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[gb-dentistry]

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[kateschi]

ᯓ★୭˚. RIVALS OR MORE?

જ⁀➴ “what are we?” event masterlist

synopsis: a question lingers between you and bakugou, sharp and biting, much like the competition that keeps pulling you back into each other's orbits.

pairing: timeskip!bakugou katsuki x f!reader

the rivalry between you and bakugou katsuki was the kind of tale that pro-hero rookies whispered about, an unrelenting contest that started years ago at u.a. high.

from the moment the two of you stepped onto campus, it was as though the universe had aligned you as polar opposites.

bakugou’s explosive temper and fiery quirk were impossible to ignore, while your sharp tongue and precise control made it clear you wouldn’t be overshadowed by anyone—especially not him.

it began in your first year, during basic hero training, when aizawa-sensei had paired the two of you for a sparring match.

bakugou’s smug grin was infuriating as he rolled his shoulders and cracked his knuckles.

“don’t cry when i wipe the floor with you,” he sneered, crimson eyes blazing with confidence.

“save the big talk for someone you can actually beat,” you shot back, stepping onto the mat with your head held high.

the match was chaotic. bakugou’s explosions came fast and furious, his relentless offense forcing you to dodge and counter at a breakneck pace.

but you refused to give ground. the air smelled of smoke and scorched fabric by the time aizawa called it a draw, both of you battered and breathless.

bakugou wiped a streak of soot from his face, glaring at you. “next time, I’ll crush you.”

“not if I crush you first,” you retorted, wincing as recovery girl dabbed ointment on a nasty burn.

from that day on, the rivalry became a constant. every training session was a chance to prove who was better.

even the smallest victories turned into battlegrounds.

group projects were a nightmare for anyone unfortunate enough to share the assignment with the two of you; more than one teammate had begged for reassignment just to escape the tension.

things reached a boiling point during the training camp in your second year. paired together for a survival exercise, the friction was immediate.

bakugou stomped through the forest with his usual impatience, barking orders as if he expected you to follow blindly.

“stop lagging behind!” he snapped, glancing over his shoulder to where you were scanning the dense undergrowth.

“I’m not lagging,” you replied coolly, stepping over a fallen log with deliberate ease. “I’m thinking. you should try it sometime.”

“don’t start with me,” he growled.

despite the bickering, the two of you worked with a kind of unspoken rhythm, covering each other’s blind spots without even needing to communicate.

you hated to admit it, but bakugou’s sheer power was impressive, and his instincts in a fight were razor-sharp.

it was during that exercise that the dynamic shifted, if only slightly.

when you stumbled into a hidden trap, a quick snare wrapping around your ankle, bakugou had reacted instantly. his explosions shredded the ropes in a matter of seconds, his glare more intense than usual.

“can’t believe you let yourself get caught like that,” he muttered.

you rolled your eyes, brushing off dirt as you got back to your feet. “thanks for the save.”

“whatever,” he huffed, looking away, but you caught the faintest twitch of a smirk.

those moments were rare, fleeting, but they stuck with you. even as adults, long after u.a. had become a memory, the rivalry burned just as brightly.

every headline that mentioned bakugou’s latest exploits made your blood boil. every time your name appeared in the rankings above his, you could practically hear him grinding his teeth.

it was a constant, infuriating reminder that he was always just there, always pushing you to be better—even when you hated him for it.

for years, you’d managed to keep your distance, tackling different missions. it was better that way. no distractions, no arguments.

but the pro-hero commission had other plans.

their reasoning was infuriatingly logical: two top-ranking heroes with a proven track record of results, a shared history of success despite—or perhaps because of—your rivalry.

and so, without consultation or warning, your paths were forcibly crossed again.

the moment you’d seen bakugou striding into the meeting room, your stomach had twisted in a knot of irritation and reluctant anticipation.

the years apart had done little to dull the intensity of his presence, nor had they cooled the fire of your rivalry.

bakugou walks to the far end of the table and plops down, his arms crossed over his chest, his usual scowl firmly in place.

his crimson eyes flicker with barely restrained irritation, and the rhythmic tap of his boot against the floor echoes in the silence, each strike a silent drumbeat to his rising impatience.

you sit at the opposite end, your posture mirroring his, arms folded tightly across your chest. your jaw locks, muscles taut as you resist the urge to roll your eyes for the umpteenth time.

“why the hell do I have to work with you?” his voice cuts through the silence, sharp and jagged, carrying with it a heat that isn’t entirely metaphorical.

his glare burns into you, daring you to fight back. so you lean forward, meeting his fire with your own.

“you think I’m thrilled about this, bakugou?” you snap. “this mission is too important to let your ego screw it up.”

his foot stills mid-tap, and for a moment, the room feels unnervingly quiet. then, he scoffs, his lips curling into a sneer as he leans forward, his tone dropping to a dangerous growl.

“my ego?” he bites out, the heat in his voice rising. “you’re the one who’s always trying to prove you’re better than me!”

you can’t help the smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth. there’s a certain satisfaction in lighting his fuse.

“that’s because I am better than you,” you shoot back, your tone teetering on smugness.

his jaw clenches, veins visibly straining against his neck as his temper flares. his hands twitch as though he’s moments away from letting loose a barrage of explosions just to make his point.

before he can retort, a sharp clearing of a throat slices through the air like a knife.

the tension snaps, both of you glancing toward the commission’s representative.

“enough,” she says, her voice steely and cutting. her gray eyes are cold as they flicker between you and bakugou, clearly unimpressed by your outbursts.

“you two are professionals. act like it. this mission requires complete cooperation, and I don’t care how much you dislike each other.”

the word cooperation feels like a slap in the face. you straighten in your chair, jaw tightening as you cast a sidelong glance at bakugou.

he glares at the holographic display now—typical.

the display flickers to life, illuminating the room with a sharp blue glow as the mission briefing begins. details of a criminal syndicate tied to a dangerous quirk-enhancing drug fill the room.

you nod along, taking in the information, though you’re acutely aware of bakugou’s every shift, every exhaled breath.

as the meeting draws to a close, the representative’s tone grows pointed.

“this mission is high-stakes. your ability to work together effectively will determine its success—or failure.”

bakugou stands abruptly, the screech of his chair against the polished floor startlingly loud. “fine,” he mutters, his voice low and clipped as he stalks toward the door.

you sigh, rising to follow. “try not to blow everything up before we get the intel, okay?”

he shoots a glare over his shoulder, but there’s something almost amused in the way his lips twitch, like he wants to snap back but can’t quite muster the effort. “just stay out of my way, h/n.”

the door shuts behind him with a heavy click, and you let out a long breath.

the mission hasn’t even started yet, and already you feel the weight of it—not just the stakes but the inevitability of clashing with bakugou.

the city below buzzes with its usual hum of activity: flashing neon signs, the occasional honk of a car, and distant murmurs of a world that never quite sleeps.

the syndicate’s hideout looms in the distance, nestled within a secluded section of the city that seems to thrive on the shadows.

the building is plain, but you know better than to judge based on appearances.

you glance at bakugou, who is already adjusting his gauntlets. the metallic clicking of his gear fills the silence between you, his movements sharp and methodical.

“I’ll take the front. you sneak in through the back,” bakugou says, his voice laced with the kind of confidence only someone like him possesses.

he looks at you, his crimson eyes sharp and unyielding. “stay out of my way.”

you raise an eyebrow at his commanding tone.

there’s something about it—something that always gets under your skin. but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of showing it.

“typical bakugou,” you say with a smirk, shaking your head in exaggerated disbelief. “always going for the flashy entrance. no wonder they call you ‘dynamight.’”

bakugou’s lips twitch into a smirk of his own.

“yeah? and what do they call you? ‘miss perfect’?” his voice drips with the challenge, and you feel the simmering heat of competition between you two.

you raise your chin, your confidence just as unwavering as his.

“‘h/n,’ actually,” you correct, your voice dripping with mock sweetness that masks the genuine pride you feel for the name.

“because I get the job done without leaving a mess behind.”

his lip curls into a scowl, and he mutters something under his breath that you don’t quite catch, but you’re pretty sure it’s some variation of “show-off.”

you chuckle as you move into position. his temper is always so easy to provoke, yet it never fails to amuse you.

crouching low, you disappear into the shadows, the familiar rhythm of working alongside bakugou settling in like a second skin.

despite your constant bickering, you have to admit there’s a certain harmony in how you two work together.

as you make your way to the back entrance of the hideout, you hear the distant thrum of bakugou’s footsteps as he moves toward the front.

you know he'll create a commotion, likely to draw attention and give you the perfect opportunity to slip in unnoticed. it’s his style—loud, chaotic, and effective.

you pause for a moment, assessing the situation. the back door is guarded, as you expect, but not too heavily. you’ll have to move quickly, but this is your element.

the guards are predictable, and you can use that to your advantage. with a quiet breath, you step forward, easily dispatching the first guard with a well-placed kick that sends him tumbling silently into a dark corner.

everything is going according to plan, and for a moment, you feel the familiar rush of adrenaline that comes with the territory. you aren’t just good at this—you’re damn good at it.

but as you near the main floor, the sound of shouting catches your attention, followed by the unmistakable crackle of bakugou’s explosions.

your heart skips a beat. it’s too early for things to go sideways—he isn’t supposed to be discovered yet. but, knowing bakugou, you don’t doubt he’s already drawn half of the syndicate’s attention.

the man never does know how to be discreet.

you curse under your breath but push forward, pressing yourself against the cold concrete wall as you move deeper into the compound.

every instinct you have screams at you to hurry, but you can’t afford to be sloppy—not now.

as you round a corner, a sharp crack of sound pierces the air—one you immediately recognize as a gunshot.

before you can react, something slams into your side, sending you sprawling across the floor. pain shoots through your ribs, and the world spins in a blur as you fight to stay conscious.

you stagger to your feet, heart racing.

your vision is blurry from the shock of the blow, but you manage to focus. the guards have noticed you—no surprise there—but now you’re outnumbered.

as you prepare to defend yourself, the familiar sound of bakugou’s explosions rings out, closer than before. your mind screams at you to hold on, but the pain is beginning to cloud your thoughts.

the world seems to slow as you brace yourself against the oncoming guards.

blood pounds in your ears, your vision narrows, and every muscle in your body screams for you to move—but you’re frozen.

you can feel the gunshot wound throbbing, hot and raw, in your side. your breaths come in sharp, jagged gasps as you prepare for the worst.

and then, everything explodes.

it’s as if the entire world has been set on fire.

a massive blast of force erupts from the far side of the room, so powerful it shakes the walls and sends debris scattering.

you instinctively throw yourself to the ground to shield yourself from the shockwave, your hands scraping against the cold floor.

when the smoke and dust begin to settle, a familiar voice cuts through the haze.

“hey! move, dammit!”

bakugou appears in the doorway, his silhouette framed by the fiery remnants of his explosion. his eyes lock onto you with a terrifying intensity.

you barely have time to process the sight of him before he charges toward you, his powerful form cutting through the remaining guards with ease.

with one swift motion, he sends a group of them flying, his explosions igniting the air with a deafening roar.

the remaining guards scatter, too intimidated by bakugou’s wrath to continue their assault.

“y/n, get up!” he barks, his voice sharp as a whip.

his eyes are on you now, and the anger in them isn’t the same as usual—it’s raw, a mix of frustration, fear, and something else you can’t quite place.

you push yourself to your feet, stumbling slightly, the pain in your side making every movement feel like you’re dragging a weight behind you.

“don’t you ever do something so goddamn stupid again!” bakugou growls, his voice low and thick with rage.

he isn’t even looking at the enemies anymore, but at you—his gaze pinning you in place.

you straighten, ignoring the blood staining your shirt, and shoot him a glare.

“what were you thinking, bakugou?” you snap, your voice rough but defiant. “you think charging in here like that’s any better?”

bakugou’s jaw tightens, and his eyes narrow. the tension between you is palpable. but then, with a sound that almost resembles a growl, bakugou snaps.

“don’t try to turn this on me!” he barks. “you could’ve been killed! you think I’m gonna just let you die in some goddamn back alley like this?”

his voice breaks, cracking just slightly as he glares down at you, his fists clenched at his sides. “what were you thinking?! do you want to die or something?!”

for a moment, you’re struck silent. the anger in his voice is so raw, so unfiltered, that it takes the wind out of you.

but the hurt behind it makes your chest tighten. you have never heard bakugou sound like that before. never seen him this...desperate.

“why do you even care, bakugou?” you ask, your voice softer than intended. you hadn’t meant for it to sound that way, but it’s too late to take it back.

bakugou freezes, his eyes widening for a fraction of a second before he scowls, looking away as if he hasn’t just heard you.

the silence that stretches between you is suffocating, and you can’t help but feel exposed.

you aren’t sure what possessed you to ask such a question, but the way bakugou is standing there, his posture tight and his fists still trembling, makes you feel the need to.

“I just—do, okay?” bakugou finally mutters, his voice gruff and not nearly as confident as he usually sounds. “now quit acting like you don’t need help for once, and let’s get the hell out of here.”

you stare at him, disbelief gnawing at you. he’s...worried. maybe even scared.

for a moment, the world outside of you falls away, leaving just you and bakugou standing there in the wreckage.

but you don’t want to let him see how much his words affect you.

not now, not while you’re still trying to make sense of everything.

“don’t get all sentimental on me now, bakugou,” you mutter, a weak smile tugging at the corner of your lips as you try to brush off the intensity of the moment. “I’m fine. just need a second.”

but bakugou doesn’t seem convinced. he steps forward, his hand—hesitant but undeniably gentle—hovering near your side as though waiting for your permission to help.

you catch his eyes for a moment, and for the first time in a long while, you see something other than his usual cocky arrogance. something softer.

“don’t push yourself, alright?” he mutters, his voice quieter now, almost awkward. “I don’t want to drag your ass out of here next time.”

you swallow the lump in your throat and nod, trying to ignore the warmth spreading in your chest at his words.

for a few moments, everything seems suspended in time.

the world outside is still, the only sound the occasional rush of wind.

you can feel the intensity of his gaze lingering on you, his presence more solid than ever before.

it’s a strange feeling—this unspoken connection, the weight of his concern settling between you like an unvoiced understanding.

despite his usual tough exterior, there’s no mistaking the softness in his actions, the care that has been there all along, hidden beneath layers of pride and deflection.

and for the first time, you can’t ignore it.

the moment passes, though, and as quickly as it comes, you both fall into your familiar roles, quickly finishing up the mission.

the two of you barely speak on the way back, the silence stretching between you as you navigate the now-empty streets.

every once in a while, bakugou glances your way, but he never says anything.

as you both enter the safehouse, the cold interior air does little to ease the pounding headache building in your skull.

bakugou drops his gear by the door, his shoulders stiff with tension. he moves like he’s still on edge, as if the mission hasn’t quite ended for him.

you take a seat on the couch, trying to ignore the throb in your side as you start to peel off your tactical vest.

“you should get that looked at,” bakugou says, his voice still rough with exhaustion. “you’re lucky I didn’t leave your ass behind.”

you shoot him a pointed glare but don’t respond.

instead, you take a breath, looking down at the hand gripping the fabric of your vest before finally speaking, your voice quieter than usual.

“bakugou,” you start, the question from earlier swirling back in your mind. “why do you care so much?”

his back stiffens, and you can feel the tension in the room crackle like static. he turns to look at you, his expression unreadable for a moment.

then, his eyes soften—just barely—but enough to make your heart race in your chest.

“you think i’m gonna let some idiot hero get themselves killed?” his voice is harsher than it needs to be. “I don’t need to explain myself to you.”

but the words feel like a cover-up.

you see it in the way his hands ball into fists, the slight tremor in his jaw, like he’s trying to push something down.

you tilt your head, an eyebrow raising. “no, seriously. you’ve been acting like a goddamn wrecking ball this whole time, but that’s not really your style, is it?”

bakugou glares at you. “shut up, will you? I did what needed to be done. not everything’s about you.”

but you’re not ready to drop it. there’s a knot in your chest that won’t loosen, and you can feel the words slipping out of your mouth before you can stop them.

“don’t lie, bakugou. you’re acting weird. you’ve never cared this much before. what’s going on?”

there’s a long silence. you watch as bakugou’s eyes flick to the side, his lips pressed. finally, he lets out a breath, long and slow, and walks over to the window.

“I don’t have time for this, alright?” his voice is low. “I just—”

he pauses, like the words are stuck in his throat.

the long, drawn-out silence stretches between you like an unspoken confession. it’s raw, and despite every instinct telling you to back off, you don’t move.

“I just... I just don’t want to lose you, alright?” his voice cracks just slightly as he finally turns to face you, eyes burning with a mix of anger and hesitance.

“you make me—damn it, you make me lose my focus. every damn time, you just keep going and doing stupid shit, and it pisses me off. but I can’t—”

he shakes his head, his fists clenching again as his cheeks flush.

you blink, your heart skipping a beat at the words, unsure if you’ve heard him right. “what are you talking about?”

bakugou’s frustration is palpable, but it’s different now, tangled with something softer. he exhales sharply, as if the very act of saying it is painful.

“I don’t want you to die,” he says, eyes still locked on yours. “I don’t want to keep pulling your ass out of dangerous situations,

but every time, it just...it matters more than it should. and I don’t know why. I just—” and his voice drops into a groan.

your mind races, but all you can do is stare at him, trying to process everything he’s just said. is he...admitting something?

is he actually confessing to you?

you try to respond, your voice shaky but determined. “bakugou, I—”

before you can finish, he huffs, stepping back slightly.

“forget it. this isn’t—this wasn’t supposed to happen,” he mutters, visibly trying to shake off the moment. “I didn’t mean to...whatever. you should get some rest.”

“no,” you snap, your heart pounding as you take a step forward.

you’re not about to let him hide from this, not this time. “no, you’re not just going to walk away from this. not like this.”

his scowl deepens, but there’s something in his eyes he can’t quite mask. he crosses his arms, clearly uncomfortable, but his voice is still tight with frustration.

“what the hell do you want me to say, huh? it’s not like I can just...do this shit the ‘right’ way.”

you move even closer, your gaze unwavering, and something inside you surges, something you can’t hold back anymore.

“I don’t need you to do it the ‘right’ way, bakugou,” you say, your voice steady but intense. “I just need you to stop pretending this doesn’t matter.”

his lips part, like he’s about to snap back at you, but he falters, his eyes flickering with uncertainty.

“I don’t know how to...how to deal with this, alright? I don’t—” he clenches his fists at his sides, frustration evident on his face.

“you’re not the only one who feels this way, you know,” you cut in, your words sharper now, tinged with your own frustration and longing.

“you’re not the only one who’s...frustrated.” you swallow, your heart pounding in your chest, the words tumbling out in a rush.

“I care about you, too, bakugou. and I’m not going to sit here pretending like what happened didn’t matter.”

he freezes.

his eyes widen, and you see something—his lighting up just a bit.

“you—” he stops himself, jaw tightening. but his voice is unsteady when he speaks again. “you care? what—”

you nod, your heart in your throat, but now you’re certain. “yeah. I do. a hell of a lot more than I want to admit.”

he shifts on his feet, confusion warring with reluctant relief. “so what the hell do you want from me, huh?” he grumbles, his frustration still biting, but it’s calmer.

you take another step forward, closing the distance between you. “I want you to stop running away from this, bakugou. stop pretending it’s something you can ignore.”

his lips press together in a hard line, but for a brief moment, you think he might dismiss it again.

but then, after a long, measured breath, he looks up at you, and this time, there’s a small smile on his face.

“fine,” he mutters, gaze dropping to the floor, chuckling as he runs a hand through his hair. “I guess...I want to be with you too, alright?”

your heart skips a beat at the bluntness of it.

it catches you off guard, but you can’t help the smile spreading across your lips. “so, what, you’re saying you’re into me now, huh?”

bakugou flushes, the scowl returning to his face quickly and the blood rushing to his face as he quickly turns away, clearly embarrassed.

“shut up! don’t make me say it again.”

you laugh softly. “guess I’ll take that as a yes, then.”

bakugou sighs heavily, but then his eyes flick to you for a second. you stare back at him, an eyebrow raised in confusion.

he grabs your wrist and pulls you into his chest. your eyes widen as you collide against him, and you snap your head up, ready to yell at him.

but you halt as he cocks his head to the side and replies with a smirk, “damn right.”

— you've got a new message!

kofi — navigation — masterlist

do not copy, translate, or plagarize

[yieldtotemptation]

PAROXYSM ft. Mina

mina x male reader smut

part two of strange currencies

16k words

Go ahead, try and pretend like you’re not obsessed.

Like you’re not bothered that it’s been weeks since you had Mina—felt the heat of her body, the silk of her skin, the sweetness of her breath on your neck.

Since you've seen that ass. Had it in your hands, spread her cheeks with your fingers, stretched her wide with your cock and left Mina in tears, crying out—

"God, I can never go back from this."

And it’s not like you haven’t been searching for opportunities; a party you’d both be invited to, another gala, some event with enough plausible deniability for when you inevitably, ‘accidentally’ bump into her again.

But for some reason, nothing seems to align.

You’ll get word that she’s in Korea, basking in a rare stretch of free time, while you’re in Hong Kong, signing deals and making promises of dubious sincerity.

You’ll be rushing to return, already planning out how you’ll steal another taste of her, another touch; only to find out she’s been whisked away again—to Japan, or Brazil, or any one of the countless countries desperate to host her.

Glimpses is all you ever truly get—paparazzi shots, magazine covers, the odd video that passes through the digital ether.

So, yeah.

You let it rest, go through the motions, try to recreate it in the aggregate. There are plenty of pretty faces, eager bodies in your orbit.

But they're all just that: bodies.

Empty shells of what you had. They don’t laugh like her, they don’t keep you on your toes like she can, they don’t look at you with the same hunger.

(They don’t say your name like Mina did.)

—

“So,” is the first word you hear from Mina. Too much time has passed, and you’ve officially given up on any pretences of nonchalance. Decided to get straight to the point with the right people and just get her number. “I guess I’m not the only one who can’t stop thinking about that night.”

“Uncharted territory and all,” you’re repeating, and there’s a beat of silence on the other line.

A deep breath, and you swear you can hear her smile. “Definitely unique.”

It’s well past midnight and you’re tired and you’re feeling unusually vulnerable, so you're admitting things you'd usually keep under lock and key. “It’s been—you’ve been stuck in my head, Mina.”

“I know the feeling,” she sighs. Just the timbre of her voice and there’s shivers down your spine. “The memory alone is still—”

You finish for her, “Vivid.”

“I was going to say really fucking hot, but yes,” she laughs. “It’s helped me through some lonely nights. Remembering how you felt inside me, everything we did together it’s—God, you have no idea.”

“I’d argue I have the entire idea. For one—the stairs,” you’re supplying, grinning to yourself, leaning back in your chair, remembering the way she clung to you. How tight she was around you, how fucking new she felt as you filled her. “You were so fucking gorgeous. Never felt anything like it.”

“And the shower,” she counters, “you had me pinned against the tiles. Couldn’t move without you fucking me deeper. Just stuck with nowhere to go but further down your cock. No one’s ever done that to me.”

“Don’t forget the kitchen,” you add, “We got pretty creative with the utensils.”

Mina giggles. You didn't know she was capable of sounding so girlish. “I’ll never look at a spatula the same.”

It’s getting dangerous, each memory rekindling the flame of a night that you’d tried to convince yourself couldn’t have been as epic as you remembered. Couldn’t have mattered so much.

And yet here you are now, letting Mina stir up thoughts of her cunt gushing down her thighs, her nipples stiffening between your teeth, her ass choking your cock, the look on her face when she came all over you—and you know she’s wading through the very same set of flashbacks.

“Every time I close my eyes, I’m back in that garden. Your hands are all over me, your mouth everywhere—”

“Your cunt on my tongue—”

“Your fingers in my ass—”

“Your fucking moans, Mina—”

“Wait, I need to—”

Mina stops you, and you find yourself releasing a breath you didn't even know you were holding. You think you can hear her; hear the shutting of a door, a lock turning, frantic pacing, the squeak of a bed.

Your eyes close and you're picturing it now—Mina, laid back on pure white sheets, sprawled out like a Goddess. It's all there, crystal clear. Fingers dancing over her collarbones, tracing the delicate line of her neck down to the swell of her breasts.

Teasing herself, running her thumbs over her areola, the skin there a shade darker, a touch more sensitive. Pinching and pulling, peaks hardening into tight buds, missing the roughness of your tongue.

And then going lower, down over her ridged abs and between her toned thighs. Spreading her legs out in an invitation, toes curling into the mattress. Finding herself slick with need, so, so soaked. Dipping down to trace over her folds before sliding right into the wet heat.

Mina gasps. It's not your imagination. She moans into the phone.

You can almost taste her again.

She finds her voice. "Please, keep talking."

—

The first photo comes through the very next day.

You can intuit from the architecture in the background—the steep roofs, the brick exteriors, the gothic towers—she’s somewhere in Paris.

And there’s Mina, flat on her stomach, sheets tangled around her like the aftermath of a hurricane that’s swept through. Smiling at you straight down the barrel of the camera, cutting through the digital space between you. It’s sly and knowing and a little bit wicked, because she knows that it’s not the view of the city behind her that you’re looking at, nor is it even her face, usually so stunningly unavoidable and instantly captivating.

It's her ass.

Plump and round, poking over her shoulder, filling a whole corner of the frame. And you're spotting the indentations where your fingers have sunk in, the stretch of alabaster that your grip turned a shade of pink. A map of memories etched across the curve of her cheeks.

It’s a thousand words in a single photo, a message loud and clear, carefully composed to make you ache. So, you do. You ache.

You save the picture—not because you think you’re going to forget, but because you need to have a piece of her with you at all times.

Something to pull out when the days are too long, too dull. Something to look at when your memories of her aren’t enough anymore.

The photo, you notice, comes with a caption: ‘The only thing missing here is you.’

—

“Stability,” Mina’s telling you nights later, after you’ve spent close to an hour describing to her all the ways you’d like to have her again, like to break her down until she’s just a trembling mess of limbs and cum.

It’s a habit the two of you have picked up; these clandestine calls that come in the dead of night, during those rare occasions you’re in a reasonable enough time zone to talk. You’re actually in the same country this time. The States, but on different coasts, so, close enough.

She’s sending these breathy whispers down the phone; still coming down from her high, from the way her thighs clenched around her own hand, from the way she painted your name onto her skin with her own juices.

Still coming down from you, from the meticulously detailed step-by-step explanations of exactly what you’d do to her if you weren’t thousands of kilometres apart.

“Stability,” you repeat the answer she’s given to the question that’s been burning in your mind for weeks now. It’s certainly a faux pas to ask right after she’s made you cum across your own chest; but it’s late, and tonight’s suite is far too big and much too quiet—the kind of quiet that lets you think too much.

And so you had to ask her. Why was she still with him?

“That’s it?”

“That’s it,” Mina confirms. “I like stability, I like routine, I like knowing what to expect. Means I can never be disappointed.”

“Never be surprised, either,” you point out. She laughs, the sound warm and rich through the speaker.

“That’s never really been a problem.” She pauses. “Until you.”

There’s an alarm bell sounding somewhere, triggered by the way that last syllable curls around the corners of her lips, bounces across fifty different states to land in your ear.

You.

It rattles around your brain, punches you right in the gut. You try to play it off with a chuckle. But you both know what this really is. The desperation, the need. What you do to each other. How much of a fucking mess you’d make together if you had half the chance.

You make an attempt at being casual: “Apologies, then.”

“You kinda fuck everything up for me, you know?” She admits. “I was fine with it all. Leaving all of this as just a fantasy. Living with the boredom.”

“Everything’s boring.”

“Except this.”

You should really be above all this. The pining, the yearning. Having a crush.

It’s unbecoming.

Leave her alone. Leave her to the dream life she’s built up for herself. The career, the boyfriend, the whole shiny package that everyone’s decided she should want. It’d be the rational thing to do.

And yet— “So, what are we going to do about it?”

“I suppose,” Mina says, and once again, you're swearing you can hear her smile through the phone, because this is far from the end of things, “We’ll just have to find some way to scratch this itch.”

—

(It’s an outrageous abuse of power.

But so what? You’re an asshole billionaire, that’s what everyone expects of you anyway.

Besides, compared to your peers, it falls far short of bankrupting entire economies or causing irreparable damage to the Earth’s oceans and atmosphere.

So why not go full tilt and really indulge?

That’s basically the gist of your justification for forcing fate’s hand and manifesting your own ‘accidental’ meeting with Mina.

Still. It’s only a meeting.)

—

“Quite a situation you’ve engineered here,” is Mina’s first quip, as she steps right out of your daydreams and into your office.

Oh, you’ve been thinking of her.

Spent time replaying that night in your mind, revisiting the sight of her bouncing on that staircase, the feel of her soft skin slapping against yours, the sound of her sighs in your ears.

Obsessed over the messages, the photos, the videos she’s sent—how she moves, that coy smile on her face when she knows she’s got your full attention in her grip. All these mesmerising moments captured in high-definition.

And it’s coming back to you now—the waterfall of hair cascading down her shoulders, the red of her lips, the beauty spot on her nose, above her cupid’s bow—a constellation across her face.

(She makes your office feel small.)

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say, aiming for flippant, but missing the mark by a wide margin.

“Mhm,” is all you’re going to get, because you both know better.

She makes herself at home here, taking the long way to your desk. Hips swaying as she runs her fingers over the décor, the lights and the statues, the books and the furniture. Again, fitting right in with the expensive, the luxurious, the exclusive.

You’re not hiding that you’re staring, and she’s not hiding that she knows either.

Mina walks right past you, turns away so you can see the full sweep of her back, the high-waisted skirt that hugs her curves before flaring out at the waist. Eventually, she stops at the floor-to-ceiling window that overlooks the city, the urban sprawl below a far cry from the palatial gardens that backdropped your first encounter.

The sun’s setting overhead. It casts a warm glow over her. Outlines her figure in gold.

You break the silence, "Heard the photoshoot went well."

“Well, you get what you pay for,” is Mina’s second quip of the afternoon. She turns back to face you, leaning against the window frame, a perfect silhouette.

You can almost hear the glass tremble.

Mina asks, offhandedly, “You’ll have to enlighten me—is it standard practice for visitor passes to have access to every floor in the tower?”

“Security must be lacking.”

“Right,” Mina says. “And is it normal in your line of work, for the CEO to handpick the brand ambassadors?”

You shrug. “I like to get my hands dirty.”

“If that’s what they’re calling it,” she responds, smiling now. Pushing herself off the glass and taking a dangerous step forward.

“We were looking to appeal to our Japanese market,” you say, repeating the same lines you fed to your team, to her management, to anyone who bothered to raise an eyebrow. It’s a good lie. “Needed someone refined, someone that depicted class. Aspirational.”

Mina takes another step forward. Heels that make her legs look endless hitting the polished flooring with a click. "So that's how you see me, then."

"Amongst other, less appropriate things," you admit, already completely, hopelessly captivated.

"Let me guess: Stunning?"

"That's one."

“Fuckable.”

“Absolutely.”

“Submissive?”

“Are you asking, or telling me?”

Mina’s eyes dazzle as she closes the distance, rounding your desk and stopping just short of your chair. She waits for you to swivel and face her.

And then she leans forward, so close. Nose brushing yours, breath warm and sweet and familiar. Her hands land on your thighs, pushing your legs apart.

She drops to her knees.

“Telling.”

You can’t help yourself, you press your thumb to her lips, stamping it crimson.

It’s a wicked thing, how Mina’s bottom lip dips, how her tongue snakes out to lick the pad of your thumb clean. You push in deeper, watching as she takes you into her mouth, seals her lips around you and sucks.

How she’s looking at you now—building up this image of Mina; kneeling, the skirt riding up, her panties soaked with anticipation. Dressed like this is just another business meeting—masked in a high neckline and a smile so perfect against your skin.

That's today's game. Dress up.

Professionalism went out the window the moment she walked in—it barely crosses your mind to wonder whether or not she locked the door. You don’t even care.

Mina stops her little show, thumb pops out of her mouth with a wet sound, leaving a smear of red behind. There’s something about Mina, something that can’t be intuited unless she’s right in front of you, inhaling your exhales, smiling up at you like you're the only person in the entire world that matters.

It's like magic—makes everything and everyone else feel like a figment of your imagination.

“You forgot to mention a few other things,” Mina breathes on you, low and warm, priming you for a punchline that you know will send you reeling.

“Like what?”

“Oh, you know,” and she starts unbuttoning her blouse, reaching for the top button then— “How utterly,”

Then the next button.

“Desperately,”

More still.

“Needy,”

All of them.

“I am for your wonderful, perfect cock.”

The blouse opens up, falls away, drifts off her shoulders until it’s blood-red lace and vanilla-white skin.

Fuck.

(Mina’s not from this world, no fucking way. Definitely not human; jury’s out on if she’s some kind of Goddess. Probably something in between, come down from some place where the air is thinner and the lights are brighter.)

Your mouth is dry. “I could never forget.”

Mina’s eyes crinkle at the corners. Lips spread wide. She’s kissing your cock through your pants.

It’s electric. A long, teasing press of her lips that winds you so tight that just the slightest touch, just a single word could set you off.

Her teeth graze the fabric. You throb through the cotton.

“Mina,” you manage, hand dropping to the side of her face. There’s a tremor in your voice that you’re not used to, that you can’t even pretend to hide. Mina’s got you in the palm of her hand—or rather, on the edge of her lips—even though she’s the one on her knees.

“Relax,” she coos, holding her lips against you, deft fingers unlatching your belt, finding your zipper. “Let me take care of you. Let me take care of this cock,” honeyed words slipping out with the same ease that tugs you free, “Get my tongue all over it, take it deep down my throat, be such a good little whore for you—until you can’t think of anything but how much you want me to swallow every drop you’ve got for me, baby.”

You swallow, caress her cheek, “Darling—”

“Shh," Mina hushes, taking your cock into her hand, holding it against her cheek. So damn happy to have it so close to her mouth once again. “Everything you said over the phone. All that stuff about fucking my face, leaving a mess, filling up my throat—I want it all. You’re going to give it to me now, please.”

She doesn’t even look up at you, just so focused on your cock. Kissing around the shaft, and then drawing her tongue in one, slow, dragging lick all the way from your base, right to the tip. It’s gentle, careful, exploratory.

Introducing her lips to every inch of skin along your cock, over your balls, taking her time to stain all of you with the sheen of her kisses. Careful, so careful. Meticulous too, deep in concentration that you can almost feel her thoughts, intuit from the pressure of her lips how much this means to her. How much she needs it.

And it’s as her breath warms the head of your cock that you realise you’ve got a stranglehold on the armrest of your chair, holding it so tightly you could snap it in two. Not like there’s any helping it, nothing to do but brace yourself as she opens her mouth, pink tongue peeking out, and licks you again—longer, slower.

