolf sigil on their armour, a Stark. "I-I do not remember, it was at night and I just managed to escape," you explain, "you must believe me," you grip their leathers tightly with your plea.

"As a lord, it would be treason for me to speak otherwise, and as a man, I would be stupid," Cregan Stark jokes yet his tone lacks humour. You twitch in his hold as he picks you up in his arms, setting you on the saddle of his horse.

You open your mouth to protest before watching as he sits behind you, reaching forwards to grab the reins, "Rest" he commands. You tip your head in confusion before realizing the words were directed at you. "Rest," he says again in a softer tone, "I will ensure no more harm comes your way, consider it a promise from my house to yours." 

And with his words you allow your head to rest against his chest, listening to his heart as sleep finds you.

─────── · ·

PRIOR | NEXT

A/N: warming up with the Starks huh? 🤭 wonder what your family might think of that...

─ · · DREAMS OF DRAGONS TAGLIST: @blkmystery @inlovewiththefictionalcharacters @themoonlitquill

[needlereads]

Primal Functions

dark!Steve Rogers x reader

Warnings: 18+ only, explicit, non-con, breeding, bondage

A/N: woooo. this intrusive scenario would not leave my brain. continuation of Hardwired.

=======================

He had your hands tied up, out of the way. The rope looped under both your knees, keeping your legs folded up. It gave Steve the most delectable view of your pussy, ripe and sensitive from the two times he had already pressed his thick cock into your hole to fill you with his cum.

He hadn't fucked you. No, as punishment, Steve was forced to jerk himself close to completion and only then did he thrust into you to deliver his seed. It minimized stimulation and pleasure for you, all while allowing him the alluring view of your body, your dips and curves, begging for his attention.

You had tried crossing the boundary of his property again. So here you were, all trussed up, the better to learn your lesson.

For a while, Steve left you untouched. Only spread open and at his disposal. He jerked at his cock, drinking in the sight of you, until he was at the edge, and only then did he push into you so his cum found home in your ripe cunt.

He slowly stroked his cock, still hard and eager for you. He had managed not to fuck you this long. But at this point, your naked body laid at his mercy tempted him beyond his control. Throw in your teary eyes gazing up to him, and well, Steve was only a man in love.

"See? When you're bad, we both hurt. I can't give you the loving you deserve." Even flushed with arousal, he stayed stern. "All I can do is treat you like the bad little doll you are." He didn't prefer treating you like his little cumdump, but you had pushed him to this.

And now, you were unable to resist the lust he stoked in you -- from his bare, adonis form looming over you, to his cock covered in slick that pumped cum into you while leaving you unsatisfied.

Your struggle had grown weak. Steve made sure the bonds kept you in place for the most part; the little wriggling that you managed with your hips, well, you were a vision that fueled Steve's desire.

"Oh, sweetheart," he murmured, then sheathed himself in you, sighing as he watched your tight hole take him in. "So fucking pretty."

He kneaded you hip, caressed your calf. Hungry for you, his tongue traced the undercurve of your breast, salivating for the fullness of your tits. You arched into the heat of his mouth. Your legs tensed. You couldn't help the relief, the yearning, your skin ached for contact.

He sucked the point of your breast, forcing a whimper from you. In that softly dangerous purr, you could hear him.

"This is what you need. Isn't it...Look at you." He left wet kisses up your shoulder. He groaned, grinding against you. Your wrecked sigh had him huffing a laugh. How could you fathom being apart from him when he made you feel so good.

His fingertips teased down the back of your thigh, sending tingles though you. You could not resist stirring some more. Even the smallest shift from you changed the pressure of your pussy around his cock, so that Steve's head dropped back. His grip on your hip tightened, making you whine.

His thumb lightly played at your clit. You panted, as he added more pressure, and stayed buried deep. You grew hotter, his torture on your clit drawing pleasure higher.

Jaw tight, he soaked in your breathy sounds. That relentless friction on your clit finally drove you over the edge. Your orgasm had your body stiffening, your cunt pulsing around his shaft so deliciously. He was done holding back. A sob escaped your lips and Steve reveled in it.

Growling, Steve pulled back and thrust hard into you. "God, sweetheart. You drive me crazy, taking me so good." He worked his hips, driving into you hard, making you cry out. "I'm gonna fill you up so much."

=======================

[griefabyss69]

A Moment

Written for @steddiemicrofic!

[ AO3 ]

'RIDE' wc: 453 | rated: T | cw: off screen bullying

Eddie's stuck, but Steve comes along and helps him out… after getting something he wants.

It’s a vulnerable thing, standing on his toes, hanging from a towel hook by his wrists in the locker room.

So... he went too far today—teased at the mad-dogs until they had snapped and trussed him up with his own shirt—but he doesn’t regret it. They had it coming, and... and so did he. It’s not like he could’ve planned for this, but he’s been pushing at the edge of danger for so long that now that it’s snapped, he can only laugh at himself and give in, even though he’s cold, and his calves are going to start aching soon. He wore his sneakers today so they don’t even give him an inch of height to help him unhook himself.

The door slams open and a straggler comes in, his aggravated sigh cut short at the sight of what must register as some pale insect desecrating his holy showering chamber.

“Uh,” Steve Harrington says, swiping a hand back through his sweaty hair.

Eddie clenches his teeth around a goading how articulate and gives him a tight smile. Anticipation builds and threatens to prematurely crest in his gut as Steve steps closer—is he gonna punch him? Set him loose? Ride him like a horse?—and Eddie has to swallow down a sudden mouthful of spit.

Steve smells like basketballs and deodorant. The rubber smell is all on his hands, when he reaches for Eddie’s wrists but stops short.

“Munson, I need a win today,” he says, and the way he looks levels Eddie’s insides.

“Letting me down wouldn’t be a loss,” Eddie points out.

“No, I... What’ll you give me if I do?”

“True love’s kiss,” Eddie scoffs. “I dunno, what do you want?”

Steve’s eyes shoot to his lips, then down to his belt.

“To be good at something again.”

“Not weed? Hallucinogens? Uppers? Downers?”

“I don’t want drugs,” Steve says plainly. “I’m good with my mouth.”

Uh.

“Are you going to monologue at me unti—”

Steve leans in, shutting him up. He holds his neck and uses his thumbs to force him still, pushing his lips harder and harder against Eddie’s—he’s gotta start kissing back or he’ll have to take a long walk off the quarry.

The fact that Steve moans when Eddie slips him tongue will stick to his ribs forever, even if Steve breaks out of this magical curse or whatever and ends up slapping him silly.

“There,” Steve pants, once Eddie’s mouth feels more swollen than a fat lip ever did, glancing at the tent in Eddie’s stupid shorts. “I’ve still got it.”

Eddie’s speechless—a once in a lifetime event, given up to a jock—as Steve unhooks him, winking as he heads for the showers.

“See you around, Munson.”

[galaxiasgreen]

🍺🖤This Hell We Create

Sebastian x F!Muggle!Reader with eventual smut, minor Garrinis [E-Rated, 5.6k words]

“Bit past your bedtime, isn’t it, bar girl?” The smoky air catches in your lungs, and when you stand, he closes the distance with arms wide. You don’t just hug – you collapse into him, the relief so potent, so all-encompassing the physical cuts and pains simply fade away. More tears come unbidden; they sting as they trail down your keening cheeks and make the leather and copper of his scent taste like coal. He squeezes back with crushing intensity, and you feel all the safer for it.

In the aftermath of Harlow's attack, you and Sebastian have a choice to make.

[MASTERLIST][FIRST][PREV] [read on AO3, read on Wattpad]

TW: alcoholism, blood/ injury.

7. to snuff a candle

Panic climbs up your throat as you stumble your way back to the pub hall, a jarring embrace of both night cold and flame heat. As the last few minutes ravel and unravel before you again, tangled as the overrun roots of a gnarled tree, you can barely think to breathe, the air is so tainted and chafing.

Harlow, unconscious on the ground by your hand. The lookalike, fleeing out the back and disappearing.

Sebastian, nowhere to be seen.

Hands stripped of skin from the pan, you grit your jaw with each beam of ashen wood you chuck aside. Instead of Sebastian's corpse, you find more of Harlow's men, knocked out and trussed up in perfectly intact rope, and the crushed remains of the furniture and crockery, scraps of the tapestries, shattered lamp glass, smashed jars, tankards blackened by smoke. Tears prickle the bags beneath your eyes. The place is a graveyard to your life's work – but not yet to a life itself.

I'll never complain again he lives, you send a desperate prayer to the universe. Let him be alive. Let him be well. Hinged on this plea, you comb the entire hall without protest, and yet he remains unfound, nursing the bud of hope to an unbearable size, so large you daren't feed it anymore. Better accept him dead and find him alive, than believe him alive, and find his bones in cinders.

Ominis climbs his way through the wreckage to reach you. Although his hair is clearly unwaxed, lolling over his eyes like silk tassels, the rest of him is more put together than expected. Shirt still tucked in, waistcoat done up and trousers without a single crease. You might've believed he wasn't present for the fight at all, if not for the numerous black soot stains splattering his cheeks – it almost looks like he simply stoked a fire too carelessly.

"Oh, hello, madam—" He seems caught off-guard by the way his foot punts against the upended floor boards – he curses beneath his breath. "You're not meant to be here."

"I had to come. Sebastian, is he—?"

"He's fine." He clears his throat, standing upright. "Everything is well. The culprits have been apprehended."

"Where is he?"

"Nearby, I imagine. Who knows with him sometimes."

It's so mundane, like Sebastian's just popped out for a bloody bottle of milk. Ominis' face is shuttered; he's not saying nowt for a reason, but what that reason is, you don't know.

"Where's your walking stick?" you ask.

"Ah. I, ahem, lost it in the fire. Please don't fret. I'll manage." He takes a tentative step closer. "It's still dangerous for you to be here right now. Will you wait outside until I assess the premises? I need to check the foundations are stable."

"Mr Gaunt," you say, deadpan. "You're blind."

Ominis makes his way to the back room.

"Really? I hadn't noticed."

So you go, carving the anxious pit in your stomach ever more hollow as you sit on the kerb outside what was once the front doors. After the groaning wood, crackling flames and frenzied proclamations, the silence is swollen. It has a wrongness to it, like being squeezed through a tube. The city never sleeps and yet it's sleeping now, using this one chance to exist in a moment without needing everyone to know it. There are no people, wandering close to witness the commotion, nor fox kits yearning for their mothers, nor even wind, like Mother Nature herself has abandoned this place. Life feels on pause, and oh, what you wouldn't give to hear voices, or movement, or breath. Your pub used to be a hive, and now it's nothing.

Harlow saw to that... as did your copy.

A shudder runs a course from your scalp, down your spine all the way to your toes. You dig them into your soles and drag your good hand through your sooty and matted hair. It isn't that the doppelgänger wore your face. It's your body shape. Your eyes. Everything down to the grittiest detail. Was it circus make-up? A cruel trick of the light? Punishment from God for lack of faith, lack of propriety this last week in Sebastian's embrace?

You feel the murmur of his lips on your skin, and you mourn those moments – you mourn this place, and the memories it bestowed upon you with a grief that siphons the rest of your strength. Fatigue is catching up now, and if matter could simply cease to exist, Ominis would never find you again.

A tumble of heavy boot steps draws your ear to the doorway.

"Bit past your bedtime, isn't it, bar girl?"