Holding still now, cock balanced on her tongue, fixing you with this stare.

A dare.

(Don’t move. Don’t interrupt. Let her do her work.)

That’s when her boyfriend calls.

Sorry, her partner.

A jarring noise, a slap in the face that breaks the spell. Vibrating atop your oak desk, a violent buzzing through the room—once, twice, thrice.

Mina’s eyes flick to yours. A split second, a single thought shared. There’s laughter on her lips because of course, because why the fuck not, because this is definitely your kind of chaos. You nod. You’re both in on the joke.

The phone’s still ringing, ringing, ringing.

And Mina’s mouth is still on you, tongue tickling underneath, lips wrapping around, before taking you in deep. Right as she accepts the call.

“Hmf?”

—

(A good idea to mention this theory you’ve been brewing for a while, the other reason why Mina still hasn’t broken up with boyfriend.

Because of you.

Because of how much fucking hotter it makes her. The thrill, the rush, putting a blemish on an otherwise spotless record.

And maybe you’re just as guilty—because you want to hear her lie to him too.)

—

“Still working,” is Mina’s deadpan over the phone, somehow keeping a straight face despite how full her hands are with you. She even rolls her eyes. “You know how it is—unreasonable CEOs jumping down my throat for no good reason at all.”

This woman.

Churning lies with such ease that you almost feel sorry for the poor, oblivious soul on the other end of the phone. Almost.

But Mina's too good at all of this. Too good at hiding it all. Too good at everything, really—whether it's singing, dancing, kneeling before you, making your cock disappear down her throat.

Just a slight adjustment in posture, and she’s taking you in deeper. A gentle suck, a swirl of her tongue around the ridge—and oh, the way she’s looking at you, eyes up and so damn full of mischief.

She’s fucking loving this. Loving the way you’re watching her, the way your hand finds her hair as she takes you in, the way you’re fighting to keep your composure. Fighting to keep your breath even and calm and to stop yourself from groaning so loud that it won’t just be her boyfriend, but the whole fucking tower that’s going to hear how much of a slut she is for you.

You can still hear his voice coming through—muted, indistinct—like a ghost, haunting the edges of this pornographic scene you’ve painted together. 

Fuck this guy likes to talk.

“Mhm,” is all Mina has to say to keep him convinced, to let him believe that she’s actually invested in whatever the fuck he’s on about. Keeping him none the wiser that her full attention is on you, her mouth moving up and down, her eyes glued to yours, watching every twitch, every drop of pleasure that flits across your face.

She reaches up with her free hand, wrapping it around the base of your cock. Gliding along your shaft in this twisting movement that sets your nerves alight.

Everything’s just so tight—her grip, her throat, your own breath in your chest.

“Mhm,” again, longer, sounding closer and closer to a moan than a casual agreement, but still, she’s playing the part. Barely listening to what he’s saying, because she’s doing this thing with her tongue—right at the tip, flicking it around your slit—that’s making you test the strength of your chair.

There’s temptation here—her mouth so warm, so wet—it would be so easy to grab a fistful of her hair and fuck her mouth like you know she wants. But you keep your cool, keep your hand gentle and steady atop her head, let her dictate the rhythm.

And when you hear the voice over the phone rise, maybe a bit of frustration or concern, maybe the start of something suspicious, Mina shamelessly pops your cock out of your mouth and answers, “Just having a snack. Late lunch break.”

She hits the mute button.

Bows her head deep, savouring each inch as she takes you deeper, making this fucking sound when your cock hits the back of the throat. Wet, gagging, sloppy noises that build this tension right at the base of your spine that leaves you aching, absolutely desperate to just give her more.

She holds herself there, choking so nicely, so sweetly, on your cock. Her eyes start water, it’s an effort to keep them open, but she’s still smiling through it all, just so delighted to finally taste what she’s been dying to have for weeks.

You’re struggling, “Fucking hell, Mina.”

Mina giggles into your cock, vibrating along your shaft. Pulls her head back; just a rope of spit that connects the two of you, glinting under the fluorescent lights. A poke of her tongue has her scooping it all up and slurping it all down, smacking her lips with a satisfied ‘ah’.

She unmutes.

“Sorry, it just tastes really good. Like nothing I’ve had before.”

There’s a confused murmur coming out of the speaker, a perturbed, “Really?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” and Mina has the gall to wink at you, the audacity to keep her hand on your cock, stroking it like it’s the most normal thing in the world. All the while she just chats to her boyfriend—partner, again—like you’re not about to cover her face with your entire load.

“Mina,” you let slip when she squeezes too hard, cranes her head to feel the weight of your balls on her tongue. Lapping away, licking and tonguing and teasing, until you’re gritting your teeth, holding back the moan that wants to break free.

The voice at the end of the line crackles, “Who’s that?”

Mina doesn’t miss a beat, “Boss for the day,” presses a wet kiss onto the head of your cock in a futile attempt to still you, “Really pushing me hard, making me work for it, you know?”

The voice relaxes, but not enough. “What’s going on over there? Something doesn’t sound right.”

“Everything’s perfect.” Mina’s just so pleased with herself, tongue dancing up and down, over and around, making the chair creak from the reflexive jerk she forces out of you. “I’m exactly where I need to be.”

“I told you that you shouldn’t do these types of jobs, you should listen to me and—”

“Get on my hands and knees and beg them to let me break the contract?” Mina smirks up at you, lips all smeared and messy with your arousal. “I can handle it” she continues on, dragging her lips to your base so she can slur into your waist, “I’m a professional. This is what I’m built for.”

God, he really doesn't deserve her.

He drops the subject so easily, moving on to talk more about him, about his schedules, his work, his boring fucking existence outside of her. And now you’re both rolling your eyes, sharing this secret, this ridiculousness that’s got you both on the edge of laughter and utter bliss.

Mina ups the ante, mutes her side of the call, and places the phone back on top of the desk.

You cock an eyebrow. “Seriously, him?”

She shakes her head. “No, just you.”

And she shows you, proves her point, because Mina’s not one for half-measures. Holds your cock tightly, strokes it again and again, one after another like it’s counting down to something explosive. Bomb’s ticking: the pressure’s building, the heat is coiling in your balls, but she keeps it steady, keeps it slow, keeps it right on that edge where it’s just enough to keep you there, but not enough to push you over.

“I’m just yours,” Mina hums, licking her swollen lips. “I’m yours to do with as you please, but,” she pauses, so she can jerk you just right, stroking with such finesse that you can't believe she's ever been with someone who didn't appreciate it, "I'm really hoping you let me swallow your cock now."

“You’re too fucking greedy.” 

Mina nods so earnestly.

So you give her what she wants, because what’s the point of playing this game if she isn’t going to win? 

You stroke the back of her head, guide her as she takes you all the way—nose to stomach, swallowing you up like you’re her favourite snack, her favourite secret. Her favourite lie to tell herself.

Fucking ridiculous. Too fucking much.

You lift your hips, leaving her to yank down your pants over your knees and to the ground. The clank of your belt buckle against marble echoes through the room, a starting gun to your undoing.

The phone’s still there, he’s still talking, a vaguely muffled annoyance. Mina doesn't even spare it a glance, just looks up at you, mouth full, eyes declaring:

‘Ignore everything else, just enjoy me.’

Fuck.

Mina’s cheeks hollow, her throat pulses, and gone is the usual effortless grace that she carries through everything she does.

No, she’s all raw, all passion. Sloppy now, greedy, showing you just how much she’s willing to do for you. It’s in the way she’s using her hand to squeeze the base of your shaft, the way she’s bobbing her head faster and faster.

Filling the room with the sounds of her slurps and smacking of her lips; her eyes watering with every deepthroat. Making her mouth this perfect, wet, hot little cave that’s swallowing you whole.

And you’re watching, watching every single move she makes. Unable to do anything else, really. Unable to think, to speak, to do anything but stare at her mouth, her eyes, her hand moving up and down, up and down—stare at Mina giving herself over to you.

“Jesus—fuck—” and there’s your voice back again, so much louder than you intended.

But Mina’s smiling around your cock, eyes still on you, urging you on, putting you under her spell. She’s playing with your balls now, her thumb brushing over the sensitive skin, her nails lightly scraping, and it’s like she’s got every button mapped out, knows exactly how to make you go off the deep end.

"Mina, you're just so," you try, rummaging through your addled mind for the right words to pin on this storm before you, "so fucking good at this," you finally settle on.

Mina's eyes light up, triumphant. Deep pools of brown swirling with all sorts of things—few that can be said out loud and even fewer that should ever be thought—and none of which she gives a flying fuck about.

Your cock slides off her lips long enough for her to slur, "Flattery gets you everywhere, sir."

“Mina.”

She's just so happy with it all—it's a little unsettling. Mina, all elegance and poise, so fucking giddy at the opportunity to debase herself at your feet.

She takes a breath, a real one, not the shallow, desperate ones she’s been taking for the past few minutes, and then she’s diving back down. You can see the determination in the set of her jaw, the way she’s holding herself in place with one hand on your thigh so she can devour you whole. And she’s doing a phenomenal job, really, because your cock’s so hard it’s almost painful, and your thighs are trembling with the effort of keeping still.

But she’s not done yet, Mina’s never done. She reaches behind her, unclips her bra with a flick of her thumb, slipping it off her shoulders—a silent, unnoticed escape.

Perfect little tits, perfect little dusky nipples, peaked and ready for your attention. 

She takes one in her hand, rolls the nub between her fingers, playing with it, plucking it like a guitar string, making it sing. Making sure you’re still looking, while she's still sucking you off with her mouth, still fucking grinning around your cock.

A true masterclass in multitasking.

Her other hand stays on you, working in tandem with her mouth. A stroke for every bob, a squeeze for every moan, and she’s whining into your skin, a muffled—mmph, mmph, mmph—so loving that you know it’s not just for show.

Her hand drops down, slipping between her legs, disappearing into the fabric of her skirt. You can’t quite see it, but you know by her sigh as she leans into your thigh, by the way her other hand pinches her nipple harder, that she’s pressing up and into herself.

The fabric’s too thick to see much, but you can imagine her—fuck, you don’t have to imagine—you can almost feel her, her fingers sliding into her wetness, her palm cupping her mound, her middle finger circling her clit like it’s the head of a tiny drum, matching the same rhythm that’s been driving this whole spectacle.

“Your fucking mouth, Mina.”

The words leave you on a groan, a tightening of your grip on her head as she just plays and plays. Every suck pure heaven, warm, wet, utterly divine; pulling your hips closer and closer off the edge of your seat, until you’re nearly falling down her throat.

But even Mina, for all her skill and polish, can’t hold out forever. The fingers at her cunt, the kneading of her own tits, the gagging around your cock, the oblivious boyfriend still blissfully unaware of the depraved scene unfolding on the other end of the line.

It’s a heady cocktail, and she’s had too much too quickly. Her throat’s tightening around you, rogue tears are sliding down her cheeks, and it’s about time that you both give up on pretence and hurtle straight to the crux of this entire escapade.

You stand, rising to your feet before Mina has you tumbling off your chair, sliding your cock out of her chasing lips.

“Mina,” you breathe, voice full of gravel, heavy.

Mina’s frozen, just staring at your cock dangling above her nose, her mouth open and wet, her big, brown eyes begging for its return to her lips.

“Mina,” you repeat.

“Mmm?”

“I want to fuck your face now.”  

Mina licks her lips. “Want to?”

“I will.”

“Please,” she says, a single word like a hot knife slicing through whatever restraint you have let. And you’re just about to lose it, really fucking lose it because she’s so fucking eager, so fucking hot for it, so absolutely fucking yours.

In your office, at your desk, kneeling at your feet, skirt rucked up around her waist, panties drenched.

She ties up her hair into a messy bun.

“Please, use me.”

A twist of your hips has your cock slapping against her cheek, the sound bouncing off the walls, leaving a trail of gloss across her flushed skin.

Mina laughs.

You lean down, grab her hair, thread your fingers through the strands, and guide her lips to where they were made to be.

“Christ,” is ripped from your throat as your cock is back down hers, plunging into her mouth like its home.

You push, push until her nose is squished against your pelvis, holding her there; her throat tight against your cock, her hand working her clit in double time. Whimpers escape past her lips, muffled whines that threaten to break you if you’ll let it.

But you don’t, not yet. You pull out, just long enough to let her gasp for air, only, she doesn't need the respite. She just blinks, and begs—

“Again.”

And again. And again.

Until she’s a writhing mess, until she’s shaking with the effort of holding herself together, until you’re plunging into her mouth so fast that you’re truly fucking her throat.

Deep, harsh strokes that make her cheek bulge, that fuck tears from her eyes. And Mina fucking loves it. Loves every second of it, loves having her head thrown back, her throat working for you like it’s your divine right, like her sole purpose in life has been to take your cock.

You’re fucking her face like you said you would, like she’s been begging you to do for weeks, whispering sweet nothings and filthy somethings into your ear during those late-night phone calls. Giving exactly what she’s been craving, exactly what she’s been dreaming about when she fucked herself so nicely for you to hear.

And she’s just taking it, letting you use her mouth like it’s nothing, because to her, it’s everything.

She’s lost in it, her hand a blur between her legs, her eyes glazed over. She’s so close, so fucking close, and she’s taking you with her; dragging you down into this pit of depravity that she’s been keeping warm for you.

“Mina?”

And there’s the phone again. Louder now, insistent, demanding. Finally noticing somethings not quite right.

"Mina?"

There’s panic in Mina’s eyes—but you’re quick to realise it’s not worry for him. It’s desperation for you. For you to keep going, for you to not notice, for you to keep the fantasy alive.

But you do notice. And it just makes you harder.

You're too far gone now—you're thrusting into her mouth with a fervour that’s almost violent. Mina’s eyes widen, but she doesn’t pull away. Instead, she takes it all, letting you fuck her face with a reckless abandon that’s only heightened by the voice on the phone getting louder, more concerned.

You’re the only voice she’ll listen to now. “Hold still for me, Mina.”

Her eyes go wide, and she nods, her mouth stretched wide around you. Cradling her cheeks, just firm enough to feel the heat of her blush.

“Mina, why are you muted?”

She’s barely even on this planet anymore—just bringing herself closer to the edge, loosening these ragged, wet moans around your pistoning cock.

“Mina, are you ignoring me again, seriously?”

“Mmph—fuh—mmph—” is her attempt at an answer, but she’s too busy letting you use your mouth, too busy fucking herself on her fingers, too busy being the perfect little slut she’s told you she wanted to be.

It fills the room—the sounds of wet, sloppy sucking, careless fucking, your own grunts of pleasure. And somewhere in the background, that voice getting more and more insistent.

“Mina, say something, answer me!”

And she does. Just not to him. She says it to you, mouth full, eyes on yours.

Garbled, stuttered, fucked-up little pleas— “there—there—please—please—oh my god—"

Her hand moves faster, her throat seizes, her eyes roll back in her head. Her body jerks, her hand still working her clit, her mouth still full of you.

Mina cums at your feet, a terrible, beautiful orchestra of noises—moaning, gurgling, gagging around your cock. Swallowing, desperate for a breath of air, trying not to choke, eyes watering so badly it’s a surprise she can see you at all.

You pull out, so abruptly that she gasps and stumbles a little. And yet, despite it all, despite how brutally hard and fast her orgasm hits her, she’s still smiling up at you, as graceful and gorgeous as ever.

So fucking proud of herself.

And she’s not done yet. She’s never done, not really.

Her hand comes up to catch you, holding your cock like an anchor, keeping you ready as she takes a moment to recover. The other reaches for the phone, a shaky hand bringing it to her lips, level with your own tip.

She takes a breath. She’s going to answer.

She unmutes again.

“Sorry. Can’t talk. Gotta finish something big.”

“Mina—what the fuck are you—”

Mina gives you that look—that nod.

Sucks you in one last time, gives you a final choke. A desperate gag, a deep impossible swallow down her throat. And then she releases you from her lips.

The phone clatters to the floor, forgotten.

“Cum for me, please, baby.”

At her instruction, you're erupting.

Mina captures the head of your cock with her lips, keeps it balanced on the edge. Uses both hands to twist and wind around your shaft. Overwhelming you, seizing you into her mouth because this is exactly what she’s been starved for.

Breaking a fucking dam inside you, flooding her mouth with your cum, completing her with your taste. It hits the back of her throat, thick and hot and she swallows and swallows and swallows.

So fucking grateful for every drop, for every pulse that shoots into her mouth, coating her tongue, sliding down her throat. She’s drinking you down like water, like air, like she can’t get enough of you, leaving you breathless until all you can do is just repeat her name over and over again—an endless chant of “Mina.”

And when you’re finally done, when every nerve-ending in your legs isn’t burning down and threatening to take you with it, you pull out of her mouth, gasping for air.

Mina just sits there.

Looking up at you, naked chest heaving, nipples stinging red. Cum slipping out the corners of her mouth, staining her chin. Skirt ruined, panties a sodden mess around her ankles. Hand still on your cock, coaxing you to peace.

And fuck, it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever seen.

With a smile that could melt the coldest of hearts, Mina reaches down to the floor and picks up the phone. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, not even bothering to be delicate about it.

"Hey," she says, voice miraculously calm and collected. "Sorry—got distracted."

You watch, utterly stunned, as she plays the part of the girlfriend so flawlessly, puts on an Oscar-worthy performance. You can hear the boyfriend's voice, frantic and worried—and completely fooled.

But then she looks at you, clears her throat, and her smile goes wide, and you can see the woman beneath the façade. The woman who's had enough of being bored. Who's decided that she's owed the impossible fantasy.

Kneeling on the floor, yet more powerful than ever.

So, so fucking perfect.

Spreading her thighs, fingers back at her cunt, carefully toying with her clit. Building herself back up to that peak she’s just thrown herself from, because apparently, that’s what you’ve taught her to do.

To never settle, never stop, never be satisfied with just one taste.

You’re cock throbs.

“Mina, you need to tell me what the fuck is going on.”

Her hand moves faster, her thumb circling and pressing, her middle finger slipping inside herself. You can see the gleam under the artificial lights, how her cunt’s making everything sticky and messy.

Making herself nice and ready.

“There's a big mess here,” she says into the phone, all sugary sweet, a perfect story that drips from her tongue like molasses. “Lot of clean up. It’s ruined me—ruined the whole job. It’s gonna keep me here all fucking night.”

—

(It’s just an arrangement.

That’s what you’re calling it when the moon’s rising over your office, and Mina’s kissing these promises over your heart, drawing up the terms of this unwritten contract that neither of you can really commit to—even though you're both well aware of how much you want to.

Sex, as an agreement. Sex, as a release. Sex, because you’re both fucking incredible at it.

It just might be everything you both need.

You're both just too afraid to be the first to say it out loud.) 

—

Weeks later, and you get really fucking good at making time for her.

Whether it’s fifteen minutes at a party, a couple hours at an airport, or a few nights spent in a hotel room with the curtains drawn and a do not disturb sign nailed to the door—everything starts to fall into place.

There's always an empty room to be pulled in to, a shadow to be claimed, a corner of the world that belongs to you.

It’s Mina, straddling you in the backseat of a limo, her cunt tight around you as the city lights slide by. Your hand on her throat, not choking but guiding, a conversation based on pressure and pleasure alone. Her tits bounce in your face, begging for your teeth, and you give it to them, biting down until she’s gasping your name into the leather upholstery. The chauffeur pretends not to notice. You don’t pretend anything.

It's you, bending her over the bathroom counter of some stranger’s house, her rather business-like slacks down at her feet to expose the bare, wonderful convex of her ass. You spank her until she’s crying, until she’s bright red and demanding that you make good on your promise to fill her up so she can’t leave this party without globs of you leaking down her legs.

It’s hotel beds that have seen too much, office desks forced to bear your weight, dressing rooms with the door locked tight.

It’s the way she looks at you when she thinks no one’s watching, the way she says your name. How she laughs, how she teases you, how she lets you in—just a little, just enough to keep you hooked. And you do the same.

It’s sex, but it’s not just sex, no matter what you tell yourself.

And it’s Mina again, fixing her hair while you zip her into something far more appropriate, already mentioning, “I'm going to be in New York next week, if you're in the area—"

And it's you, answering in the same way that you always do, "I’ll find a way."

—

Serendipity finds the two of you in Shanghai, amidst all its concrete jungle and neon lights, kept at bay by the soundproof windows and the drawn curtains of this hotel room turned temporary sanctuary.

Mina's stretched out on the bed, wearing one of your shirts that swallows her up to her knees, her hair a mess of curls and knots that she hasn't bothered to tame. Nose buried in a book—something thick and weighty Nayeon recommended her.

Paying no mind to you, as you’re busy brewing tea in the kitchenette (piping hot, oolong, how she likes it).

You sneak a glance as you wait for the kettle to boil, at the perfect picture she's composing—her bare legs peeking out from the shirt, the soft curve of her waist, the way the light from the bedside lamp casts shadows across her skin.

It's seeing her like this, far more exposed and naked than minutes ago when she was pinned beneath you wearing nothing at all, draining your cum into her cunt and thanking you for the privilege.

The drawbridge is coming down, guards leaving their posts—just the two of you in your stolen moments.

It's nice.

She catches you staring.

Tilts her chin down, peering at you over her glasses.

You ask, "Am I distracting you?"

"Always," she says, and it's loaded with the sum of whispered secrets and inside jokes, the weight of a dozen different glances stolen across crowded rooms. She closes the book, setting it aside, and pats the you-shaped imprint on the spread next to her. "Come here."

You bring a steaming cup over, handing it to her, adding a little more warmth to her side of the bed. An unneeded murmur of thanks, a smile that's brighter than any of the skyscrapers gleaming outside, and a careful sip.

You wait for her review.

A cool, clear, "Ah."

And as for your reward, she sets the mug down on her lap, closing her eyes and pursing her lips. Waiting, patiently.

It's built in you like a habit now—lean in, get the light peck you're owed. Gentle press against her lips, nose bumping up against her glasses, sweetness that makes her cheeks flush a lovely shade of pink.

Just so fucking cute and domestic that it almost feels wrong.

The normalcy, you're realising—doing something that millions of other people do every single day—kisses that aren’t about fucking, power plays and games. Kisses that are just...kisses.

Mina's on the same wavelength, that's her thing now. Looking at you with a slanted smile. A little disbelieving, a little amused.

You're sure you're mirroring it back.

“This is... weird, right?” You finally say, breaking the silence. Feeling the weight of the question, the implication of what you’re really asking. Is this okay? Is it allowed? Can we put a name on this without the whole world imploding?

Mina's smile doesn't falter. "Kinda," she says, and her hand's slipping into yours, her thumb tracing little circles against your palm. “Very. But also, good.”

You nod, not quite believing it. You've had relationships (is that what you're calling this now?)—but none of them felt like this. Like, sure, she makes you hard, but fuck if she doesn't make you weak.

Pulling you into this loop of familiarity, learning things about her that you would've dismissed if it was anyone else. Not just the carnal things—the ones that make her thighs run with need, that make her chant your name like it’s the only word she knows.

Normal people things. Snack addictions, sleeping habits, temperature controls.

The mug goes to the bedside table, and Mina twists her body into yours, landing her head on your lap and curling her legs up so they stay on the bed.

"You know," she says, still holding your hand, fingers tracing up your forearm now, nails drawing in a light tattoo. "I thought that this wouldn't work out."

You mention the obvious. "Because you still, technically, have a boyfriend?"

Mina stretches herself out against your waist, incidental movements that just so happen to make you stir. "No, darling," she's saying, turning to look at you, making your heart stutter. "It's because you're you. Relationships just don’t seem to be in your nature."

You feign injury.  

Even though, truth be told, she has a point there. You’ve never been one for the quiet moments, for the mundane comforts, mornings next to someone you spent the night with.

Maybe it's your own guardrails you've put up, maybe it's some sappy Trojan Horse she's pushed through the gates of your stoic heart—but here you are, stroking her hair while she holds your hand, your fingers playing with the soft strands like you're trying to learn Braille.

"You know," she says, reaching it out to run her thumb down the line of your jaw, "guys like you are all the same."

You arch a brow. "I think I’ve heard this one before.”

"Let me finish," she says, "Obsessed with the thrill of the chase, with the idea of something you can't have. And when you finally get it, you just...disappear."

She grants you the headspace to ruminate over that one. 

"Are you saying I already have you?"

"Haven’t figured it out yet?" she whispers, shifting her weight on the bed. Another Mina special, the incidental movements, shirt pulling taut against her, and with benevolent grace, it slides down an inch. The swell of her breast revealed, an already pebbled nipple peeking out. A shy secret. As if.

And she knows. Mina knows what it takes to turn you on because, deep down, she’s the same. Different animals, same beasts, the roles could easily be flipped: her the billionaire, you the idol, and it would still end up the same.

You’re both chasers of thrills, craving the high of the untouchable, the unattainable.

Doing whatever it takes to feel alive—that's what it boils down to, isn't it?

"I meant it, you know," you're saying, exposing yourself, all gooey and raw. "Never once dreamt of owning you."

It's obvious where Mina's headed with this. So used to people just laying claim of her without even asking—like it's their fucking right. Believing that just because she’s in their vicinity, smiling all pretty and dressed up, she's fair game. Thinking the fame has done to her what it's done to so many others, turned them into commodities.

And maybe she's let them believe the fantasy, it's her job after all, to fuel the delusion and make it feel real. But never once did she truly belong to anyone but herself.

And yet, and yet, and yet.

Mina lifts herself off your lap, body bowing, leaving the shirt to ghost down her arms and leave her chest bare.

Closer still, until she's straddling your hips, thighs pressing down on either side of your legs, and oh, mystery solved, there was nothing under the shirt but her.

And again, Mina, on the subject of your title over her: "Not even if I wanted you to?"

—

(It takes the length of a phone call for Mina to be officially yours.

Brutal in her efficiency, cutting the guy down and pushing him off the cliff of the inevitable.

You're just as cruel, laughing between her thighs as she slurs vague platitudes, barely encroaching on an apology, uncaring bullets flying across borders.

And then the 'I can't' when prompted for a chance to negotiate, an 'I'm busy' when the pleas come, and a final 'just fucking give up already' when the desperation gets too much and he's becoming less and less important the further your tongue gets into her cunt.

Poor bastard doesn't even know he's not the only one getting fucked.)

—

You feel like you’ve earned the right to be a tad more reckless.

So, dates.

Conventional, yes, but fuck you could do with some of that now. You had the money, the power, and now you had the girl. So, secret dates, grand gestures, the whole nine yards.

And yet, each one was its own little disaster.

An example: the restaurant.

Michelin stars, gourmet courses, over-the-top bullshit that you unashamedly love. Booking out the entire joint for the night, only for it to all go haywire when Mina showed up in that dress; tight, tiny, black.

"Eyes up here, darling," is what she said, before, "Or, you know, don't. I like the attention."

Just fucking you all the way up, having you pushing her into a backroom before the wine was even poured. Ruining said dress, rucking it up to her waist, making it some poor drycleaner’s problem.

“I was never big on grand gestures,” she assures you, as you pepper her neck with kisses, hands curving around to her breasts on sheer instinct.

"Wish you'd told me that in advance."

"And miss out on this?" Mina groans something fierce when your fingers find purchase. “Never.”

It's just Mina and you, doing what you've done a dozen times over by now, having long blown past any insecurities that this might just be too good, too perfect, that one of you might be the first to bolt for the door and run.

“I swear to god,” Mina’s managing, as you’re shoving her panties to the side, because you’re both well aware that this has to happen right here, right now. “This cock is going to be the death of me.”

You chuckle against her throat. “Wouldn’t be a bad way to go though, right?”

“You’re insatiable.”

“Says you.”

“Please, just—”

Your hips snap into her. She flinches. Screams your name so fucking loud.

Each and every one of the kitchen staff receives a very, very sizeable tip.

—

It becomes a problem.

Oddly enough, neither of you are at fault.

Leaked photos light up every website, tabloid, and social media platform in mere minutes—Mina and her ex, wrapped up in each other’s arms, the unmistakable blur of a bedroom in the background. Nothing too lurid, nothing too explicit—but just enough to get the world to gasp in collective shock.

The fucking coward did it. You never knew he had it in him.

Sure there's dating on the pictures. Years, probably, back to when their happiness couldn't be called into question, but it does its job.

The statements pointing this out do little to shift the public's attention though, they've already latched on to the chance to rip apart her spotless record. You’ve seen it before, a hundred times with a hundred different celebrities. The cycle of love turned to dust in the blink of a camera flash.

And yet despite all of this, despite the shitstorm that’s swirling around her, despite the radio silence you're expecting, not an hour passes before Mina's calling you again.

“I need you.”

“Then come over.”

—

Mina belongs here, it’s so obvious.

Walking through the rooms of your home like she’s always been there, like she’s what’s been missing.

None of the art on the walls, the books on the shelves, none of the sculptures worth more money than any person should ever see in their life—none of it make as much sense as she does here, in your space.

Ours, you’re already thinking.

While you’re staring at her, she’s taking it all in—every detail of your domain, eyes brushing over the aged furniture and modern finishes, each aspect of your home that you’ve curated as meticulously as you’ve cultivated your own reputation.

She doesn’t say a word about whatever conclusion she’s drawing—because she’s not the type to judge—she’s just curious. She’s always been curious.

And then she’s in your arms.

Hands looping around your neck as you hold her tight, like it’s been years instead of the mere days since you’ve seen her. Since you’ve felt her heat, heard her whimpers, felt her nails dig into your skin like she’s trying to slip in underneath.

“It was inevitable, right?” She whispers against your collarbone. “Something was bound to fuck this all up eventually. My life, yours. It was all too perfect.”

You hold her tight. Letting her sink into your embrace, disappear into your chest. She’s so small in your arms—not that she’s ever not been, but right now, it’s stark. Like she’s shrunk, folded herself into something more manageable, something easier to hide. Something that won’t be torn apart by the teeth of the media and the rabid fans.

Kiss the top of her head to make her relax a fraction, opening a pressure valve that releases a shaky exhale.

You point out, “It still is.”

Mina blinks up at you, and you pretend you don’t see the dampening in the corners of her eyes. “I need to do the whole apology tour now. Keep my head down, hide my face. That’s what they’re saying anyway. What they expect.”

You shrug. “Could hide out here.”

That makes Mina smile, laugh even, colouring her features with something far more impactful than any of the decor. “And, I'm guessing, fucking each other’s brains out from sunrise to sunset?"

"There'll be a couple of meals in between. You may be surprised to learn I make a mean bowl of ramen."

Mina laughs again, and it’s the sweetest sound in the world—like the chiming of a bell that’s only meant for you. She looks at you, really looks, and you can see the wheels turning in her mind, the genuine consideration she's giving your proposal.

“What do you say?”

“I—”

Before she can finish, you add, “I can handle our little problem. Just leave it to me.”

Mina blinks. There’s the curiosity again. “Handle?”

“Yeah,” you reply, vaguely amused. Something darker in the back of your throat. “I know some people. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

Mina stares at you aghast, the smile slipping from her lips. Wondering if she might have missed something in the reality of the billionaire with a silver tongue and a penchant for ruining dresses.

It’s your turn to laugh. “I’m kidding, Mina. Jesus, the look on your face. I’m not going to have the guy killed.”

Mina rolls her eyes. Slaps your chest with a little more force than intended.

You add, with a Disney Villain-worthy ominous tone, “For now.”

“You ass,” she says, but she’s smiling again, the tension all but dissipated.

“Not even I’m capable of having that sort of thing arranged. Well, maybe I am, just never tried, so—” you begin, only to stop immediately at the curving of Mina’s lips. “I was just planning on doing a bit of spin. Tap some of our PR Wizards, maybe offer the wolves something juicier. Whitewash the whole thing—shut him down.”

And a cherry on top of your whole plan—

"Make him wish I'd kill him instead."

Mina’s expression shifts, taking pause to study your face, your words. It’s the pragmatism that gets her, you think—but it’s baked into who you are. You don’t get to a billion dollars by making friends.

As a point of clarification, she asks, "What are you going to offer the press? I mean, you’re not going to leak dirt on someone else, are you?"

You shrug, an easy smile playing on your lips, "I was thinking we could just go public with us. Offer our whole thing."

"You're serious, aren't you?"

"My jokes usually make you laugh."

Mina takes her time to ponder this, to consider what you’re actually saying. To process the idea of turning all this—the sneaking around, the private moments, the stolen kisses—into something so exposed. Something translated and made palatable for public consumption, to be picked apart by the vultures skirting the edges of the media.

And there’s fear there too. That the thrill could wear off for her again, the exhilaration could evaporate, and the boredom would settle in.

Or it could be a whole brand-new opportunity. Replacing one thrill with another, the rush that comes with being seen together, the excitement of the chase being replaced with the passion of the capture.

She asks, slowly, carefully choosing each word, doing her best to avoid setting off a bomb that could send this whole thing into a downward spiral. "Is this what you want to do?"

You pull her closer, fit her body flush against yours, and bring your lips down onto hers. You let them linger, let her sigh, let her melt and keen and smile against your mouth.

"Darling," you murmur against her lips, "I've been ready to tell the whole world since the moment I sat down next to you."

—

Sometimes, the conventional ways are the best.

Stumbling through your house—kissing her hard in the hallway, losing her skirt in the kitchen, tearing off her shirt at the top of the staircase. Carrying her past the threshold of your bedroom and leaving her panties at the door; truly letting her into your world in every way, shape, and form.

Holding her close, one hand at her waist, the other looping around her chest. Kissing into her neck as you lay her down onto your mattress, getting up close and personal until it’s all Mina, all the sweetness and heat of her, the richness of her perfume that’s become her signature.

The red of her blush, her lips, the marks you’re leaving on her skin. The white of her throat, her collarbone, the bra that’s half on, half of.

Pinning her wrists over her head, keeping her still, watching her pupils dilate.

Fucking flawless. Every inch, every glorious detail. Underneath you, at your mercy, already staining your sheets with her need.

And then, a beg:

“Please.”

“Greedy.”

“It’s how you made me.”

Your other hand ventures lower, drifting down her stomach, holding against her abs, leaving your fingertips to ghost over her mound.

She shudders at your touch.

You let her know, “I wasn’t complaining.”

And your tongue is on hers, soft to start, relaxing into familiar patterns, swipes of reintroductions, until Mina’s arching her back, urging you on. But you’re greedy in your own way; wanting to take your time, wanting to extract all these sighs and moans straight from the source.

Only, Mina’s having none of it.

“You’re really going to torture me after the day I’ve had?”

You quirk an eyebrow, push your thumb down against her clit. Applying enough pressure to make her hips buck.

"Torture is a strong word, darling."

Mina's huffs as you hold her there, keeping her locked in place and at your mercy. Wriggling under your grasp, but not making any real effort to escape. After all, where would the fun be in that?

"Fine," she's relenting, eyes slipping shut, unable to hide the smile that’s making its way onto her face. "Call it what you want. Just—more."

"Then let's just call it a pleasant distraction."

Your lips are together once more, your kiss quickly turning from something sweet to something a lot more demanding. Throwing Mina a bone, pressing into her a declaration of intent that has her wild for you.

You take your fingers, slide it down, swiping through her folds. Dancing around her entrance, seeing how nice and slick she already is for you, feeding that gnat in the back of your head that urges you to just fill her whole. Right before pressing up into her cunt.

“Yes,” Mina whispers into your mouth, hips rising to meet your hand, helpless little shivers around your first, then second digit—pushing until you’re knuckle deep inside her heat, making her squirm and cry, “Just stretch this fucking pussy, please.”

“Oh, you’re so wet for me,” you say, like it's a surprise, like she's ever not, like she doesn't part her legs and beg for you to take the invitation to her cunt every single time.

And Mina’s reaffirming, “Of course I am, I’m always—” but she never gets to finish her sentence, because you’re sliding a third finger in, and she’s trying so hard to keep it all together despite how determined you are to pull it all apart.

You’re too attentive—watching her face, every micro expression. Watching for every twitch, every whine, every cry that gets stuck in her throat when she tries to swallow it down.

There’s beauty in all of it, every single time, you could never get enough of it. Been burned into you now—what it takes to make Mina come undone. The right ways to touch her, the spots that make her preen. Where to be gentle, when to be rough, how to keep her guessing.

It’s all here, now, distilled to its basest elements, and it doesn’t even take much. You’re too good at this, know her far too well to need anything other than the sound of her breath to dictate your pace.

Your thumb plays at her swollen clit, doing nothing but pressing down as your fingers saw in and out of her slippery cunt, making her clench around you like she always does. Faster and faster, until she’s crying for it, shivering and trembling underneath you, struggling against your hold on her wrists because she's dying for something to hold onto.

“You—you’re too much,” Mina pants, because that’s all she can do now as you push into her with purpose. So, so fucking wet, creaming around your fingers, pooling in the palm of your hand. “Too—too—too fucking—”

Losing control over her own limbs, cumming with a sharp cry, levitating off the bed as your hand works magic between her legs, needing a hard kiss to ease her back down to Earth.

The aftershocks still roll through her body, leaving her with these tiny, frantic whimpers. You keep her pinned, soothe her with your thumb at her clit, padding around in gentle circles, feeling her spasm and pulse around your fingers.

Your kiss ends on that high note, parting lips to give Mina a chance at a complete inhale. Her chest is heaving, nipples poking out of the top of her bra, skin already sticky with sweat. Eyes opening, hazed over with need and the beginnings of tears.

“I—I need more.”

Hands let go of her wrists, fingers slide out of her cunt, and you lean back to watch her try to compose herself. It’s a battle she’s not winning.

Mina’s blinking up at you, trying to catch her breath, trying to remember how to do anything other than be fucked into oblivion by you. You help her—leaning over, thumbs hooking under her bra straps. Pulling it down with a gentle tug that makes her arch into the motion, makes her chest spill out and your mouth water.

You take the chance to admire her. To drink her in, appreciate her the way she deserves to be appreciated—a masterpiece spread out on your bed, naked and needy.

There’s the intoxication, knowing you’re the one that did that to her, knowing that you’re the one that’s going to do it again. Over and over again.

“If I have to wait another second, I’m going to scream,” Mina says, the demand losing its edge in a whine.

You chuckle, press an open-mouthed kiss onto her breast, sucking a nipple between your teeth.

Sometimes, you just can’t resist.

“Let’s not pretend that isn’t exactly what I want.”

“Make it happen, then.”

Mina holds position as you pull back, keeping her hands over her head, keeping as still as a statue as you come to your knees over her. Eyes on you as your shirt, your belt, your pants go. Eyes on your cock as your briefs fall away, leaving it standing tall and thick and ready for her.

There’s power dynamics at play here—how Mina’s so vulnerable to you, how she’s laid herself out, unwilling to move until you tell her to. She understands it, implicitly. Knows she’s playing right into your hands, forced to wait while you let the anticipation build.

You hold your cock above her, stroke it carefully. Watch her eyes track it. See her gulp.

And she begs, again, “Please,” softer now, the unmistakable tremble in her voice. "I just—I need it so fucking bad."

Whether on purpose or by instinct, her legs splay, presenting her pussy, glistening with want. There’s the pulse in her clit, the need dripping over her folds—you feed the agony just a little more, hovering over the entrance, letting the tip of your cock graze over it. Teasing, taunting.

"Beg for it."

Mina opens her mouth, but she fails to summon the words. Just leaves her lips hanging open, leaving you an opening for your fingers to push in and try to help her find the right plea.

Her tongue flicks out, licks at your digits, the taste of her arousal still thick on them. The wetness of her tongue as she sucks, the suction of her lips as she envelopes each finger, one by one. Savouring her own flavour with deep, longing slurps, with grateful hums resonating around your fingers.

Leaking down the tip of your cock, cunt getting wetter and wetter the longer she’s denied. Making you throb against her, making your hips jerk and bump dangerously close to where she needs you to be.

But you still don’t enter her. You just wait until she’s done, until your fingers are clean and wet, and she’s left a trail of kisses up to your wrist.

It’s then that you drag your fingers out from her lips and demand of her once more:

“Beg.”

And this time, Mina’s able to say it clearly, confidently, right from her chest—

“I need you inside me. Need to feel you so deep inside me that I can’t tell where I end and you begin. I want to make you cum so hard you’ll never want to leave, want to leave your mark so deep inside me that even if you do, I’ll still feel you.”

Each word, a fucking gift.

And her reward—

A hard, quick plunge straight into her cunt. Inside her, instantly buried, immediately unbearable. Just too good.

Mina can’t do anything, just dig her nails into the sheets and try not to scream at the suddenness of it, at the way you complete her without any warning at all.

It all just ripples through her, a second orgasm already possessing her and forcing her into seizure. Can’t even hold it together—can’t keep the moans contained, can’t keep herself steady—can only just lock eyes with you and hope that you’re seeing it all, hope that you’re feeling it too.

Mina’s got no control around you anymore, none at all.

“Your cock,” she’s saying, repeating it over and over. Like it’s brand new to her, like it hasn’t ever left her wrecked a hundred times over.  “Your fucking cock.”

Words punctuated by the slaps of your hips, the wet sounds of your bodies colliding, of Mina welcoming every stroke of your cock inside her. So fucking tight, gloved around you like it was forged specifically for your cock; not for anything else but you, only you.

“So hard, my God.” Mina’s hands clasp behind your neck, needing a firm hold on something solid and real. “So fucking hard for me, so—so—fuck—”

Her lips are everywhere, a flurry of butterfly kisses across your cheekbones, the bridge of your nose, the edges of your jawline. Crazed, unbridled assault of affection. Disarming, incredibly hot. Mina doing her best to mark you up before she’s torn away again.

It’s far too early in the processions—habit would usually have her playing it cool, trying to keep up the façade of control, hold onto shreds of dignity, until she’s unravelling completely and begging you to fuck her harder, deeper.

But now, she’s just letting you have her.

No games, no pretences.

Just you, and her, and this wild, hopeless need to feel good, to be consumed by this.

“Yours,” Mina’s whispering, voice cracking around the edges, “All yours.”

And you know it. Have known it. Had it signed and sealed in ink since the very first time she told you. When you made her knees buckle and eyes water as you took her in every way possible. Since she called out for you, said your name into the quiet of the night like it was a secret she never wanted to keep.

Yet it’s hearing it now, the sum of all these moments stacked on top of each other; the haunts that you’d frequent, the private corners that you’d made yours, the endless phone calls and messages and photos that could fill entire warehouses with their filth.

Finally here—both of you, panting, sweating, sex thick in the air. The world outside forgotten.

Fucking Mina so hard, so deep, euphoria shooting straight through you each time your cock bottoms out inside her. The softness of her cunt, its heat, its creaminess, its fucking divinity. Leaking out all around you and squeezing you so good that it’s a miracle that you’re still coherent enough to speak.

But you do, with a gruff, “Already knew that, darling.”

Mina’s laughing, because that’s the type of high you’re giving her. Even with the way you’re stretching her open, even with her eyes barely open and her toes curling into the bed—she’s laughing because it’s the only thing she can do. Because it’s all so absurdly perfect that she can’t find the energy to do anything else.

“All this, all of you,” you’re leaning in, at the base of her throat, licking a stripe up to her earlobe. Drumming the words into her skin, until she shivers. “Every part of you. All mine.”

Simple words that hold so much sway over her, that could pull her apart or build her right back up. Words that make Mina clench around you, make her cunt grasp you so tightly as if she’s trying to make them real.

“Always,” she’s heaving, “Always yours.”

And there’s this look on her face, like she’s lost in a dream—eyes glassy and all fogged up, breath hot against your shoulder. Glowing under the dimmed lights, making the sweat pooling at the base of her throat shimmer.

Keeping your hand there, at her neck, like it’s the only thing keeping her from floating away. Ruining her. Because really, it’s all for her. All of this is all for her pleasure, her satisfaction.

You’re just along for the ride, so fucking lucky to have her like this. So impossibly beautiful, just knowing she exists would drive you insane if you didn’t get to be with her. Didn’t get a chance at this pussy, so perfect, dripping so much, made so hot for you and only you. Your own personal slutty cunt.

It’s the way her legs wrap around your hips—the smoothness of her skin, the power in those thighs, holding you like she’s afraid you’ll pull away. Like she’s terrified you’ll leave her like this, frantic and wretched and so, so fucking wet.

The newest picture you’re painting, your magnum opus in her name—her tits bouncing with each thrust, nipples stiff and flicking in the air. The yielding of her back, bending just so she can accommodate that extra length of you inside her. And her stomach—fuck, those abs. Tightening and loosening, shaking with every hit of your hips, with every sharp gasp of air.

Demanding of you. Cum for me. Please. Now.

“I need this. Exactly this from now on,” Mina’s declaring, stuttering it like you’re fucking every syllable out of her tightness. “Just you fucking me. Whenever we’re together, every second we get alone—fuck—"

And you’re nodding because you’re always right there with her, always on the same wavelength, thinking the exact same fucking thing.

“Keep filing me up until I can’t take it anymore. Until I’m screaming so loud, I can’t even hear myself think—”

Breathless words that flood your ears, that Mina needs to get out, needs to make sure you hear. Absorbed straight into your bloodstream, pumping into your cock, fed right back into her cunt. So fucking tight. So downright incredible that you’re speeding up, driving in deep, as deep as you could possibly go.

“Until I’m so full of you that I forget my own name—forget any other name but yours—until I—until I—”

A nasty hit makes her body curve and rise, makes her pussy clamp around you, in warning of the orgasm to come, the one you’re both hurtling towards with a kind of reckless abandon that’s become second nature.

“Until I—please—just always make me feel this way—”

“You will,” you promise, meaning it, fucking it into her like your life depends on it. Like you need it to survive, because maybe you do. Maybe you’ve never truly lived until you’ve felt Mina’s cunt quiver around your cock like this, until you’ve heard her beg for you like you’re the only thing she needs to breathe. And again, for good measure, “you will."

And oh, that’s all it takes. That’s enough to have Mina spilling.

“Cumming,” is her proclamation. Repeated, ad infinitum, just, “Cumming, cumming, cumming.”

All over your cock, all around your cock. Cunt strangling you with the force of it.

And this is where you decide Mina’s most beautiful.

When she’s consumed by climax, when she’s held prisoner by it, when she’s just nothing but a canvas for you to leave your marks all over.

“Feel so good—so fucking good—”

It’s the best kind of challenge, pushing her through it.

Worshipping her in all the ways that count, treating Mina in ways woman like her should never be treated. Tearing an angel down from the heavens just to hammer her cunt into submission, and being thanked for it afterwards.

“God,” Mina’s trying, voice rasping and broken, “I—fuck—I can’t—”

You take her, hand wrapping around her tits, pinching, rolling, teasing nipples until they’re as tight as her cunt around you. Leaning in and capturing her lips, drinking down her whimpers with a kiss so deep you can taste your name on her tongue.

Fucking her, ruining that tight, little pussy, through every wave that crashes down over her, that burns her up from the inside and makes her so Goddamn hot.

Leaving her in disbelief that it could ever feel this good again, that there's a light at the end of this tunnel, that there's a life after being fucked so thoroughly by your cock.

Holding her through it, preventing her from crumbling into a million overstimulated pieces. Slowing down the pace of your hips with steady, deliberate thrusts until you’re just inside her. Cock throbbing, bathing in her heat, waiting.

Mina stirs, eyes flutter open, meeting yours. “Cum inside me. Wherever you’d like.”

There’s only one real choice. Mina knows this as well as you do.

Your cock leaves her cunt, slick with her juices, her cum. Proof of your dominion over her body, gleaming along your shaft.

Nothing but bliss on Mina’s face, so well-fucked and satisfied and just plain happy that it’s almost a surprise she hasn’t melted away into a puddle. She’s smiling, looking up at you through her lashes, sweet and soft and perfect.

Turning herself over, bowing down on her knees, pointing her ass up at you like it’s the universe itself handing you a present and saying, ‘Here, this is yours.’

You can’t resist that kind of temptation.

“I’ve been waiting for this,” Mina tells you, rolling her hips higher still, flaring out her hips, treating you to the perfectly round globes of her ass. “Waiting for you to take me. However you want. Make it hurt so good. Make me remember how you feel.”

Her hands reach back, delicate fingers spreading plump cheeks apart. The tight, pink ring of her ass winking at you. A sight that never gets old, a vision that’s forever carved into the back of your eyeballs.

One last request. “Please.”

Your cock pushes in.

“Thank you.”

Right away, it’s too fucking much. Your cock breaching through her asshole, pushing in inch by inch. Slow and torturous, the kind of thing that makes you want to yell.

Then the first thrust—that first hit, like a narcotic, straight through your veins, every single time. Feeling it, sensations so intense, so sharp, that you forget to even breathe.

And Mina’s crying. Crying out, muffled by the pillow she’s biting into. Yet still, pushing back against you, urging you deeper, even though she’s coming apart, even though she’s shaking from the sheer effort of having you fill her.

“Darling,” you call to her, “you’re doing so good,” because she is. Good, good, so fucking good for letting you split her in two like this. For letting you ruin her in all the best ways.

The second thrust is easier, smoother. Body giving in to your demands, stretching around your cock like it always does, like it’s made to do. To bend and flex to your whims and desires.

With every push, every retreat, every agonisingly, achingly slow grind into her ass, you’re nearing that rapturous end.

“So fucking good for me, Mina. Your ass is so tight around me. Such a good girl.” You’re grunting now, trying to ease her into it, to build up to the point where you can pound her, push her like you really want to.

Mina’s nodding, eyes screwed shut, sunken in the way you’re stretching her out. It’s a familiar feeling, having her ass opening up for you. A dance you’ve performed so often it’s almost muscle memory—each step painstakingly learned; each move carefully choreographed.

You’re easing into her, slow, so fucking slow that it’s a wonder that either of you doesn’t implode with want. But Mina’s good, so good, letting out these tiny, shuddering breaths that you feel down to the marrow of your bones.

And then, as your is fully seated in her ass—

“Don’t hold back,” Mina says, quietly, barely audible, but the need is crystal clear. “All of it, please.”

Hand in her hair, hand at her waist. Gripping into her, guiding her and then fucking her, really, truly flooding her ass with your cock, disappearing into her tightness until your hips are slapping into hers.

So pretty, even like this, even when her moans are getting louder, borderline screams that are cut off by the cotton of the pillow, her knuckles turning white in the effort. Her back tenses, muscles rippling underneath your palms.

She dips a hand underneath her, between her legs. Fingers at her cunt, whirling around her clit, doing all she can to keep up with you.

“Feels fucking amazing. Your ass, Mina,” you’re trying to say, but it’s coming out all gravelly and thick. “So fucking tight for me.”

It’s the one through-line that’s kept steady over these months. Mina’s transcendental beauty, Mina’s razor-sharp intelligence, Mina’s pussy that’s always, perpetually yours. All these things; but it’s Mina’s ass—that perfect, juicy, heart-shaped, fucking flawless ass that keeps you up at night.

Every time you’re buried inside, it’s like coming home to something sacred. Tightness gripping you, ass swallowing your cock in waves, the kind of feeling that makes you believe in a higher power—because nothing so divine could possibly be man-made.

“Fuck, I just—” Mina’s breathing out, quick huffs because that’s all she can manage, “just love this so fucking much. Love how you feel in my fucking ass.”

Her hand’s working overtime now, circling her clit with a fervour that’s almost religious. Pussy starting to leak again, juices running down her thighs, mixing with the sweat, pooling at her knees. Fuck, the way she’s touching herself while taking you in, so willingly, so wantonly, so utterly destroyed for you—she’s going to cum again, you can feel it. And you’re not far behind.

“I think I’m going to—fuck, I only just—but I’m going to—again—you’re going to make me—again—” She’s squealing, half-mumbling, full-crying, and your heart nearly bursts out of your chest because it’s all for you.  

You’re not even managing anything other than desperate thrusts, just fucking her with everything you have—like you’re trying to claim her inside and out, trying to leave your fingerprints on every part of her so everyone will know she’s been yours all along.

“Please, please, please,” again and again, stuttering out, “Just—just—just—”

Just keep going, keep pushing into her until she’s shaking, until she’s pleading for you to stop, to let her breathe, because she’s about to fucking break.

Or, really:

Keep going and never, ever stop.

The hand in her hair tightens, pulling her back, making her arch. That perfect spine, the curve that’s painted by God himself. Kisses into her shoulder, into the crook of her neck, making her whimper.

“Keep fucking me. Like this—like this—God—I’m going to—again—”

Pulling her closer to you, so you can feel the tremors starting from her core, spreading out like wildfire. Pushing her hand away, taking over between her legs—rubbing, teasing, circling her cunt and pushing her closer and closer to the brink. Fucking her so deeply that you can feel the first quivers of her orgasm from the inside out, daring to take over her body again.

“Keep fucking—touching me, fill me up—just don’t—please, I need it—”

A final plea, her last rites, before she’s lost.

“Cumming—cumming again—please, oh, please—oh—”

Mina’s body goes lax, a ragdoll in your arms. But you keep fucking her through it. Through the quakes and shivers, through the cries—through the crying out. Pleading. Pleading for you to follow her into oblivion.

And fuck. If you’re not right there with her.

You’re close, chasing her, feeling her orgasm, feeling it coil around your cock and pump through her veins and into yours. Feel her—her body, her muscles, her cunt—tightening, tightening, tightening around you until it’s unbearable.

“Cum for me—with me—” she’s repeating, her newest mantra, “cum inside me. Give it to me—please, I need it—please—so badly—”

Begging, dying for it. Willing, wanting to do anything for it.

But she doesn’t need to—you can’t fucking hold on any longer.

“Mina—fuck—"

You slam into her, and finally burst.

Filling her ass with your cum, feeling it spurt into her, thick and hot. Pumping into her, over and over, getting wrung dry by her ass, cumming so hard it feels like your bones might shatter.

Cumming until your vision swims, until the architecture in your knees threaten to give out, until all you can do is hold onto her hips and keep her in place, keep her right there, impaled on your cock, until every single drop of cum has found a home inside her ass.

Until you’re so sensitive it’s almost painful. Until the orgasm has passed over the two of you and left you feeling like you might dissolve into nothing but pure sensation.

“Christ,” you manage to get out, the word tearing out of you like it’s being ripped from your chest. Holding Mina close—embracing her, seeing just how much she’s loving it. How thankful she is. Taking it all, soaking it all in, moans turning into whimpers that you’d swear are prayers of gratitude.

Body limp and strung out, fucked so hard she can’t even hold herself up anymore—Mina collapses into the bed, pulling you with her, your cock still buried deep inside her.

Like the first time, like every time, it’s a complete fucking disaster.

Tangled up in sheets, in each other. Sticky with sweat, stickier with cum. And Mina turns her head to look at you, just so pleased, and so gleefully satisfied.

You lean in and kiss her, slow and deep, resisting the urge to stir, to roll her onto her back and start this whole thing over again. Claim her once, twice, a dozen times more.

But you don’t. You just lay there, breathing into her neck, letting all of this, your orgasms, your bliss, your absolute contentment roll through you.

There’ll be time to keep going, to keep fucking her. Give her the same tour of your house that she gave you that first night.

Eat her out in the kitchen. Fuck her into the sofa. And yeah, introduce her to the balconies on the higher floors.

For now though, there’s Mina, lips parting with yours, looking at you with a smile that’s this original blend of lust and love and admiration. “You really know how to ruin a girl, you know that?”

You chuckle, picking a stray strand of hair out of her eyes. “Just trying to scratch an itch.”

—

Everybody loves a love story.

And yours is packaged up so nicely, polished and made shiny and perfect for the public to see.

It's the type of story the media dies for—a tale of modern romance, woven through the glitz and glamour of celebrity life. The cold-blooded billionaire who had his heart stolen by one of the nation’s daughters, and then chased her across continents in order to get it back.

You and Mina, becoming the ultimate power couple—the kind that makes the paparazzi's cameras click in unison and tabloids sell by the millions.

Together at every high-profile event, her hand nestled in the crook of your arm, your thumb tracing lazy circles on her wrist—a secret promise of the bruises she’ll wear under her designer dresses. A whispered reminder of the things you’ll do to her when the lights go out and the world isn’t watching.

But nobody sees that. The public sees the smiles, the kisses, the sweet little glances that pass between you—and they eat it all up.

They'll never see the way she begs for your cock, the way you fuck her until she can't walk straight, the way she rides you until all you know is her name. They don’t know that it wasn’t love at first sight—it was lust, paroxysms of it, pure and raw and unbridled.

But here you are.

Mina, in your bathroom, smiling at you through the mirror. Dressed to the nines, looking like a fucking dream. Making it so obvious now that you wonder how you missed it at the start. The way she looked at you that first night, the way she looked. It was all there, laid out in big bold letters, all caps, telling you that this is what you’ve been searching for—what you needed all along.

That dress she’s wearing—some dazzling shade of green. Olive? Celadon?

“Emerald,” she smiles, catching you staring. “It’s emerald, darling.”

You grin back. “Then it should match.”

Mina’s eyes flick to the box in your hand, curiosity piqued.

“Got you something.”

You hand her the box—a simple, muted green velvet, lacking any markers or logos to give away the contents. Ergo, it’s really fucking expensive.

She takes it out of your hands. Opens it, and her breath catches.

“It’s—” Mina whispers, lifting a necklace from the box. A simple, stunning piece. A thin diamond band with a solitary jade teardrop hanging from the center.

"Yours."

Mina holds it up against the light, seeing how it dances through the stone like it’s alive. When her eyes come back to yours, she’s beaming—a smile so wide it makes you wish you had your phone ready to snap a photo.

“Help a girl out, would you?” she says, turning her back to you, sweeping her hair over her bare shoulder.

You step forward, kissing the skin there, feeling the softness of her neck, the pulse of her vein. Your hands come up to fasten the necklace around her, the coldness of the diamonds brushing against your knuckles.

“You know, there’s one thing I was wondering about,” you murmur, letting the jade rest atop her throat.

Mina giggles, tilts her head slightly to the side. The jewels sparkle. “Oh?”

“That first night. The gala. You came alone.”

“I did.”

“Why?”

“Why?” Mina repeats, amused. Happy to have her own little secret, the one thing you've yet to pry out of her between the sheets. She regards you through the reflection, a twinkle in her eye that says she’s been wondering what took you so long to ask.

“Yeah, I’ve never quite figured it out. I mean I know why you were alone. But why did you come at all? What were you doing there, just sitting all pretty and by yourself. It felt so wrong to me at the time.”

That makes Mina laugh, making you feel somewhat silly to even ask. She spins on her heels, facing you; the necklace sitting perfectly against her skin. She runs her fingers over the chain, ending at the pendant. Tapping it. Once. Twice.

And she doesn’t even need to ask you if it looks good on her or if it suits her because she knows. She can tell by the look on your face.

She wears it like a fucking collar.

“Why?” Mina says again, stretching the syllable out long and wide, until you’re staring at her lips, knowing you’re about to kiss her again, knowing that you may very well not make it out of the house tonight, likely not even make it out of the bathroom.

You’ll be ruining that dress, fucking her against the sink, pushing her up into the mirror, kissing into the top of her spine and repeating over and over again—mine, mine, mine.

“Because you invited me.”

[distantdarlings]

TEETH TO BONE // t. nott

RATING: PG-13 / 1.3K WORDS

Theodore Nott x Reader Insert (no gender-specific details)

+ SUMMARY - You come to your best friend's dorm room after not being able to sleep. He makes a decision that changes your relationship forever. *Theo's POV* (Romance)

+ WARNINGS - Heavy kissing, a bit of petting, someone kisses w/o that person's permission

+ MUSIC (listened to while writing) -

Touch - Troye Sivan

---

The sheets in the morning always caught Theodore’s attention. In those early hours when the sun's warm shades had not yet overtaken the cool, the birds still refused to sing, and the residents of the castle hadn’t yet awoken. It was a rarity for him to wake up at this time naturally—it didn't always have the same effect. But when he opened his eyes to the milky hue that stained the floor and felt the luster within his sleep-filled eyes, an instant feeling of comfort washed over him. This was always quickly followed by an unnerving question of life itself and the reason for these comforting feelings, but before this came along, there was comfort. 

It was the folds in the sheets that traced over his legs and the imaginary body lying next to him; the soft dancing of eyelashes over cheeks; the supple pink of another’s lips--someone in particular, not just anyone; and coffee with just enough cream to where it matched an old pair of corduroy trousers. These were all things that made him feel equally as comfortable as that morning light. The lips, though, were an image that often flashed in his mind. As were the sheets and the unfairly long eyelashes and the corduroy trousers. Each day, Theo found himself aligning more things in his personal thoughts to that of someone like you. He might hope to consider you his love but would never truly do so for the looming sense of rejection that hung over him like a rain cloud.

The door in the corner creaked with a symphony of old wood and rusty nails. It wasn't a pleasant thought, but the sound was as nostalgic as the crackles within the records that he and you used to play, sitting on the floors of each other's bedrooms. Theo smiled gently at the memory, remembering the feel of the hardwood beneath your ankles and the looks in both of your eyes. If he wasn't crazy, he might have thought that this is where his heart first opened up to you. Where he first realized how badly he craved your touch instead of any of the girls or guys his mates eyed in town.

"Teddy," a whisper like crinkling parchment tickled the shell of his ears. Only you could call him that.

"Are you awake?"

Theo pushed himself up into a sitting position, feeling the sheets tangle around his feet in a new position than they previously had. His eyes met that of a bedroom floor record player in an embrace with a cotton touch. You smiled, showing off the teeth that Theo found so endearing. You shifted a bit in the doorway, rubbing your bare thighs together in an attempt to gain some warmth. You were still wearing the shirt and the shorts that you’d been in the night before—the ones that made his stomach kiss his chest. 

He caught onto your sense of embarrassment and beckoned you over, your nightshirt a bit too big for you. The sleeves reached the tips of your fingers in a rather demeaning manner. You sauntered over before stepping into his bed, crossing your legs and placing your hands comfortably between each thigh. The shirt you wore was ill-fitting just as his but in a different way. The cotton material lay against your chest which didn't dare to touch. Your skin pulled tight over your bones and made a passionate embrace with the fabric as it hung off you in a rather languorous way that caught Theo’s attention rather quickly. The collar delicately caressed your exposed collarbones that cut like knives and burned like fire in the pit of Theo’s stomach.

"Alright, love?" Theo whispered, his voice cracking from the pressure of the morning. You looked down, a few strands of hair falling into your eyes. You didn't seem to notice.

"Couldn’t sleep, I reckon . . . ," you spoke just above a whisper, the tenor undertones in your voice making the hair on Theo’s arms stand up. Without thinking, the brunette swiftly swiped the hair out of your eyes with a single thumb, just barely brushing your skin with his own. His eyes found yours in a breathless escape, attempting to analyze what you were feeling. Theo could hear his heartbeat in his ears and he wondered if you could hear it as well. His hand fell limp at his side in an embarrassed fashion.

Your mouth opened as if to speak but closed once more. You seemed to be debating on whether or not to say what was dancing on the end of your tongue. Theo desperately wanted to hear what you had to say. He wanted to know if it was a negative or a positive that he had touched you in that way. 

"Teddy—" you began but Theo pressed his lips to yours before you could finish. It hadn't been something he’d thought about before doing. He just did it. His hands remained tightly pressed into his lap, not wanting to push himself onto you any further. He felt bad for doing this in the first place, he just needed to feel the person he'd known for so long in the way he desired. He expected you to push him away or run or something but by the time he realized those things could possibly happen, he knew that this kiss had been extended much too long to be a hormone-fueled act of blind passion. 

Your lips no longer remained dormant but moved against his. Yours cradled his bottom lip with a gentle touch—much too gentle for him. He pressed his hands to either side of your face, pulling himself onto his knees. You rested comfortably between his thighs, knees dug into the mattress, as your shoulders were against the headrest. He steadied you, feeling his fingers trace the lower part of your posture. Theo groaned breathlessly into your mouth, politely insinuating that he needed a breath. 

You slowly pulled away, your lips joined in a messy trail of spit that disconnected as you rested your forehead against his. Blue eyes met yours in a frenzied heat of repressed desire as dry throats held the hunger of fasting lovers. Your thumb gently stroked his cheek, eyes flickering down from his bewitching eyes to his swollen lips, painted with your love. 

"More."

It was a single whisper. Nothing too dramatic or emotional, just the hoarse beg of a starved man. You took Theo’s lips back onto your own, much more fervently than before, feeling his desperate breath against your cheeks. Theo’s hands fell to your hips, his fingers brushing the bare skin there. You winced into his mouth at the cold touch of his rings, your fingers tightening into his hair.

Theo pushed off from the headboard and gently laid you back on the bed. He hovered over you in a protective guard, shielding you from all other eyes in the outside world. His lips touched against your neck like a feather, only barely ghosting against your soft flesh. You knew that the man above was like a god and you worshiped him as such. Lips to skin, teeth to bone. The young god's hands held onto you like a lifeline, exhaling syllables packed with amour and white-hot lust in your ear. 

Theo’s hand slid delicately beneath your shirt, caressing the warm skin stretched over your ribs. You could feel his heart drumming through the rest of his body like a bomb ticking away. It teased you, daring you to take control. He wouldn't let you, though, you knew this well enough. The man in question slid down your body and pulled you by the back of your knees until your head was resting against the pillow. His knees lock you in place. You couldn't go anywhere even if you wanted to.

"Are you sure, love—" Theo whispered breathlessly.

"Merlin, Theo, yes," you spoke. You were surprised you even got the words out with the way your pulse was pounding in your ears. It knocked against your brain, imprinting a tattoo of lust within your skull.

If Theo died right now and the last thing he saw was you beneath him, pressing your lips against his undeserving flesh and tracing your fingers down every individual scar, freckle, and anomaly on his body, then he'd take it.

[eff4freddie]

Play With Her

Explicit - 18+ Minors DNI

A sequel to Play With It

Words: 4k

You and Joel have fond memories of the last time he called you from work. But a slight misunderstanding leads to some fun with your neighbour, and to you ( accidentally) fulfilling one of Joel’s secret fantasies.

Warnings: SMUT, people. So much. Smut. Oral (m and f receiving), phone sex, mmf (kinda), Joel talks his girl through it like a gentleman, surprise Frankie, Joel’s a little shocked but he is very into it, voyeurism, exhibitionism, dirty talk, Joel being kinda soft dom again.

You hadn’t forgotten Joel’s antics in his car in the middle of a workday, but despite a particularly explosive afternoon immediately following, you hadn’t had the time to properly get him back. It hadn’t been either of your faults, just that work continued to be relentless, something went wrong at the site, materials weren’t delivered, the vendors got mad. You developed a little twitch in your eyelid. Joel came home rubbing his neck and shoulders and turning the kitchen upside down trying to find the heat pack.

You knew there was love there, that there was passion. You weren’t worried about it, even though you missed him. You knew that it was situational. When the air cleared, you’d get back to taking each other apart.

--

Joel woke up early again, groaning as his muscles ached like they hadn’t had any rest at all. You were in bed beside him, and he knew that you’d had a late shift but you’d managed to rack up enough overtime that today you had the whole day to yourself. He was so proud of you, his little worker bee, and even though he was disappointed your schedules hadn’t aligned so that he could enjoy the day with you, or on top of you, he still knew it was good for you. He left a little note on your bedside, telling you he was gonna call around lunchtime. He marked it with two x’s and two o’s. For a second he imagined actually peppering your skin with kisses.

‘Soon, baby,’ he said, to your sleeping form. He was quiet in his socks on the carpet as he left.

On the way out the door, piece of toast between his teeth, he looked over the front lawn. It was getting out of control, and he’d been meaning to cut it, but he just couldn’t find the energy on a weekend, and as the days were gettin’ shorter as the weather changed, he was leaving in the dark, home in the dark. He didn’t like the look of the lawn, worried that the state of the grass was a direct reflection of the state of his aging body, of his bone-deep fatigue most days. That the neighbours would twig he was getting older, purely by the weeds spreading their tendrils over the path to the door.

‘Morning, Joel,’ he heard a voice call, and he glanced over to next door’s patio, where one such neighbour was standing with the newspaper in his hands.

‘Frankie,’ he said, nodding his head. He got on well with Frankie, even if he wasn’t 100% sure he trusted him all the time. He had a kid he had over every other weekend, who Sarah adored, and other than that he lived alone. Ex-military, he reminded Joel of Tommy, and he tried to be sensitive knowing some of the shit he must have seen. He didn’t seem lonely, he was handy and knew how to get Joel’s truck going when the engine was on the fritz, and more than anything he treated you respectful, tipped his cap when you walked by, and Joel liked that. Appreciated the manners.

‘Early start,’ Frankie said, and Joel sighed. He rested a hand on his hip.

‘Too early,’ he grunted, and the younger man smiled knowingly at him. As Joel moved to the truck he limped a little, his hip bothering him after he carried some lumber the wrong way on the site a few days ago.

‘You ok?’ Frankie asked. Frankie noticed everything, Joel knew. It would have kept him alive in his last job, he supposed.

‘Yeah, just gettin’ old, getting’ tired.’ Joel nodded to the lawn. ‘Can’t you tell?’

‘Could help you with that, got the day clear today and…well, don’t have other plans.’

Joel had seen Frankie out on his back porch drinking on his own, sometimes with a couple of other men who all looked a similar age, similar previous occupations. He didn’t mind so long as they kept it down and didn’t catch your eye too much.

‘Can’t ask ya for that,’ Joel started, but Frankie waved him away.

‘You’re not. I’m offering, hermano.’