The smoky air catches in your lungs, and when you stand, he closes the distance with arms wide. You don't just hug – you collapse into him, the relief so potent, so all-encompassing the physical cuts and pains merely fade away. More tears come unbidden; they sting as they trail down your keening cheeks and make the leather and copper of his scent taste like coal. He squeezes back with crushing intensity, and you feel all the safer for it.

"Y-You... you crazy bastard..."

"Only crazy for you," he says, stroking your hair. "I'm all right."

You cry anyway, because you know how close he was to slipping through the veil to the other side.

"Harlow... he was... he was about to..."

"It doesn't matter anymore." He pulls back to cup your face, thumb away the tears. "Ominis and I locked him in the cellar with the rest of his gang. He'll go away for life now, I expect. Like he should've the first time."

There's some relief in knowing you'll never see him again. "There's no prison terrible enough for him."

"Oh, I can think of one." He winks, making you laugh. "Are you hurt?"

"No."

He tuts, taking your hands, still red and raw from holding the metal pan. Even the lightest flutter on the palm makes you flinch.

"This looks sore."

"It's fine. What about you?" You frantically check him over – by God's miracle he's almost completely unharmed, with only a few cuts, bruises and burns to prove he was here at all. But this is only what's visible beneath a cloak that seems oddly a size too small. "Are you hurt anywhere? Do you need—?"

"What I need," he says gently, "is for you to take a breath."

He sits you at the remains of the counter. In the short reprieve, Ominis has tidied a walkway through the carnage and presumably left to contact the authorities. Sebastian, on the other hand, works at the bar with his back to you, fingers deft as he sets the stove to heat a kettle, and sources one of the only remaining intact teacups. The tea he brews is weak, and probably hazardous, but you drink it all the same. The taste shrivels the tongue – it's a herbal blend, chamomile, but with odd notes of honey, mint and something earthy and dense, like bark.

"Going to explain why you're here and not safe at home, where I asked you to be?"

You don't want to throw Garreth under the bus for revealing parts of his plan. It was a decision made out of love, after all, and whether or not he told you about the bait you would've come anyway. The worry alone could've killed you.

"I'm glad I did." It murmurs out of you, soft as clouds. You look down – the skin on your hand doesn't hurt so much anymore. "I hit Harlow on the back of the head with a pan."

"That's my girl."

"It's not that, Sebastian. I did it to save someone, and I think... I think that someone was..."

Myself?

"What is it?" he asks, leaning forwards. With his sleeves rolled up, the veins bulge as his arms tense.

The idea is absurd. Yourself. You saw yourself. If someone said it to you, a laugh would've burst right from your belly, but it's the truth – you've seen enough mirrors to know it real. But the words won't come forth, stuck in your throat like rapidly cooling lava. You've worked at this very counter long enough to see the levels of delusion born from too much alcohol. Why not stress and fear and flame, too?

"It's nothing."

"Nothing?" He quirks a brow. "Are you sure?"

You let out a breath, steadying yourself. You trust him – so much it hurts – but this is one secret you'll take to your grave.

"What does it matter anymore?" You spin around to avoid his eye and take in the sight of the hall again. Less than twelve hours ago, there were people breaking bread at tables now rubble. "Harlow's finished and we may not be dead, but my life is still destroyed. Without my pub... I have nothing."

In the silence, he comes to stand next to you, propping himself against the bar.

"Far from it, love. Think about the legacy you built. Think about the comradery, the community. The building didn't make that, you did. You have so much strength, so much more than you think."

The words tighten below your collarbone. "Yeah, all that for what? Can't continue my legacy without a pub, can I?"

He leans down, kissing the shell of your ear.

"I can help with that." He takes your hands and places them over your eyes, shrouding your sight. "Keep your eyes closed."

"What for?"

"A little Sebastian special."

"This is hardly the time to strip, Sallow."

He chuckles. "Save that for later, love. Keep them closed until I tell you. Promise, okay?"

You nod. Sebastian pauses, and then whispers something inaudible – a few syllables that set off a chain reaction like a summer storm that arrives with no warning: a remorseless and enveloping cacophony of sounds and vibrations that almost tips your very stool over. Wood breaks, metal clangs. You think Sebastian, whatever he's doing, might be making it worse before the discord tapers into eerie silence once more. Even then, you don't open your eyes. Part of you is afraid of what you'll see.

"Okay," Sebastian says, after a pause. "Open."

You don't believe the sight at first. What was a burnt down wreckage is now clean, swept tables, polished windows and joists that grip the walls with stalwart intent, refusing to bow to the elements outside. The building is completely whole, a total dream. But as you stand, take a tentative step forwards, the reality of it dawns. It's real. Like he plucked the memory of every plank and hole, every detail from broad to miniscule, from the carpet colour and chair count to the delicate curlicues of the sconces and the wood trim on the wall frieze, painted like a forest woodland in twilight, and recreated it with impossible precision. Everything is intact, everything is as it was. Even things that were broken before are miraculously repaired. The damp is gone, wonky skirting board realigned, the lamps no longer flicker as they burn.

"What... but..." Your heart is racing too fast to count beats. "It... it can't be...?"

"Oh, but it is."

He's a smug beast, and yet as you touch the bar's surface to check it's not a hallucination, each grain and fibre feels unchanged, perfectly varnished without a single splinter. It's real. It's real.

Ye Olde Hen House, as you live and breathe.

You turn to him at a loss. "How the hell did you do this?"

He winks. "Told you. Sebastian special."

"Be truthful, for once. How?"

You sort of know how he's going to answer, how he's always answered when he does something he's not willing to explain. If I tell you, I'll have to kill you. Only, as his face contorts into an even more snarky grin and he opens his mouth to respond, the door pushes open with such force its bang echoes throughout the hall.

It's the last person you expect to see – Kath.

"I should've known you wouldn't do as you're told, Sallow."

An arsenal of people stream inside behind Kath, men, and women, it appears of equal rank, heading straight for the cellar to take Harlow and his gang away. Kath regards you and Sebastian stony-faced with her hands tucked into black coat pockets. There's some sort of insignia on the lapel, a simplified red Gordian knot, but you don't recognise the meaning.

"I can't say I'm surprised." Her gaze glaciates, like anything unfortunate enough to draw her attention will freeze and wither. "Ominis seemed to have faith you wouldn't be so careless. Now it's up to me to remove the liability."

What liability? Sebastian's shoulders curve upwards, and a growl escapes the deepest part of his throat.

"Harlow plotted to use this place to get to me," he mutters. "Was I supposed to let him?"

She draws something from her pocket and raises it. A... stick?

"Harlow is no longer relevant to this conversation. You've threatened the Statute in ways I can't possibly defend. This," she nods her head to the ceiling, to the whole building, "was the last straw." She fixates on you. "She must be removed."

Your lungs fray like worn rope. You are the liability. How, you don't get to ask before he moves between you, as fast as a sandstorm. You wish you could push him out of the way, take the blow from whatever she plans to do, but Sebastian is like the oak that has weathered a thousand years – he will not bend nor break for anything or anyone. He will protect you, no matter what.

Kath makes an irritated flicking gesture. "She's seen too much and you know it. Now step aside."

"Don't talk about me like I'm not here," you snap. Her eyes glaze briefly over you before fixing on him again, igniting your temper. "Whatever you want to do to me—"

"It's not personal," she says tersely. "And it won't hurt. You will simply forget we ever existed at all."

Forget? "What the hell—"

"Don't worry," Sebastian murmurs. His stance straightens. "I won't let you do it."

Frustrated, Kath reaches into her pocket and produces a scroll of parchment. "This here? It's an actual permit from my superior. She must be wiped. And not just her. Half the bloody area could've witnessed your spectacle tonight. This has the potential to be catastrophic, and I'm not even including her bar staff."

Your temper contracts. "If you dare lay a finger on my staff—"

"Easy, love," Sebastian soothes; he turns back to Kath. "The rules don't apply," he says quietly, "if there's a reason she can know."

Kath's eyes tighten. "You barely know her."

"I know her better than you."

Slowly, she drops her weapon, relaxing her posture, and takes a step back. The words seem to prick; you never figured out their relationship prior to his uncle's murder, but here it's flourished by the show of remorse and the set jaw, betraying the hurt she crushes into a ball to hide.

"Very well. You have until sunrise. If she declines, I'll be back. And keep her away from here, unless you want me to make the choice for her."

She passes you another look, harder, judgmental, like all your soul is laid bare for her scrutiny, before she marches past towards the cellar. Sebastian quickly takes your arm and leads you to the back alley, a quiet, mournful spot, and when he turns to you, all that bravado drains dry, the front he put up crumbling before your very eyes.

"I'm sorry," he whispers.

"It's all right." You will simply forget we ever existed at all. You rub his arms, then sweep the dirt from his face, and he leans into the touch. "How can I be a liability when it's my pub? What did she mean about making me forget? What's going on?"

"I can't explain, not properly, but I... I am giving you time to make a choice. It's not a lot of time, but..." The coffee of his eyes becomes mulchy like dregs. "I'm sorry for it."

"Choice for what?"

"It's true. You've seen too much. You've never questioned how I do things you can't explain."

"I questioned you not five minutes ago." But you think back on every instance. Making criminals confess, taking your parents to the beach, transporting back and forth, healing at incredible rates... each time, you swallowed your bewilderment, conjured ordinary theories for extraordinary circumstances. "For anyone else I would prod more, but... because it's you..."

The corner of his lip twinges, then it's gone. "Kath can make you forget everything. You'll forget Harlow and what he put you through."

"Forget? Truly?"

He nods.

"But then... would I forget you?"

"Yes."

"And it would be painful?"

"No, like snuffing a candle. Over in an instant."

It seems like no choice, none at all. You see your parents every day and know what it means to forget. It's more than candlelight yielding to dark; it's relinquishing the joy you gained from the happy memories, and the wisdom you gleaned from the sad. It's a whole part of your person stripped away – and what does it mean to be human if not a reverent shrine to your past?

"If I said no to forgetting," you say, "what must I do instead?"

But by the way Sebastian carries himself, taut like a bow string on the edge of a break, the second option is no easier.

He thinks about it for a long time.

"Do you remember when you asked me to tell you how I transported your parents to the beach? Or how I got those arseholes who hurt Bonny to tell the truth?"

You snort. "Yeah, yeah. If I tell you, I'll have to kill you."

"No," he says with a sad smile. "I said, If I tell you, I'll have to... dot dot dot. You filled in the blank."

"I filled it the way you were implying."

"That's what I wanted you to think, yeah, but it's not quite true. If I tell you the truth, bar girl, I wouldn't have to kill you." He softens. "I'd have to marry you."

You're too stunned to respond.

"Marriage brings security," he says, delivering it with an unusual stoicism – a means of protecting his own heart. "If you married me, you would be allowed to remember."

"So the choice," you say carefully, "is forgetting, or marriage?"

"Yes."

"And what... what is it you want?"

"What I want doesn't matter—"

"It's not a pinkie swear over who eats the last biscuit. It's marriage, Sebastian. You don't agree to that willy-nilly." You grip his shirt, make him feel how important this is. "What do you want?"

He licks cracked, dry lips.

"What I want..." He muses upon it like he's tasting the words for the very first time. "I wanted revenge, but seeking it only brought pain and death to the people I love. I wanted release, but now I'm addicted to the thing that gave it to me. Everything I ever want turns rotten in my hands."