Joel nodded. It might be a nice surprise for you, he thought, to have the house reclaim some of its street appeal. Lord knew it didn’t have much to start with.

Sitting in his truck he fired off a quick message to you so you wouldn’t be surprised by Frankie on your front lawn. ‘Organised a sruprise 4 you, baby xxoo,’ he wrote. He was going to be late. He sent it without too much thought.

--

You woke, lifting your arms up over your head and listening to the pops of your joints as the stretch moved up your spine. You couldn’t remember the last time you had a day off. You had no idea what you were going to do with your spare time.

After a second or two of blissful cotton-headedness, you noticed a droning sound from the front of the house. You stood on achy knees and padded over to the window. Surely Joel hadn’t taken the day off too, with the worksite being so crazy lately?

You sucked in a tight little breath when you saw him. Shirtless, with his curls poking out the side of his ballcap, pushing his lawnmower over your unruly grass in the late-morning sun. You scrabbled for your phone to check the time and also to try and orient yourself, to make sure you hadn’t accidentally fallen through a wormhole in your sleep, as though Siri would be able to tell you one way or the other.

You saw the message from Joel. A surprise? You glanced around the room, looking for any clues. Eventually your eyes fell on a scrap of paper on your bedside, and you read that, too. For a second you stood, confused, trying to put the pieces together. He had organised a surprise, there was a half-naked man on your lawn, and he was going to call you at lunchtime. And you remembered exactly what transpired the last time he did that.

Your felt your brows shoot up to your hairline as realisation dawned. Did he know you’d had a crush on Frankie since the moment he’d moved in next door? How could he know, you’d been so careful not to stare too long, not to smile too much. You’d felt the sparks, and you’d poured cold water of them well enough, you’d thought.

But nothing got past Joel. You couldn’t believe it, but also you definitely could.

A surprise for you? No. This time you were going to be one step ahead.

--

Joel didn’t like to eat his lunch in the truck, never fully able to get the tang of egg salad out of the upholstery after, but this time he made an exception. He’d pulled back around to where it was quiet, knowing some of the guys on site liked to pump the tunes during their breaks, set up a little jerry-rigged tailgate to try and while away the 40 minutes they had to themselves. He thought with a shiver about the last time he’d snuck off to park somewhere quiet. He let himself wonder for a moment if you’d be up for something like a repeat. He grinned a little as he dialled. He didn’t think he should push his luck.

The call connected almost straight away, like you’d been waiting for him, and he felt a little flutter in his heart. You were so sweet to him. He needed to take you out somewhere special soon, make you flutter for a little while.

‘Hey baby,’ you said, your voice high and breathy, and he guessed you were still in bed.

‘Hey, sleepyhead,’ he said, teasin’ you.

‘Mmm,’ you said, ‘no cameras this time?’

‘We can if you want, baby, but I was just calling to check in on ya.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yeah, and to make sure Frankie’s doing his job,’ he said, chuckling a little.

‘Frankie’s doing just fine,’ you said, and you sounded weird somehow, maybe a little out of breath?

‘You ok, baby?’ he asked, and you hummed in response.

‘Wanna see you,’ you said, and he felt a shiver up the base of his spine. He knew that tone. He felt the smirk appear on his face.

‘Yeah, you sound like ya do,’ he said. He took the phone from his ear and connected Facetime. He heard you doing the same.

He wasn’t sure what he was expecting to see. He’d assumed you were in bed, so he was surprised to see you were up, standing in front of the big picture window overlooking the front lawn. Your cheeks were a little flushed, and you looked a little sweaty. He wondered if you’d been for a run.

‘There’s my girl,’ he said, because the sight of you always lit something up in him, and you smiled at him, a coy little thing.

‘I got a surprise for you,’ you said, a dimple appearing on your cheek as you arched a single brow at him.

‘Oh yeah?’ he said, feeling his cock stir. Maybe you were up for a repeat after all.

‘Mmmhmm,’ you said, biting your lip. You were holding the phone up with one arm, but he could see your other arm held fast in front of you. Were you touching yourself in the living room?

‘Show me,’ he said, and you grinned at him. You panned the camera down, slowly, so that first thing he saw was the straps of your camisole, one hanging off your shoulder to hover just over the swell of your tit. You lowered it again, over the belly, where you had shucked up the hem and he could see some exposed skin, your little belly button he sometimes liked to tickle with his beard just to hear you squirm and squeal.

Then a little further down. Angling the camera so that he could see down your body, to your feet on the carpet, and to the man on his knees between them.

Joel blinked. He was sure his heart stopped.

‘What…’ he started, but he couldn’t finish his sentence because he was too distracted by the man hitching one of your thighs over his shoulder and opening you up, teasing the lips of your pussy apart to properly latch to your cunt. ‘Oh my god,’ he uttered.

‘Oh my god!’ you gasped, as Frankie sucked your clit between his teeth. ‘Oh baby, he’s so good,’ you groaned.

‘Baby, what are you doing?’ Joel asked, trying not to overthink that his cock was rock hard while he watched another man lick a stripe along your seam.

‘Surprise…’ you gasped. ‘Got a head start.’

Joel’s hands were shaking. A head start on what? He watched as your hand gripped Frankie’s head, his ballcap on the floor beside him as he grasped at your hips, pulling you down harder on his face. You were squirming there on top of him, as he huffed out little exhales into your skin.

Your breath was starting to get faster, coming in little pants, as your thigh clenched around Frankie’s shoulder. For a brief moment you worried you were going to suffocate him, and then he ran a finger up the inside of your thigh and teased at your opening and you simply didn’t care.

You angled the phone back to your face, your eyes fluttering shut so that you didn’t see Joel’s slightly shocked expression.

‘Such a good surprise, baby, thank you,’ you said, and Joel felt his belly flip in on itself. You were blissed out, he could see just by your face you were half gone already. Your little whimpers were sending electric shocks to his cock. He couldn’t deny it wasn’t one of the hottest things he’d ever seen, or that he had wanted to see it ever since Frankie appeared next door. He just assumed you’d never be into it, and now looking at you writhing he couldn’t remember why.

He swallowed on a dry throat. You cracked open an eye, noticing he’d stopped talking. You saw that he looked a little pale, and worried for a second he was regretting it.

‘He’s not better,’ you said, trying to form words to reassure him while Frankie was pushing any sensible thought out of your head with his tongue. ‘He’s good, just as good. It’s just different.’

You were shuddering a little, Joel could see that you were trembling from the pleasure the other man was wringing out of you. ‘Yeah?’ he grunted, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say. Because he didn’t want to take this from you when you’d accidentally given him something he thought he would only ever dream of, not when you were feeling so good, not when you had apparently read his (dirty, filthy) mind. Because he was enjoying it, if he could tame the beast that was howling mine mine mine every time you whimpered under Frankie’s tongue. Because, ok, this wasn’t what he had planned for the day, but it was so much better.

His cock was already so hard it was almost painful. His beautiful, dirty girl. ‘He eatin’ it right, baby?’ he asked, and you moaned a little in response. He heard Frankie grunt a little from beneath you. ‘Show me,’ he said.

You angled the phone down again, this time reaching to put it closer to your cunt, so that Joel could see the way Frankie was suckling at your cunt, the way his tongue was working his way in and out of you, how at some point he had slipped two fingers into your cunt and was pumping them slowly, angled in the way Joel knew you liked, the way that made you stutter.

‘Fuck…’ he groaned, as Frankie huffed out an exhale.

‘She’s good, man,’ Frankie said, pulling his mouth off you for just long enough to force out the words. ‘Tastes like a warm spring morning.’

Joel could feel his cock pulsing, could hardly hear for the pounding of his pulse in his ears.

‘You treat her right,’ he ground out, his jaw ticking. He could feel the furrow in his brows, knew he was almost glowering at Frankie. ‘That’s my girl you got there,’ he added, feeling the need to remind him. To remind himself.

‘She always get this wet for you?’ Frankie asked, and Joel practically growled. He was about to tell Frankie you could practically drown him every night when he noticed your thighs were trembling, your hand in his hair moving to his shoulder to try and get purchase.

‘Lay ‘er down,’ he instructed. ‘Don’t let her fall.’

The camera moved, blurred as Frankie got up off his knees and pulled you over to the couch. He heard you sigh as your muscles relaxed, Frankie lying you down and settling between your open thighs.

‘Thank you, baby,’ you whispered to Joel. He swallowed.

��Look after you,’ he said, fumbling with his fly. He was rock hard and worried as soon as he held himself in his hand he’d nut like a teenager. He wanted to ride this out with you, wanted to be present for all of it, wanted to stave it off as much as he wanted to chase it down.

‘Oh, he’s got his fingers in me,’ you said, gasping. ‘They’re so thick, just like yours…’

‘He hittin’ the spot?’ Joel asked, as you angled the camera down your body and he saw Frankie hovering over your cunt, lips once again suctioning at your clit.

‘Mmmhmm’ you replied, breathless. ‘He’s good, baby, he’s so good.’

Joel couldn’t form words for a second, gripping the base of his cock to try and regain some sort of control over it.

‘Wish you were here,’ you said, as you pushed your hips down onto Frankie’s face.

‘Yeah?’ Joel asked, wincing as he drew his palm over the weeping, sensitive head. ‘What’d you do if I was there, baby?’ he asked.

‘Want you everywhere,’ you groaned. ‘Want you in my mouth, in my pussy while he sucks on my clit. Want you in my cunt while I suck him.’

Joel gasped, his eyes slamming shut as his head tilted back on his shoulders. You were going to be the fucking death of him, and he would happily go if this was how you’d go about it.

‘Want your tight little cunt, baby,’ he grunted, pumping now, not able to help himself, the want for you overwhelming as Frankie raised his head a little to eye him through the camera. Your hips were bucking now, involuntary and fast. ‘Play with her,’ Joel said to him. ‘Don’t let her come yet, not ‘til she’s earned it.’

He heard you whimper, a desperate little cry, and watched as Frankie pulled back. Joel watched as his face glistened with your slick.

‘Joel!’ you cried, and he sniggered a little.

‘Ain’t what I meant when I said you could cut my grass,’ he said to Frankie, who grinned at him.

‘Not my fault your girl’s got a delicious cunt,’ he said, shrugging.

‘Let me see her,’ Joel said. He held his breath as Frankie took the phone from you and angled it back towards you. He saw you, splayed out on the couch for him and for Frankie, one leg on the floor and the other held fast against the couch, your slick spread over your thighs as your pussy grasped at the air, desperate for something to lick it, to suck it, to fuck it. ‘Jesus,’ Joel said, staring at your folds.

‘Don’t know how you leave the house with this waiting for ya, hermano,’ Frankie said. Joel shook his head.

‘M’a damn fool,’ he agreed. He saw you giggle, and he smiled.

‘Get on your knees for him, baby,’ he said, and watched as your smile fell, shock and want painting your pretty face.

‘You sure?’ you asked, so quiet he almost didn’t hear.

‘You wanna be good to our guest, right?’ Joel teased, and he watched you smile.

‘I’m a good host,’ you said, and he smiled.

‘The best, baby. Go on now, make him feel welcome.’

‘Oh fuck, Joel,’ Frankie muttered, as you got up on your knees on the couch and crawled over to him, your eyes on the younger man’s cock.

‘Just wait ‘til you see what she can do with that slutty little mouth,’ Joel said. He was holding himself by the base again, almost holding his breath in anticipation. Frankie angled the camera down his body so that Joel could see your hand as you reached out to hold him.

‘It’s big,’ you said, looking up and straight at Joel through the camera. You could see how far gone he was, how much he was holding himself back. You felt more arousal pool between your legs just at the look on his face.

‘You can take it,’ Joel said. ‘Make it good for him, baby.’

You watched as he mirrored your smile. God, you loved him. Even now, with another man’s cock in your face, he was the love of your life and as soon as he was home again you’d tell him. Show him. Never let him doubt it for a second.

You extended your tongue to kitten lick at Frankie’s tip, tasting the pre-come that had gathered while you and Joel encouraged each other. You heard the twin groans of Frankie above you and Joel through the phone. You hitched your mouth over the head, gathering saliva and letting it run out over the sides. Frankie was big, but so was Joel, and you breathed through your nose as you slipped your mouth over him, opening your throat and trying to calm your racing heart.

‘Oh, fuck me,’ Frankie said, as Joel held his breath. You hollowed your cheeks, a bolt of want shooting through your cunt as Frankie stuttered, groaning low and heavy in his chest. He smelt faintly of Old Spice and grass clippings, and you tasted the salt on his skin of his exertion. Joel smelt of pine and lumber. Between the two of them they were a symphony of delicious masculinity.

‘Can you reach her tits?’ you heard Joel ask, shivering. Frankie grunted his ascent. ‘Reach down, if you play with her nipples she’ll soak the couch.’

You whimpered, breathing out hard through your nose as you worked Frankie further into your throat.

‘Look at me, baby.’ Joel instructed and you opened your eyes, letting them travel up Frankie’s glistening tanned body to catch Joel’s eyes. You could see he was working himself again, panting and squirming in the driver’s seat of his truck. His hands were trembling a little, causing your view of him to shake, and it matched the tremors that were coursing through your body as you sucked Frankie down.

You felt his hand grope at your tit and you rounded your spine to try and give him more room, sticking your butt out into the air in the process. You kept your eyes on Joel, fighting the urge to let them drift closed, wanting to watch him watching you with another man’s cock in your mouth.

‘Doin’ so good,’ Joel muttered and you preened under his praise. ‘Put your hand between your legs, rub that little clit.’

You whined, following his instruction, a little lightheaded from the heat and the desire and Frankie halfway down your throat. ‘Such a pretty girl, my beautiful girl,’ Joel prattled. ‘Love you like this, baby, throat all stretched out taking on another man.’

Your eyelids fluttered as his words hit you in your core, Frankie’s hips starting to roll as you eased your finger over your clit and started rubbing tight little circles on the bundle of nerves. Frankie pinched hard at your nipple and you gasped, sucking in air through your nose and trying not to gag in the process.

‘Oh fuck, she’s squeezing me with her throat, hermano,’ Frankie muttered.

Joel watched, almost completely out of his mind. He never wanted to look at anything else ever again, wanted this view of you tattooed on the inside of his eyelids so he could see it anytime he wanted. Your eyes were starting to water, your skin glistening with sweat, as your hips shuddered under your own touch and under Frankie’s.

Joel was so close he wasn’t going to be able to stop it. He knew he had only seconds left, and by the looks of it, so did you.

‘Oh fuck baby, look what you did to us,’ he said, and you let your eyes drift from Joel’s to Frankie’s face as he grit his teeth, his eyes staring down at you, just barely managing to hold onto the phone as you sucked him.

‘So good,’ Frankie said to you, ‘can’t…gonna…’

You groaned, taking him out of your throat and reaching up to jerk the shaft while you sucked hard on the head. Still circling your clit with one hand you reached the other up to gently roll his balls in your palm. He cried out, the shock of the pleasure making him finally drop the phone. It landed, face up, just by his knees and angled up under your chin as Frankie shot his load into your mouth, gripping your tit in one hand and the other coming to rest on the crown of your head as he pumped his hips, his come shooting into your mouth as you rolled it over your tongue. Joel had an obscene view of it, watched as Frankie’s come spilled out of your mouth and onto the couch below you, nearly splattering over the lens. It was too much, finally too much, Joel shooting come into his hand and over his shirt as he fucked his palm, imagined it was your mouth, your cunt as you sucked Frankie’s come down, imagined he was inside you and also beside you, holding your head up as the younger man painted your throat.

He came as you did, gasping and whimpering for the other, your voice calling for him as he grunted out for you, and he recovered just enough to watch as you shuddered, your body shaking and rolling with the pleasure of it as you rested your face on Frankie’s heaving belly, sweat plastering your hair to your head, come dripping from your lips, as you rode out your high.

‘Fuck, baby…’ you whimpered, while you fought to catch your breath. Joel could see you collapsing, the pleasure wringing you out, leaving you shaky and spent. He swallowed, collecting himself enough to instruct the younger man.

‘Washcloths are under the bathroom sink. Make sure the water’s warm.’ He took a second to breathe, trying to clear his vision enough to be able to drive. ‘Wrap her up in a blanket, there’s one on the back of the couch.’ He watched as Frankie nodded, listening hard. ‘Hold her ‘til I get there,’ Joel said, his heart thrumming again, an ache building in his chest to be with you as he fumbled the keys into the ignition.

‘Hold my girl for me ‘til I’m there,’ he said, again.

[persphonesorchid]

Minisode: Yoongi

Notes: Bros I miss Yoongi so much rn 😭

Warnings: implied smut and nudity

Minisodes Masterlist

"You want a kiss or something?" Yoongi peeks an eye open, the soft traces of your warm fingers against his bottom lip and chin pulled him from his dozing. Sunlight filters in from the window, muted in white as the sun fights through a shimmery cloud. You're inches away, skin bare in the soft light, the sheet draped over you hides the rest of you from view and Yoongi eyes the mark that aligns with his teeth.

You're quiet as you simply stare, and years ago, Yoongi would get shy, tuck his tongue into his cheek and look away because he couldn't help it. Now, he stares back, trying to read the furrow in your brow and the light in your eyes because he can't help that either. They don't really match up and he's trying to make sense of it. Your fingers shift their focus, tracing along the angle of his jaw, up to his hair, shorter now than many months ago when you would playfully tug. You'd cried when he came home with it short.

"What's wrong?" Yoongi asks softly, catching your hand with his, he gives your fingers a little squeeze. You smile and shake your head, and Yoongi shuffles closer, pulling you to him. His arm would go numb in a bit, but that barely matters as you curl into him. You tuck your face against his neck, just slightly under his chin, and slightly confused and mostly concerned, Yoongi rubs circles against your back. "Do you want to talk about it?"

He feels you shake your head, "Okay. That's okay."

For a moment, it's quiet and he thinks you've fallen asleep, but your voice barely disturbs the silence. "Missed you."

"I've been here." Yoongi's hand settles on the back of your neck, pulling back just slightly, but you press closer to him so he gives up. He lets you settle as you please, your breath ghosting along his collar brings a phantom memory of your mouth just then. He trails his fingers at your hairline, just at your nape, and presses a kiss to your hair.

"I know."

Something that feels an awful lot like guilt settles in his chest and stings his eyes for a second, "I'm sorry."

"It's okay." You finally pull back and he takes the chance, looking down at you. Your eyes are misty but you're smiling, something that blossoms and blooms into the grin he's fond of. "Can I have that kiss now?"

Yoongi chuckles, "I dunno. You have eye boogies and you drool in your sleep, you know." You smack his side and he wheezes, "Slobbered all over my arm this morning."

He keeps going just to hear you whine and complain, but your smile grows and you laugh this time, moving away from him and wrapping yourself in the sheets and he follows with not-so-sorry sorry's. He pulls you back, even though the sheets deny him once more, digs his cold hands trough it to find your warm skin.

"I'm not gonna kiss you if you don't turn around."

[e1dritchjackal0pe]

𝔏𝔬𝔳𝔢 𝔗𝔥𝔶 𝔈𝔫𝔢𝔪𝔶

𝔖𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: The perilous position you have assumed within the hierarchy of the Red Keep has been discovered for the farce that it is. You can see it in the way that the prince watches you; like a beast with glinting claws and teeth waiting for the prime moment to lunge for your throat.

You must leave if you wish to keep your life intact, but in an attempt to flee, you run right into his lethal maw. You had just never imagined the nature that the outcome would be.

𝔚𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: 18+ content, MDNI!! Some Aegon slander (sorry to the aegon stans), brief mentions of past SA of maids by Aegon but it is not stated in detail, AFAB, and fem aligning pronouns used. Dubious consent, the reader is technically the seducer, but there is a clear, uneven power dynamic, and her life is under threat, so the implications are not lost on me. The sex is consensual but keep the warning in mind. Oral sex (M! Receiving), deep throating, Switch wanna be dom sub leaning Aemond, medieval slut shaming, degradation, praise kink, unprotected sex, creampie, wall sex.

𝔑𝔬𝔱𝔢𝔰: 23.4k words. Not proofread. Enemies to (reluctant) lovers coded. Reader is a spy. She is also the definition of, "well, mark me down as scared and horny."

You truly cannot help but to berate yourself. This could possibly be the most foolish, idiotic situation you have ever allowed yourself to be a part of. Never have you ever so willingly dangled yourself so close to death. Constantly teetering - swinging to and fro above destruction like a pendulum. The urge to slip away in the cover of the night has never been so great before. No other venture has gnawed at you in such a way. Not the petty gossip you have traded over for coin at the expense of bothered and arrogant nobility and ambassadors, not the misdeeds and horrors of bureaucrats that you have passed off to their disgruntled rivals - no matter how formidable or perceptive they might have been. But those feats are all so small in comparison to your tasks now. Pathetic even. Trivial. 

You have maintained your position within the castle for years. Posing many false expressions and surviving many demeaning orders from arrogant, leering lords and insincere, vapid ladies. Despite the ignorance of the common individuals among the court, there have still always been keen, all-seeing eyes that flicker about the halls and rooms in search of treason and threats. You have learned to dance about their line of vision. To hardly be seen, and never heard as you slip around amongst the shadows to collect what is necessary. 

All of these loose lips and wagging tongues with hardly any consciousness or smarts to command them. These people, the many of them akin to animals cavorting around in rich fabrics and imported diamonds, remain wildly blissful in their ignorance. Still, there are few that skulk about the dark just as you do, and it is only by the grace of the gods that you have not blindly bumped into them in your endeavors. 

You should have vanished as soon as the others had been dispatched. Executed silently by the hand of Lord Hightower for their espionage. It was close. Far too close for comfort. They had all been snuffed out so silently. It had not been made a public spectacle, their deaths, but instead was performed with an eerie quiet. Not strung up like the ratcatchers that had snuck into the walls of the castle and slain the King's heir, but silent. As though they had never even existed at all. As though they were merely false phantoms in your memory. 

You owe your life to the lot of them. For not allowing your name to slip from their ragged breaths as they no doubt endured horrendous torture by the hands of the crown. You should take the opportunity that their deaths have provided and run far from King's Landing when you still had the chance. And yet you remain fixed in your position, tending to the requirements of your station on the day to day. Perhaps you are merely making an effort to honor their memories. To remain here, surrounded by danger out of a sense of duty. You have always survived, no matter the circumstances. You have carved a place out for yourself here within the great walls of the caste, burrowed in the cracks beyond where others can see, and you know that you will weather this storm. But you understand truly that that must be a lie. Perhaps, after all of this time, your arrogance has finally gotten the better of you. 

You have waited for the Worm's call. A raven, a word, her presence, a middleman. Naught have come. She has been absent. Like a whisper lost on the wind. It has you fear the worst. That perhaps that she too has been found out by proxy of the other informants, and the bloody and ruthless sword of the crown has struck her down. You can only hope that she has escaped before the killing blow was delivered. She is crafty beyond compare, and you know (you hope) that in your heart of hearts that she has made it out. 

Soon she will be able to send word to you. As of now, you can only strive to keep your own throat untouched and free of gashes as you continue to change the King's soiled linens and to toss out his chamber pot full of putrid piss while you cling to the notion that you may make it out of this endeavor; still slaving after him even while he has been forced bedridden by his ailments. Now lying along his bedding, whimpering like a wounded dog as he is tormented by the grave burns that sear along his body. 

The delight that had risen inside of you when you had first lain eyes on him in such a state was traitorous. It would have surely cost you your breath had the smile that threatened to lift at your mouth broken through your troubled facade. He is now wrapped from head to foot in bandages that are now so often tinged with the sickly red that seeps from his agonized, mottled flesh. His limbs twitch and quiver weakly, wracked with painful tremors that cause his breath to skip and snag inside his tender chest. He moans at all hours of the day and night, mumbling incoherently with a slurring tongue from the influence of the milk of the poppy that he is frequently dopped on.  

It was a retribution delivered by the will of the gods for his skin to be scorched so severely. Flesh for flesh, you had dared to think elatedly. And you could only hope that the young servant girls and chamber maidens that he has debased throughout the years have also reveled in his suffering. 

Isolde, Lena, Dyana. 

All of them. Soiled and treated as playthings for his vial pleasure. His entitlement truly knows no bounds; as though he is privileged to the blood that runs through their veins, the spirit that possesses their limbs. A disgusting little man.   

It was a task that you once loathed with every fiber of your being. Detesting the moment that you would wake before the sun has even made its descent upward and crested above the horizon in a banner of gold to cross the threshold of his apartments. To urge him from his bed, only done out of his own accord lest you get berated harshly while alcohol still saturated his breath, or rudely shoved away from the edge of the bedding with the unbridled strength of his arm. But now he is too weak to so much as force his eyes open to look upon you and the others as you go about your work, laboring alongside the direction of the maester's as they dabble in their endless tending. 

No matter the hour, he is now too drained, drugged, and afflicted to spare so much as a single word. Energy eludes him and leaves him little more than a shell of the boorish, obstreperous man that he had been before. And though he can hardly speak, his eyes tell so much. They open wide in distress, becoming glassy with unshed tears when you light the candles aflame at night, as not to leave his room in darkness. You know that his mind must be betraying him then. Thrusting him headfirst to that day where he sliced through the air on dragon back, pinned in place by the enemy's jaws and talons as the roaring, spirals of fire rushed towards him and doused his armor with the burning rivulets, melting and fusing steel and flesh. 

He is haunted, and it always gives you a joy that should shame you, but the guilt remains elusive. 

You make sure to keep your satisfaction tucked away and hidden. Managing your expressions to keep them controlled and devoid of the contentment and glee that capers and frolics underneath, deep within the privacy of your own psyche. But no matter how disturbing your internal amusements are, it seems that you may not be the only one that delights in the agony of the King. Whom basks in his misery. 

You can spot it in his eye. Dancing and glimmering within the crystalline blue and lilac like a flame swaying atop its wick, eager to burn and spread and devour like a starved inferno. It makes you wonder if the others can see it as well. If the maesters feel a cold prickle scatter down their spines when he perches at the foot of the bed, leather bound hands gripping the engraved footrest like the awaiting talons of a predator longing to sink into the vulnerable belly of their gutted prey. Gloating over the kill. 

He only darkens the doorway of the King's chambers on rare occasion. Infrequently, and it keeps you on edge in an attempt to guess when his next appearance might be. Like a great vulture circling overhead, waiting for the frail animal below to finally succumb and give underneath its own weakened weight. It is strange. There is no love or kinship in the way that he stares. Only patience and cunning, and the frigid, subtle edge of cruelty. It is not the devoted, worried gaze of a brother, but instead the brutal stare of betrayer. 

You have heard some of the hushed gossip and perturbed claims that drift about the circles of the Courts and the depths of the city's underbelly. They speak of the second son's many feats: of his talents with sword, his possession of the biggest dragon, and his nearly unmatched cunning. But people also talk of his more unsettling traits. Unfounded tales really, but even lies often have merit. They converse of jealousy for the throne. The pursuit of retribution. Not to be trusted, some have said. 

You personally know little of the prince - or Prince Regent now. Your paths rarely intercept, and the attention that he has spared you has blessedly been little. Fleeting, almost unseeing glances. You see him often, striding throughout the corridors in that confident, leisurely way of his. Always in the route to improve or study or join council. Circling around the castle grounds, sword in hand to spar against the finest soldiers and lords that the crown has to offer; scouring over ancient tomes and scrolls in philosophies and military strategies; studying diligently with tutors until he has all but mastered the tongue of his ancestors. He is meticulous and determined, you will give him that, but there is a strange, sinister spirit that clings to his person like an undercurrent. 

The calculated glint in his eyes burns too fiercely. It is a look that you recognize easily. You have faced it in men and women, highborn and peasant alike throughout the years; all of them formidable in their own right. And it is a dangerous sort of passion to have in a person that holds a position of power. Of someone who stands so closely to the Iron Throne. You have seen the same ardor that he holds manifest so violently in the others that have come before him. Impowered by their greed, their desire to claim what they felt they deserved. Many have suffered underneath the intensity of it. Both Highborn and smallfolk. You wonder if his ardor will manifest in the same way. If people will be bent like stalks underfoot and left smoldering and burning like embers from the scorching breath of his she-dragon. 

Still, you cannot help to be drawn by the magnetism of it. To be grasped almost violently and taken into the influence of it like a trout captured by a strong current, unable to fight against the pull. The restrained, conniving violence that he holds himself with should concern you. It should make you shudder and wish to flee, and yet the desire to truly do so remains distant and deep, like a long-forgotten instinct. 

He is like a predator curled in plain sight, hiding underneath the cover of camouflage as it waits for the opportune moment to strike. And horrendously, you were eager to see the moment that his teeth would sink into the naked jugular of his prey's throat, to wrestle the crown down upon its knees to power it into a kneel. Even if only to watch the Greens crumble underneath the will of one of their own. 

But for now, you will have to settle for the tormented cries and begs for mercy that mumble past the King's raw lips. To delight in the wince that pinches his brows close as sweat glints and dampens his disfigured flesh. 

And his cries were particularly raucous one that one particular morning. Induced by the gentle moving of his body as you and Eira were directed to tear the sullied linens from the down stuffed bedding - slightly damp from his perspiration, tinged with a dull yellow from it - so that the filth would not further aggravate his great wounds. You had both made sure to be quick with your work as you stood alongside the edges of the underbed, making to center your attentions on your tasks as the maester's crouch around him, chattering and discussing almost conspiratorially the nature of his condition and the effectiveness of their concoctions and instruments. All the while the King moans from his place settled along the floor, supported on the cushion of thick blankets as you finished in preparing his bed, drawing the linen sheet taught and smooth over the expanse of it. 

He whimpered and shook on his place along the floor like an injured dog. Even while he was effectively immobilized, trapped in place by the ruined confines of his body, you could still spy Eira's discomfort as she assisted you in your efforts. The tension in her shoulders, the hunched way her spine attempted to curl in on itself, as though she was attempting to appear small, trying to shrink in on herself as though she may succeed in vanishing. 

King Aegon has never ventured to seek out her flesh. At least she has not claimed as such. Still, you know the stories of the other chambermaids' awful recounts of their assault has shaken her soul. She is a girl too sweet, too delicate for such a cold, indifferent place, where kindness is a charade and the smiles given do not truly reach the eyes of the bearer. You can only hope that she will not wilt under the extremes of this world. 

Her hands quivered just the slightest as she drew the linen over the edge of the bed. It had you reaching a hand to the center of the underbed, motioning it in the guise of smoothing out a crease but it succeeded in gaining her attention. Her vision lifted up from its down casted position and flickered up to meet your own, wide and glossy like a startled doe, cheeks flushed with worry. You made to keep your expression as neutral as possible, but you did not hide the gentle warning in them, silently urging her to keep her composure and wits about her as you went about your task. 

She swallowed deeply, head jerking in a subtle nod as she reached for the final layer of dressings from the wicker basket near her feet. Quick but rigid in her movements as she did so, as though she is frightened that the King may suddenly jerk up from the floor and lunge for her. But he remained where he lies. Still burned and damaged, surrounded by fretting measter's. It urged you to smile. It threatened to lift upon your face like sunlight piercing a coat of ice. Prickling along your skin like bursts of a playful warmth, and you think you could have laughed if you were so brazen and foolish enough. 

You felt the shift in the room before you noticed it outright, the others pausing unanimously from their ministrations to pass acknowledgments to an oncoming presence. Eira had also drawn up straight, ceasing in her duties to address whoever had entered. You noticed the shape of them in your peripherals, the dark of it looming like a shadow. It commanded that you looked to them, the compulsion to do so seemed to take ahold of your head and turned it on your neck to gaze upon them as though drawn by a string; your body acted on its own accord. 

Here to relish in the King's pain once again it seemed. 

Shifting himself across the stone floor with light feet as he drew closer, hands clasped carefully. So relaxed, so indifferent for someone who should be in mourning. Entirely untouched of worry or unease. His eye found his brother's temporary place along the floor, and you are certain that you caught a glint of delight pass through his aloof expression. 

You managed yourself to extend a gentle greeting, nudging your head downwards as you carried about your work, though he did not offer you or the others so much as a passing glance. Instead, he angled himself in the direction of the King, daring to tread closer until he stood before the injured man's feet to consider him with a closer expression. His cold eye darting about the stretch of his brother's gnarled body and the fresh bandages that had been wrapped along his skin. Looming over his gnarled form like the Stranger patiently waiting to collect. 

"Has there been any progress in his recovery?" 

His voice was soft in its nature, nearly placid. A betrayal of the violent, vindictive nature that no doubt lurks underneath, though it does not make the impact of it any less. It still projected itself across the room highly, cutting across the mild chatter that the maester's had returned to and expelling them back into a hush. It was Grand Maester Orwyle who turned to answer him, ceasing his dotting on the King to address the inquiry. "We do not yet know, my prince. His condition is still delicate, but he grows stronger by the day. Gods willing he will be back to full strength and ready to lead us once again." The Grand Maester dabbed a soaked compress along Aegon's tender flesh carefully, spreading the healing ointment along the wounds. "We should be so lucky having you to guide us while he recovers, Your Grace. " 

If you did not know any better, you would have said that the comment nearly sounded like some sort of quip in disguise of a well-meaning praise. It almost caused you to lapse in your task as you assisted Eira in tugging the thicker blankets right along the bedding, but luckily you did not faulter. You watched the exchange out of the corners of your eyes then, making sure to appear uninterested in the exchange as you eagerly listened for more of the subtle tension that lies beneath the surface of their conversation. 

You expected for Prince Aemond to rise to the indistinct jab. But he remained impassive and unruffled. Quiet. His silence somehow makes him even more unsettling. His head tilted just the slightest as he observed what remains of the man on the floor. A pale ghost of his former self. You must wonder how much he truly comes to visit his fallen sibling. If he waits for the cover of the night to come lurking, slipping inside of this very room while the King fitfully slumbers to gaze upon his ravaged flesh. He nearly appeared as though he is inspecting some sort of pathetic creature that has carried itself across the floor and collapsed in a weary heap. 

Unsympathetic. 

"Hmm, quite." He finally agreed. "Let us hope that his rehabilitation is swift. There are . . . many dangers about; it is a comfort to have him secure in the safety of your healing hands." 

And then the piercing shade of his eye was suddenly fixed on you. Sharp and evaluating. You saw it and bore its weight even from the peripherals of your vision. It was as though you were the accused. As though he meant to gauge your reactions. To see a twitch of emotion bleed across your face. It was like being flayed open. As though he was reaching inside of you and rummaging around to find something of interest. For a moment you had insisted upon yourself that you were merely being paranoid, but in your line of work your instincts are invaluable. And in that moment, you knew the truth. 

You have finally been seen after all of this time. Analyzed and looked within and past. It was horrific to be appraised so openly, as though he was raising a challenge. Imploring you to meet his invasive stare head-on. You had done your best not to flinch or waver underneath it even while your mind scrambled and panicked like the frantic heartbeat of a startled hare. 