You touch his chest, over his heart, and listen to that steady rocking beat within. "It's not wrong to want."

"It's wrong to want what I want right now." Tentatively he reaches upwards, and the back of his hand leaves a trail of sparks down your cheek. "To want to marry you and care for you and love you, if you'd have me. To want you in my life for the rest of my life. More days spent together having fun, more nights making love until we fall asleep in each other's arms. There'd be no more secrets or trickery. I... I want you." A wry smile. "And I promise I wouldn't take your assets. We'd be equals in every way."

The idea sparks a beautiful fantasy. Waking up to his gorgeous face, the quiet moments getting ready together, sharing kisses in the ephemeral spaces between, spending mornings, noons and nights waiting to touch him again, kiss him again, and when the pub finally closes on a good day of trade and laughter and community, you would share those unforgettable moments with him, lavishing affection on each other's bodies until slumber claims the midnight hours. Days trickling into weeks. Growing older, maybe having a family. You can taste it, like ambrosia of the gods.

But that's all it is – a fantasy. You've always wanted marriage through the traditional means, not with your hands rope-tied as you dangle from a cliff. And although you have no doubt he loves you, from the tips of his fingers to the very marrow in his bones, there's something he craves more than you. And it's the very thing you trade for coin. The very thing that brought you together in the first place.

His eyes search you, and he must see the decision solidify behind your eyes, because his Adam's apple bobs, and his cheeks pull back as the weight of it bows his lips.

"I won't be coerced into marriage, Sebastian," you say, and each word feels like the stab of a dagger, "and... I won't put you in a more vulnerable position than you are now. You need to work on yourself."

You hold eye contact, though it threatens to break you – and watch the way his coffee eyes crumble to dust.

"I can be better. I'll give it up right now, I swear it."

"I know you can, which is why you have to do this away from here, for yourself. Getting married to a bar girl... that's a recipe for trouble. You're going to be surrounded by alcohol all the time. You'd grow to resent it. Resent me."

"I could never resent you."

"You were in prison for ten years, Sebastian. My life will always be here, but your life could take you anywhere. You didn't go through your sister's death just to settle without thinking it through, really thinking it through." When his brow crumples you try to soften the final blow. "No, Sebastian. This isn't the right way forwards... and you know it."

He exhales like he's letting go. He knows.

"You want to give up on us?"

"The opposite." He leans into the touch, fluttering his eyes closed as you sweep across his cheek, catching the crystal droplets on the pads of your fingers. "If... if what we have is strong—"

"It is."

"— and not another one of your fancy tricks—"

"Still don't trust me, after all this time?" He smiles. "Wise girl. Must be why I like you so much."

You smile too. "Fate will do the rest, if were meant to be together, but whether or not we are, this will give you a chance at a fresh start. I won't remember, and you won't have a reason to come back here anymore."

After a moment, he says, "If you're here, I'll always have a reason" in the most quietly broken voice possible. He speaks like the last sunray before nightfall, the final word of a beloved story, and the weak beat of the heart before it stops for good. When another swollen tear drips onto your hand, you shut your eyes, trying to stop the lump in your throat turning into a sob.

"I won't remember to miss you, but I hope you know that somewhere deep down I will." He presses his forehead to yours, and you open your eyes, blurry and undefined, yet you know its coffee that looks back. "Be good. Or try to?"

"I will."

His mouth finds yours in the haze. You grip his shirt collar, pulling him closer, closer still, desperate to have him like the air you breathe. If this is your last taste of Sebastian Sallow, you want it to imprint on your tongue, ghost your lips with every smile and leave a mark upon your soul. At another time, maybe in this life or the next, you would let yourself be his forever.

Just not here. Just not now.

His tears trickle down your cheek, and you force yourself to pull back, before it's impossible to do it at all. He clutches your arms, and you lean into him, pressing your forehead to his.

"You and I were not meant to be," you whisper, "not together, in this hell we create."

Lips shiny with tears, Sebastian flashes a smile.

"If being with you is hell," he says, "then heaven must be beyond paradise."

A notice goes up as the sun rises.

Opening late due to unforeseen circumstances.

At the bar, where nothing seems to have changed, you take a long sip of stout; it's strong, but richly malt, flavoured with notes of caramel and coffee that settle the turns of your stomach. No wonder Sebastian likes it so much.

Your last reminder of him will live sweet on the tongue.

The knock comes when you expect. You don't hurry, finishing the rest of the drink and wiping the froth away before going to the door. You pass the back door locked tightly, a corner used as a cheese board, a table cleaned vigorously of stains. Ye Olde Hen House is a memorial of him, and it will be your solace, even if you won't know why.

You pull the door open. Kath stands outside, alone.

"Your answer?"

"I said no."

She nods once. "Then you know why I'm here."

In the silence that follows, Kath performs a cursory check of the premises. With your parents upstairs, and your staff coming later, you are alone. Your limbs itch to take you away, constantly at brace of a blow that's not supposed to hurt. To Kath this is a quick, clean procedure, but it doesn't make you any less nervous. If only he was here to see you through.

"Sebastian is a good person, you know," you murmur.

Her gaze hardens. She says nothing.

"He makes mistakes, but inside he is good."

"You forget I know that all too well." Kath just sighs. "But the law thinks differently, and I have to follow orders."

"That's the difference between you and Sebastian. You follow orders. He follows his heart."

Her face is an impasse, unhewn stone. With all the compassion of a physician doing routine surgery, she comes to stand about five feet away, facing you with a lifted chin.

"He was happy with you." She says it neither with disdain nor tenderness, just pure observation, and maybe a way to guard her own pain. "I hope, for your sake, his heart leads him back here one day, when you're both ready."

"I hope so too."

You return to the stool, Sebastian's stool, and make yourself comfortable as Kath pulls out the stick. Like snuffing a candle. Over in an instant. You shut your eyes, and cling to the image of Sebastian as you know him best – a customer, friend, lover, protector, saviour. As one who opened your eyes to the breadth of human kindness and soul.

You think about his smile as Kath says a word you've never heard before.

"Obliviate."

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　　　　　　⠀⠀⠀✦ ⠀ ⠀　

　　　　　　　　　　　　　⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀* ⠀⠀⠀.　

　　　　　　　　　. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀✦⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　　　　　　　　　.　

　　ﾟ .　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　

　　　　　　　　　　　　　✦ 　　　　

　,　　　　　　　.

　　　　　　*　　　　　　　　　　　.

.　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　

✦⠀　   　　　,　　　　　　　　　*

　　　　　⠀　　　　⠀　　,

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　 　　⠀　　　⠀.　

　　˚　　　⠀　⠀  　　,　　　　　　.

　　　　　　　　　　　　　.

　　　　　　*⠀　　⠀  　　　　　⠀✦⠀　

　　　　　　*　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　.

　　　　.　　　　.　　　⠀

　　　　　　　　　　　.

　　　˚　　　　　　　　ﾟ　　　　　.

　.⠀　　⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀,

　　　*　　⠀.

　　　　　.　　　　　　　　　　⠀✦

　˚　　　　　　　　　　　　　　*

.⠀ 　　　　　　　　　　.　　　　　　　　.

　　　　　✦⠀　   　　　,　　    　　　　　　　　.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　　　　　　⠀⠀⠀✦ ⠀ ⠀　　　　　

　　　　　　　　　⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀* ⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　　　　　

　. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀✦⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀.　　

　　　　　　　　　　　.　　　ﾟ .　　　　　　　

　　　　　　. 　　　　　　　　　　　　

　　　✦ 　　　　　,　　　　　　　.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

　　　　　　*　　　　　　　　　　　.

.　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　✦⠀　   

　　　,　　　　　　　　　*

　　　　　⠀　　　　⠀　　,

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　 　　⠀　　　⠀.　

　　˚　　　⠀　⠀  　　,　　　　　　.

　　　　　　　　　　　　　.

　　　　　　*⠀　　⠀  　　　　　⠀✦⠀　

　　　　　　*　　　⠀✦⠀　　　　　　　　　　　.

　　　　.　　　　.　　　

　　　　　　　　　　　.

　　　˚　　　　　　　　ﾟ　　　　　.

　.⠀　⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀,

　　　　　✦⠀　   　　　,

　　　　　　*　　　　　　　　　⠀✦⠀　　　.

A freckled stranger comes in at eight o'clock.

A strange melancholy brews in your chest, a loss like a wound that will not heal. You've never understood this feeling. Your parents are the same as before, Bonny and the other staff are in high spirits, the pub is doing well. There's money in the till and food in your belly, a fire in the hearth and a roof over your head. But something's missing. For over a year you have withstood this phantom limb, ignored the pit so large and yawning that has no discernible source, but sometimes, like today, it feels impossible to bear.

"Awright, Miss?" Bonny asks, tilting her head so her hair tumbles down her bosom. "Got the morbs?"

You pull back from your thoughts, blinking confoundedly. "No, sorry," you laugh awkwardly. "Just feeling out of sorts."

"Turn that frown upside-down," she says, grinning. "Life ain't so bad, is it?"

Families huddle over homemade stew, old companions reunite for celebration, couples share wine and spirit. You look around at the clinking glasses, the gramophone spitting a jaunty tune, the happy staff, the filled tables and delicious food mopped up by greasy fingers.

"No," you say, with a content smile. "No, it don't get much better, really."

"Especially," she giggles, looking askance, "with such fine company."

You follow her gaze to the man loitering by the door, watching you. Most of the regulars are in their forties, pot-bellied and cheerful like Christmas adverts of St Nick – but the freckled stranger is around your age, nine-and-twenty, with youthful skin, a smooth gait and broad, firm shoulders. He wears a long dark coat that swishes with his pronounced, proud stride, neatly stitched along the hem with a patch on the lapel, a charmingly written A in gold embroidery. The coat covers a blazer, waistcoat and tie, and pinstripe trousers that dust the ankles of his polished brogues.

"He's looking at you something fierce." Bonny wiggles her brow. "Bet the muscle on that man could make a horse swoon."

You look away from him, intrigued, flustered. "Control yourself, Bonny."

"Oh— he's coming over!"

She scurries off with a tray, giggling, and you accept the freckled stranger's attention as he slides into the stool at the bar.

"Hello."

Surprisingly his voice comes out soft, maybe a little star-struck. Up close, he is even more handsome, generously freckled, clean-shaven, and scented with a perfume that fills you with nostalgia. Chestnut curls shadow his eyes, also a dark brown, like chocolate, like wood shavings scattered on the damp forest floor...

Like... coffee.

"Want a drink?"

His gaze hones in with a sincerity so beautiful it sends shivers down your spine.

"A pot of chamomile, please."

"Two farthings."

He barely glances down before sliding the coinage over. His hands are made from work, thickly stumped fingers and cracked nails and wide callouses, but with veins that contrast the skin like rivulets. He flexes suddenly, pronouncing the main one down the length of his arm, and you notice him watching you, each innocent movement of your fingers and lips intimately traced. You look away, flushing.

"Not seen you around before," you say as you pour the tea. "New in town?"

"Returning." The timbre of his voice could make a field bloom in roses. "I've been doing some soul-searching for the past year."

"Good on you. Sure you don't want to celebrate with something stronger?"

"Nah, tea's great." He winks. "Company's not bad either."

You snort. "Flirt all you want, it won't be free."

"Oh, I don't mind paying," he raises the cup, "if it always comes with the view."

Head braced in hand, he sips slowly, eyes half-lidded, content with himself but aware, and the steam sluices across his cheek like gossamer, pronouncing his jawline and how somewhere, deep in your chest, you take an odd notion to stroking it. Your father, when he was right of mind, used to tell tales of how he romanced your mother – over the counter, drink in hand, brazen but never overstepping, tongue silver yet wit as sharp as a blade. Is this man the same?

And why does it matter to you if he is?

Between work, you make scraps of conversation as the night wears on. Talking to the freckled stranger is, you find, as easy as breathing. He speaks generously, laughs earnestly, offers compliments without being saccharine. You could sit and listen to him all night, a pleasant and unexpected way to distract, maybe even fill, that missing void.

He gets up as the hour approaches late, fixing his cuffs and tossing the coat over his shoulder. You saunter towards him with pretend disinterest.

"What's your name?"

His grin grows slowly, like sunrise. "Now, bar girl," the nickname is murmured velvet, "I don't kiss and tell."

You let out a laugh. With a motion of finality, he pivots to leave, and you ask before it's too late, "Will I be seeing you here again?"

The freckled stranger pauses, turns his head to you, and smiles.

"Stupid question."

Fin.

A/N: This story is very different in vibe to anything else I’ve written, and the challenge was both fun and… a challenge, hahah. Thank you so, so much for reading, I really had a blast bringing this version of Sebastian to life and developing his relationship with a Muggle reader – writing his shenanigans from her perspective was my most favourite part. Special thanks this time to my tumblr readers, it's been wonderful writing this for you all!

I intend to post an Ominis/Muggle!Reader series at some point (it was actually going to come out first but Sebastian got mad and took over my muse, so). Follow if you wanna see that! It’s in the oven.

And I always like to give a shout-out to fics similar in vibe, so I’d like to recommend @morelikeravenbore's How to Make a Villain for its phenomenal prose, meticulously realised characters and nuanced discussions of difficult topics, like grief and death. If you liked Sebastian here, you’re gonna love him there.

Thank you so much for reading. I really appreciate it. <3

Please leave a like/ reblog/ comment if you enjoyed <3

Thank you to my tag list! 💚 @okay-j-hannah @morelikeravenbore @vylaris @gyattoru @cloudroomblog

@cordidy @feleigh @avengersgirllorianna

[MASTERLIST][FIRST][PREV]

[Divider credit]

[ohbo-ohno]

imagine you’re bound and gagged and johnny’s folding your legs up like a pretzel, fucking you and suddenly he hits a spot so good it feels like you’ve just got tasered. you yelp behind the gag, body seizing. you try to close your knees to keep him there but he takes your squirming as you being close and /changes everything/. faster, harder and only ghosting over it. you scream, loud and long, squirm to get it again and he doesn’t understand, keeps doing his own thing and you know you’d cum so good if he just rammed into that spot over and over. you do end up coming but it’s an orgasm so ruined that immediately brings angry tears to your eyes. and again soap thinks you’re overwhelmed by it all, holding you and kissing you but he doesn’t /get it/.

something about soap lowkey being bad at sex because he's so stupidly desperate for you.....

he's got you bound and gagged because you always fight him when he fucks you. not because you're not consenting, but because you're always trying to boss him around :/

you're always yapping at him about how you want to be fucked, always trying to grab his shoulders or hips and guide him where you want him, trying to get a hand down on your clit so you can get yourself off. johnny knows how to get you off, thank you very much, but he just can't focus on doing that when you're making it so difficult!!!

so he likes to tie you up, just so he doesn't have to hold your wrists down (though he does love to do that, to watch as you trash beneath him but can't get even an inch of room to move because he's that much stronger than you). he likes how you always make it a little difficult to get you tied down, how you always make him work for it. same with the gag - he might miss your cries and moans, but your flushed red face and glare as he fucks you more than make up for it

he doesn't really notice when you don't come :// he's so caught up in the pursuit of his own pleasure, just using you as a toy. he's always rougher when he can't hear you, almost like he forgets that you're a real person beneath him when you can't remind him. he wraps his hands around the ropes keeping you trussed up and closes his eyes and fucks you like an absolute beast

he doesn't notice when you almost come, doesn't notice when you lose the orgasm you were so close to, he only notices when he's close, and when he comes

(you have two options when he finally unties you:

a - you're pissed and horny and he's exhausted and you shoved him onto his back, jack him off until he's hard again, and ride him until you're both seeing stars. he'll moan like a whore the whole time, hands tight on your thighs while he looks up at you like you're a goddess

b - if he hasn't completely completely exhausted himself inside your cunt, he'll eat you out. he likes to flip you onto your belly after he unties you, heavy body between your legs and a hand on your spine keeping you pressed to the bed so you can't fuck yourself on his face. he'll get you off two or three times like this, or until he's too tired to keep going)

[maniculum]

Perlesvaus (Evans translation)

So I'm taking another stab at reading the Sebastian Evans translation of Perlesvaus, for... reasons. Or the High History of the Holy Graal, as he titles it -- funnily enough, the people who put out this reprint apparently looked at the title, said "we're not doing that", and spelt it Grail on the cover.

Despite the bizarre choices in diction, it's still pretty fun, and I want to share some particularly entertaining bits of this text with y'all. (For those of you who aren't up on the two different translations of Perlesvaus and don't know what I mean by "bizarre choices", the Evans translation is from 1898 but pretending to be from, like, 1498.)

N.B.: Marginal notes in red are from the last time I tried this -- they stop showing up roughly a quarter of the way through the book, because that's when I decided to buy the Bryant translation instead.

I just find this funny because "who cares?" strikes me as such a modern thing to say. To me it is a phrase that seems most natural coming from a teenage character in late-20th-century media. But nope. "Who careth?"

This is here just for the bizarre scene. We have three women coming into the throne room (riding mules directly into the building, by the way). One is carrying a severed head decorated with silver and gold. Another has "a pack trussed behind her with a brachet thereupon" -- you can see from the notes that I had to look up "brachet", found out it was an old word meaning roughly "female scent-hound", and then had the mental image of this woman carrying around a beagle in a baby-bjorn.

Again something I find funny. Gawain just leaping through the air to interpose himself between the horses and this hermit, like he's trying to take a bullet for them. This is entirely because he is 100% certain the hermit will handle the saddles incorrectly, and when the hermit assures him he actually does know how this stuff works, Gawain calms down & lets him do it.

This is, for my money, one of the funniest things in all of Perlesvaus, which is saying something because it is a bonkers text. This lady rolls up and provides that description, and the hermit recognizes who she's talking about. Like, "oh yes I did see a knight with a heart of steel and the navel of a virgin". I want to give this description to a sketch artist. (I kind of want to throw it at an AI just to see what it comes up with, but you know. I don't want to encourage the machines.)

This time I'm nit-picking the translation, because that strikes me as a misplaced modifier. Obviously it's meant that Gawain is unaware of events, but the sentence is constructed to make it sound like it's referring to the building itself, which is of course unaware because it's a building and isn't aware of anything. (Also, side note, I like the phrase "as methinketh!")

One more, and I'm leaving this for now...

Here is a case where I was going to complain, but on further examination, I must hand it to Evans. I assumed that he was just randomly archaizing, but I looked it up after uploading this photo, and according to the OED, this was a valid alternate spelling of sovereign from the 17th to the 19th century. (Interestingly, the latest attested example on the OED is from 11 years before this translation was published, meaning this is evidence it was in use slightly longer than the OED entry would suggest -- does anyone know if there's still a way to submit instances of a word to the OED?)

[winterinhimring]

Ok ok ok, so we've all seen the Spiderman in Gotham AUs, but what do you think would happen if STEVE ROGERS wound up in Gotham??? Specifically, how would he deal with The Tortures People for Fun Joker?

Ooh, I like this one. I think the critical thing about Steve (from a vigilante perspective) is that he doesn't like killing, it's not his first resort, and he won't do it unnecessarily, but he absolutely will do it if it's clear that this guy won't stop any other way, especially if civilians are in danger.

That said, he also respects the rule of law, and he's now the only true enhanced on the side of the heroes in Gotham, so I think his first couple of run-ins with the Joker would probably end similarly to the way they would if it was Batman. Joker gets bruised up a bit, tackled away from whatever he was doing, trussed up and stuck in Arkham.

The exception is if Steve turns up in Gotham during a very critical point with a very specific Robin, because he's going to see a man cackling and beating a masked child with a crowbar. And, see, Steve had a masked kid follow him around once (if we mean comics!Steve), and that masked kid got hurt too, and yes he came back, but he didn't come back the same. He came back hurt and used in ways Steve would have given anything to protect him from. All of which is to say, I don't think the Joker actually lives long enough to know what hit him in this scenario.

But let's go back to somewhat less angsty AUs. The Joker, at this point, when he's been stopped and dropped in Arkham a couple of times, is likely to write Steve off as another man with a moral code he can manipulate. Which, fair, Steve is a man with a moral code, but the Joker's vision has been skewed by Batman, and he assumes all heroes have a no kill code. He proceeds to set up the same kind of mind games he would with Batman - he takes hostages, he hurts hostages, and he relies on 'well you'll never take lethal measures' to protect him. He might even throw in a few taunts. 'How easy it would be, if you weren't such a hero, with those clean hands.'

But Steve has an answer to that, an easy one. 'I'm not a hero. The guys who didn't come back, they're the heroes. I'm just trying to live up to them. And maybe my hands aren't clean. But the blood of a man who tortures children won't dirty them.'

At which point, RIP Joker.

Bruce doesn't know what to think of this.

Alfred, who hides guns in the mansion, even if he bows to Bruce's sentiments enough to use non-lethal rounds, has a new favourite person. (This does not displace any of his other favourite people, of course.)

Gotham winds up in the very interesting situation where, if you're a criminal, the Batman is no longer the man you fear most. The Batman is terrifying. He steps out of dark alleys like he materialised there, beats the daylights out of you, and leaves you for the cops, but you know he won't kill you.

No, the man you fear most, if you live in Gotham's underbelly, is the one with the shield and the star-spangled outfit. Because that shield is for defence, but it's for the defence of the innocent. And if you are a man who endangers the innocent, the man who carries that shield will not hesitate to stop you the permanent way.

Batman gives Gotham hope. Hope that will never stay down no matter how hard you hit or how badly you hurt it. Batman, ironically, is the light of dawn at the darkest of night, promising that a new day can come.

Captain America gives Gotham justice. Justice that will not be turned aside by crooked cops or Arkham's revolving door or hostages. Captain America is the light of righteousness that burns away what is evil. His justice can be tempered with mercy, but his kindness is not to be manipulated.

Together, they lead Gotham into a brighter future.

Bruce Wayne and Steve Rogers are mutually unsure what to do with each other. Their upbringings and philosophies are so different that I think it would be hard for them to be friends, at least at first. Alfred knows perfectly well what to do with both of them and thinks Master Bruce needs a friend who shares his commitment to justice, but also won't bow to his hangups. He invites Steve over for tea. They get on like a very polite house on fire. The current Robin thinks the shield is AWESOME.