He cannot know. He does not. Your thoughts rushed and whipped around like a tempest. Relentlessly chanting, he knows, he knows, he knows. 

But that is not possible. You would be dead. Slaughtered. Executed on the spot for your treason against the crown. But there is an acute knowing in his eye. Like a beast lurking at the entrance of a burrow, smelling blood and life and fear on the earth scented air as a shaking rodent huddles up against the walls of the tunnel. 

You managed yourself to be calm and collected as you and Eira finished off tidying up the bed and fluffing the pillows along the headboard. You are simply a dull chambermaid, tasked with tending to all of the King's frivolous and tedious needs. Dull and simple in your function. But the Prince Regent it seems has just as sharp instincts as you.

You can practically feel when his focus finally retracted from you to turn back to the maester's. It is akin to breathing after forcing your chest motionless and starved of air for a period of time. But you remain outwardly poised as you shared looks with Eira, nodding at a finished job before you had reached down at your side to pick up the basket full of soiled linens and swiftly turned on your feet to make for the door. She trailed after you dutifully with her whicker vessel and dirtied sheets clutched in her hands as she stuck close to your heels. 

Still, you were unable to keep yourself from sparing a brief glance upward towards the Prince Regent, and your breath threatened to snag inside of your throat when you noticed that his vision is once again on you to mark your leave. Head tilted just the slightest to spy you as you entered the scope of his blind spot; the edges of his curled mouth seem to be much more raised than usual. As though he was pleased. Everything seemed to be compressed down to this single, terrible moment. With your heart thumping wildly in your ear; the pained, ragged wheezing of the King seeming to scratch along the walls and claw down your spine like the echoes of a bad omen. A promise. Ringing around the depths of your mind like a hoarse whistle or a shrill scream. 

You are in danger. That much is apparent. 

Will he give word to Lord Larys or Otto Hightower? Signal to them to make preparations for your death? To cut out your traitorous, loose tongue? If he suspects you of treason, it forces you to wonder for how long he has been privy. What might have given you away and revealed your true nature. What blunder might have tripped you into his sight. Perhaps he merely desires to dispatch you by his own hands. To slay the serpent that has snuck its way into the courts and hidden away within the cover of the King's apartments; tucked underneath his bed. 

You should have fled. You should have just fucking fled when you were graced with the chance to do so. But now the city gates have been decreed shut. Guarded and sealed, trapping all who reside inside King's Landing at the order of the new Prince Regent. A wonderful development for your current position. You are certain that he has not secured the city simply in the hopes of weeding out a single spy, especially when he already has you so clearly in the palm of his hand from tending to his brother's needs. This simply happens to be an ill-timed coincidence. 

He has, more than likely, invertedly imprisoned you. A pure accident that has worked fully in his favor. It will have to be near to impossible to escape now. With the constant patrolling of the walls and gates to ensure that the smallfolk remain sealed tight to be properly controlled and herded. 

You should have said to hells with this entire operation and tossed away the many years you have spent tasked with collecting gossip and information. Mysaria is possibly dead or even worse, having been carried away to the castle dungeons to endure great torture. And yet here you are, still toiling away, playing maid while the realm is thrown into disarray and your life hangs in the balance of the Prince Regent's suspicions. And if he has indulged those speculations in another is entirely beyond you. 

You are damned it seems. The gods have turned their backs to you and left you to the wills of men. Or apparently, one man in particular. A kinslayer. 

There must be some sort of play at hand. You would not still be currently breathing otherwise. But if you can at all help it, you would rather not discover what that purpose may possibly be. 

It made you drift about the remainder of your duties like a phantom. Flitting about the other apartments and rooms, washing and cleaning linens, stocking the hearths of fuel for the fires that will be lit to chase away the coming night's chill. You maintained to keep a level head upon yourself as you went about your duty. Only a single day has passed since then, but it flickered by like distorted, murky water and the chaos that stormed within you was still great. You could only hope that it was not noticeable. Eira makes no outward note of it which gives you some solace. She is typically unrestrained in her concerns and opinions, so you put faith in the fact that she would have made her worries voiced had she noticed a difference in your demeanor. 

You see little of the prince, blessedly. Only but during a fleeting moment, having passed him in the corridor with him most likely in route to join the Small Council. He had spared you the weight of his eye. Ignoring you as though you did not exist. As though the subtle warning or threat that he had given only a morning ago had never existed at all. It nearly made you doubt yourself. That you had simply gone mad, but the instincts in your gut shouted otherwise. 

Still it makes you dubious of yourself. Never before have you been so uncertain about your abilities before. Not since you were a young girl child, not since the purging of the other spies within King's Landing. But now you know that there are truly eyes everywhere - much more seeing than you had anticipated. You have always known of Prince Aemond's intellect and perceptiveness, and yet he had never been one to be considered a true threat. Not of the likes of Otto Hightower or Lord Larys Strong, at least. How entirely foolish of you. 

Your stress keeps you sitting in an odd in-between. Dangling somewhere between a sense of odd detachedness and a constant state of vigilance. It has you spread thin. Contemplating on vanishing in the dark and attempting to escape the walls, even if the attempt would yield a lack of results. Perhaps, if fate would have it, you could manage to sneak down upon the docks and stow away within one of the vessels of independent merchants set for the seas for Drift Mark, or if the gods are willing, Pentos. A death among the salted waves, confined to creaking, groaning walls of a rocking ship would be more merciful than what the Prince Regent may have in store for you. 

Even once the sun sets, slipping low underneath the horizon and vanishes to allow the pale shade of the heavens to give to the dark, you are still unable to settle. Comfort eludes you still as you are tucked away beneath the cover of your rough wool blanket; the welcoming arms of sleep refusing to open to accept you. The presence of the other servants surrounding you in their slumber only serves to heighten your paranoia. The noisy, guttural snores and the occasional dry cough that ceaselessly sound out around you only grate upon your anxiety, cutting deep into the musky atmosphere with all of the grace of cutlery slicing obnoxiously over porcelain.  

You stare at the ceiling of the shared quarters, tracing the silvery threads of spider silk and cobwebs that cling to the corners and divots in the damp stone. Feeling the pulse of your own heart thumping within the cavity of your chest, urging the blood to roar lowly within your ears. The chill radiating from the cold floor seeps into your bones and finds home within the marrow; taking root so deeply that not even your blanket and the harsh straw stuffed inside of your bedding could ward it off. 

It causes you to toss and turn, listening to the stalks rustle and snap softly underneath your head as you struggle to calm yourself. But your mind is too frenzied. Awaiting the moment that one of the many bodies may leap up from their place, blade in hand, glinting violently before it plunges into your chest or the sharp of it notches against the tender flesh of your throat to slit it open allowing the damp warmth of your blood to spill from the gash, heating your chilled flesh as the life slips from your limbs. 

But the servants remain still and slumbering soundly. Tucked away underneath their own scratchy blankets, unaware of your own restlessness. The war inside of you is too great. The walls of the quarters seems as they are growing narrow. Shifting close to loom over you with the threat of suffocation and sealing you in tight like the cradle of a casket. It makes your palms grow slick with a nervous sweat and your fingers curl into the rough texture of the bedding underneath you as though your nails desire to tear into the worn fabric and burry themselves along the brittle sticks of the straw inside. Perhaps the sting of the little rods would help in pulling you from your internal panic then. 

That train of though is enough to rip you from the vicious trap of your thoughts. Prying your mind free from the sinking snapping teeth of anger, worry, and dread, and like a shadow your body follows suit. You jerk up from your reclined position with a silent gasp, propping yourself up with your palms to sweep a cursory glance around the somber room, taking in the repetitive rise and fall of the other servants' torsos as they draw in leisurely breaths. Somewhere a leak drops upon the stone floor. Landing with a reoccurring dull plop that echos softly within the chamber of the quaint quarters.  

It feels like a tomb. Like you are another body that has been packed in alongside the dead within the depths of some forgotten catacomb, lost to time; forever lost to the living. What would truly happen of you were to be killed? Would there be anyone left to remember you? There is no remaining family left to whisper your name in hushed, nostalgic admiration, recalling your memory with fondness and sorrow. The White Worm - if she still skulks about the earth with life in her chest, would hardly recount you at all. You are simply a willing body for hire. Another individual capable to fulfill the task that is required. But would she mourn your passing? 

You can hardly imagine that she would. 

Loyalty is bought with coin; compassion is a luxury. 

Like a puppet upon tugging strings, you jerk up from your place on the bedding, tossing the blanket aside to stand upon your bare feet. The stones are shocking against your soles, so harsh that you could compare the temperature to a winters snow. The depths of the servant chambers are too deep within the bowels of the Keep to find the solace and warmth of the sun. Like a hell, the balmy, dulcet rays of the light are unable to breach through the walls and bring you and the other servant's comfort, regardless of the season. 

You must leave, you decide suddenly. Perhaps not tonight, but soon. Quickly. 

It is such a sudden thought, rushed and impulsive but you are unable to rein it in. The possibility of death hangs far too closely. The Prince Regent is plotting. Why he desires to extend your life, to allow you to wallow inside the icy, ripping depths of your worry and dread - that must be it then. A sort of sadism on his part. Delighting in the way that you ruminate over your own impending execution. Like a cat toying with an injured mouse clutched inside of its claws. 

The White Worm and her plotting can be done with. You must leave, no matter what the cost may possibly be, and if you are caught in the process of fleeing, then at the very least you shall die on your own terms. You will die trying. And even while you internally curse the moment that you had met Mysaria and allowed her to pull you into the influence of her clutch - a young, inexperienced soul for sale in exchange for coin - your mind still frantically latches onto the many faces that fall inside of her employ. Faithfull followers that are tied together by a shared belief, or more often than not, the promise of money. They will be your best bet in escaping this horrid city. There is one in particular that you know you will easily be able to barter with, especially as fellow hire of the White Worm. 

You hold onto his name. Your best bet on such short notice. Often a ferryman of sorts for the White Worm and the many spies that lay within her pockets; one whose service you yourself have counted on many times to give you passage to the cities that rest along the coasts of Blackwater Bay. 

Bahram Mercer is always present in that high-end brothel, tucked away inside a dark corner to drown himself in ale, or to partake in the body of the whores that frolic and dance about like water nymphs, bare with only strips of silk and chemise to drape around their forms in a mockery of dress. It will be a dangerous place to show your face, with the Prince Regents appetites frequently taking him outside of the Red Keep to spoil himself in the rich variety of talents that line down the notorious Street of Silk. But now with panic festering deep in your gut you can hardly be bothered to care.  It must be creeping close to the hour of ghosts, and yet you are certain - you are desperate to hope that Mercer is still there. Partaking in his favorite sins. 

It is enough to find yourself navigating around the bedding and slumbering bodies, careful to place your feet within the narrow space sliced between the blankets and cushions. Squinting in the dark to step over wayward legs and arms that have slipped outside of the boundaries of their respective linens and onto your path in the throes of slumber. You are even quicker in finding an old, homely garment of yours and snatching someone's worn cloak to cover your coverings. Dressing yourself hurriedly, ice and terror in your veins with no time to spare. 

You are even quicker as you ascend the stairwell in the goal to seek out the old secret tunnels that stretch throughout the bowels of the castle, hiding behind stone walls and lurking just beneath the floors. Traversing up the steps to enter the dimly lit corridor. You feel as though you are being chased up by phantom threats, imaginary fangs snapping at your heels, and assassins with daggers tucked away in the dark with the intent to leap and gut you from gullet to groin. But the horrid paranoia is not enough to halt you in your trek. You continue in your path, listening keenly for a second pair of footsteps trailing after your own, the sharp brush of feet murmuring along the texture of the stone, but it remains as a single set. 

The patrol of the Keep has been intensified since the murder of the King's heir. A slip in the guards' schedule, an unfortunate gap in postings led to the poor child's brutal decapitation. A great lapse in the Lord Commanders judgement. And if Talya's last speculating gossip holds any bearing, then it may have been a command given by Ser Crispin Cole himself so that he may be able to have a tryst with his paramour, the Queen Dowager herself. A scandalous and ignorant relapse for the Commander if that happens to be a truth, considering the crown is in the midst of a war conducted by a grieving mother. 

But fortunately, with your knowledge of the guards' schedules and positions, you are able to navigate the labyrinthian corridors with hardly crossing paths, managing to evade and slip past their posts as you make for the library. It is there that you enter the passage securely tucked behind a false door fashioned from one of the looming bookcases built into the far southern wall.

 It was horribly silent in there. That was the first thought that slipped into your mind as you stared into the inky, flat black before you. Gazing into it like a heroin of an old tale peering into a hellmouth, like an animal staring straight down the gullet of a starved beast. The pathetic flame of the candle that you had stolen from the roost of one of the many scones along the corridor wall lightened only a pace or so in front of you, dipping it in a shade of muted amber. Bathing what little you could make out in weak shadows, the divots in the walls created from the spacings between the stones seemed to stretch and pool forward like blotches of ink from the casting of the light. 

You felt as though you were holding your breath the entire trek. Anticipating for some unseen creature to rush from the dark with lashing claws. Many of the passages are fruitful of traps and horrors intended to wound or kill possible intruders. Though if those snares are only rumors fabricated to dissuade possible thieves or assassins, you are not certain, but you are thankful that you have yet to wander upon one in your usage of the tunnels. 

Fortunately, you already knew of what to expect with this particular shaft, allowing your feet and the dim flame of your light to guide you beneath the Red Keep and under the slumbering life of the city. You took familiar turns and listened to the patter of your feet along the floor, the whisper of your skirts on the dust covered stone as you went about. Clutching the candle within your grasp so tightly that it had nearly molded to its shape, giving underneath the warmth and nervous sweat of your palm. You snuff it once only you come across the worn old ladder posted along the damp wall. A ragged thing, constructed of weakening, damaged wood and rusted nails. You could only attempt to guess how long it might have been down there in the depths of the tunnel. Of how many people before you may have climbed along it and for what purposes. 

It creaks and quivers unsteadily when your haul yourself up its worn rungs, reaching upward to shift the rounded stone plate that conceals the opening. Slipping it to the side with unsteady fingers to allow yourself to lift your body through the open mouth and into the crisp night air. The majority of the Red Keep may be deep in the safety of slumber, but Flea Bottom is forever in the wild throes of depravity. Men and women alike prance about in the similarities of the devils of the Seven Hells. Cavorting down the lively streets in flashes of flesh and smiles. Even in the midst of the night, salesmen still gather to sell their cheap wares, forcing themselves into the spaces of unfortunate victims and passerby's with longwinded speeches and the promise of life altering effects. 

You make sure to avoid the desperate folk that hope to pull you into their influences with the shoddy products and goods. Though "goods" is being generous. Especially considering that a man had tried his very hardest in persuading you to purchase the dried womb of a rat as a means to bring about good fortune. A prompt, but polite decline had been your only response. 

You allow your feet to carry you down the chaos that runs rampant along the Street of Silk. Blocking out the unintelligible clamoring of the spirited masses around you as they indulge in their most debased desires in the open. Unabashed and uncaring. You weave through the crowd, undeterred by the vulgarity that pervades around you, keeping your head low and face indiscernible underneath the cover of your hood.  

You use a small cluster of men as a shield to enter the brothel, hiding behind their shadows and the drunken wobble of their bodies to give you passage within the walls. The air here is so much heavier. Balmy and scented with the sharp bite of ale, the floral undertones of oils and perfume, heady from the distinct fragrance of sex. The pleasured cries of women and the low groans of men hum and rise within the air, scattered about like a lecherous sort of music, rising and falling in pitches of ecstasy, intensified by the unmistakable smack of skin meeting skin. 

Only when you slip far enough into the depths of the brothel do you depart from the rowdy, intoxicated cover of the men, ignoring them as they jest in slurred shouts, shoving at each other boyishly in favor of allowing your eyes to rake over your surroundings in the hopes of landing on that familiar, rugged face. It is difficult to make out ones features, as all the men present are currently caught indulging in the many facets of sex. It is writhing bodies shed underneath the golden glow of firelight, sweat glittering and winking like diamonds, mouths dropped open in rapture to release high whines and begs for mercy. A painting of pure hedonism. 

You navigate the depravity with watchful eyes, scrutinizing the guests for the familiar, but unfortunately quite common shade of auburn hair, peppered with worn, aged gray and silver. It makes you fear the worst. That he has perhaps broken his tradition of frequenting the brothel in the night and has invertedly nudged you closer towards your doom because of it. But you do not allow yourself to be dissuaded. The desperation burns in you too hotly, nipping at your fingertips like the chill of winter and skittering down your spine. It all but forces you to press on deeper into the bowels of the brothel, slinking past the women men frolicking about like the fair folk whispered about in the tales of old, winking and smiling demurely in the hopes of luring away the patrons who come to crawl inside the bottom of a bottle or to lose themselves in the haze of sex. 

It is all so overwhelming, with the many bodies that pack themselves. Boisterous laughter, drunken shouts, wild cries and moans scattered and thick along the air. Shoulders and arms brush along your own as you slink past them, weaving throughout the sea of shifting limbs and torsos, observing each and every face as you pass them, but none bear the weathered features you search for; reddened, sun stung cheeks, or a stern pair of dark eyes. 

You make a sweep through the dining area as efficiently as possible, making a quick note of the patrons as you circle the room, but they are all entirely unfamiliar. Though you do spot a few of the lords that occupy the Red Keeps courts, a ser or two occupying the tables and drowning in ale, and politicians and bureaucrats - nearly all of which are married, and none of which you are searching for. 

In one final attempt, you move back to the farther stretches of the brothel, peeking past the sheer canopies and heavy fabrics that conceal private quarters and hide the beds that have been dispersed about the spaces, catching people in the throes of bliss, acting out exotic positions that you yourself had never even guessed to consider. Still, you had yet to find him. With each passing moment you can feel yourself threatening to slip further and further into that suffocating sense of worry and dread. Skirting up your form like thousands of claws, hooking in deep and you nearly let the primal fear sinking down at the base of your spine to fuel you and possess your body. You have to be mindful to control your pace, to not walk about too quickly, or to jerk the canopies aside harshly as you search. 

There are many men of the courts here at present. He could be here, skulking about like a demon prowling around one of the Hells. Or possibly partaking in the flesh of his woman. That gives you pause suddenly. Searing through you as though you have been struck by a rod of lightning, causing the hand you have gripped on a draped piece of heavy fabric to pause. Freezing in place like hare overcome with shock. A woman moans and keens just behind the hanging cloth, more than likely accompanied by a man. It could just be a man. A simple, average man. 

Or a Prince Regent, your mind notes treacherously. 

It has you jerking back from the canopy, stepping away with a weak breath snagged in your throat. You have been reduced breathless by the simple dawning realization that in an attempt to flee from him, you may have invertedly stumbled right into his path. It was something that you had initially considered before, but here and now it seems too real. The walls are drawing in close. The moans and shouting pitches too high; all but wailing and slicing through the soft, balmy atmosphere that now suddenly seems too scorching and humid. 

This was stupid. A foolish idea. You are entirely out of your depth. A simple information broker, a barterer of petty gossip that allowed yourself to be spun and caught within the wiles of the conniving White Worm in exchange for petty coin and security. What a lie that was when you allowed her to toss you into the dragonpit. Drawing you before mouths full of glinting teeth and throats burning with fire to play the role of a tool; a piece that truly had no part in the traitorous game that she played. You were practically an ignorant child, bewitched by the promise of money. The shelter that wealth could give you. 

One thing that you know for certain is that you cannot go back to the Red Keep. You will not allow yourself to willingly walk into the snare again. Not now that you have managed to sneak out of it. You know naught of where you will go. Many of the White Worm's contacts surely must have slipped off into the shadows. The threat of revealing themself too great in the recent executions of her spies. The sudden train of thought makes you feel as though you could strike yourself if you were not out in the open. Perhaps that is why Mercer is unusually absent from his place in the brothel. Especially with how the regent himself has come to frequent its halls; it is a dangerous place to be spotted. You are so stupid. Reduced to that inexperienced, floundering child who clumsily slipped around the alleys and shadows of Flea Bottom, trailing after unfaithful spouses and gathering fatuous gossip in exchange for scrap and measly coin. 

You have come so far from that shaking little girl, skin smeared and soiled with grime and dirt and ravaged by hunger in her belly, but suddenly it is as though you have been plopped right back into that place; shoved into that horrible point of time. It makes you angry and lost. Burning with a quiet irritation that prickles and sears beneath your flesh like a fever brought on by a poison. 

You are sure that the only reason as to why you may presently be alive is due to the Prince Regent's own uncertainties. The possibility that you might not truly be a part of something nefarious, and he is operating on speculations alone. That is the only thing that makes sense. But fleeing after he had subtly called you out will look badly. It will absolutely validate whatever assumptions he has been withholding and eliminate the doubts that he may have, but hopefully you will be long gone before he can even realize that you have escaped. Long gone from the boarder of King's Landing and far beyond the influence of his reach. 

You have to get out of this brothel. You need to slip somewhere to gather your thoughts; to formulate some sort of plan. There are many other ships that rest port along the bay that stretches beyond the city. And even with the Prince Regent's decree, many continue to slip past the eyes of patrol; holding illegal cargo and goods set for faraway places such as Essos. It will be next to impossible to sneak or barter your way on board, but with the threat of the prince's blade looming overhead, it does little to dissuade you. 

You turn to go back the way that you came, crossing through the gaps in the ever-shifting crowd in the goal of reaching the door, eager for the fresh air. Or as fresh as the air can possibly be in the filth of Flea Bottom, with the tainted breeze that sweeps all the way up from the lowest points of the warren, putrid with hints of human wastes and tanneries that settle at the bottom of the hill. 

You cannot stay here with the possibility of danger so close. You should not have come in the first place. You were ignorant and weak to allow your panic to get the better of you, to drag yourself out here like a desperate animal. 

You need peace and quiet. Somewhere safe from the dangers of this place and the Red Keep to gather yourself. The urge drags you forward. Shuffling and sliding past the men who shout and cheer lecherously and the women who chortle and dance; navigating silently around the quaint tables and the people that laugh raucously and bang their fists upon the tabletops to pronounce their cackling. 

You draw near the door, nearing the small set of steps. A taut grip clasps around your forearm. Seizing you so tightly that the rigidity of their hold jerks you back a pace or two, snapping your head back to sharply that the fabric of your hood slips free from the crown of your head and unveils your face. Your lungs snatch, feeling hollow and tight as your head snaps on your neck to look at who has captured your arm. Fear takes root in your stomach, dropping like a chilled stone. 

Venom rushes through your veins when your vision lands on the dazed, flushed face of a stranger. He rocks on his feet unsteadily, and when his spit smeared lip's part open, you have to fight of the urge to let your nose scrunch at the stench of alcohol on his breath. "Why's a pretty creature like you all clothed and hidden away? Hmmph?" 

You long to lash out and strike him. To rake your nails down up the sweat dampened skin of his face, to gauge his leering eyes out. That will have to remain a last resort. He will surely retaliate if you were to even attempt such a thing, and the overwhelming number of men that occupy the space will hardly take to protect a woman, much less a woman that they believe to be a whore. 

He is clearly too far gone to remark the homely state of your dress. The underwhelming, ugly garments of a peasant and not fabrics that one would wear to entice the appetites of lords and politicians. 

You school your features into something much softer. Pulling the grimace of your mouth into something neutral and unbothered as you restrain the desire to twist yourself from his grip. The clutch of his arm will no doubt cause your flesh to smart and turn tender. 

"I am sorry, my lord, but I am promised to another client tonight," you lie easily. It is only then that you allow eyes to drop down to the place where his hand still holds onto you, his knuckles having turned pallid from the ferocity behind it even as the effect of alcohol causes him to sway and hold himself on weak ankles. "He will not be pleased to see me in the arms another." 

The grin that pulls his lips apart is horrid, revealing snarling teeth that seem as though they want to rip you apart. He squints his eyes at you, probably seeing double from the copious amounts of ale that ravage his veins, and he leans himself forward with an unsteady jerk of his spine. His arm also tugs you closer, squeezing you to the press of his body until you can feel the harsh bite of his buckle prodding at your stomach through your garments. He smells of sweat and booze, a putrid combination that begs you to gag.

"An' this client of yours then? I bet I could pay you so much more than he." He dares to tuck his face closer to your person. Near enough that you can feel the ghost of his breath along your throat, the heat of his body brushing on your skin. 

"I doubt it," you snap suddenly. You regret it as soon as it leaves you. He seems the type to rise to the apparent challenge that you have just set. Instead of wondering off and having his pick of the plethora of many willing women that giggle and dance about the brothel, he will much rather remain here, stripping you of much needed time and personal space. 

You only vaguely register his response but are hardly able to pay it any mind as your dare to shift your focus about the room, sweeping it along the many bodies and corners of the space as though a guiding apparition may materialize and spirit you away into safety and out of this hellmouth. All at once time and motion seems to grind down into a thrumming, inaudible halt. The boorish presence of the man crowding himself against you shifts from a horrific weight to an inconvenience; like a gnat buzzing about your ear. 

The galvanized pandemonium bursting around you falls into a hushed chatter as your heart plummets and stills. This must truly be a punishment. The gods have forsaken you and allowed you to bumble into the pits of the Seven Hells: electing to torment you for a fault in your past life. Maybe this is where you finally die. Slain by sword or choked until your life passes from your lungs. 

He seems so menacing standing in the wide entrance of the room, posted above the small set of stairs as he stares past the ocean of writhing and jeering bodies. His attention has not been ensnared by the displays of intemperance and lust that pervades the air. 

Instead, it rests on you. Flaying and arresting in its intensity; as though it is gripping you, slicing you open and seeing you all at once. Never have you ever been so evaluated. So observed. And yet, you can see an equal amount of surprise projected in the wide glint of his eye. It gives you some small, fleeting sense of comfort to know that you are not the only one who has been taken entirely off guard, but you are not given the bliss of basking in it for long. 

You can practically see the thoughts circulating and warring within in his mind. His stance is rigid underneath the shroud of his cloak. The hint of shock thaws at the firm set of his features, the frustration that must have rested there before giving beneath your shared bewilderment as the sight of his single eye seems to burn into you. A sort of stalemate. 

You dare to pray and wish that it is not truly him, but the leather concealing his socket and the unmistakable silver glint of pale hair pouring down his shoulders gives you no other option but to accept this reality. It has you gasping in dread, swiftly turning your head to once again look upon the drunken man who still clings to you like a parasite. 

"It seems that my customer is finally here." You blurt, tongue heavy in your mouth like stone while your heart skips and flutters like the wings of a startled bird. His brows cinch close as though you have presented him with a troubling paradox, and his eyes leave you to observe where you had your focus had pinned just breaths before. 

You dare not to follow his scrutiny, giving yourself a few seconds of reprieve but the unattractive, smug grin that stretches his mouth snuffs it as quickly as it was kindled. 

"And jus' where is he supposed to be?" Comes his smarmy, obnoxious reply. 

It forces you look in the prince's direction once again. Terror grips you to see that the space that he had once occupied is now horrifically vacant, as though he had merely been a figment of your imagination. It has you spinning on the heels of your feet, rotating as much as the stranger's grip will allow as you frantically scan the crowd for the faintest traces of silver and white flickering within the bare flesh and writhing throng, but there is nothing. 

You are damned soul, whisked away and trapped within the maw of Hell as one of its devils' skulks about the masses to taunt you. You must escape. You have to. He will kill you here and now if he manages to get his hands upon your flesh. He will have you tortured inside the depths of the Red Keep's dungeons where your cries for mercy will go unheard. You have listened to many horrific tales of the agony that the prisoners of the crown endure. Whispers of the rats, bigger than housecats, that gnaw upon flesh and trim limbs down to gnarled, bloody nubs with the slicing of their teeth; how soldiers and practitioners of torment are ordered to flay skin from sinew while the prisoner is still living; the pulling of limbs until they pop wetly from their sockets and finally give and rip free from the torso as the victims scream and plead to their gods salvation. 

The alarm of it gives you strength, pouring vigor inside of your bones, and with a sudden lurch you lift a knee to crush it between the apex of the man's legs, bearing the point of it upon his manhood. As soon as the sound of his piercing cry snaps inside of your ears you twist and tug your arm free from his slackened hold. Leaving him to collapse pathetically upon his knees on the floor. You rush away quickly. Separating yourself from the scene before the witnesses of his sobbing are able to notice you and connect you to the crime. Blessedly, most hardly realize his whimpering and swearing at all. Far too engrossed in their own gratification and lust to hear the sharp, sniveling sounds of his pain. 

You veer off sharply, straying away from the direction of the front entrance. That will be far too obvious. The risk of Prince Aemond lurking outside of the threshold, waiting for you to foolishly slip past is far too great. It would be an obvious slip for you to make. Though luckily you know of the rear entrance of the establishment, often where they cart in the barrels of ale and wine to avoid the constant coming and goings of clientele.  

As of now it may only be your only hope of escaping. Of finally freeing yourself of this horror and dread that you have so ignorantly offered yourself to; stupid, young and too confident in your abilities to see where you lacked until it was too late. Now you may pay for it dearly. 

This must be what a lamb feels as the shadow of a dragon engulfs it, promising danger from above. A threat that it will be unable to see, and once it is finally able to perceive it, the peril and talons will already be upon it, guaranteeing a death by fire. But much like the startled lamb, you will at the very least try to extend your life. To run forward in the attempt to escape the snap of lethal jaws and the cracking of giant, leathery wings. 

You cannot stop the way that your vision continues to skip about the faces that pass you. Dancing from person to person and gliding along the dim corners to catch even the faintest traces of his person sneaking along the cover of the dark, but he is absent. And that terrifies you more than if you had seen him. You have to wonder if this is somehow amusing to him. If a part of him delights in this chase. If he sees your presence here as some sort of confirmation for your assumed treason. If there is a possibility that he has not made any note of you being here (the fantasy of a desperate person, you know) or if he prowling after you like beast sniffing after the blood trail that pours from the wound of its prey. 

A run threatens to break through your brisk pace as you all but shove past a pair that blocks your path, breaking the two of them apart without a shred of an apology on your lips. The woman yelps in surprise, though you do not spare so much as a glance in your desperation, the curse and bothered shout of her client that follows after you remains unheard. 

It is difficult to feel guilt or mind social expectations while fear douses itself over you like a flammable fuel, waiting for a single spark to set you off and send you into a spiral. Never have you floundered so frequently before. So enormously. Though, in your defense, you have never taken on a task of this caliber. The threats that you had faced did not rise to such a scale or prove to be so daunting. 

A sheep destined for the dragonpit. 

The delicate, lively music that drifts from the farther reaches of the brothel dampen somewhat, the sound of the instruments fading into a mild hush. The pleasured moans and wailing of bliss become less in volume and the frequency of them are less prevalent that before as you drift towards the back of the establishment. The number of people grow spars. Most of the couples and even quartets that frequent the connecting halls and adjoining rooms are few and far between; the majority far too engrossed in their pleasures to take notice of your passing by. A blessing and a curse all at once. You no longer have the shield that the thick crowds provided you, but it will also make it easier to tell if you are being followed and stalked. 

So it seems so cruel when you are snatched for a second time tonight. A hand grips around the back of your neck like a band of steel, fingers burying at the tender flesh harshly enough for you to gasp out a ragged, hissing cry of pain. Your body instinctively twists against the pull of it, but the strength of their grasp is too strong. They haul you back as easily as a cat plucking a wiggling mouse between the clutch of its sharp teeth. 

The world blurs for a moment, tipping unsteadily as you are spun on your feet and your back in slammed against the flat of a wall. It forces the remaining scraps of air from your chest, leaving you choking on nothing as you slump along the chilled stone. You can hardly register it as a warmth blankets itself over you, pursued closely by the fragrance of leather and wind. You lurch when fingers come to grip your face, guiding you pitilessly to gaze up at your attacker. You are not surprised when you meet the vehement, pale glare of the Prince Regent; you are simply disappointed, frightened. The weight of it, the both of you tucked away within the confines of a darkened alcove has your mind drawing a terrible blank. The thoughts slip free of you as you will your lungs to function and draw in air. 

There is so much that seems to show on the prince's face, now fully revealed with his hood having been knocked free from the scuffle, to show it all simultaneously expressed through the demonstrative gleam of his eye: bewilderment, amusement, delight, anger. 

It is overwhelming for you to look at. So much chaos and emotion displayed from a single person. It leaves you rooted in place, fixed along the wall even if the rude, persistent hold of his fingers were not upon your face. The curled edges of his mouth have twisted in an enraged grimace or the possibility of a smirk, you cannot tell. Not with the shadows and the oily amber light that casts upon the sharp contours of his face. He appears wild. As though he is barely restraining himself from acting on whatever terrible thoughts prance about his mind. As though he wishes to lash out more thoroughly but will not give himself the permission to do so. 

Not yet anyway. 

"Now what purpose could a handmaiden to the King possibly have in an establishment such as this, hm?" His fingers tighten just the slightest degree, enough to pull a hiss from your lips. It has your mouth twisting into a weak snarl. You have to resist the urge to rip your face from his grasp to sink your teeth into his flesh when he tilts your head just the slightest, as though he is examining you. Like an animal being studied by a hunter. It makes your skin prickle uncomfortably; irritation and terror searing through your body, but you do not allow yourself to quail away underneath the severity of his observations. 

"That is quite a hypocritic statement to make, my prince, considering that you have become such a loyal patron." It leaves you much more scathing than you had intended, though you suppose there is truly no delicate way for you to deliver the quip. It is foolish to prod at him this way. To rouse his anger while he already dangles so precariously over the edge of control, but you find your own wanning thin. "Perhaps I whore myself out in the night. Despite being so over bloated with riches, the crown is quite greedy with its wages. I am surprised that you have failed to notice me here before, though I suppose that you have been too caught up in the skirts of your madam. Have you come to visit her tonight?" 

His nostrils flair at the barb. You can see that fire in his eye flickering and burning brighter, the shape of it widening in a glint that you could only consider wild. It was a low blow from you certainly. You heard whispers of Prince Aemond's preference among the Court. The rumor stemming from the rambunctious crowd of King Aegon's men, and it had spread throughout the Red Keep like a wildfire. Like a plague, carried by the hushed giggles and snickers of the Lords and Ladies alike. Adults laughing like snobbish children, spreading the taunt on their lips that the fierce Aemond Targaryen had fallen in love with a whore from the Street of Silk. 

It has clearly struck a nerve. He manages to crowd himself even closer to you, curling in on himself to lean his head towards your ear. His hand moves, fingers slipping from your face but not daring to part from your skin as they drift downward to cup the length of your throat. The uncomfortable weight of his palm on your neck forces you to nudge your chin up, but in an attempt to escape the press of it, you only bare more of yourself to his grip. All of your air once again seems to slip free of you. Not from the presence on your throat, but the fervor in his eye all but steals it from you. 