However, I think Steve and Bruce share enough common ground that they would work through it eventually. (If we went with the Steve-saves-Jason scenario I think a lot of the wary dancing around each other would get skipped because they'd both be all in on 'save the kid' and only find out about their differences of opinion later.) They are both devoted to justice and the defence of the innocent; they differ on methods, but I honestly think the issues would be mostly on Bruce's side, because Steve is clearly, uncompromisingly good. But he's killed. He may kill again. It depends on how self-aware Bruce is about his no-kill line being a personal thing he can't do without sliding into revenge. If he knows that, and doesn't have an issue with others who don't have that personal knowledge, there might not be problems at all. There would be some entertaining rich-kid-poor-kid differences in worldview, but nothing so serious they couldn't be friends.

Entertainingly, this world also carries the possibility of Cap meeting Superman. I think he and Clark would be friends immediately and Ma Kent would adopt him as soon as she heard of him. No angst there, no confusion of different ideologies. You fight for peace, justice, and the American way? So do I! Same hat! Let's go stop those bad guys. Hey, cool shield!

(At some point in the future: Lex Luthor: Superman, I have your ultimate weakness! Kryptonite! Clark, keeling over: That's great, but have you met my new friend? Steve: *punches Lex* Lex, seeing what looks like a blonde Superman clone: How are you unaffected by this? It's kryptonite! Steve: ...I'm from Brooklyn.)

(Years later: Clark, picking up a kryptonite spear: I have to kill Doomsday. Steve: Gimme that. *yeets spear, impaling Doomsday* Steve: How many times do I have to tell you, *I* use the kryptonite weapons when something from your planet tries to kill us!)

[50cal-fullauto-astarion]

hot in sarajevo i

[ part two ]

könig x f!reader operator (no use of "y/n") / 4k words / NSFW

cw: assassination, dubcon (not really bc reader is into it and consents, but better safe than sorry bc ymmv), unsanitary conditions, rough sex, unprotected p-in-v sex, fingering, creampie, brief mention of burn injuries, pre-established relationship a.n.: no excuse for this, indulged a brain worm on my day off bc i wanted to write something nasty. enjoy!

It’s been a blistering, miserable six hours out in the hills outside Sarajevo proper. The height of summer, surrounded by dead-brown grass blown about sadly in the weak breeze. You cook in your ghillie suit, knowing it could very well be another six hours under this heat with zero shade, just waiting on your target. Sweating. Searching. Souring. 

König is your spotter, and he’s already not pleased with the fact. He’d much rather be the one wrapped around the Steyr HS .50, instead relegated to the seemingly miserable role of binocular jockey. But the fact is, he’s better at recon, and you can stay planted in one place without moving even when your lower body burns with numbness. 

“I’m hard,” he announces in his way—no preamble, no fanfare, moderate expectation. 

“Christ,” you snort, pulling away from the scope only enough to throw a glance at him. He’s still pressed against the oculars, jaw working on sunflower seeds because they can’t smoke without setting the tinderbox field around them on fire. Otherwise, you can barely see the shape of him in his own ghillie suit among the grass. “Clench your legs and your torso, or hump the fucking dirt.”

“Not going to get the job done,” he laughs darkly, dumping back another mouthful of seeds. You can hear them crack between his molars as he bites down hard. 

He’s going to be a fucking handful after this. 

Going back to your scope, watching the highway, you promise him, “If you’re good helping me with this assassination, we can play when we’re done.”

Another hard bite, another gravelly laugh. Sing-song, he warns you, “Better hope he drives by so-oooh-oon, Schatzi.”

“Always nice to get a visit from mean-König,” you hum back, trying for unaffected, even as your cunt floods and clenches around nothing. 

It’s just hitting golden hour when the target finally deigns to bomb past your scope in a civilian vehicle trussed up in subtle armor. You and König slot right into the predator drift, bodies left behind to fall into the hunt. Working like extensions of one body, he confirms a PID, and throws calculations your way, sharp and sleek, and your blood turns into straight adrenaline, pupils dilated to pitch black.

You work like the sword of god, lining up your crosshairs, allowing for lead, allowing for wind and elevation, and when you exhale and give the trigger what it wants, the sky cracks in half with a sonic boom, big gun bucking brutal against your shoulder. With one shot you take out the target and driver, vehicle careening off the road. 

König’s low, restrained laugh blends into yours, your teeth chattering under your face covering. Two more shots cut the blood-and-gold colored sky, killing the remaining passengers, and something vile in you shrieks with delight when one of them staggers around without a head a few steps before falling backwards stiff as a board.

Your eyes catch his as you throw the safety, pulling the massive rifle into your arms to flee the scene, and he looks blood-poisoned with arousal. The normal blue-gray of his eyes are gone, sore, unblinking pink sclera around inkwell pools of black. His back heaves with his breathing, body rigid and clenched, hips grinding against the ground. He is going to fucking tear you apart and eat the pieces. Saturn Devouring His Son, König Devouring His Lover.

Without a word, you both force your bodies around in the tall, dead grass, ghillie suits blending your belly-drag crawl to the treeline.

There’s a five mile hike between your abandoned perch and the exfil vehicle, following back the steps you took this morning, with a staging site in the middle of it. Small clearing, deep enough that no one could stumble across it, a temporary home for your rifle’s case and minimal necessary equipment. 

The moment you’re both upright in the treeline, König’s got a vicious hand under your camo, gripping your belt, dragging you close and up, forcing you on unbalanced tiptoes. “You’re going to fucking give it to me,” he demands. 

You turn it around, snatching a hand under his hood, gun sagging in your arms. Your fist wraps around the jaw strap of his helmet, knuckles pressing into his jugular–his pulse is fucking racing, booming, screaming through his veins–and your teeth are shards of glass as you command him, “Fucking heel. You’re not being a good boy.”

That makes him pant, almost reeling, eyes blinking out of sorts, pulling you closer, almost against him. 

“That is not how it’s going to work today,” he says, slow and damning. Turns your blood into lava, thick and slow and lethal pumping through your heart as it fights for its life. He pulls the rifle from your hand, and it weighs nothing to him. Nearly looks like he’s got more to say, and he’s trying to figure out how to word it, but his brain is too clouded with lust to put it in the right order.

Hefts the gun over his shoulder like a bat, and shoves you back by the pelvis, releasing you. Time to go, the moves say, leaving you no dignified way to hold onto the authority that’s slipped through your fingers. 

You know he’s burning frustration, anger, and resentment as fuel for this mood. You were the designated sniper, he was a lowly spotter. In his mind, that position belonged to him, and you took it. It didn’t matter that you were the superior choice, that he was invaluable to the kill. 

No. Not at all. You stole from him, and he’s taking something in return.

If you weren’t thinking solely with your pussy, you would admit that it would probably be wise to exercise caution with him at the moment. But you’re not. You’re going to get your brains fucked out and painted on a tree.

At the staging area, scant gold light is cutting through the trees as the sun lumbers its way to setting, and the woods are humid and dense. Your boots crush fallen beech nut pods and pine needles. Could almost be Thoreauvian, if there was a lake, or not a gun big enough to kill god in the arms of a sexually frustrated Austrian maniac.

König is fast and quiet, ripping the mag out of the gun, emptying the chamber, dropping the gun on its case. You’d seen him piece apart a pistol to base components in ten seconds many times, he’s making himself take time with the rifle, leaving it barely touched.

You’ve got enough time to just prepare for him to grab you around the middle so you aren’t thrown off balance, leaning into his momentum as he hauls you to an enormous beech tree, his back sliding down the trunk. Keeps you pinned in his lap, laughing harsh and ugly as you deal with your belt, button, and zipper, “Good girl–good fucking girl. Know what I’m going for.”

“You’re easy to predict,” you bullshit him with a sharp edge. He’s going to get his way, and you’re going to deliver unto him whatever the fuck he pleases, but you’re going to keep your teeth through it. “Could’ve taken the suits off, could’ve really given you a show.”

“Cute that you think I’m in a rush. You’re in the suit on purpose,” he grates, thrusting against your ass, forcing you open with your legs over his knees. “Keep being mouthy. Only fucks me up worse.”

“Stiff breeze gets you fucked up,” you snort, but when he hooks his gloved thumb in your zipper, you lift your hips to help him pull your pants down your thighs. Leaves you exposed, drenched in sweat, and wet in his lap. “Goddamned freak.”

He bypasses the true and mutually reflective accusation completely, grinding the forehead of his helmet against the back of yours. Still looking for affectionate closeness, even when he’s out for blood. “Can smell you, good god,” he growls, sliding his huge hand into your underwear, grabbing your sex in ownership. “You and the military issue drawers–typical. Been a while since I fucked you in gear. Still wearing the boxers because you wish you were hanging dick, or is it just to match the attitude?”

“Commissary ran out of crotchless combat thongs. Waiting on a restock.” The rough fabric of his gloved middle finger splits your lips, teasing your hole, and for a flashfire second you think he’d better not give you a UTI with those dirty fucking things, before it burns straight out of your head. 

“Better luck next time,” he taunts, jaw tight. You can hear the wolf-fanged smirk in his tone. “Start going commando. Make it easier.”

“Maybe there isn’t a next time,” you volley back, “best you make the most of this.”

“There’s always a next time. No one else could fuck you like me. Little whore you are, you’d get bored.”

He blots all the thought out in your head, adding his ring finger to the mix, pushing both huge digits into your starving cunt. Rips a bark right out of you, arching off his chest and pushing against his hips for leverage, trying automatically to fuck down on them even as the pain of the fabric feels like it’s rasping your insides. “Jesus fucking Christ,” you gasp, going hot-cold-and-blind all at once, nipples pulling tight under your gear. 

He throws a heavy arm around your stomach, pulling you back down, merciful or mindful enough to know he needs to go slow, or this isn’t going to go anywhere except the infirmary. “Take it, Liebes, swallow them down with that pretty cunt,” he commands, his English as sharp and scraping as scythe blades felling harvest in wide, practiced strokes, “I’m not even close to done.”

You can already feel his fat cock straining against his pants, even through all the layers between you, and you rut back against it, at least trying to get some torture of your own added in. That just makes him stupid and animalistic, pushing his chin over your shoulder, trying to butt into your jaw. He wants to bite your lips, but there are too many impediments blocking the way.

His fingers squelch down to the last knuckle, your pussy spasming around them, soaking the fabric. He’s a pervert to such a degree that you know he’s going to leave them unwashed, and he’s going to wear and suck on them while he beats off when you’re not there until there’s no flavor left. 

For now, he’s slow, rocking them into you in a curve, his sense of touch dampened as he searches out your g-spot. The exploration makes you feel filthy, and just a little humiliated. Used. Faceless and disrespected. It’s so opposed to his usual dogmatic worship, fresh and frightening. 

He gives a little something extra, grinding the heel of his hand over your clit, telling you to use it. You do, finally feeling something physically pleasurable, even though it’s too dull and not nearly enough. 

König is segmented; you’ve known that for as long as you’ve known him. Don’t know if he did it to himself, or if it was an after-affect of all the bad shit he didn’t die from. He’d let you in on enough to know that his best days are numb neutrality and boredom intercut with adrenalized high-chasing. His worst days are lost dogs and veils of blood floating through his mouth.

He almost clicks over from one facet to another when you push against his arm, hissing through your teeth as a stitch on his glove catches a fold in you. For a microsecond, lover-König surfaces, shifting you around against his body, repositioning his fingers so you aren’t hurting too badly, and then he’s gone again.

With a rough hand, he shoves the tan boxer-briefs down your thighs, and bucks your ass off his pelvis, going to release his cock.