You think that this may be what it is like to look upon death. To stare the Stranger down its eye. But it offers no reprieve when he creeps closer still to your ear, parting his lips to speak to you lowly. The warmth of his breath sweeping over your flesh in a nearly scathing hiss. 

"I saw you down here before. Slipping down the streets and alleys. I could have thought nothing of it. " He pauses for a short moment, eclipsing you further into shadow as he nudges you tighter along the wall of the alcove. Forcing you further into the dark. Even as the laughter and music and pleasured cries continue to thrum and drift through the air and past the walls in a lively current, it is not enough to bring you solace. It seems, instead, like a cruel jest. A horrid juxtaposition to fully drive your circumstances deeper. A rabbit caught within talons, trying to struggle and snap at the unwavering grip. "But then there was that woman - one of my mother's ladies in waiting. What was her name? Talya? " - his fingers flex and he shifts your face to direct you to stare at him once again - " and I've seen you traversing in the shadows, using the hidden passages of the Keep to whisper about in secret, no doubt. There is talk among the Court for her sudden disappearance. Speculations of treason against the crown."  

Your mind scrambles wildly, thoughts swirling and twisting like debris caught within a vicious storm. You struggle to think back on all of your past meetings with the fellow spy. The care that you both had established in curating your assemblies. Or so you had so foolishly assumed. 

"And you somehow managed to survive the purge." It sounds like such an insult. And coming from someone as sardonic and sharp tongued as he, it most certainly is. "The former Hand is not typically so careless, especially in regard to the security of our family; you were in league with her, I am willing to bet. So . . . How did you manage to evade the watch of his eyes?" 

Your mouth has long gone dry. Your tongue a heavy, useless lump of flesh in your mouth as you struggle to think. You could attempt to lie to him. To cover your tracks and fabricate a story to explain your meetings with the recently deceased Talya. But you truly know that no good would come of it. He will sniff it out; see it plain on your face. As volatile and rigid as the Prince Regent may be, he is not one that is easily tricked. There is no possible way for you to claw yourself out of this burrow, to weasel your way free from the trap. You have fully been caught between teeth. Balanced between rows of lethal fangs that long to puncture meat and snap bone at the faintest hint of a lie. You must tread careful, lest you guide yourself to stumble and fall in the hopes of saving yourself. 

"I do not know," you answer truthfully. A low, bare whisper. 

You can see the faintest trace of surprise reflect in his expression. It was fleeting. Hasty and nearly fragile, but unmistakable; replaced just as quickly as it had been with the blaze of anger. You know instantly that he is not satisfied with the response. The subtle contraction of his fingers around your throat confirms as much. 

"The ratcatchers-" he begins but his voice seems to snag. It's such a soft hitch that you would not have noticed if your attentions were not siphoned down onto him. "Did you play a part? Did you show them how to find the passages?" His hold around your throat becomes harsher than ever before. Fully threatening the possibility of suffocation. It almost causes your head to go light, and the rush of your blood thumps lowly within your ears. "Did you give them aid into the castle?"  

Your hand reaches upward to claw onto his wrist, nails threatening to dig into his skin in an effort to try and rip yourself from him or to merely anchor yourself, you are not truly certain. His inquiry and all of its ire is a righteous one. It is one that you yourself would have asked if the roles had been reversed. But you are still unable to resist the anger that licks up your spine and smolders inside of your chest. You struggle for a moment to still your mind and collect yourself, drawing in a ragged, harsh breath that drags sluggishly up your throat and you are just barely able to gain enough air support your words. "I am many things, Aemond Targaryen, but a child killer is not one of them." Still his grip does not waver. The venom in his stare still burns like a lilac fire, streaks of cerulean blazing through the shade in his fury. His jaw clenches, the muscles tensing as his eye pins you in place, much firmer and resolute than the hold of his palm. "I am here to observe, not to interfere." You assure and it sounds much like a promise. "I would much sooner cut out my own heart than bloody my hand with the life of an innocent." 

He only continues to stare. Considering you closely as though he is trying to sniff out the possibility of a lie. It must only last for but a second, but for you it seems like a lifetime passes before he allows his grip to slacken. It does not dare to recede from your skin, lest you slip away like a snake slithering through a snare.  

There is so much warring within him. No matter how aloof or guarded he has constructed himself to be, you can see it all playing out on his face. Reflecting through the expressive stare of his eye. It is a vulnerable sort of anger. The sort of rage that comes from a person who must allow the agony and fire to consume them, or else they will give underneath the pressures and anguish around them and collapse instead. 

You could hardly consider the Prince Regent as a virtuous person. The atrocities that he has committed in the name of his house is already many. There is a volatile aggression that has been cultivated inside of him. Purely by his own hands or simply as a product of his environment, you cannot say for certain. Perhaps it is definitely both; crafted by the rigid expectations of the crown, the aggression in him nourished and flourished by the madness that seems to be carried within the Targaryen bloodline. 

But there is something delicate in him too. You see that here and now. Cracking and pouring through the fissures in his carefully made armor and walls. He is struggling underneath the weight of it all. That much is apparent. Snapping at the seams and straining underneath the facade of pride and indifference. It makes him appear delicate almost, but equally untamed. Like a beast that has been drawn into a corner and threatens to lash out with ferocity and desperation. 

Perhaps, just perhaps you can use that. 

It might rebound back upon you horrendously. It could flare up in your face in a frenzy of chaos and plummet you down into the pits of your own destruction if he manages to discover even the faintest hint of deceit. But you are a dead woman regardless; at least this way, you may be able to prolong the length of your life, even if only for a few days, a few moments longer. 

"I am sorry," you whisper. That is the truth, at least. It is the only shred of honesty that you may be able to extend tonight, and regardless of how he will respond, it gives you some sense of consolation. A glimmer of something pure that you may hold for yourself even as the fury in his eye burns bright. You may have only roused the dragon in him. Prodded and poked at it until it has uncoiled from its slumber and lifts its head to face you with a rumbling growl and the promise of fire in its throat. His brows furrow subtly, threatening to pinch close in bewilderment or denial or annoyance. Perhaps all three. 

He shuffles closer, shoulders threatening to hunch forward even while his arms straighten out, as though his body is at war with itself, struggling to decide if he should recoil away from you or dare to tip closer. The draw of his rage and confusion fixes you in place like an invisible force. Like the grip of a phantom sweeping you inside of its deathly embrace and forcing you to look upon him. 

"You are sorry?" He mutters the echo lowly, but you can still clearly hear the heat and venom lacing each word. He articulates it carefully, as though it is foreign. As though he is shocked that you would be ignorant enough to claim such as thing. It is such a short sentence, but you can hear the fraying of his psyche around the edges; stretched thin and taught underneath the weight of everything. 

Hypothetically, he is closing in now. The fire in his throat welling up to scorch you with burning heat and agony. Danger is crowding in on you much higher than it has ever been before, even more so than when you were trapped within the perilous walls of the Red Keep. The tensing of his hand around your throat is confirmation of that enough. Seizing tight and threatening to snuff the air from your lungs once again. 

"You come here to commit treason again the crown, the heir to the throne is dead; slain where he slept, and you are sorry?" 

Him repeating it aloud makes it seem so silly now. And truthfully, it is. You are not worthy of his forgiveness, and neither is he, of yours. You are both sinners you suppose. Monsters in your own right. Two twisted souls desperate to claw a place for yourselves in this piss-soaked pit of an earth. 

"Yes, I am," you repeat, just as firm and honest as the last time. And in a mad scramble, your mind sifts through all of the knowledge it has. Latching onto whispers and gossip in a wild attempt of saving yourself from being burned. To keep your throat and life intact lest he squeeze too tightly and wring your life from your straining lungs. You do not allow your eyes to flutter underneath the strain of it all. Maintaining the contact between your gaze and his single, piercing eye, even as tears blur your vision, welling up along the corners. "But it begs me to wonder if you are capable of feeling any guilt. Was it not you who is responsible for the disfigurement of the King himself?" 

You can see that you have succeeded in catching him entirely off guard; delivered a blow that he has not anticipated. But the disorientation will not last for long, and desperate to keep him reeling, the hand that had cautiously holds his wrist slips free and raises to delicately cup the side of his face. You know for certain that the rigid, detached Prince Regent craves for something that has been withheld from him for a good period of his life. Maybe even the entirety of it: affection, warmth, comfort. 

The boisterous gossip of his laying with the madam. He was not caught in the act itself, but instead found secure in her arms. He had not immediately left as most men would have done, having got their fill; the ache in their balls drained and satisfied. He had stayed with her. Perhaps even requested - insisted that she remain with him to take him in the solace of her arms. It feels revolting to you to use such a soft vulnerability in your favor. To capitalize on his desire for touch for your survival's sake, but you have been backed into a corner. Literally and figuratively speaking with little other options afforded to you. 

Positions of power are often unforgiving. It is lonely at the top, you have heard, lifted so high above others, where so little are capable of treading. Peace and relief must be a luxury, and it is clear to see that such a denial of it has impacted the prince so heavily. A man that must seek out the false intimacy of a woman for hire to replace what he has been denied his entire life. 

Even now, with hatred still tenacious and rich in his eye, something in him weakens at the warmth of your palm along his face. The sweep of your thumb motioning dangerously close to the sliver of damaged flesh that raises and slices down the swell of his cheek. His eye nearly flutters, pale lashes quivering just the slightest like a delicate flake of snow caught within a low breeze, like he longs to let his eye slip shut. His posture seems to go taut and pliant simultaneously. As though his desires have been split down the center and divided into two separate beings. 

"The few survivors of Rooks Rest often speak amongst themselves. They talk quietly, but if you listen closely, you may hear them, recounting the horrors of the battlefield. The wounded cries of men and dragons alike. The bursts of light that brightened the sky as though comets rained down along the clouds. " He watches you so intently. As though he is suspended upon every word that leaves your lips, and the abrupt shift of it all leaves you perplexed and astray in your own right. If you allowed yourself to be foolish enough, you would let yourself to believe that you held sway over him. That he is ensnared by the tender press of your hand on his cheek. "They say that the prince - or should I say Prince Regent, lit an enemy dragon aflame with no consequence of the King being locked within its jaws." 

His brows furrow close again, his chest expanding in a harsh, silent breath as though he means to ground himself. Those fingers clench again, though they no longer hold your throat as though they mean to crush and wring. "They could be executed for daring to say such things. Just as you could be, a threat to the security of the crown, speaking in sedition and tongues." 

"Have I not already committed worse offences?" You allow your features to soften while your heart races fretfully within your chest; you are sure that he can detect the crazed thrum of your blood rushing just underneath his palm. "Aegon Targaryen is no king of mine, Your Grace. He is hardly befit to rule a kingdom so great. Foolishly rushing into the fray, urging his young dragon to the battlefield like a lamb for slaughter. A recklessness that is unbefitting for a realm in the throes of war. I think you are inclined to agree." 

Your fingertips brush close to his hairline, parting them around the shape of his ear, daring yourself to thread them through the thick of those pale tresses. It parts easily, like water slipping through your fingers, glinting like the face of a river flowing through your palm, reflecting like silver in the shine of the sun. That stormy look breaks upon his face again, weighing his striking features down with ire and offence. It makes you worry that you have dreadfully overstepped. That you have lent your hand to the open maw of the dragon, above and below so many lethal teeth. 

"Do you dare to trick me? Do you think that I am so easily fooled?" 

The question seems to be an affront rather than stimming from a place of righteousness - a brother meaning to protect the name and title of his sibling and king. It is the hubris that you have heard so much about. That you have seen from him as you allowed yourself to observe him the corridors overlooking the courtyard, spying him as he trains rigorously in the art of swordsmanship with the Kingsguard; his eye flashing with an almost conceited sense of satisfaction whenever the blow lands and he successfully bests his opponent. All but preening underneath the title he often receives, proclaimed as the best swordsmen in the realm by many of the lords and knights alike. 

"Would it truly be a trick if it is the truth?" You answer calmy. It is not lost on you that despite his reservations and anger, that he has yet to remove his face from your hand, that the grip of his own on your neck has softened considerably; still firm but no longer threatening. As though he means to keep you close and beneath him as opposed to caught and forced in place. "You are so much more observant that he. After all this time, busying myself about his chambers, cleaning the drunken vomit from the corners of his room and changing his linens, he had never suspected me. He has never suspected you. How can a man be expected to lead and protect a realm when he cannot even do the same for himself?" 

You let your thumb drift lower. Emboldened by the heavy breathing that causes his chest to rise and fall, allowing yourself to skim just underneath the shape of his bottom lip, even though he appears as though he may snap at any moment. He is just hardly restraining himself. From what you are not certain. And perhaps it is stupid to let yourself touch him in such an intimate way. A fool who has let themself fall into a false sense of security, tricked into stroking the snout of a dragon that pretends to be placated. Waiting until you are entirely at ease and snapping its fangs down around the flesh of your arm when it is least expected. 

But the fire in his throat does not brighten and blaze, the rows of teeth do not bare themselves to you. And there it is again. That hint of something vulnerable, and woefully unnurtured flickers to life in that hue of lilac and cerulean. It is starved, even in its subtly. Uncertain, delicate, and yet equally fervent and hungry. 

Some treacherous little part of you cannot help but to mourn that tender side of him that has been neglected. Shunned in favor of honing himself into the perfect picture of a Targaryen, a prince, and a man. Hacking away those soft pieces of himself off like a sculptor chiseling away sharp edges of stone and sanding away perfect imperfections in the name of making art; cutting away everything that makes him human. But you stomp that little train of thought down, burying those horrid feelings deep. Shoveling the blossoming warmth and empathy underneath the heft of indifference and spite. 

"And whom then, would be better suited?" He asks. The question surprises you, and it begs you to wonder if he can see the confusion bleeding through your features. It is difficult to tell if the query comes from a place of contempt. If he means to mock you. You are certain that that is the case, but the tone of his voice has abandoned its pervious harshness. It has thawed, whether he realizes it or not, like ice melting from the rays of a spring sun. It seems so genuine. As though he truly desires to hear your opinion. 

Certainly, it is some sort of ploy. An odd means to lure you into a false sense of security. It is here that he means to finally engulf you in the spires of his flames and anger should you answer incorrectly. Or perhaps, at all. This a dangerous game that you are playing. A mouse scurrying around the paws of a lashing house cat. It will be in your best interest to keep him on his toes, but toying with him too much could, at the same time, wear his patience thin and nudge you closer to the sword. 

The pommel of which digs painfully against the flesh of your torso, jutting out from its place secured along his waist to poke just shy of the edge of your rib. It does not allow you to forget your position. Of where you stand with the Prince Regent and the precariousness of your circumstances. 

"My opinion matters little, Your Grace." You respond, swallowing underneath the insistent press of his hand. 

His eye narrows just the slightest degree. Annoyance and entitlement flaring unanimously. He manages to move himself closer, eliminating the faintest scraps of space between you two until he is flush along your body. You can feel the warmth projecting from his skin, seeping through the barriers of both of your garments with a potency that would be alarming in the average man; fueled by the liquid fire that vitalizes the Targaryen heart. It has his scent rushing upon you again. Eclipsing you a shroud of spice, warm and rich and earthy in its musk, but the sharp hint of wind and leather cuts through in a distinct undercurrent. It manages to ground and disorient you all at once. The severity of his stare burrowing through you, urging you to meet his eye; the passion behind it prickling along your skin. 

"I expect a proper answer; use your tongue and speak freely." That demanding, unforgiving quality is back lurking within the tone of his voice. It almost causes you to flinch. You manage to catch yourself before the instinct brings you to do so, but you do choose to remove your hand from his face all the same. The air that brushes along your palm is chilling now that your skin has parted from the balmy warmth of his flesh. Still, as though trapped in a current, you hand does not stray far. It falls downward, and your fingertips come to hook against the metal clasps of his doublet as your palms flattens against his chest. 

"Do you want me to say that it is you, Your Grace?" You inquire. Fear and caution clings to you, but despite it all, you swear that you can detect the presence of amusement reluctantly gathering underneath it all, scattering dimly. Something telling passes through his expression, his posture. More revealing than any words or confession could be. The prince desires approval. The revelation, though known to some extent, douses itself over you like chilled water, seeping along your chest like the sun's rays. He has been so deprived that would be led to search out your favor. You; a peasant, an enemy to the crown. To his family and power. He hides it behind the mask of a command. As extending his strength and dominance, but the truth of it is painfully clear. It nearly makes your heart ache, but you have little time to entertain such sympathies. "That it is you who deserves to sit on the Iron Throne? Commanding the realm and all of its powers. . . " 

For the first time this night, it is you who leans forward, allowing your head to lift from the chill of the stone wall to tilt your face to his own. So close that the point of your nose nearly nudges his. The authority that his gaze had held over you has transferred places, and now it is he who watches you as though you are the one who wields the blade. It could be intoxicating if it were only the truth, but the reality of your state refuses to leave you. 

Drawn under a spell of your own, your eyes dare to flicker down the curve of his lips, rosy and slightly parted as he draws in a deep breath. It is simply a means to tide him further under the pull of his own sudden fixation, and it seems to work with the way that his eye dips down openly admire yours. His hand flexes again. Not out of aggression, but it feels more like a mindless compulsion. His body acting out to grip you greedily; betraying him while he struggles to maintain and latch onto the remaining flickers of anger that rest upon his features; growing fainter by the second to be replaced by bewilderment and a type of fixation. 

The shift of it is odd. A strange, untreaded territory that you could never have possibly imagined with every ounce of your creativity. It feels so dangerous. The tendrils of your fear still hold tight, slithering along your spine like rivulets of freezing water, but it almost produces a haze when it meets the cloud of wonder and intrigue that packs your skull. It makes you feel emboldened. A dangerous thing, you know, but it is a great temptation, urging you to murmur against his lips. 

"Smallfolk and lords alike bending the knee to you . . . King Aemond Targaryen, in all of your glory." He does not speak. Either the ability has escaped him, or he has drawn himself silent to process your words; evaluating the best response. It empowers you and frightens you all at once. It is so overwhelming. Your circumstances, the emotions that is stifling across the air, thrumming and thick across the perfumed atmosphere around you. You fear that you could choke on it. On the scent of him, the fear trembling down your spine, the intrigue nestling within the center of your gut. The combination of it all gives you a courage that you never could have foreseen, prompting you to further press your palm to his nearly panting chest, forcing you to speak still. "Unfortunately, that day is not yet upon us. But I could bend the knee for you, Your Grace, if that would bring you satisfaction." 

Those words surprise you, even as they leave your own mouth. They are foreign on your own tongue, but shockingly, they do not feel entirely unwelcome. But the confidence is snuffed when you a spiteful type of amusement twists his features. Anger and delight alike, as though your sudden hubris has truly caught him astray. And in truth, it has done the same to you. It is difficult to grasp that you have allowed yourself to be snatched within the intoxication of your own ego, bewitched by his apparent infatuation. And now you may pay for it dearly. 

"And what leads you to believe that I could desire such a thing of you?" The mockery is not hidden or restrained. His aim to correct you and cut down your confidence is accurate and successful in its endeavor. It is humbling and horrific; embarrassing in a way makes you uncomfortable in your own flesh. But you force yourself to remain poised while he observes you, trailing his eye across your countenance before meeting your vision. "What value could the loyalty of a treasonous serpent possibly hold?" 

Your mind blanks and for a second you flounder. This is where you drown; sunk by the weight of your own hubris. You have finally missed a step in the dark. Stumbled, not blindly, but from your own sudden, idiotic confidence. But the desire to survive, no matter how short that period of time may be, burns strong and bright. Undisturbed and stirred from the unbroken passion of his stare. 

The cast of the candlelight that douses along the alcove paints over his face in hues of dull gold and rich amber. The dramatic nature of the glow and the crowded intimacy of the small space hides pieces of his features in shadow, making the striking, pronounced ridge of his nose and the subtle plush of his mouth that much more defined. It reflects through the fine, smooth drape of his hair, shinning along the pale silver and ivory, projecting around the crown of his head like a halo. As though he has been blessed by the gods themselves; a god in his own right. Or at least that is what is claimed of his lineage. You ponder now that such a bold claim could be true. 

You have never considered the prince in such a way before. Not in all the years that you have traversed the corridors of the Keep. You have always been aware that he has held a sort of beauty. All of the Targaryen's do. There is an otherworldly grace about them all, carried within their blood, in the lilac shade of their eyes. As such his allure has always been unavoidable, but it had never given you any sort of trouble before apart from a fleeting appreciation for it as you went about your tasks. 

But now, forced within his presence, bared to his proximity and drawing in the scent of him with each breath, listening to the soothing, velvet cadence of his voice, it seems to guide forth notions and sensations that you had never perceived. 

You are beginning to feel less like a lamb to slaughter and more so a moth fluttering around the edges of a dazzling fire.  

"I suppose you're right," you agree easily. "My devotion bears little weight. But it could be nice, even if only for a moment. To pretend. To indulge." 

You can taste the shift on your tongue, hot and dulcet and rich. It hums and tingles across your skin, raising the hair along your nape and shuddering down the notches of your spine. From fear or from the heat that engulfs your body it is impossible to distinguish. The lines between dread and attraction have blended and merged into a confused chaos. It is messy and bewildering, splitting you between two primal instincts that serve very different purposes. To crowd closer or to back away; those are the warring factions within you. Each just as desperate as the other, and the sight of that intriguing sort of longing returning to the glint of his eye fuels the curious hunger gnawing in the pit of your gut. Your fingers long to grip him, to claw over his skin, leaving red to blossom in their wake along the alabaster of his flesh. A mark that he will bear long after you may be gone. 

There is conflict in him too. You doubt that it is much different than your own. Just as troubled and unsure as you are. It leaves you both to remain silent in each other's presence. Simply evaluating and observing as the festivities and echoes of pleasure persists around you, seeping along the shadows and privacy of the alcove. 

It leaves you to breathe each other in. To simply admire and contemplate while that strange brand of desire hangs heavy. You cannot tell the passage of time. It seems as though you have been taken under and swept in the influence of a haze and fog. It seems to settle in your lungs, finding home between the apex of your thighs, coiling and starved. 

It is the prince who seems to come to a decision. The hand around your throat, going slack until it is only his fingertips that brush along the stretch of your throat, a mere suggestion.  

"Go on then." He answers, voice rumbling low and firm. "Get on your knees and serve."

Like many things tonight, it takes you by surprise. You had insinuated and stewed within your own confused lust. You saw his own reflecting inside of his eye. But you never suspected that he would truly have the means or the desire to agree to such a thing. To request so boldly for you to act the strange, starved hunger between you. It makes you freeze, limbs falling motionless as you struggle to repress the shocked, silent gasp that escapes your lungs. But even while lost inside the sea of your raging emotions and thoughts, you are unable to resist the sliver of want that rip through you; smoldering, hot and twisting as it moves underneath your flesh, the sinew, muscle and bone like a prickle of lightning present in the swell of a summer storm. 

On instinct alone your body shifts. Your knees slowly bending to guide you in sliding down the wall slowly, as though you are scared on some primal level that quick movements may rouse the hunter in him and bid him to lunge forward. You are unable to remove your stare from his in your descent, fully entrapped by the extreme focus of it, even as your knees come to settle upon the floor, the harsh cold of the stone seeping through the layers of your skirts and burrowing in your bones like a morning chill. 

His hand has not left you. Remaining fixed to your skin as you drop in place, slipping from its stubborn position from the stretch of your neck to settle along the edge of your jaw. Cupping the shape of it in a way that could be mistaken as gentle. Cherishing. The nudge of it along your chin gives you no other option but to gaze upon him, even as the weight behind it is feather light. As though it is a suggestion instead of a command. 

You are experienced enough to know what his goal is, what the ardor in his eyes hails from. Your face hovers close to his groin, the space diving you so short that you could only lightly lean forward to have your lips brush along the soft wool of his breeches. The urge to do so tugs at you like a lead around your neck but you will yourself to resist. You draw your hands up to clutch the thick of your skirts, bunching them up within the palm of your hands to keep them from the possibility of wandering. The sudden compulsion to allow them to amble and touch rises up high. The impulse is not entirely unwelcome, just uncertain and new. This thing - this situation you have found yourself in, that you have somewhat blindly meandered and snuck into is unlike anything you have instigated before. 

Never have you attempted or desired to pursue such a thing. Not for the sake of acquiring information or luring the targets of your past surveillances into a false sense of security. There were always other means of escape. Of surviving. But that is not right either. Despite the uncertainty that suspends in the air, being here, pressed inside the alcove with the Prince Regent keeping you obstructed within the intimate space of the niche is not unwelcome, oddly enough. 

There is something tantalizing about it. Kneeling before a person so dangerous and volatile, who holds so much power over you, over an entire realm. It should revolt you. How easily you have succumbed to the peculiar want that aches and gnaws at the pit of your stomach like a horrendous type of hunger. You had hardly put up a fight to resist the desire coiling in your belly. It had descended upon you like an enchantment, enrapturing you as easily as a dry brush taking to the embers kindled by a lightning strike; rising into flames and smoke that sweep a forest up in the throes of an inferno. 

It nearly makes you feel like a traitor to yourself. To your cause. A deserter to the task that you had been assigned by the trusting guidance of the White Worm, but she is presumably dead. Or best, has escaped to safety, long gone from the boundaries of King's Landing and far from the reaches of the crown, and with it the course of your life now lies entirely in your hands. Something as fickle as morality has no place in the means of survival. Loyalty, in this case will not extend your life, nor will it shield you from the horrors that prevail the world, the war that threatens to tear the earth to shreds and pieces. 

But here and now, it almost easy for all of those worries to slip your mind, for the dulling prickle of fear that trickles down the nape of your neck like a cold breath to go unnoticed. The pommel of his sword glints in the low light of the alcove like a warning. A promise of what could come should the circumstances shift. If the dragon in him wakes and chooses to snap you between its jaws. 

And yet that demented lust that he has managed to inspire in you does not waver. You have become bewitched by the heavy rise and fall of his chest, the flex of the muscles in his throat as he draws in deep breaths as though he is trying to orient himself. He watches you so eagerly. A multitude of different emotions alight in his eye; wanting and longing. There is a blending of authority and desperation in his expression so strong that it nearly boarders on fanatic. It should concern you to some extent. To be watched with such bare zeal. But it does not. It feels empowering. 

You are the one on your knees, awaiting instruction with the patience of a pupil and yet you are certain that you could easily switch the positions of your power if you pursued it enough. The naked longing in his expression seems to solidify as much. There is a need in him that has been so clearly denied, and now that you are here, plopped within his hands and awaiting a command at his feet, you can see the desire in him to finally satiate what has been lacking. 

It begs you to wonder if he would become pliant under your hand if he allowed himself to. If he would give to the warmth of your palm and become as malleable and soft as a rich clay, eager to be shaped and supported by the gentle sweep of your fingers. Perhaps for now you will have to settle for taking him apart with your mouth instead. To feel him quiver and give from your touch alone, even if it will only last for a small moment. To taste him so that you may die with the salt of his skin on your tongue. 

"You know what is expected of you." Is all he says, pinching his thumb gently to the swell of your cheek before releasing your face entirely, gripping your hair instead as though he is unable to come to terms with the possibility of letting you go. Whether that be because he means to keep you trapped in his grip or because he is unable to part from the physical contact that he has been starved of for so long, you do not know. 

He speaks the command as though he has all of the control. And yes, you are not ignorant enough to believe otherwise. Physically, politically, he wields your life in his hands. He could smite you down with the flick of his wrist. But here, in the shade and gold of the candlelight, you know that it is you who exercises dominance over his body, over the heat of his flesh and the ardent tremble of his rapacious hands. 

It makes you crave it. Drunk and stupid on the lust that hums throughout the atmosphere like the pulse and breath of a living creature. And you are unable to deny him any longer. To deny yourself. 

Finally you allow your grip to lift from your skirts, freeing the bunched fabric from your clutching fingers to slip along the groin of his breeches. You almost gasp when you feel him underneath your palms. Hot and straining against the soft material. His lips part just the slightest at the sensation of you pressing against him, shamelessly sweeping your fingers along the shape of him. His hips jerk when you stroke around it, rounding the head of his cock from over the obnoxious barrier of his breeches and you are immediately rewarded by the low sigh that rips from his throat. 

The sound of it, as simple as it was, causes your heart to flutter in your chest and liquid heat pools along the base of your spine, scorching like warm honey and melted sugar. He does not allow you to bask in it for long, his grip on your hair tightening to draw you closer to his pelvis, making your mouth run along the wool and the rigid press of his cock underneath. 

The action seems more brattish and desperate rather than demeaning and dominant. It has you resisting the urge to smile. You are sure the sight of your internal amusement making an appearance would only cause him to become cross. Which would only prove to be dangerous given the circumstances. 

"Don't test my patience," he warns lowly in a baritone velvet. 

"I wouldn't dream of it, my prince." You dare to murmur before leaning forward to press your lips where your hands wandered, dropping your mouth open to drag your tongue along the rough material over press of his length. There is a weight to it even while tucked behind the hindrance of his garment. It already feels delightful along your tongue, and you cannot stop the satisfied moan that shudders from your lungs as your gaze peers into his own. He looks as though he has been lit on fire. Engulfed in heat and want as you continue to kiss him through the wool. 

It is only then, spurred on by the irritation and ardor in his expression that you finally reach for the ties of his breeches. Picking and plucking at the lacings until they unravel. Despite your previous teasing the movement of your hands is almost frenzied as you slip the ties free. It makes your fingers nearly catch on themselves as you work to draw the laces slack, but you do not miss the amused hum that rumbles from the prince's chest and drifts down to your ears. The humiliation that flares through you only serves to strengthen your desire, and it intensifies tenfold once you finally loosen and ruck his breeches down enough to free his cock. 

He hisses sharply when the air brushes along his rigid length, flushed and heavy from his arousal.  You have held and witness only a few in your time. The unforgiving nature of your trade allows you little time for yourself and the pleasures of the flesh, but you are sure that his may be amongst the prettiest that you have seen. You blatantly trace plump vein that winds underneath the length of him, studying the tantalizing path where it vanishes just before reaching the swell of the head. He is pale but blushed rosy and red from the lust burning in his loins; the evidence of it smears and drips from the crown of his cock in a pale, pearlescent sheen, glittering lowly in the dim light. Your mouth waters to taste him, to have the salt of it on your palate. 

As though tugged on string your hand lifts to take him in your hand without any instruction. You cannot help but to marvel at the heat and softness of his skin, the near velveteen nature of it. He is not intimidating in size like some of the men that you have seen or even lain with, but you are almost thankful for it. He is still thick in your hand, long enough that you know that he would fill you up so deliciously. Stuffing you full on the substantial length, and it makes you long to have him inside of you. 

You see that there is another barb at the ready on the tip of his tongue, and so you make sure to use your own. Parting your lips to lick along the head of his cock, smearing and lapping his arousal into your mouth. It is curious, unhurried as you taste him, gauging the reactions that you pull from him. And you are not disappointed. You have done so little and already a heavy breath spills from him. It is low, dark, almost guttural and somehow edging on a whimper. It makes you wonder if he had meant for it to slip past his chest at all. 

The salt of him pours over your tongue, earthy and distinct in its flavor and like the wanton thing that you have been so easily reduced to, you crave more. A slave to your desires, you are unable to keep yourself from further opening your lips to take him further into the wet heat of your mouth. His reactions are like a balm on the sting of the vicious lust that courses through you. His head tosses back as the pleasure washes over him before his shoulders curl forward, eclipsing his body over you as he further nudges you along the wall with the greedy drag of his cock rocking into your mouth. 

The silvery curtain of his hair pours over his shoulders, framing his face so beautifully. The shadow casted by it pronouncing the way that his brows pinch close, almost as though he is pained by the sweep of your tongue. It nearly distracts you from the way that he chases after the fire in his belly, seeking out the solace of your tongue to fuck his cock deeper, almost rocking it against the back of your throat. 

You focus on your breathing, stilling yourself to drag in steady gulps of air in between his thrusts as he uses you for a vessel for his pleasure. It should be a little demeaning, the way that he utilizes you as though you were only crafted for his gratification. But the desperate clutch of his hand on your hair keeps that bit of disgrace at bay. He holds you as though you might vanish otherwise. Like he aches for your touch. A desperate, starved thing that has stumbled upon a banquet and means to gorge itself. 

And it seems impossible to deny him. Especially now with the traces of whimpers on his breath. Subtle but no less alluring, much more so than the constant cries and groans that still drift down the halls and through the vigorous, intoxicating atmosphere. It makes you crave to hear more from him. To watch him shed that imposing, untouchable armor that he has fashioned around himself. To see the vulnerability underneath it all. To see him as a man. Just a man. Not a Prince Regent or Protector of the Realm or fearsome dragon rider, or any other title that he may bear. Simply a human being. Just as weak and liable as you. 

You bob your head over him, working alongside the rhythm that he has set with the insistent roll of his hips, slipping your mouth further down his length until he brushes the back of your throat, until the thatch of hair around the base of his cock tickles against the point of your nose. The threat of tears prickle along the corners of your eyes, and even with the blur challenging the edges of your vision you can still notice the way that his abdomen clenches above you through the layer of his garments. A gasp shudders through him and his free arm drops against the wall to support his weight as though he might double over otherwise. 

He is not the only one who needs to ground themselves, and in an attempt to weather the need that ravages your body, your hands clench around the leather belts and straps that wind around his waist and hips; nails digging into the thick of them as though you are torn between urging him away to breath and guiding him deeper so that you can choke on the weight and taste of him. 

"Fuck, look at you," his voice marvels mockingly from above. It forces you to try and meet his eye, though the position is straining with how he has curled himself above you, his head leaning against the support of his arm posted against the wall, and the both of you refusing to allow your mouth to leave his cock. The expression on his face is derisive, the curl his lips is equally amused and shaming all at once, but something about it has your own hips grinding into the air to seek a friction that is not there. "A great, allusive spy reduced to a common whore of the Street of Silk. "

You whine around the width of him stretching your mouth open. Disgustingly, it is not a noise of objection but a drunken sort of agreement. Though it is difficult to be disappointed or upset with yourself when the musky, heady scent of his skin nestles deep inside the hollow of your lungs. The effects of it seem to stuff your skull full of an intoxicating influence much like the drugs that you have heard of that permeate the air inside of the underground dens here in Flea Bottom. Inebriating fumes that turn your limbs to syrup and dull your thoughts into nothing but a euphoric, silent haze. 

"So you agree then?" Comes his taunting response. "I do still think that 'whore' may be generous. They at least necessitate a need for payment, but here you are, on your knees without coin or little prompting to take your would-be executioner down your throat." 

The snark, the bite of his words licks a fire between the crux of your hips, and you can feel the wet heat of your arousal smearing down the inner skin of your thighs. But it is also a challenge. He has grown far too articulate and the desire to draw him breathless and silent again raises up high. It has you redoubling your efforts. Lapping your tongue over the slit on the head, drinking down the little bit of arousal that trickles from there to pour on your tongue before cupping your lips around him to lightly suck. 

It causes his hips to twitch sharply, and you use the motion to once again take him all the way down again, working him in until he is in your throat. Your hands releasing their grips on the leather straps around his waist to quickly follow and cup the heat of his stones as you suckle and swipe your tongue across him. 

The doubling of the sensations tears the most delicious reaction from him. It feels like a gift when his mouth drops open in gutted groan. The focus of his eye seems to glaze over from the wet warmth of you on his cock, the strokes of your fingers on the soft skin of his balls. Massaging and cradling them within your palms. The following sound he makes can only be described as gutted. You do not think that you have ever been able to draw such a noise from a man before. Not one as mindless and consumed as that, as though he has been doused in pleasure and left to drown in it. 

It nearly makes up for the crude taunts that he had hurtled at you. Nearly. 

He is close to his release, that much is easy to tell. The thrusts of his hips have become eager and just toeing the line of wild; plunging his cock into you in a fervent chase for his peak. Whether he realizes it or not, his breathing has become thin and frequent, punching softly across the sultry air in desperate pants. The glossy gaze of his eye is fastened onto you has you bob your head along his girth, relishing in the warm stretch of your throat giving around the drive of his cock, pushing spit around the tight seal of your lips with each clumsy thrust. It is sloppy and unseemly, but you have no choice but to relish in the depravity of it. To bask in the flush that has come to stain his cheeks, the way that his lashes flutter around the dazed hold of his eye. 

The fingers gripping your hair tenses and threatens to burrow into your scalp, and his abdomen squeezes harshly in anticipation for the bliss that fastens around his body; preparing to wring him for all that he is worth. 

You rip your lips from him quickly, jerking your mouth from the rigid swell of his cock just before his rapture can wash over him. It is a difficult feat with the way that his hand holds you like steel, but you manage to succeed, hissing past the sting in your scalp as you pull back enough, being mindful of your teeth as you move until your lips are free to brush along his head. Smudging his arousal across your lips. 

The noise that leaves him is a whimper. High and full of despair as the cruelty of your denial causes his release to rip and ebb away into what must be a painful ache. A torturous agony for certain. The sound of his anguish is a desperate one, but the outrage in his eye is close to terrifying. It burns bright like the promise of something hellish. Like he might consume you alive until there are only scraps left. It is equal parts horrifying and arousing, and it has a twisted sort of excitement and appetite welling up inside of you. 

"Do not test me," he hisses with pure venom and contempt. The hold he has on your hair manages to become harsher, tugging against your scalp with enough force to tug your head back to further meet his stare. 

Even with the danger in his posture you are unable to quail away from the threat that hangs between you both. It only serves to rouse that demented brand of delight in you. The hold that keeps your head secure in place is still fixed, but you are close enough that are able to reach up to take his length back in your hold, proudly presenting your tongue to tap the head of it along your open mouth. Transferring the salt of his arousal back along your palate, teasing yourself just as much as him. 

"Take what you want," is your only answer. 

The feral flash in his eye is the only warning you are afforded. You expect for him to force your mouth back onto his length, to steal his pleasure. So it is a complete surprise when he hauls you up onto your feet by the sting of your scalp to shove the flat of your back against the wall. It is disorienting to be lifted so suddenly, to be pinned back against the stone bricks in such a short period of time. It is jarring, sweeping you astray and leaving you lost. But just as quickly as it happened, Prince Aemond descends down on you like a shadow. Herding you in place and keeping you secure with nothing but the weight of his body. 

HIs hands are on you like a glutton sweeping their hands along a feast. Gripping and clawing at the shape of your body to begin plucking and tugging at your skirts to ruck them up around your hips, baring your legs to the air. It tears a gasp from your chest as he nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck, nipping at the tender skin there with the blunt edges of his teeth. 

"Is that truly what you want, hm? To be used up and split open for me? Nothing more than a whining, whimpering thing on my cock." The way that he speaks is so vulgar. It would be repulsive to any respectable lady, but it only serves to make you burst alight. Cut hollow and wanting to be filled and fucked with a man that you should despise. And perhaps you do still hate him. But here and now, with him so close and hot, flushed against you, you are unable to conceptualize such a notion. You long to feel him. The warmth of his skin, the bite of his teeth, the slice of his nails. 

It has you dragging your hands up the sturdy support of his shoulders, your fingers gripping harshly before gliding upward to thread through the fine silk of his hair, burrowing them along his scalp as a means to draw him closer. You hitch one of your legs around his hips, pulling him flush with your body even while the buckles of his belts and the pummel of his sword burrows meanly into your flesh. 

"Yes, yes, please," you beg easily. The please rises out of you with hardly any resistance at all, flowing freely like a deluge of water spilling past a fracture in a dam. 

You expect more teasing. More degrading remarks to further fray your pride thin and humiliate you, but the prince it seems, is intent on surprising you tonight and just as impatient. There are no moves to warn or prepare you. The only thing you get to serve as a notice is the brush of his cock slipping against the soaked heat of your cunt, and then, seemingly all at once he drives himself into your entrance, splitting you open and forcing your walls to stretch open and give around the shape of him. It punches all though and air from you, reducing you to some mindless, moaning thing to cling onto his shoulders as though your life depends on it. As though it might actually save you. 

The pace that he sets is punishing and intense from the start; desperate to rekindle the pleasure that you had stoked within him just before. Chasing after it like a thirsting man stumbling after a mirage. It leaves you try and stay aloft. Only able to hold on as he ravages your body like he has been tipped into the throes of a frenzy; feral and hungry. 

He tries to muffle the low noises that stirs from his chest, clasping his teeth along the junction of your neck rough enough that you are positive that it will leave a mark behind. It forces him to breathe through his nose, wrenching yearning pants from him to spill across the flesh of your shoulder in warm puffs of air. The hug of his teeth on your sensitive skin is not the concern that it should be. The stamp of his mouth will be left behind for sure. A clear claim posted on your body that he had touched you. That he has staked a sign on you that no other man has been able to or dared to do before. 

But you care little now. Not with the way that he drives himself into you. The constant drags of his cock inside of you, brushing deep and firm in strokes that threaten to liquify your mind. It has your body split between winding up tight and going lax in its place tucked between him and the wall. Your limbs longing to squirm and reach for something, anything to anchor yourself as he devastates you with a prowess that you never imagined he would possess.  

His cock drives sharp, pitchy sounds from you with every cant of his hips. His pelvis and the curls at the base of his cock nudging against your clit with every and every thrust. The sensation of it sears through you like smoke and embers, coiling in your gut like a band of molten steel. It has one of your arms extracting itself from its place nestled in his hair, flying out wildly to scramble along the wall behind you; nails digging into the soft corners of the stone for purchase. 

The sound of your voice has him releasing the clutch of his teeth from your neck, lifting it to nudge his face along your cheek until you can feel the defined bridge of his nose nuzzling along your flesh. A gesture that could so easily be misconstrued as tender if the circumstances were so completely different. If he did not hold your life inside of his hands. "You're fucking soaking, love." He croons, his voice all teasing and velvet. But it only serves to make you clench tighter around him, causing the want in you to lick along the cradle of your hips and rest there. "Did sucking my cock do it for you? Does your mouth being fucked - being treated like you deserve - excite you?" 

And now that he has drawn attention to it, you are forced to notice the wet sounds that echo within the quaint chamber of the alcove. The sloppy, lecherous noise of your coupling bouncing of the walls crudely. It is impossible not to hear the soaked smacking of his hips joining yours, of his cock parting the slick heat of your cunt repeatedly. 

The only facet that saves you from true embarrassment is that you have happened to find yourself in a brothel; a place where not a single soul will care or be appalled by the pair of you, should they happen to stumble upon you both. 

And despite it all, you find yourself nodding in agreement. "Gods, yes Aemond - fuck - I - " 

Something between a laugh and groan leaves him at the sound of your failed, broken words; entirely pleased and arrogant with the almost drunken state that he has reduced you to. That persistent part of you longs to make a quip of your own. To knock him down a peg or two, but even in your muddled condition, you are still able to realize that it may be a bad idea. Thankfully it is overcome with a new desire before it can get the better of you. The need to be closer to him washes over you like a wave crashing along the surf. It has your arms moving to lock around the nape of his neck, the leg secured around his hip tightening to guide him even closer. 

The loss of that little bit of remaining proximity changes the rhythm of his thrusts. Instead of the quick, impactful pace, it has changed them into deep, churning strokes. His cock barely leaves you now. He has been pinned too closely, leaving him with the ability to only grind himself against your heat, circling his hips against your sensitive clit in tight, intense motions that cause your jaw to drop. It has your entire body drawing up tight. Squeezing and working up in preparation for the release that hurtles before you like the swell of an oncoming storm. 

You are chanting his name now while the taste of him is still thick and warm on your tongue. Uttering his name as though it is a prayer, a curse; a salvation and damnation all at once. The weightlessness of it all, the desperation in your veins directs you to turn your face towards his own, tilting it until you are able to properly look at him, your nose nuzzling along his with each pronounced, grinding, debilitating thrust he delivers. 

Lightning wracks through you when you see that his eye is already on you. The lilac and traces of blue cutting so intently that you swear the gaze of it brushes along your soul. Strands of his hair have come loose from their tie, hanging slack and slightly askew around the curtains of silver that spill around his face. Pink has flushed around the points of his cheeks and nose - even the tips of his ears, and his lips are parted. You both draw in each other's breath, breathing yourselves in as though you only need the other's air to survive. 

It suddenly feels wildly intimate, and that hungered glint in his eye only serves to nourish that. Here, underneath the dark, with the anger absent from his posture and stare, it is easy to admire him. To notice how enchanting he truly is. And for a dangerous moment, you can pretend that you have not been brought here out of hate and violence or the need to flee. The dulcet warmth of it builds within your chest, swarming with a multitude of emotions that you cannot allow yourself to truly process. But some of them manage to slip past your grip regardless, seeping through the fissures and holes. 

"Aemond - pretty, so pretty." You choke on your words. Caught up within your admiration, your pleasure. But you are unable to keep yourself from sweeping a hand along the plains of his face, caressing the swell of his cheek. Adoring the striking features that press along your palm; scar and all. 

The vulnerability that breaks past the lust in his eye is tragic. He looks at you as though you are strange, unfamiliar, and yet as if he has known you for an eternity. As though no one has ever dared to blatantly praise and favor him, and he does not know how to manage it. But you feel the way that his cock twitches inside of the tight clutch of your cunt; his lashes flutter as though his eye was going to roll back inside of his skull. 

The power that it feeds you is unlike anything you have ever felt before. The way that he has reacted to a jumbled compliment, hanging onto your words as though they were a scripture and he a man in need of salvation. 

"So good, Aemond, don't stop, please don't stop," you pant against his lips. Almost immediately the grind of his hips becomes invigorated, as though the sound of your voice alone has galvanized him. And now that you have begun, it is difficult to stop; threading your fingers through his hair, gripping the back of his head to keep him close and orient yourself through the rush of it. "Just like that, my love. You're so good like this - so deep - it's you, just you, no one else." 

The endearment slips out unintentionally, a mirror of when he had used it himself to mock you, but the utilization of it coming from your lips seems nearly damning for him. He pitches forward to drop his face back into the nestle of your neck, as though he means to hide himself from you and bask in the press and scent of your flesh all at once. It makes his voice muffled and low, suppressed by your skin as his speaks out in a way that you just barely catch. But the words, your muddled brain sluggishly realizes, is not of the Common Tongue. It sounds out in a way that is rumbling and flowing all at once, his tongue cradling around rolling r's that belong to his ancestor's language. The tone of it nearly sounds as dazed as your own, and though you know naught what he is saying, the wrecked, slurred state of his voice pleases just as much if you were able. 

"Please, please," you beg against the crown of his head. The rapture coiling around your body is burrowing its claws in deep, slicing into your stomach to tear you asunder. And you welcome it. Longing to feel it lighting you up from the inside out, and the ceaseless drag of his cock and the grind of his pelvis on your clit has it suspended over you. Dangling so close that you swear you are able to taste it. That you would be able to reach out and touch it as though it is a tangible thing. 

"Do it," comes his strained reply. "Fucking do it." 

As though it was waiting for his permission, your body seizes up as though it has been struck. Heat and bliss lashes through every facet of you, ripping and twisting inside of you like it means to eat you alive. This is what it is like to be consumed. To be plucked up piece by piece and given over to someone else to fuel them, to prolong the ecstasy that pours over you like melted wax; like stars bursting in the heavens. In the haze of your pleasure, you can feel it doing just that. You can hear the loud grown that pierces the air as his own peak crests over him, induced by the clenching of your cunt flexing and tightening around him as though it means to keep him locked and buried inside forever. 

Liquid warmth spreads and settles inside of you with the twitch of his cock. His hips continue to grind and hump against your own in a strive extend the rapture that possesses your bodies. And that is how you both remain for a blurry stretch of time. Buried in each other's warmth and arms, saturated in bliss, and no longer enemies with the promise of bloodshed and war on the horizon. 

The scent of sex is heady and thick in the air, embellished by the spice and sweat on his skin and the wind in his hair. You do not move from your position cuddled against him. And you do not pay any heed to the clarity and the cruel realities of your situation as they clamor to draw your attention. You would like to remain ignorant to the truth for as long as possible. The horrors of your circumstances will come knocking on your door soon, rising up like a dawn you may not be alive to see. But for now, it will just be you and him. 

Not enemy and enemy, but two lovers intertwined in a private alcove designed for two. Safe in shadow and candlelight with the steady thump of each other's hearts rushing together; your breaths synced and calming. 

But the prince it seems is in no mood to afford you solace as he shifts to straighten his posture. A pathetic part of you mourns when he removes his face from the safety of your neck to meet your eyes. There is a curiosity in them that makes you unsure. The contentment in the way he watches you is so odd to see that it brings you more unease than his ire and rage could. He almost appears tender. Placated by the press of your body and the grip of your cunt still tight and hot around him, and he makes no moves to leave your body. 

He lifts a hand, allowing his fingers to trace along your jaw and lips as though he is studying a delicate valuable. Something that could easily shatter if handled too harshly. There is a possessive edge to it as well. Wanting and greedy like he fears someone may try and snatch you from him. It leaves you to fear that you may have coaxed that starved half of him out and left it with no desire to leave. Now he truly does mean to pluck you between his teeth. Not to rip and tear, but to devour carefully. With a mouth that longs cradle bone and stroke flesh lovingly. 

You may have just made a monster. But even worse still is that you cannot help but to delight in the possibilities of it. 

And when his voice speaks out next, soft and tranquil, and welcoming in your ear, you find yourself waiting on his promise. 

"I think I'll keep you." 

[noyaspeach]

first light

Summary: Could this be how every day begins?

After a long and restless night with no sleep, you go looking for something to while away the hours. As it turns out, Astarion is just as much of an insomniac as you are, and the two of you spend the early morning together.

Pairing: Astarion x Gender Neutral! Reader

Word Count: 4,334

Tags: Fluff and Light Angst, Pining, Feelings Realization (Kinda?), Second Person POV, Soft Astarion, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Insomnia, Watching the Sunrise

Author's Note:

not me returning to fic-writing over 3 years later with an astarion fic of all things. i can't even guarantee i'll write another one considering i'm about to start college again, but i would sure like to!

i was heavily inspired to write this because of the release of hozier's album. it perfectly aligned with me becoming obsessed with baldur's gate 3, and astarion is just so hozier-coded, how could i not? as the title suggests, i was inspired by the song "first light" which is the last song on the album, based on dante's ascent out of hell and his first taste of light and freedom. i imagine it's how astarion must have felt when he was no longer forced to do cazador's bidding and when he could finally experience sunlight again.

obligatory disclaimers: i haven't actually played the game yet, so this fic is informed by clips i've seen online, gif sets, the baldur's gate wiki, and other fics. if any details in this aren't chronologically sound or if anything seems a little non-compliant with the canon of the game... now you know why lol.

still, i hope you enjoy it! this is also posted to ao3! read here!

///

You stare up at the ceiling of your tent, frustration rolling in your chest as you struggle to rest. Your eyes are beginning to sting with the lack of sleep, but simply closing them does nothing to help. You’ve gone through all of your belongings twice already, looking for something to ease you into slumber, but no amount of reading or alcohol seems to do the trick. It certainly doesn’t help that the weather has been oppressively humid all night, leaving you coated in a thin, sticky layer of sweat that doesn’t seem to leave you no matter how many layers you shed.

You can’t bear to lay around in the thick air of your tent, so you decide to sit out by the extinguished campfire in the hopes that it will do more to relax you.

You quietly open your tent flap and emerge into the mild morning air. It’s much cooler outside, and a light breeze tickles your arm, already doing wonders to dry your sweat. It’s still too early for daylight, so the camp is only dimly illuminated by the moonlight. With the lack of light, you listen out for the sounds of the forest around you: the chirps of insects beneath you, hooting owls in the distance, and a trickling stream not too far away. Focusing on these scarce sounds, you already feel much calmer.

After a moment of peace, you hear a rustle to your right. You whip your head toward the sound, hands ready at your weapon, when you see a familiar face emerge from the trees. You let your hands drop to your side again. It’s just Astarion. He appears to be returning to his tent, noticeably empty-handed. You wonder what he’s up to this early in the morning, and he seems to be wondering the same thing, eyeing you with an inquisitive raise of the eyebrow.

“Restless sleeper, are we?” He remarks.

“Something like that,” you reply. “Just needed some fresh air.”

You notice that Astarion is still in his sleepwear, the sleeves of his white undershirt pushed up above his elbows. “And what are you doing out?”

“Oh, you know. Searching for a midnight snack, so to speak.” He gestures to the woods behind him. “Unfortunately, there isn’t a very fine selection tonight.”

You grimace at the thought of Astarion catching an innocent woodland creature between his teeth. It’s a less-than-flattering image, one that’s informed by the memory of the boar he drained a while back, and one that you’re eager to dismiss.

“Is that all you’ve been up to?” You ask.

“Why? Were you getting lonely without me?” He teases. You can only roll your eyes in response. When he doesn’t receive a retort, Astarion sighs and continues. “Right, if you want an honest answer, I was going for a stroll to pass the time.”

You tilt your head to the side. “Wandering about on your own while everyone’s asleep isn’t a very good idea. If something happens out there, none of us will be able to save you”

“Trust me, darling, I can hold my own just fine. But I appreciate you worrying about my safety. It’s almost touching.” He smirks. “I would appreciate it even more if you would refrain from telling the others about my… routine here. I don’t exactly want the company.”

“Routine? How long have you been taking these walks?”

“Since the day I joined you all, I would say.” Astarion’s eyes move to the entrance of his own tent. “I haven’t been able to get much sleep myself, and I figure there isn’t much use laying on my bedroll if I’m not resting or satisfying… other needs. So, I walk. And occasionally feed.”

You search Astarion’s face for any sign of deception, but he’s being surprisingly truthful, if a little bashful. You resonate with his sleeplessness, being something of an insomniac yourself. Despite the immense toll your travels have taken on your body, you can’t seem to rest very easily at all, especially when you need it the most. Whether it’s the vivid memories of past battles replaying in your dreams, the smothering climate of whatever campsite you’ve picked out that night, or the relentless wriggling of the tadpole in your head, there’s always something keeping you up.

“I’m surprised I haven’t caught you earlier, then,” you say. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.”

“Thank you,” says Astarion. He smiles, and it seems he means it too. “Well, seeing as neither one of us will be getting to bed anytime soon, would you care to join me?”

You cross your arms. “I thought you would have preferred to be alone.”

“Misery loves company and all. I think I can make an exception for a fellow night owl,” he drawls.

You agree to walk with him then and quietly head in the opposite direction of both tents. You’re sure to bring your weapon with you in the off chance that something—or someone—attacks the two of you. A very small part of you still garners some suspicion for Astarion himself, especially considering that night in which he tried to feed from you while you slept. Perhaps that’s another factor in your insomnia; although you let Astarion drink his fill that night, you can’t be entirely sure he won’t try it again. That he won’t succeed in creeping up on you and draining you completely.

You shiver at the thought, but pass it off as a cold chill from the wind. As the two of you slowly move from the campsite, your surroundings become even quieter. The chirping insects from before are silent now, and the nearby stream is barely a whisper. You can hardly hear either of your footsteps. It’s at once peaceful and unsettling.

After a few short minutes, you’re the first to break the silence. “What do you usually do when you’re out here?”

Astarion thinks for a moment, and hums. “Hmm. Aside from hunting, I suppose I just sit with my thoughts. There isn’t much else to do, is there?”

You nod, but somehow you don’t think being left with one’s own thoughts is particularly relaxing for anyone in your party. You can’t imagine it’s any good for Astarion, especially.

“And what do you think about?”

“So much,” he says. “Plans, mostly. Where our next destination is, where I’ll find my next meal, what I’ll do when we reach Baldur’s Gate, how to get rid of this wretched parasite…”

“Do you ever think about your past?”

Astarion’s gaze is a bit distant until you ask that. He slows his pace and turns to you, looking unusually serious. “I prefer not to.”

He leaves it at that, so you decide not to push further. You only know a little about Astarion’s life before the tadpole entered his mind. You know he’s the spawn of an even more powerful vampire, a master to whom he was a slave for nearly 200 years, and you know he’s lived in the shadows up until now. It isn’t lost on you that this entire adventure is his first taste of freedom in centuries. You understand why he would rather focus on the future. Still, your nagging curiosity makes you desperate for more information about him.

“What about you, my dear?” He returns to his more amused attitude. “What do you do in that tent of yours to pass the time until the morning comes? Don’t tell me if it’s anything naughty… Actually, do.”

You shake your head and suppress a smile as he actually almost earns a laugh from you. “Nothing like that. I normally just try to distract myself until I can hopefully fall back asleep. Read something, sort my wares, hum a tune. Anything to relax.”

“I take it that hasn’t been working for you?”

“No. Not one bit. I’m actually kind of worried it might start affecting my performance from now on. Unlike some of the elves in this team, I actually need quite a lot of rest.”

“A true shame,” he tuts. “Although it is a double-edged sword. On the one hand, I don’t need to sleep for very long. On the other, I can’t sleep for very long. Sometimes I do wish I could simply let the whole day pass while I doze off. That would be much easier than just waiting it out.”

You hadn’t considered this. While the rest of your traveling companions are able to sleep through the night, Astarion has no choice but to wait for everyone to wake up around sunrise. All he can do is hope to get a few hours of rest before sitting through the unnerving silence of the night, the only unique sounds being the faint snores and mumbles that float from the other tents. You and he are alike in this struggle, but you at least are lucky enough to have a few nights when your exhaustion is bad enough to force you to bed.

“Well, taking a stroll like this is a good idea,” you finally say. “Thank you for inviting me along.”

A small smile tugs at the corner of Astarion’s lips. “Thank you for joining me. I will admit, it’s easier to pass the time with a… friend… by my side.”

Your heart swells at that word: “friend.” It’s a welcome upgrade from whatever you two might have been considered before.

A few minutes pass with the both of you chatting politely. As you walk, you make note of your surroundings to ensure that you don’t stray too far from camp or encounter any traps. This occupies your mind for a while, but Astarion seems to be running out of topics to discuss. Not wanting him to abandon your little trip just yet, you try to think of something to entertain him. Looking out at the forest and the sky in front of you, you notice that the moon has begun its descent into the trees, meaning morning is almost upon you two. This gives you an idea.

You stop and pivot to face Astarion. He stops too, surprised at your sudden pause.

“What is it?” He asks.

"Would you like to watch the sunrise with me?”

He’s taken aback only momentarily before he adopts his familiar flirtatious demeanor. “Trying to turn this into a romantic tryst, are you? If you want something more, you’ll have to be a little more direct than that.”

You shake your head. “No, I don’t mean anything by it. I want to know if you’ll sit and watch the sun come up with me. That’s all. It should be rising soon enough. It’s almost morning.”

He seems puzzled, his brows tightening and eyes scanning your face for any indication that you may be holding something back. When he doesn’t find anything, he settles back into an easy expression. “I seem to have misjudged. My apologies… Yes, I wouldn’t mind sitting with you.”

“Great.” You smile and begin to walk again. “I heard some water earlier, so I think there may be a stream near here. Maybe it’ll make for a nice spot.”

Astarion follows as you lead him closer to the sound of running water, and the two of you shortly come upon the stream. It’s a small, shallow brook that separates the woods from which you emerge and another expanse of trees on the other side. Right along the edge of the water is a line of smooth rocks big enough to sit on. It’s the perfect place to set up, you think.

The two of you find purchase on the edge of the rocks, feet just barely dangling off the side, hovering above the calmly flowing water. The rocks aren’t terribly big, so the two of you sit side-by-side, your knees close enough to touch. Across the brook, the trees begin to thin out, leaving a clear view of the horizon. You estimate that the sun will start its ascent in the next few minutes, but for now, the scene in front of you remains thinly bathed in moonlight.

In the quiet of the dawn, the moon casts its silvery glow on the world beneath it. Every blade of grass, every dewy flower, every mossy stone radiates with a hazy blue hue. The stream beneath you reflects this onto both of your faces, and you give a sideways glance to your companion next to you. You watch as the light dances across his cheeks, admiring how it shines in his curls, how it glistens in his deep red eyes, and how it collects in the space just above his lips. You inhale and the earthy scent of the forest mixes with the smell of Astarion’s perfume in your nose. As you do so, you realize now just how close in proximity you are to him. You’re close enough to trace his silhouette from the slope of his nose to his slender neck with your fingers if you so choose. You glimpse at the puncture marks just below his jaw and remember once more the night you let him drink from you. You remember the moment you awoke in terror before you realized who was crouched above you. You remember the uncertainty you felt as you gave him permission to continue, not sure whether it was a wise decision or not. You remember the sharp sting of his teeth entering your skin and the almost exhilarating dizziness that followed as he coaxed your blood out with his tongue. The rest of that moment is a blur to you, but you can still distinctly recall how he cradled your head with one hand, the other gently ghosting down your spine. For almost a full day after that night, the smell of bergamot and rosemary lingered on your neck.

“You do know staring is rude, don’t you, darling?” Astarion says. “Not that I particularly mind.” He leans back on his arms and turns to face you. “Not when it’s you.”

Your cheeks flush in spite of the cool temperature. You wonder when it was you became so vulnerable to Astarion’s flirting. Even though you have, you try not to entertain it. After all, you suspect his charming behavior is at least partly a ruse.

“Sorry,” you mutter and look back at the horizon. “It’s very pretty out. It’ll be even prettier in just a few more minutes, too. We’re in the perfect spot to watch the sun come up.”

“Is that so?” Astarion tilts his head as he continues to behold you. “You know, I’ve never watched the sunrise like this.”

You twist to look at him again, utterly shocked. “Seriously? Not once?”

He shakes his head.

“How come?”

He sighs. “I’m sure I must have before… everything. But I can’t seem to remember anything from back then. I lost most of my memories when I was brought back, save for a few of the important details. I suppose sunrises weren’t important enough to stick.” He frowns and stares out at a canopy of trees in the distance. “Then, as you know, it would have been incredibly stupid for me to be out in the light with this condition of mine. So, I never tried. I didn’t have very many opportunities to do so, in any case.”

Your brow furrows, but you don’t say anything. Instead, you let Astarion continue at his own pace.

“...I spent decades in my master’s lair, a- a dungeon, really. I was trapped in the darkness. The only time I was allowed out was when he needed fresh, new bodies, and even then it was always under the cover of night. For the longest time, that was all that I knew. In a way, it’s what I’m still used to…”

Suddenly his sleeplessness makes all the more sense to you.

“I know I’m free from that now, what with the tadpole and all, but…” He trails off. You understand.

After several beats of silence, you clear your throat.

“Once, when I was a child, I went playing in the woods with some of the other children in the village. There were maybe six of us in total? I don’t exactly remember. But we marched all the way from the market to the forest pretending we were a band of heroes. I was at the back of the line, right behind this boy that I really liked. I put myself there on purpose so that I could smile and blush as much as I wanted without him seeing me.”

“How cute,” Astarion comments with a quirked eyebrow.

“Yeah. I mean, I thought I was being clever, but it was pretty silly, wasn’t it? Anyways, when we entered the woods, we decided to split off into teams to see who could find the most ‘treasure.’ We just plucked up sticks, flowers, beetles, pinecones, that kind of stuff. I was paired with the boy I liked, and I was so giddy about it. I wanted to show him just how cool I was, so I climbed up every tree and jumped off every rock. Just hearing him laugh and clap for me was enough for me to keep going. So, I did. Before we knew it, we realized we had strayed too far from the rest of the group. We tried to call out to them but heard nothing in return. We were lost.”

You pause your story to get a brief look at Astarion. You half-expect him to be bored by this point, but you’re surprised to see that he’s giving you his full attention. He waves his hand, signaling for you to continue.

“We started playing late into the evening, so by the time we realized that we had no clue where we were, the sun had already begun to set. I remember cursing myself for wishing I could have some alone time with this boy because that wasn’t at all what I had had in mind. But, alas, that was the situation I was stuck in. When it reached midnight and we still hadn’t made our way back to the village, I started panicking. You should know that I used to be deathly afraid of the forest at night. I was terrified of what kind of creatures could be hiding, waiting to snatch me up and eat me alive.”

“Hmm, like vampires?” Astarion teases.

You smirk. “Precisely. You’ll remember, though, that I was stuck with the boy I liked. So, there was no way I could show that I was scared. I couldn’t display any sign of weakness or else he might not think I was as cool as I let off. Knowing this, I put on a brave face and silently begged the gods for some protection before I assembled a makeshift camp for the two of us. It was, admittedly, very shitty, but it did its job of giving us some shelter for the night. I told him he could sleep and that I would keep watch, and so I did. I didn’t sleep very much back then, either, now that I think about it. I guess not a lot has changed about me… But I digress. I stayed up the whole night, sitting outside our little fort, listening to him snore and talk in his sleep. I don’t think I could have left his side if I wanted to, considering how petrified I was. But I powered through the fear, for his sake. I was so young, but I cared about this boy so much that I felt I owed it to him to make sure he was safe.”

“You were quite the hero, even back then,” Astarion says gently. “Is this little story your way of telling me to be more selfless?”

“Not at all. I’m getting to the point, I promise. I sat there for hours as I waited for it to become day again. Eventually, I was able to focus on the more beautiful parts of the night: the moon, the stars, the lightning bugs, the sweet whisper of the wind through the leaves. The more I searched for the good in my situation, the less scared I became, until I was no longer scared at all. By the time dawn rolled around, I was at peace, actually. I was so proud of myself for making it through the night, I immediately woke the boy up to share the moment with him. Then, we sat together, kind of like this,” You gesture to your and Astarion’s seating position, “and just watched the sunrise in perfect silence. I had never watched the sunrise before. It was so nice, getting to quietly enjoy such a wonderful view with someone I loved.”

As you finish your story, you face Astarion once more. His gaze is soft as he listens to you speak, and the tender curl of his lips betrays a sincere gratitude for having shared this with him.

“Did anything ever happen between you and that boy?” He asks.

“Sadly, no. He eventually fell for some other girl in town. Last I heard, they had three kids together.”

“Hmm.” Astarion angles his chin away from you. “Well, that’s his loss.”

You look away, too, and smile to yourself.

Suddenly, the sky begins to transform before your eyes. The first gleams of sunlight begin to caress the horizon as the moon takes its final bow behind you. The forest, still coated with all the glimmering remnants of morning dew, stirs from its slumber under the streams of the emerging sun. As the sun slowly rises, its warm embrace spreads like honey between the trees, flooding the forest floor with rays of pink and amber. Shafts of light pierce through the lush foliage, creating scintillating patterns on the surface of the water that seem to dance at the promise of a new day. Finally, when the sun peers at you from above the treetops, it’s as if the sky erupts. A burst of brilliance envelopes the world below it in its welcoming embrace, casting everything in a blazing golden light.

You begin to say something to Astarion but stop when you see his face. He looks positively radiant. His face glows in the daylight, appearing even more magnificent than he did in the moon’s silver beams. His face and his hair are colored by the sun, making him look more alive than he ever has before. Every detail from the strands in his eyebrows to the smallest of moles is illuminated before you. You watch as his eyes glisten before softly fluttering closed. He breathes deeply, his chest slowly rising and falling, and he basks in the sunlight. He relaxes completely, letting the sun’s rays melt away any and all tension he may have been holding on to.

You want nothing more than to cup his face in your hands, then, and feel the newly imbued warmth of his skin as you press your lips to his. Instead, however, you carefully place your hand on top of his. His eyes blink open and he turns to look at you once more. You hesitate for a moment, ready to move away, but he doesn’t reject you. His eyes crinkle with appreciation and he laces your fingers together before gently stroking his thumb against the side of your hand. His skin is still a bit cold, but thanks to you, it quickly warms up.

The two of you sit there in tranquility, taking in all of the sights, sounds, and feelings of the early morning. Time seems to slow, then, as if the universe itself also wishes to savor this serene moment for just a little while longer.

Soon, you hear the distant sound of casual conversation as the others awaken for yet another day of arduous traveling. You sigh, knowing that the two of you will have to return to camp shortly and leave all of this behind. You don’t want to let go just yet.

“We should probably get back,” Astarion says first. “I wouldn’t want the others to think that I killed you and scurried off or something like that.”

“Yeah, that wouldn’t be very good for morale,” you joke. After a moment, you reluctantly untwine your fingers and push yourself up off the rocks. You extend a hand to Astarion to help him up, which he graciously accepts.

Neither of you moves at first until Astarion takes a step toward you. Standing so close to you, you wonder if he’s about to kiss you when he gingerly takes hold of your hands. He gives you that sincere smile again.

“Thank you again for this. It was… nice.” You almost can’t believe how vulnerable he seems right now, eyes staring into yours with no hint of false pretenses. “I’d like to do this again with you, if you’ll join me.”

“I would love to.”

“Wonderful,” he says. He lets go of you. “Shall we then?”

The two of you take your time walking back to the campsite, talking idly about what the next few days have in store. When you arrive, Karlach is the first to notice you.

“There you two are! We were beginning to worry.” She looks between you both and crosses her arms, narrowing her eyes mischievously. “Anything we should know about your disappearance?”

You chuckle. “Nothing that would excite you, Karlach.”

You walk past her and approach your tent. The rest of your team is already getting to work cleaning their weapons, armor, and other equipment, preparing to hunt, or strategizing together. Before you duck inside to retrieve your clothes for washing, you turn back and lock eyes with Astarion. He’s entered a conversation between Shadowheart and Gale, but he isn’t all that engaged. He shoots you a knowing look and another small smile which you return in kind.