You push your shoulders back against his chest, plate carrier digging into your shoulderblades. “Only two fingers, aren’t you acting like a fucking prince today.”

“You’re lucky you got that much,” he snaps back, groaning when his cock springs free of his trappings, and he strokes it beneath you. Monster fucking thing it is, long enough you can see the swollen, leaking head between your legs, even as you’re still hovering. There’s no give in the skin, and the head is a needy red with arousal, completely slipped from his foreskin. “Put it in.”

You ignore his order, writhing against him, your discomfort only ramping up your arousal. It’s nightmarish how badly you actually want his cock fed into you, desperate to have anything to fill the void his fingers left in you, and, shit, it would be so much sweeter and smoother than the gloves. Hot and throbbing, his precum mixing with your slick–it’s going to be so loud. 

“It’s your dick, you figure it out,” you hiss, wrestling your shoulders up just enough to piss him off. His other arm moves up to your ribs, slamming you back down against him. 

“Nein,” he seethes, as close to your throat as he can get, and you hear him suck back spit. Wonder if you busted his lip on the way down. Trained himself too hard not to do that otherwise, because of the harelip he’s hiding under the hood. “I said put it in, Schatzi.”

His laugh is airier this time, when you cuss him and comply, thinned out with need. He shudders into you as you brush your fingers over the length–teasing bulging veins and hot, thin skin–trying to scoop him up. He squeezes you tighter, letting out a furnace-bellow breath, as you tease the head through your wet folds, stupid fly-by-night sex-trigonometry screeching through your head as you find the angle you both need to get him in. He drops his free hand on your thigh, pulling you further open, giving himself a handle to hold.

As soon as his big cockhead plugs your hole and seals a seal with the wet, you fly to grip both his wrists, nerves on high alert. For good cause, as well, because instantly, he starts fucking up into you with harsh thrusts, constricting all around you with bruising force.

The sheer mass of him is over-fucking-whelming, and white spots crackle in your vision as you pant, trying desperately to relax and accept him into your body. Usually–when he’s sweeter and taking his time with you, not punishing you for a perceived slight like he is now–he is slower, considerate, almost hesitant until you dig your spurs into his sides, demanding he cut loose. 

This time he’s forcing you to ride him, emptying and filling you in deeper and deeper strokes, forcing you to take his cock. Somehow it still feels right, just being full of him, aching with it, pussy hungrily sucking him in, wanting more and more and more.

But, god dammit, you can’t just let him get away with this. You fuck back down against him, trying to meet his rhythm with the little movement he affords your bound body, the sound of his boots grinding for purchase in the substrate, your combined dead-sprint breathing, and his balls slapping wet against your ass breaking the utter still-life quiet of the woods. 

“Insertion specialist,” you bite, throwing your head back against his shoulder to belt out your whimpering laughter, and, oh, that burns him. 

“Shut your fucking mouth,” he snarls, his helpless thrusting turning focused, dragging you down in hard thrusts, hitting your cervix with every deep, powerful stroke. It knocks the wind out of you, and you’re left speechless, probably what he wanted. 

It puts you in a trance state, your eyes unfocused looking up at the canopy as he uses you. A wet, liquid-gold heat starts building pressure behind your pelvis, and a frantic harebrained thought tells you that you have to piss. It only gets worse when he drops his hand back between your legs, putting a finger on either side of your clit, his intent clear.

“Wait,” you wheeze, barely surfacing the trance, rolling your eyes wildly toward him, finding his focus is between your legs. “Wait, König, I–”

“Just fucking take it,” he cuts you off, and it’s not entirely cruel. He’s forcing an orgasm on you, maybe the thought crawled up out of the part of his heart where his empathy lives, the part he hides until his real-boy-skin-suit has fallen away in tatters. You know what’s underneath. You love him for what he is.

You squirt when you come, pouring down his cock, soaking your thighs. Your cunt tries to push him out, but he belligerently stays buried, riding it out with you, and he whimpers as you spasm and ripple around him, biting your shoulder through his mask and the gaiter beneath it. It’s a dull pressure, and you wish it was sharper.

“Oh my god,” you keen, trying to turn and hide your face, trying to draw your legs back together as wave after wave of pleasure rock your body, your stomach turning in benign shame. König praises you, “Good, good, good, good,” his words falling away into a German blur that you have a hard time translating.

“Arch your back, curl up,” he tells you in his native language, his command voice withering, getting lost as he gets closer. He’s gotten fatter in your swollen cunt, and he throbs against your walls. His balls are pulled up so tight, you can feel them against your lips on the upstroke. 

All you can do is listen, lifting off of him and curving like you’re living through an exorcism. 

Doesn’t that make him lose his goddamned mind. Moans like a shocked virgin getting his first piece of pussy, in tandem with the cry you release, sliding in at a new angle. He can’t even help himself, he’s just stupid with pleasure, chasing it. All the bite and venom he had floods out of him, and he’s just a panting, greedy, whimpering mess, holding on to you because he needs an anchor, because he needs you.

He pushes up onto the balls of his feet, leaving the tree completely, forcing you back against him in the cage of his body. Your legs slide open over his thighs, and you’re dependent on him to keep from falling face-first in the forest floor and eating shit. He keeps you up, clutching to you, fucking you with short, fast thrusts, the soaking wet sounds of his cock demanding everything your cunt can deliver obscene, carnal.

Your idiot hand grabs for his hood as it hangs over your shoulder, spilling dumb swears and nonsense, “Fuck–oh, fucking–god dammit, König, you’re. I can’t,” that he meets with simple begging, “Bitte, bitte, Schatzi, bitte, Ich brauche, bitte, Ich brauche–”

His form staggers, and he takes a knee, locking up tight, letting out a thin, high-pitched cry of shock as he cums, flooding you completely in big jets. The pressure is uncomfortable and delirious, but you try to tighten around him, hold as much as you can. 

Both of your heads ring in the immediate aftermath. You can suddenly tell that both of you reek, the scent of twelve-hours worth of stakeout body odor mixing with musk, sex, and cum. You can tell by how his mouth sounds as he pants and tries to collect himself and work through his intense but inescapable post-nut shame that he’s dehydrated. You are, too, your head pounding. And, just because you know him, and you know how you work as a team, you don’t need to look at either of set of your shaking hands to know both of your blood sugar is utterly fucked.

Slowly, he lumbers back up against the tree, his touch turning softer. You flop back against him, winching when his cock slips out of you, hanging glistening and messy between his legs. He buries himself in the crook of your neck, trying to steady his breathing. His arms come up again–not to pin you in place, but to hug and hold you. You pat the scant sliver of bare skin between his gloves and the cuff of the ghillie suit.

Only occurs to you right now how stupid you two must’ve looked. Like a monkey fucking a football. Or maybe two bushes getting battered around in a storm. You snort a weary laugh, and he shakes his head, nosing deeper. He’s asking for quiet. You give it, letting your eyes slip closed as his cum drips out of you.

A few minutes later, he stirs, kneading your sides with his fingers. Mean-König has fucked off, you can already tell. It’s not KorTac-König, either, the one that’s nasty and loud and abrasive. This is just König. The slice of him that you know the first and last name of. The one that takes you on dates, and to go grocery shopping at Lidl–who lets you kiss his harelipped mouth, who lets you moisturize and massage the gummy wads of keloid burn scars eating up the left side of his face and neck, from when he was burnt by boiling sugar as a child, when they feel tight and miserable.

For convenience, and knowing you’re both going to seek it out, you unclip your helmet straps, letting them tumble off your heads. Further, you reach back and pull the hood off over his head, dropping it over your thigh, and pull your mask down as he pulls down his gaiter.

He helps you shift enough that you’re lying on your side over him, wet, soft cock pressing into your naked thigh. He sighs when you kiss him, light, quick, over and over, never really leaving his lips. He’ll be needy for the rest of the night.

His pupils are slowly going back down to a normal size, and the blue is coming back, all puppy-eyed and wet as he presses your foreheads together. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. I had fun.”

“I shouldn’t have been that rough. Or mean.”

You shrug. “You know I thought it was hot.” You give him simple facts, easy to chew and swallow while his teeth are hurting from his harshness. You think he’d probably ask you to pull them so he couldn’t do something like it again in the future, but that is simply not in his nature. Fanged, or not, his moods will come and go.

His hands tremble, going to his thighs, and he digs up a zippo and a pack of cigarettes, pressing them into you. “Could you light some for us, please.”

You do, giving him another kiss before you break to try to attend your given task. He helps stabilize your hands, and you end up with lit menthols, popping one between his lips. He inhales deeply, shuddering as he relaxes a physical notch.

You heavily pet his face, traveling his bone structure, and then down his neck. Start to focus on his chest and shoulders, because it will help him down the easiest. Even though he took charge today, you still readily slot into the process of leading aftercare, truncated as it is by being in the field. Almost literally.

“Think you’ll be up for more later?” you ask, digging your fingers into the spot behind his ear that always makes him lax. “Safehouse would let us take our time.”

He makes a grumbling noise, touching your noses together. “Want to love you. Not fuck.”

“Yeah, no. I couldn’t take another fuck tonight,” you snort in agreement, and, finally, he snorts back. “We need to get moving. Sun’s going down, and we need to report.”

He gathers you up for a final, lingering, sloppy kiss before he unwinds from you, knowing that you’re right. And, besides, there’s a safehouse looming on the horizon. 

[khywren]

「 A New Horizon 」

summary: “If you feel like this is too much, stop me. Do you trust me?”

You find nothing but love in his eyes, and his expression softens in that way it does only for you, and your heart swells with affection for him. His smile alone could bring you to your knees, and you are reminded why you fell so irrevocably in love with him.

“With my life, my love.”

You want to try something new with Astarion. He is more than happy to oblige you.

pairing: Astarion/f!Reader rating: 18+ MDNI status: complete tags/warnings: vaginal sex, blowjobs, light BDSM, light bondage, submissive Astarion, dominant Tav/Reader, shameless smut, established relationship, fluff and smut, reader-insert word count: 3.1k spoiler warning: nothing outside of a small mention about Astarion's past.

a/n: more Astarion smut because i just can't help myself. the man is a delightful muse, what can i say? crossposted from AO3.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━ ◆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“I’m sorry,” Astarion says incredulously, “you said you want to do what?”

You break away from his murmur on your lips and sit upright. Your cheeks are flushed, your hair disheveled from the way he’s been running his hands through it. He seems thoroughly surprised by your suggestion and he arches a questioning brow as you look down at him, waiting for you to confirm your request.

“I said that I want to try something different tonight,” you repeat, brushing an errant curl of hair out of his face with delicate fingers. “I want to try tying you up. Nothing major… just a little light bondage.”

An amused grin slides across his delicate features. “Oh, I am quite familiar,” Astarion says playfully, his voice a teasing lilt. His hands encircle your waist, and he traces lazy, contemplative circles across the small of your back. Even after all the time you’ve spent together, even his lightest touch still sends electricity through you, and you crave it more than anything.

“I knew your tastes were rather…” He pauses, searching for the right word. “Eclectic,” he finally settles on, his eyes sweeping intently over the puncture marks in your neck from where he has recently fed on you, less than an hour ago. The wound is still raw, but you’ve grown accustomed to the familiar ache and hardly would have remembered had he not drawn your attention to it now.

“But this? This is simply scandalous, love.”

You purse your lips at him and roll your eyes, leaning back down to steal another kiss from him. Astarion responds eagerly, plunging his tongue into your mouth the moment your lips part for him. His hands are on the backs of your thighs now, holding you firm and pulling you against him, the faint warmth lingering from the blood he took from you earlier a comforting sensation as you press your bare chest against his.

He’s usually quite cold, and the thought that your blood can invigorate him so completely is nothing short of exhilarating.

“So, is that a no?”

His laugh is a low rumble in the back of his throat.

“Quite the opposite, actually. I’m rather intrigued to see where this little idea of yours takes us.”

You’re more than a little surprised that he’s so receptive to your suggestion. After all, he’s usually the one that takes control when you’re being intimate, and of course you’ve never minded giving yourself over to him, not when he makes you feel so wholly satisfied and loved.

Even so, the thought of him trussed up beneath you as you lavish your affections on him is something that you’ve been contemplating for more than a while now.

You lift yourself off of Astarion and slip out of bed, finding your pack on the far side of the room you’ve rented for the evening. As you crouch down to rifle through the bag, you can feel his eyes on you, tracing every curve of your half-naked body.

“Don’t keep me waiting,” he calls out to you, and you can hear the hunger in his tone even though he’s disguised it well behind a flirtatious mask.

You return to him with a bundle of rope and a slip of black fabric – a blindfold that you’ve had tucked away for the occasion. When Astarion realizes what you intend to do, his eyes narrow, his fangs visible from behind the curve of his mouth as he grins wickedly at you.

“You cheeky little thing,” he purrs. “How long have you been carrying that around?”

“The rope has its uses for traveling,” you deflect, even though you can feel the blush that’s slowly creeping up to your ears. “But the blindfold… I –”

You hesitate, the admission on the tip of your tongue, but the effort of telling him that you made from an old garment of yours specifically for a time like this suddenly feels far more embarrassing than you had initially thought.

“I made it,” you finally say, and you can sense that he’s practically about to erupt with laughter.

“Well,” Astarion says mischievously, “it seems as if I’ve underestimated you yet again. Who knew that you were into such debauchery?”

You take Astarion’s wrists in your hands to distract yourself from saying anything else incriminating and begin looping the rope around him. Your fingers move deftly, practiced, as you secure his wrists together with a firm knot that binds him just tightly enough to restrict his movements, but not so much that the rope will bite into his skin.

“I think you’ll find a lot of surprising things about me,” you tell him.

He examines your handiwork, his expression suggesting that he’s picked up on the hidden meaning behind your words.

“You’ve done this before.”

“Once or twice.” You shrug nonchalantly, and the sly smile you flash him must have some effect on him, because he tenses beneath you, though you don’t know if it’s from nervousness or excitement.

You release his wrists and lean over him to slip the blindfold over his head now, carefully wrapping the fabric behind his ears and knotting it at the back. Before you pull it over his eyes, you watch him carefully, searching for any signs of reluctance from him. The last thing you want is for him to feel helpless; he’s been through enough already.

“If you feel like this is too much, stop me. Do you trust me?”

You find nothing but love in his eyes, and his expression softens in that way it does only for you, and your heart swells with affection for him. His smile alone could bring you to your knees, and you are reminded why you fell so irrevocably in love with him.

“With my life, my love.”

You place a single, tender kiss to his forehead as you lower the blindfold over his eyes and tuck it securely into place. When you get to your feet yet again to shed the rest of your clothing, Astarion cranes his neck towards the sound, listening with rapt attention. You soon settle yourself between his legs, nudging them apart slightly, and you can clearly see the outline of his cock beneath the fabric of his pants.

You decide that you’re going to take your time with him tonight, to savor the moment and spare no efforts to satisfy him completely.

Presently you make yourself comfortable between his legs, propping yourself up on your forearms. When you drag a single finger down the length of his cock, Astarion lets out a soft moan and clenches his hands. Feeling a little devious, you replace your finger with your mouth and graze your teeth over him through his pants, not to cause him any pain but to tease him.

He responds beautifully, his breaths shallow, his hips moving of their own accord as he leans eagerly into your touch.

Emboldened, you busy your fingers with the laces of his pants, making quick work of them. When you slide your fingers under the waistband, Astarion arches his back to accommodate your movements, and you easily remove the last barrier between you before tossing his pants and underwear in a pile at the foot of the bed.

Astarion’s cock is already erect, the tip flushed in such a lovely shade of rosy pink. It always looks like this after he’s fed, and you can’t tear your eyes away from the sight of it. A fat bead of precome glistens on the tip, bearing his blatant need for your touch.

“Astarion,” you murmur. “Tell me what you need.”

You don’t wait for him to respond but instead you kneel between his thighs and press the flat of your tongue against him at the base of his cock, your warm breath ghosting over him. When he sucks in a breath, you hum contentedly against him, your tongue an agonizingly slow drag along the length of his shaft.

His cock swells and twitches as you find a particularly sensitive area, and the noise he makes is the most incredible thing you have ever heard. You can tell that he is struggling to hold himself back, and the whines he lets slip past his lips are only the faintest indications of his arousal.

His faint cries of pleasure unlock something feral in the recesses of your mind, and it’s all you can do not to abandon any pretense of being patient; even like this, your body reacts to him as eagerly as ever.

Astarion swallows thickly.

“Please,” he croaks, his voice wavering.

You weren’t expecting him to beg, but you love it nonetheless.

When he moans your name, your belly floods with heat, and you reward him with the gentle swirl of your tongue against his smooth, marbled skin.

“Gods above,” he groans, straining against his bindings. “I want to feel your mouth on me, love,” he says, his voice low and sensual. “Hold nothing back.”

You don’t think you could even if you tried.

You’ve reached the head of his aching cock now, and you swipe your tongue over the leaking tip, tasting the salty moisture gathered there. Astarion shudders beneath you as you lave your tongue over him, teasing his slit and the sensitive spot beneath the head of his cock that you know drives him wild. He rocks his hips up, pressing himself needily into your mouth, and at last you give him what he wants and wrap your lips around him before inviting him into the warm, wet heat between your lips.

He tastes divine as you bob your head along the length of him, the friction of your tongue and your gentle sucking doing an exemplary job of coaxing those delicious little noises you love so much from him. He’s through being coy, and as you push him to the back of your throat, you feel his fingers in your hair, pulling gently on the roots even as he pushes your head down onto his cock.

You oblige him eagerly, pulling your mouth back almost to the head of his cock before taking him as deeply as you can manage, again and again and again.

Astarion all but trembles beneath you, and as he moves his hips you can feel his toes curling into the sheets. With his eyesight temporarily gone, the rest of his preternatural senses are heightened to their limit, his frayed nerves threatening to rend him utterly senseless.

Tears prick in the corners of your eyes as you gag on his cock with every thrust of your mouth, the obscene sounds you make as you take him to the hilt punctuating his own. Your lips are slick with saliva and precome, your throat raw from the efforts of pleasing him so selflessly.

Astarion tugs more firmly on your hair now, and you pause to look up at him, worried that perhaps you’ve gone too far.

“If you keep that up,” he says, his voice strained with the effort it takes him to form a coherent thought, “then I won’t get to enjoy the rest of you.”

Oh.

You had gotten so caught up in what you were doing and the lovely little sounds he was making to realize how close he was to unraveling completely, and you apologize weakly as you slide his cock out of your mouth with a wet pop.

“Oh, my love,” he sighs, the smile on his face one of fond reverence. “You have a gift. There’s no need to apologize for that.”

“Well,” you laugh, wrapping your hand around his cock and squeezing gently, coaxing a strangled noise from his throat, “then perhaps I should simply finish what I started.”

“Ahh, let’s not be hasty now,” he implores you, and you can see the worried crease of his brows just beneath the blindfold.

“As you wish.”

You run your tongue over your lips and wipe your mouth across the back of your hand, adjusting yourself so you’re crouched low over his hips. You touch him only with your legs to hold him in place, but he can hear you lean over him as you press your lips to his own. He tastes himself greedily on your tongue, and you can feel the sharp prick of his fangs as he kisses you deeply. When you guide yourself over him and sink down onto his cock, you smile against him as he gasps at the sudden sensation. The stretch of him inside you is a delicious, familiar ache, and you’re so wet for him already that the movement is practically effortless. He can feel how much you want him, and his cock twitches inside you, causing you to roll your hips against him to bury him completely inside of you.

“Fuck,” Astarion groans, throwing his head back against the pillows. It’s obvious he’s desperate to touch you from the way he flexes his wrists and reaches for you, but you won’t give him the satisfaction just yet. Instead, you rock against him, lifting yourself up before slamming back down onto his cock, giving into your pleasure as you cry out for him.

Astarion draws his legs up slightly and wraps them around your backside; he wants to hold you in any way he can, and you find the gesture heartbreakingly endearing.

You set an easy pace, enjoying the smooth glide of his cock as you move your hips along the length of him, your breaths labored as your moans tumble out of your mouth. At last, you give him what he wants and thread your fingers through his own, partly to steady yourself but also to revel in the way he fiercely holds your hands as if he’s afraid to let you go.

He bucks his hips into you, desperately chasing the friction and the heat at your core, his mouth open as he babbles incoherently beneath you.

“Tell me how good it feels,” you say with a particularly punishing snap of your hips, and he practically keens as his back arches off the mattress.

“Gods,” he mutters, his face cast into the bedsheets. “You feel so good, so fucking, unbelievably good. I could have you every night and still never be satisfied.”

You know he means it. You’ve spent so many nights tangled in each other’s arms and still his enthusiasm never wavers.

The feeling, of course, is mutual. You love him more than you’ve ever loved anyone else in your entire life, more than you thought it was possible to love another person until he came along. That he places his trust in you so completely makes you feel more joy than you could ever articulate in any language.

“I love you, Astarion,” you say. “And I will continue to love you until my last breath.”

You can feel him getting close with each mutual thrust of your hips against each other, and before long you let go of his hands to tug the blindfold down around his neck. Astarion squints as his eyes adjust to the light, but when your eyes finally meet, his pupils are blown, the myriad reds of his eyes small crimson rings that glimmer in the lamplight.

“I want to see your face when you come undone for me,” you say huskily, your lips curved into a sly grin.

It’s all the encouragement he needs, and he thrusts wildly into you as you ride him closer, closer, closer to the edge, until he can hold back no longer. He cries out a string of obscenities as you bring him to orgasm, and he spills himself inside of you as his chest heaves with every ragged breath he takes. The last errant thrusts are not quite enough for you, and you grind down on him, equally desperate to find your own release.

His eyes are pinned to you as you buck your hips with reckless abandon, your fingers slipping between your slick folds to relieve some of the tension in your swollen clit. The ache is enough that you whimper helplessly as your fingers brush over the sensitive bundle of nerves, and even though you know Astarion would be more than happy to help you over the edge, he remains still, his expression spellbound as he watches you pleasure yourself for him with reckless abandon.

“That’s it,” he says encouragingly. “That’s it. Come for me.”

“Y-yes, Astarion,” you say, the sensation between your legs – of your fingers on your clit and his cock still buried inside you – so overwhelming that you feel lightheaded.

With one final swipe of your fingertips, the full force of your orgasm washes over you like a tidal wave, and you cling to him desperately, your head thrown back as you all but scream his name until your throat is raw once more. You dig your hands into his hips and his legs hold you in place, even as your body trembles and shakes on top of him.

With unsteady hands, you untie the rope that binds his wrists, and no sooner is he free than he gathers you up into his arms and pulls you flush against him, peppering your neck and face with tender, open-mouthed kisses. He pours his love into you with every press of his lips, his hands on your back and in your hair as he soothes you.

Your whole body suddenly feels sore as the adrenaline finally wears off, and it takes every remaining ounce of energy you have left to roll off of him and nestle yourself against his broad chest. Astarion cradles you in his arms, his gaze fixated on your face, and he brushes a lock of damp hair behind your ear so that he can admire you without obstruction.

Your heart skips a beat, and you sigh deeply, his scent comforting as you close your eyes and rest against him. When he feels you shiver slightly, he reaches to pull the blankets over both of you, and you curl up into their warmth.

“I love you, Astarion,” you murmur again, your arm draped loosely over him. You feel him sigh softly and he brushes his fingers over the curve of your spine, tracing absentminded patterns over your skin.

“I love you too,” he says, tipping his head to press a featherlight kiss against your forehead, a mirror to the one you gave him earlier.

“And… thank you. I’m glad that I can enjoy these things again – and even sweeter that I get to enjoy them with you.”

[writeshite]

Nothing Do Us Part

Summary:

The bastard smiled at you before picking the lock and forgoing any caution. “You shouldn’t be here,” You argue weakly. Astarion huffed, the cell door now wide open; you had yet to reach out in any manner, “Neither should you,” he counterargued, “you’re filthy, bloody and thin as a rake.” He took the first step and grabbed at your hand, staring disappointedly at the cuts and bruises lining your skin. “I’m taking you home to Hells with the Harpers and whoever else thinks they can take you from me.”

Pairings:

Astarion x Male!Reader

Tags:

Long-Haired Astarion | Bhaalspawn Reader | Ascended Astarion |

Words: 1828

Author's Note:

Guess who's not dead lmfao (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ:･ﾟ✧ I found out there's a Bhaalspawn ending where they turn themselves in, and I was like, Ascended Astarion would not be happy about that.

The spawn came at first light, walking into Crimson Draughts with a curt smile; the curly mop of white that Araj had once hopped to brush her cheek whilst her life danced on the edge was now long curled trusses of hair reaching past his shoulders to his mid-back. “I need you to find someone.” His words went in one ear and out the other as Araj examined him; he was different from when she’d first set eyes on him and his intriguing companion in Moonrise.

“I’m surprised to see you alive, spawn,” she remarks. “I’d thought you dead in Moonrise.”

“Oh, hardly,” he laughs, “but I’m not here to discuss past adventures. As I said, I need you to find someone.”

“I heard you the first time, and I’m not a bloodhound,” she corrected.

“Hence my request, an expert of the sanguine arts, I believe is what you called yourself,” he fished a vial from his pockets, “I will reimburse you in as much gold and whatever equipment you require, as long as you find who I’m looking for and place an unerasable tether on said person. Understood?”

“Whose blood is it?” 

“Hardly any of your concern, is it? Now, will you take the job, or shall I pursue Sorcerers Sundries to find someone more willing to take my commission?” 

Araj huffed, “My, my, aren't we touchy? I’ll take your commission.”

The blood was intriguing. It radiated malice and murderous intent—as odd of observation as that was—the red would bloom darker colours before shifting back to red, and the odour was equally as odd, smelling too much like blood, a sharp, strong iron that piqued her interest. A godling’s blood? An Aasimar, perhaps? Though Araj wasn’t certain if such creatures bled, regardless, she had no doubt the spawn had brought her the blood of someone divine; whether said person was of the holy or unholy persuasion, she remained uncertain.

The Upper City was abuzz when Astarion returned; artisans, sages, pole-carters, and all manner of people traversed the streets of the Upper City. Astarion weaved through the crowd to his home in Manorborn, Ancunín Castle—his haven of estates he’d parted from a few patriar families—he’d spent quite some time hunting down artificers to add to his horde of spawn; he'd set them to work and rebuilt the castle from the grounds up to better suit his needs.

“Welcome home, Master Astarion,” Harette greeted him, a small bow accompanying her words; she took Astarion’s coat and folded it away as she caught him up on the morning’s events, “The artificers finished installing the sun-sift glass over the courtyards and atriums, and have begun casting warding glyphs per your instructions. The dungeons have been refurbished for the Rillyn’s children's stay, and you’ve a new bundle of invitations from other patriar families arrive this morning.” She finishes her morning catch-up as they reach his study.

“Thank you, Harette,” Astarion sat at his desk, dismissing her; he sifted through the invitations on his desk—Belt, Hullhollyn, Tillerturn—letters to their parties, brunches, and whatever else Astarion read through. He replies to them, declining their invitations with kind apologies and half-felt promises to join the next festivity; far more pressing matters needed Astarion’s attention. The Fist and Harpers had done a better job than expected covering their tracks whenever they moved you, but Astarion had come close a few times before, hence the need for the Drow, much to his displeasure. He may have been impervious to sunlight now, but the harpers had enlisted the help of Lathandernites and Selûnites, and Astarion wasn’t going to chance his resistance to sunlight, much less holy light. Astarion had been greatly against you turning yourself in; the stubborn persistence he’d usually find adorable became annoying, “If you’re worried about rampaging, you shouldn’t. I can keep you in line; I’ve done it before.”

“I wasn’t Bhaal’s Chosen then, just his progeny,” you’d corrected him, “I barely managed to hold myself back from harming you in the Shadow-Cursed Lands; I can’t—”

“I’m not some runaway spawn anymore; I’m a Vampire Ascendant.” Astarion had corrected bitterly, but despite his reassurances, he hadn’t been able to deter you from the decision, but it didn’t deter him. Some coin in the right purse and spawn or two in the right place, and he could visit you whenever he pleased, “You should leave.” You’d clung to him regardless of the venom in your words, desperate for some semblance of comfort; your initial prison had been some small nook under Wyrm's Rock Fortress, illuminated by torch and what bioluminescent fungi managed to break ground.

“I told you, pet,” he’d dug his nails in your back, later carving his name along your spine “lovers forever.” He absentmindedly traced the gauntlet you’d torn from Gortash’s body and had modified for Astarion, “I’m not sure if I should be honoured or revolted in some manner,” he’d joked then, yet the gauntlet still held its powerful magic and had been a constant presence on Astarion.

“I don’t remember much; I think I tore this from some patriar’s arm or stole it from a wizard before giving it to Gortash, I don’t know. What I do know is that I love you more than anything.”

“I’m meant to be a fearful Vampire,” he’d huffed, softening for a moment, “you make it quite hard to do so, pet.” Even as Bhaal’s murderous lunacy consumed your mind, a minuscule part of rationality remained, just enough to leave Astarion unharmed during his visits; the same could not be said about the Harpers tasked with guarding you. Astarion’s last visit was met with an empty prison and no Harpers in sight. Clever bastards had a headstart; he was almost offended by how well they predicted him following after them, but not surprised as Jaheira and Minsc had involved themselves in your transfer elsewhere before their expertise and skill were requested outside Baldur’s Gate.

The Drow asks for quite a hefty sum and a new plethora of equipment to complete her work, but she does manage, creating a tether as he’d requested; Astarion pays her for her service and prays he never needs it again. The tether leads to Myth Drannor, in the Dalelands, south of the River Tesh and some distance from Shadowdale; Astarion sneaks himself under the guise of a Harper, replacing the one he’d fed on some time prior, while he may have found where you were he now needed to find where specifically in Myth Drannor you were.

Everything was bloody. The floors of your cell were smeared in blood and dirt; the effigy you’d built yielded no response from your father. Nothing did. Pleading, crying, screaming, and tearing at your meat suit did nothing but elicit silence from the Lord of Murder. Your breaths were rugged and short, coming in quick succession as you fought to keep yourself in control of your person; Bhaal’s silence drove your mind to wander, to sing for blood; you shook your head and screamed, whacking the piled rats and punching the nearest wall. You repeated the action until you felt less like clawing at your meat suit.

You were quick to notice the pale elf approaching your cell, and you shook your head as your eyes widened when you recognised Astarion. The bastard smiled at you before picking the lock and forgoing any caution. “You shouldn’t be here,” You argue weakly.

Astarion huffed, the cell door now wide open; you had yet to reach out in any manner, “Neither should you,” he counterargued, “you’re filthy, bloody and thin as a rake.” He took the first step and grabbed at your hand, staring disappointedly at the cuts and bruises lining your skin. “I’m taking you home to Hells with the Harpers and whoever else thinks they can take you from me.” 

“How did you find me?” You stared at him desperately, holding his hand for dear life. 

“That drow we met at Moonrise has her uses,” he responds, tugging at your arm, “we can catch up when we’re far from here.” 

You followed without resistance, shuffling along the dark narrow corridors, it was luck that you didn’t bump into anyone on your way out, or the journey back to Baldurs Gate. It’s another miracle Astarion sneaks you through to the Upper City without spilling any blood. He led you to a large set of manors lumped under one estate by the looks of the courtyard, a handful of people moved about tending to said courtyard—sweeping, trimming the hedges, polishing the statuettes, and cleaning the fountains.

“Nice home,” you commented.

“Thank you, pet,” the elf is cheerfully proud of his home. The servants stop in their work when they spot Astarion, and all bow, returning to their work respectively once the elf walks past them. The interior is as lavish as the exterior—a richly coloured rug drew a path along the floor; at each side, paintings and columns alternated along the walls as chandeliers lined the ceiling above. More servants are also busy at work here; they bow the same as the ones outside and only continue their work once Astarion has passed them. 

The servants give you uncertain glances, confusion and fear in their expressions. “Ignore them pet; they should know better,” Astarion hissed, and their gazes darted away.

“Are they spawn?” you inquire.

“Most,” he shrugged in response, leading you through the halls to a room devoid of anyone else close by. His room, no doubt. “Some outsiders from the Outer City looking for a new life.” He led you to a tub and ran it with water and just about every perfume and soap he had at his disposal and all but begs you to step into the tub. It takes five cases of andanthe and shampoo to clean your hair thoroughly and two pitchers of a strong-scented liquid wash soap to wash out the dirt from the skin. Astarion picks up the skin and food between your teeth and shoves a whole stick of tooth powder down your throat.

“Is this necessary?” you cough at the strong, minty taste as the tooth powder turns to foam in reaction with saliva.

“If you want my cock and tongue down your throat,” Astarion scrubbed your second set of canines, “then yes.”

The water is dirty brownish-red when you step out of the tub; it’s strange to be without grime after so long, you look at yourself in the mirror. Despite everything, it was still you. 

Astarion draped a fluffy towel over your shoulders, “Tomorrow, we’ll get a tailor and cobbler in here for you.”

“You want to doll me up?” you snort. 

Astarion rolled his eyes, “You need to blend in,” he lightly chastised, “and I have an appearance standard to adhere to.” He huffed, drawing a chuckle from you. “After the tailor and cobbler, we’ll take care of your hair.”

“Hmm,” you nod as he dried off your body. “Whatever you say, starlight.”

End Note:

This started off as a Drabble but then we ended up here with another AU 🤪💀. The way I had to go look at a map of Baldurs Gate and was reminded how shit I am at reading maps lmfao 😭 I have read the Forgotten Realms wiki on so much for this fic. Stay Hydrated.