As you wash your clothes in the river just south of the camp, you think fondly of the promise you’ve now made with Astarion and the many sunrises to come. Suddenly, insomnia doesn’t seem so bad.

[ayanominitrash]

Act Cool, Senpai! (Geto Suguru x reader)

₊˚ ♡

Geto-san takes a liking to his cute kouhai, He wonders if he looks good to you.

˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖

2nd Entry.

First part here. Third part here. Masterlist.

˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖

Nowadays, Geto finds himself taking a longer time fixing his hair in the mirror.

Usually, he’d tie his hair up in a bun once, fix a few strands here and there, grab his school bag, and leave. But it was his fourth time trying to tame his dark locks and he hadn't even realizes it until he was getting mildly frustrated at himself. 

He stops.

Geto lets his arms down to rest for a moment while looking back at the pair of small eyes in the mirror. What's gotten into him? He was never the type to worry about his looks. Sure, he's more of the concerned hygienic type - he's more concerned with being clean and smelling good - which are just common sense, rather than thinking if people thought his hair bun was tied up in the right way or not. 

No, not people. He's suddenly thinking of you, tilting your head to the side, "Geto-san, your hair's a mess today."

He shakes his thoughts away.

No, looks were more like something Gojo would concern himself with. He recalls the time when his classmate would be all up in his face, bearing his teeth and asking him if they all looked perfectly aligned. He groans at the memory.

Suddenly, the door to his dorm room slides open to reveal the said classmate, his shoulders slouched with the weight of his eyelids. He looks half awake.

"Suguru...? Why weren't you outside my dorm yet?" Gojo yawns.

"I was just about to get you, you know." He starts doing his hair again, this time not bothering to look in the mirror. "I was just...uh, looking for my hair tie."

"Oh, okay. By all means, please, take your time. I'm not very eager to go see our mutt-looking sensei."

"Satoru, that's not very nice." 

The other blows a raspberry at him.

Geto finishes tying his hair up and collects his things. He pauses and looks at Gojo right when he is just about to pass him through the doorway.

"What?"

"Satoru, how do I look?"

Geto's simple question was met with a wide-eyed Gojo, staring at him with what looked like a bewildered expression - like he had done something as strange as turn his head all the way back like an owl would.

"I mean,” Gojo finally starts, “...you look with your eyes."

The raven-haired teen glares daggers at him.

"I don't know man, what do you want me to say?! You look...the same? I don't know. Why? Did you do something with your face or? Gasp! - did you finally use that face cream I was talking about? Is it good?"

At this point, he was continuously bombarded with follow-up questions about a skin care product Geto paid no mind to, along with him being rocked back and forth by the tall man's hands on his shoulders. Geto eventually swats his arms off of him.

"Forget it, you’re no help at all."

₊˚ ♡

The third period comes by and Geto internally curses at himself when he hasn’t had the time to check himself in between classes, because here you are, already standing at the doorway. He hears his heartbeat in his ears as he watches how your face shows your confusion mixed with a bit of nervousness, eyes darting around the room.

“Hello, excuse me. . . “ You speak up in a small voice. “But may I know where Ieiri-san is?” 

Gojo lifts his head from where it was resting in his arms, “I’ll tell you if you gots some candy on ya.”

“Satoru,” Geto warns. His classmate was notoriously known for messing with his juniors. Not even his seniors were safe. 

“Whhhaatt? I’m just talking to her. Hey, you. Don’t just stand there, come in here.”

Feeling self-conscious, he sinks further into his seat as you take up on Gojo’s offer, hesitantly strolling next to your senior as he removes his arms from the teacher’s table.

“No, seriously, you got candy on you? I’m bored out of my mind here.”

“Only if you tell me where Ieiri-san is.” You put air on your left cheek, making you look like a chipmunk. 

Geto just might die from how adorable you look.

“Well - “

“She was called to the infirmary by Yaga-sensei,” He finally cuts in, much to Gojo’s dismay. “A few of the Junior Sorcerers came back from a mission and need medical attention so she was called in on short notice.”

“You’re no fun, Suguru.” 

“Oh, I see. . . “ You drift off, looking at him then somewhere out the window. “I guess I’ll go to class on my own then. Thank you. Also, here,” You hand a few pieces of peppermint candy to Gojo, who immediately snatches them away from you. 

“None for me?” Geto teases. 

You smile and then approach his seat.

Act cool, Geto thinks. Act cool - shit. 

“Here you go, senpai. I have a lot more so you can have this much.” You cup the few pieces of candy in both of your hands, presenting them to the raven-head, to which he reaches a palm out to accept them. At the exchange, he can see how his one hand is much bigger compared to your two small ones. He also notices how soft and clean yours looks. He also doesn’t miss the way a shiver runs up his skin when your fingers graze his.

Your senior looks up at you with that gentle smile of his, “Aren’t you sweet? Thank you for this.” 

He feels a bit guilty taking these from you when he’s not much of a sweet tooth himself - he only learned to eat sweets through Gojo - but he’d be lying if he didn’t want to keep these treats in his pockets and carry them around forever.

Is that weird? 

“You know what? How about I walk you to class as a way of saying thank you?”

Gojo groans, “Noooooo, don’t leave me heeerre - “

“Shut up, Satoru.”

You flail your hands in front of you,” Ah - Geto-san, t-that’s real nice of you b -but you don’t need to! It’s okay. Plus, you might be late to your next class.”

Geto can only smile at you as a facade of his nervousness, “It’s okay, there’ll be a delay since our next teacher might be aiding in the Junior’s mission reports. I’m also gonna need to stretch my legs.”

“Okay…” You look down at your shoes and twiddle with your hands. “Well then, if it’s alright with you, then I don’t mind the company.”

“Are you just gonna leave me here then?”

With a tsk, he gives Gojo his phone, “Go play games on my phone.” 

“What am I, a kid? You think I’m just gonna - ooooh you got a few new ones in here.” 

Now that Gojo’s distracted, he takes the opportunity to put his hand on your shoulder, urging you to start walking out of the classroom.

“Let’s go?” 

You start to nod only to freeze for a moment, staring at something over his head. Without warning, you reach a hand up and pat down a stray hair from on top of Geto’s head. It was like you were giving him head pats. It was his turn to freeze.

“There. Let’s go, Geto-san.”

I think I should mess my hair up a bit more. 

₊˚ ♡ - - - -

Later that day. . .

“Kento, Geto-san was so cool today. He troubled himself to walk me to my next class.”

“So?” 

“Isn’t our senapi so nice?”

Your classmate Nanami, only shrugs at you, never tearing his eyes away from the book he was reading.

“You’re so cold.”

˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖

(❀❛ ֊ ❛„)♡ reblogs and comments are appreciated//do not repost my work anywhere

//

Very happy my last post was so well received <3 idk how I feel about this 2nd part tho but I hope you enjoyed reading// ❛ ֊ ❛„)♡

[little-diable]

Late Night - Carlisle Cullen (smut)

Just a smutty drabble I needed to get out of my system. Please like and reblog if you enjoyed reading this, your comments keep us writers motivated! Enjoy my loves. Xxx

Summary: Carlisle comes home late at night and uses her body just like she had asked him to weeks ago.

Warnings: 18+, smut, unprotected piv, somnophilia, cock warming

Pairing: Carlisle Cullen x fem!reader (900 words)

It was late by the time he stepped foot into her apartment, careful not to wake her. He took his time as he undressed, mind torn between the past hours he’d spent at the hospital and the memories of this very morning.

The sound of (y/n)’s moans echoed through his mind, eyes hazy as she had stared up at him. His cock had perfectly fit between her breasts, searching for a quick release before he’d left for work. With her tongue pushed past her teeth, she had tasted him with every thrust, eager to watch him fall apart.

Degrading words had rolled off his tongue, calling her a cock-hungry slut while he had chased his orgasm. Her hands had pushed her breasts together, high on the feeling of his veiny cock rubbing against her soft skin.

Carlisle had to hold back a groan as the memory made his cock grow harder. Perhaps he should simply fuck his hand to the thought of her in the shower, washing away the day with his mind fully set on her. But then his eyes found (y/n)’s sleeping frame.

For a moment, he didn’t move. His golden eyes wandered up and down her frame, taking in the sight of her shirt barely covering her frame, exposing the pair of panties he loved seeing on her. Carlisle couldn’t hold back his groan, head rolling back to ponder over his choices.

Weeks ago she had given him the consent to touch her whenever he needed her, let it be while she was awake or sleeping. Back then he hadn’t paid her words much attention, knowing that he wanted her awake and riled up whenever he fucked her. But now his perspective had shifted, forcing him to step into the bedroom.

Carefully, he stepped out of his clothes, palming his hard cock a few times before he slowly pushed her thighs apart. He made quick work on her panties, pushing them aside to brush his fingers over her warm skin. With his eyes set on her peaceful features, he spat onto her cunt, using his saliva as lube while aligning himself with her heat.

Carlisle was close to waking her up, wanting to see her wide eyes staring up at him, but he kept quiet. He pushed into her, unable to hold back the gritty sound clawing its way out of him - all because of the way her walls felt wrapped around him. The second he buried his cock fully inside of her, he gave it a moment or two, wondering if she’d finally react. But (y/n) was still fast asleep.

He couldn’t help but wonder what she’d say to him, the words she’d moan if she were awake. Perhaps she’d comment on his size, and how he felt buried deep inside of her. Perhaps she’d choke on his name while begging him to leave some more marks on her body. Thoughts that urged him to move faster.

(Y/n) began to stir, finally, slowly reacting to the way he fucked her body into the mattress. A gasp left her the second her mind managed to rip her out of her dream, staring at Carlisle who smirked down at her. The sound of his cold skin meeting her warm one reverberated through the room, accompanied by her whimpers and his groans.

“Carlisle,” she moaned his name, heavy arms finding their way around his neck. “Feels so good, oh god.”

He gave it a few more thrusts before he momentarily pulled out of her, using her sleep drunken state to his advantage as he flipped her around. Without another warning he pushed back into her from behind, hand coming down on her ass to mark her up.

Another high pitched moan left (y/n) at the feeling, trying to shuffle back against his touch while she pressed her right cheek to the warm pillow. His hand met her behind again, enjoying the way her breath hitched the second she felt the sting of his touch, knowing that she'd be able to feel it for hours to come.

His thrusts grew faster, set on an easy orgasm so that she could fall back asleep soon after. And the way her heart picked up its speed, forcing adrenaline to thump through her veins like a storm rolling ashore, told him that she was about to soak his cock with her release.

(Y/n) let go of another whine as she came, eyes squeezed shut, teeth about to draw blood from her lower lip. His hips kept meeting her pulsing flesh, wanting to cum while he stayed buried inside of her for hours to come. Her hand reached for his, interlacing their fingers seconds before he came with a groan.

“I should have known that I’d love this as much as you do, darling,” his heavy murmurs drew a breathless chuckle from her. Carlisle slowly shifted them around, pressing (y/n)’s back against his chest while his cock stayed buried inside of her, connecting the two in the most intimate way while she searched for a few more hours of sleep.

[gb-dentistry]

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[joelhoney]

do u take requests? if u do, could i have an outbreak au where reader rides joel in his truck? thank u! i LOVED #1 girl btw

open road

wanted to practice my writing skills again so here! :)

warnings: 18+ !!!! smut, pwp, implied age gap, feminine reader, daddy kink sry, pet names galore

“One of the guys called you scary.”

The sky is dull, something bland and colorless in-between blue and grey—something that’s become a norm. A clear, cloudless sky comes once every few months if a trickle of luck happens to dwell upon the area, but even for a pair that travels as much as you and Joel do, the memories of that kind of weather have become few and far between. Joel is grown, though, and he’s wise, and he knows there isn’t any good that comes out of complaining over something as trivial as this.

Anyway, he’s got a whole little ball of sunshine beside him, feet propped up on the dashboard clumsily.

“Hm. What’d you say?” He grunts back, trying to hide how the comment has begun to make him think. He’s not new to the entire scary bit, but every time the comment arises he finds himself wanting to know your thoughts, if you agree, if you know he doesn’t mind the reputation as long as you find him the opposite.

“I said no, you’re just old.”

You’re in your socks because you hate the weight of the boots you wear, and you’re wearing one of his old shirts, from years and years ago, thin with wear and the collar cut off so it hangs across your collarbones. It’s your favorite, this ratted brown color with a band on it that performed when you weren’t even born yet, you think. Joel likes this one, too, he won’t tell you just how much; he just hopes you don’t pick up on the fact that he fucks you all the more harder whenever you wear this around him.

“I’m not old, sugar.” 

“You are old. Older than me and the guy who said you were scary.” A lithe hand comes twisting at the grey hairs on his temple. He tuts and you pull back, giggling out an apology. “When’re we getting there?”

“Slow down. The open road is a blessin’, don’t you think, sweetheart?” To Joel, everything is a blessing in the height of such an uncertain time—a blessin’, in his vernacular, his drawled-out twang. It’s his turn, now, to reach across the console and wrap a hand around your thigh. It tickles, and you tense through the material of your jeans. Sometimes you wonder if you can wear your dresses on tasks like these, ones not so high in urgency, but with a destination nevertheless. You want a clicker gnawin’ off your leg, be my guest, he said once, and that was that.

“I guess,” you muster half-heartedly, fingers skating along the expanse of Joel’s hand. Two of your fingers align with one of his own. Outside the scenery is mostly grey, barely green, lifeless, but interesting anyway, the ruins and the rot, blatant reminders of what you’re all living in the thick of.

You swallow and wrap a hand around his wrist. “Do we need to be there now?”

He huffs out this laugh between exasperation, and quickly he presses two fingers to the crotch of your bottoms. “So soon?” He’d just eaten you out before you left less than two hours ago, the hem of your shirt stuffed into your mouth so nobody would hear. You buck up into his hand, which has now left, and whine lowly in your throat.

“That wasn’t fair,” you bemoan, chasing his hand. He clicks his tongue disapprovingly. 

“I’m jus’ try’na enjoy the road, dove. Back then, this’d be drownin’ in traffic. People beatin’ the five-thirty rush. Now it’s jus’ you and me.” He hums some song, this soully little thing, one he likes to sing on the road when it’s just you in the car. If anyone else tags along, he’s silent. 

“Jo-el,” you whine. “No fair. You got me all wet.”

He sucks air in through his teeth, pats you lightly on the smooth surface of your cheek without even having to spare you a glance. “Be patient with me, sweetheart. We need to get there in time.” There’s an edge to his voice, hardened a bit; he’s not reminding this time, he’s warning. You pout and peek out the half-cracked window. Open road and the dim horizon, no sign of the building you’re supposed to stop at.

“Fine.” Your voice comes out like a sneer.

He clicks his tongue. “I said patient.”

“I am being—” you huff, crossing your arms and lowering your feet noisily. “It’s not fair that you touched me and then won’t even let me—let yourself—whatever.” You shuffle, bumbling irritatedly by yourself for a minute. 

If you ask Joel, some of his best moments come from getting you to behave.

Because you are virtually impossible to wrangle into some semblance of obedience. It used to be next to impossible to even get you to shut up, but over time it got easier—thumb on the pad of your tongue, knee shoved in-between your legs, hand wrung into your hair. Just like that, and you’re his pliant little baby again. If you ask Joel now, he’d sigh contentedly, say how proud he’s become that you’re no longer the bratty minx you once were.

But that would be a lie, he figures, once he hears the exaggeratedly breathy moans from his right.

He doesn’t need to look to know what you’ve wrapped yourself up into, your hand shoved into your unzipped jeans, rubbing slow circles along your pussy. It probably doesn’t even feel as good as it sounds, even if you make noises with everything he does to you. Feels so good, Daddy, you whisper into the air, and he trails a hand down to squeeze himself through his jeans.

“How good, baby?” He grunts, eyes flitting over to you. You, in that goddamn t-shirt and everything, looking delicious enough to eat. He’d told you once never to wear shit like skirts and dresses, but God the amount of times he hoped you’d wear them anyway, so he could bounce you up and down on his dick and have you barely undressed. He swears he has dreams of his favorite pink number, the one that barely even touches the middle of your thighs, tied at the back with a pretty ribbon. He loves tugging on that ribbon, watching the material loosen around you so he can grope you up and make you both feel nasty, listen to your jagged moans of daddy, don’t rip the dress while he’s toying with your clit.

“Not enough,” you say breathily. “S’your fault.”

“Mine?” He echoes with a grunt. “You’re the one whorin’ herself out t’me for a lick of my attention, baby girl.”

“Please, I’m—just a minute,” you heave out, voice wet and desperate. He wonders what’s gotten you this antsy, this restless, this needy for a taste of him. The thought gets him harder than ever, and before he even thinks to palm himself, your tiny hand is already there, and he’s shuddering from it. You know him so well, know exactly what to hold, exactly what to touch to get him to give in.

“Jeans,” he orders, eyes zeroing in on a blank patch of grass to swerve into.

Your jeans are loose already, and you barely have to shimmy before they hit the floor of the truck, tiptoeing your sock-clad feet out while he parks and wrenches his seat to a semi-lying position, dragging you over to him to sit on his lap, your thighs quivering on either side of his jeans.

You adjust yourself so the thick of his cock is pressed directly to your panties, and grind forward. He stops you, his hand coming down to slap against your half-bare ass. “I just wan’ed to get to the damn meeting on time, get the shit we needed, and go the fuck back to the zone.” Another spank. “Do you have to be such a goddamn brat, sweetheart?”

“I just—I needed you,” you half-lie, the lace of your pretty underwear delicious friction with what little movement you’re allowed. “Even wore the pair you like, Daddy.”

“Yeaaah, you did.” He sucks air in through his teeth, watching your cunt swallow the thin material of his favorite pair of yours. Pink and lacy, looted from a mall two cities away. “You know Daddy can never resist her, can you?” He thumbs roughly at your pussy, coercing the panties through your folds. “You know he’s dyin’ to fuck ‘er real bad, too.”

“Need it, I need it,” you babble, your movement causing the shirt to droop off. He gropes at your barely-covered chest, a low growl thrumming out of him. 

“What’s got my bunny all revved up, huh? Your energy beats the truck’s damn engine.” He lifts you up so he can let you drop onto his cock, bullying his tip into you until tears sprout at your eyes from the size of him. He’s always going to be huge, and it’s always going to be a whole thing, having to bottom out inside.

It helps that you’re wet, sopping and dripping onto his cock, his balls, his spread thighs, your own inner thighs—your slick is everywhere and it’s obscene. Every movement either of you make causes a squelching sound to resound across the stale space of the truck. “Fuuuck,” he grunts, watching your cunt swallow him whole. “I love this pussy, you know that, honey? Could lick her up for days, mark it as mine. Bully her when you’ve been bad.”

“I haven’t been bad,” you protest highly, eyebrows knitted and pink lips bitten. “You really are scary.”

“But you like it, don’t you?” He places two decisive hands on your hips and thrusts upward, so hard your head almost hits the roof of the truck. “Like it when Daddy’s a l’il bit scary, sugar? Like it when he spanks you, plays around with you a tiny bit? Hmm?”

Ah, ah, ah, uh, mmmf are all the sounds your mouth can produce, drunk on his huge cock, fat and splitting you in half. Ye yea yeah yeah please yes Daddy love it, you moan, each whimper punctuated by the tip of his dick kissing your cervix. You do love it when he’s bossy, a bit scary. He knows so. He knows how wet you get when he’s got your chin in his hand, cheeks smushed together. How much you drip onto the sheets when you’re bent over, spread open, and he’s deciding which hole to fuck.

“Makin’ a beautiful mess on my dick, baby, come on, give it t’me. Give Daddy your cum, I’ll give you mine back, won’ I, princess?” His gruff voice is demanding and rambling and all at once, you’re beginning to convulse around him.

“Close,” you whimper, “gonna cum, Daddy—”

“Yeah, come on, that’s a good bunny,” he grunts as you begin to gush slick around him. “Daddy’s gonna give you the milk you’ve been wantin’.”

[kaisers-house-of-desires]

I just wanna say I have notifications on for this blog, AND DID NOT GET THEM. Ahem, anyway, may I ask for a part two of the Muzan x reader fluff where he turns the reader into a demon? 👀 — H

Of course~ Some fluff coming right up~

Title: Meant to Be (Continuation of In Sickness and in Health)

Characters: Muzan x m!Reader

Contains: fluff, pet names (love, dear), blood, death (Demons are...well, demons. While there is fluff, there will be blood and death of extrememly minor characters. Be warned when reading.)

Fandom: Demon Slayer

Full request below the cut

All characters are 18+

MINORS, FEM ALIGNED, AGELESS/BLANK BLOGS DNI (This may not be smut, but I still want the above to be followed)

Reblogs > likes

A nearby village was no match for your carnivorous rage.

Homes were destroyed, and bodies were scattered about the roads. Faint words rang in your mind as your carnage continued.

Eat to your heart's content.

And eat you did, leaving the village with nearly nothing left. It was a small village, one with not too many people. Anyone who ran by you or attempted to kill you would be your primary target, costing them their lives. Though the ones in hiding wouldn't be spared either, as you would hunt them down like prey, blood dripping from your mouth as you would scout out your next meal.

Within the hour, the village was no more. Families were wiped and structures demolished. You stood at the center of the land, panting heavily as your claws and mouth were soaked with the blood of various villagers. You couldn't tell if you were satisfied, but the nagging feeling in your gut tempted you to hunt for more.

The presence behind you felt appetizing.

Though upon turning around you were met with a tall man with dark wavy hair, his white hat surprisingly clean despite being in a land of viscera and death. You immediately changed your tune, your predatory nature giving way to something softer.

"Muzan, darling!"

He was the only thing you could remember when you woke up. Your memories were nearly erased with the transformation, only leaving the relationship you two shared.

Upon seeing his beloved, Muzan gave you a smile. You didn't realize it before, but now that you had a moment to process, you notice he held a terrified villager in one arm. She was held firmly, Muzan's hand pressing against it so she wouldn't scream. She was afraid, eyes wide as they darted between the two of you.

"I caught this one attempting to run from the village," Muzan explained, gazing down at the woman. "What do you think we should do with her?"

Hunger shot to your mind again, and you stepped toward the trembling woman. Her still wide eyes were now fixated on you rather than flicking back and forth. Her life was quite literally in someone else's hands.

You thought about her fate for a moment, a teasing response following. "Love, have I ever told you I wanted a pet~?"

That answer didn't sit well with the woman, and she began to squirm. Her screams were muffled by Muzan's hand with no way of calling out. Her feet futilely kicked in the air, as if she was already trying to run.

Muzan wasn't happy about her response, and with this position, he forced her head back, exposing her neck. "Are you sure about this one? She's quite loud."

You were so glad he played along.

"Hmm...you're right. I have another idea instead." Staring at the woman, who was frozen in fear from her new position, you simply uttered, "Let her go."

Without question, Muzan dropped the woman to the ground. She was unable to meet either of your gazes.

"Well?" You knelt down to her, your voice teasing. "Run~"

As if thinking she was blessed by the gods, she took you at your order, bolting the moment she heard the word. She screamed into the air, calling for anyone to help her, to help her village.

"Are you really about to let her get away?" Muzan asked, a brow quirked.

Your answer was a simple one.

With your newfound speed, the woman would never reach the end of the village. Your teeth would sink deep into her neck, silencing her for good as you indulged in your final meal of the night.

---

Having returned home, you were covered in the dry blood of your feast. Muzan offered to help clean you, to which you didn't refuse. He simply asked you to wait in the bathroom as he set everything up, from gathering your lounging clothes to setting up the tub with heated water. Once the tub was set and you were free of your dirtied clothes, you settled yourself in the tub, some of the water splashing out in the process.

Undeterred by this, Muzan went to work. Despite his title of King of Demons, he treated you as if you were the very thing he was, along with extra care. The way he'd hold your arm was that of a porcelain doll. The sponge carefully swiped along your skin, soap suds cleansing away the dirt and blood that speckled it. As you soaked, and as Muzan carried his actions, the water would tinge color, becoming a translucent red.

As Muzan finished his self assigned duties, he would take note of this sight, and a rush of admiration would wash over him. Thoughts of you bathing in the blood of your adversaries set his body a flame.

For once in his millennia of life, he was the one that did not feel worthy to be in someone's presence.

This feeling would remain as he would assist you out of the tub, a spot with a towel all prepared for you to sit upon as he dried off your freshly cleaned skin. You were the only creature that would ever see him like this, kneeling before a lesser demon, assiting them in such a menial task.

You'd tease him, but in reality you adored how gentle he was with you, and why would you tease that? Sure he was a king, but even a king can be gentle.

With your body dry, he clothed you with a luxurious silk robe that complimented your new reddened eye color. You weren't sure when he had gotten this, but you weren't complaining. It felt lovely on your skin, and you were grateful for his assitance.

Muzan would stand, carefully taking your hand to urge you to stand as well. In doing so, he would carefully kiss the ridge of your knuckles, gazing at you with such soft eyes. You wanted to return the gesture, so you then in turn pulled his hand holding yours close, turning your hand to expose his and return the kiss.

You would never remember who you were, but one thing was for certain: this is where you were meant to be and who you were meant to be with.

[starmieknight]

Stars Align

Headhunters Pt. 1

17 Again AU: After a disastrous first day with the twins, Stan swears to do better as an uncle. But fate loves playing tricks on him and the magic 8-ball in the attic is more than it seems.

Now on top of having a pair of twelve year olds around the house while he tries to finish the portal and bring his brother home, Stan has to deal with being back in his seventeen year old body! Summer has never been weirder in Gravity Falls.

AO3 link

Concept Art

Legend of the Gobblewonker (Art)

Prologue, The Legend of the Gobblewonker (previous), Headhunters Pt. 1, Headhunters Pt. 2, Headhunters Pt. 3, The Hand That Rocks the Mabel Pt. 1, The Hand That Rocks the Mabel Pt. 2, The Inconveniencing, Dipper Vs. Manliness

It was only with mild surprise that Stan woke up young again. 

Gravity Falls weirdness wass unreliable on any given day.  The state he was in didn't seem to be going away anytime soon. 

So Stan grits his teeth and heads downstairs to make breakfast anyway. This is still fine. He was still fine. 

He can't afford to keep the Shack closed another day, so he improvises his usual look a bit. The jacket stays even if it's a bit big on him and the shoulders aren't as filled out as they normally are. But he doesn't have to shove himself into the girdle and counts that as a win. Beneath the jacket he dons a plain white T-shirt and a pair of old jeans from the back of the closet. 

They might have been Ford's at one time, though they seem kinda small...

Mabel calls his outfit 'hipster-business casual' when she sees him and he has no idea what that means.

Wendy is off work that day, leaving him without a teen-speak translator.

Absent-mindedly, Stan wonders if she'd caught sight of him yesterday at the lake. 

Hopefully, she hadn't and the weirdness will be gone in the morning. 

In all, the day turns out pretty uneventful ― aside from a few tourists giving him extra tips after tours. 

They thought it was adorable that he was so interested in the 'family business' and laughed when he claimed he was well into his fifties. 

Not with that baby face, they'd say.

Fine ― if they wanted to throw more money at him, he wouldn't complain. 

Before long, the day is done and Stan eagerly shucks the blazer and his jeans in favor of boxers and a T-shirt.  

He avoids the mirror, memories of Glass Shard Beach plaguing his every step. 

He swears he can hear his mother on the other side of the wall, schmoozing some schmuck over the phone. Sees his father glaring at him from the corner of his eye. 

Feels the phantom hands of his brothers on the stairs, Shermie's large and powerful on his shoulder while Ford tugs at his sleeve more hesitantly.

Stan shudders and leans against the hallway wall, squeezing his eyes shut against the memories. 

He breathes deep and carries on, planning on joining the twins downstairs when the scent of dust and wax catches his attention.  

A long-forgotten door beckons to him from down the hall, filled with waxy faces of celebrities and fictional characters.

Huh, he'd forgotten all about these guys.

Outside, he can hear Soos and the kids coming and can't resist the set-up for a good prank.

Having to hide in a dark, dusty room for a chance at a jump scare is worth it.

Stan cackles at the twins' screams before bundling them up in a bear hug.

"It's just me!" he crows joyfully. "Your Grunkle Stan!"

They scream once more out of reflex before settling down.

"Grunkle Stan, what is this place?" Mabel asked, flopping over his arm to stare upside down at the displays. 

Dipper wriggles in his grasp, in danger of being dropped, before Stan sets them back on their feet.

"Behold ― the Gravity Falls Wax Museum!" Stan declares, proudly spreading his arms and spinning on his heel. A born showman even as a young man. "It was one of my most popular attractions... before I forgot all about it." 

More like got creeped out by the things and hid them away so he didn't have to look at them anymore. 

Like Ford's old room.  

The loss of wax Abraham Lincoln makes him pout and whine, but Mabel is quick to offer a solution.

It's amazing to watch the kid work through the night, but when she refuses to stop and sleep, Stan puts his foot down.

He manages to get some food in her and gets her to take a nap, but the girl is too much like Ford to stay down for long. She'll be up soon and Stan will have his hands full.

------------------------

The next morning was... interesting.

This time, when Stan woke up as a teenager, he didn't question it and went about his business. Mabel was still passed out on the couch in the living room, fingers sticky with wax and glitter as she took a small break from her work. Stan puts her pancakes in the microwave and eats a quiet breakfast with Dipper, both of them too out of it to form proper conversation.

Stan didn't know if it was a side-effect of being a teenager again, but it was incredibly difficult to wake up before noon. His mind felt like it was running on empty until the sun reached its peak in the sky. On the other hand, it was easier to stay up at night. It'd work out in his favor when he got his hands on Dipper's journal. Whenever he could swing that.

The kid had it hidden well and never left it laying around in the Shack.

Stan could feel that the answers to getting his brother back were closer than ever and the set-back of keeping it secret at the same time was almost too frustrating to bear.

He huffed to himself and slumped down onto the couch outside, half dressed in his usual attire. The summer morning was turning out to be a hot one and he was already sweaty enough. The jacket stayed off, draped over the arm of the couch and in-reach in case a tour bus suddenly appeared. 

A rustling around the side of the porch had him tensing instinctively, too many years on the streets and in nasty situations to let him relax for long. Even using his twin's identity didn't keep him safe from everyone after him. And with this face, it’d be even harder to keep convincing people he was the real Stanford Pines.

Stan slipped his hand into his jeans pocket, fingers sliding into his brass knuckles. Even in this body, they fit like a glove, the only consistent part of his life from the past 40 years. The knuckles had come with him from New Jersey, the one thing he'd ever chanced lifting out of his old man's shop.

The thought of Filbrick finding out that Stan stole from him was still a chilling one.

Stan positioned himself to watch the side of the porch as casually as he could, muscles lax in preparation to move whatever direction he needed to.

It probably wasn't the kids ― they were naturally noisy. So was Soos. The only other person who'd be hanging around the Shack was...

"Who are you?"

Wendy.

The girl really was cool as ice, merely raising a curious brow as Stan explained his plight.

"That's some freaky shit, man." She said finally, dropping onto the couch beside him instead of heading inside. The slacker. "But you've still got your memories, right? You're not just, like, mini-Stan Pines from 1940 or whatever?"

Stan pinned her with an irritated look. "How old do you think I am? You kids have no idea how age works."

"So?"

"And stop swearing! The kids are around here somewhere."

"They'll hear worse in high school."

"Yeah, but I ain't gonna have them go home talkin' like that and have their parents come up here to murder me."

"Would they even recognize you like that?"

Stan grew quiet, his brow furrowing as he stared into the treeline.

No, they wouldn't.

The last time he'd seen his nephew as himself and not using Ford's name had been back in 1972. Back when he really was seventeen.

Alex had been a baby back then, wailing in his grandmother's arms as Filbrick threw Stan into the street. He'd never known an uncle aside from Ford.

Or, at least, the man he thought was Ford. Alex had visited once when the Shack was still the Murder Hut. They'd spent the month fishing and riding the backroads through town, Stan teaching the kid how to drive and use bad pickup lines on girls.

It'd been the highlight of his thirties. He'd hoped it would be the same when the twins came down to visit.

It was turning out to just be weird.

"I'm sorry, man." Wendy said suddenly, drawing Stan out of his memories about a freckle faced kid with too many freckles to count.

"It's fine, kid." He sighed, rising to his feet and sliding on his jacket. "Go on and get to work. We've got customers to rip off."

Wendy hummed in agreement, her eyes sharp beneath their lazy lids. She held her tongue, though, and he was grateful for that much.

Mabel was missing from the couch when they came in, a nest of blankets the only indication that she'd ever been there.

"Kids?" He called, moving into the parlor. "Where'd you― GAH!!"

By some miracle, Stanford was standing in front of him. The twins and Soos crowded him, only that familiar face visible over the kids’ heads and grinning at him.

Which was weird.

Even when Ford smiled, he never looked like that. And he certainly wouldn't smile at Stanley.

"Grunkle Stan!" Mabel cheered, dripping glitter onto the hardwood. "What do you think of my masterpiece? I thought about recreating this new, young you ― but that would have been pretty confusing for the customers. Like a waxy twin!"

A waxy twin.

That's all it was.

Ford was still trapped on the other side of the portal, likely hurt and resenting Stan.

"Grunkle Stan? Are you... alright?"

Dipper crouched down next to him, brow furrowed in concern. 

Stan sucked in a deep breath, vaguely acknowledging that he'd stopped breathing at the sight of what he'd thought was his brother. It wasn't Ford. Just a wax figure.

And the twins were looking at him strangely now. Time to redirect.

"Can a teenager have a heart attack?" He asked seriously before pasting on a cheesy grin. "Because that hunk is making my heart do flips!"

The twins laughed, the tension breaking as Soos helped Stan back up. It was strange how easily the handyman could lift him now, like he weighed nothing more than a sack of potatoes. And he handled him so gently. Like a child!

Stan remembered when Soos was the child, all chubby cheeks and wide eyes as he followed him around the Shack. Like a little baby duck.

He'd been a pretty cute kid, honestly. 

Ugh. Being young again was turning him into a sap. 

He needed to change the subject and Wax Stan had just given him the perfect idea.

"Kids," he grinned eagerly as he drew them near. Mabel had a light shining in her eye, apparently on the same wavelength as him. Dipper looked more skeptical. "The Wax Museum is back in business!”

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Three for One 7

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, cheating, customer service abuse, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: As a customer service associate, you’re used to work with a wide variety of characters. Your efforts to go above and beyond draw the attention of a certain set of customers who want more than what’s on the shelf.

Character: Andy Barber, Lloyd Hansen, Ransom Drysdale

Note: Tis the sleazins

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me 💞

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

Love you all. Take care. 💖

You keep the small lamp next to the bed on through the night. You slip into a shallow doze, aware of Ernie’s deep breaths and your ears' thrum in the silence of the room. After hours of this, you finally dip beneath the threshold of true sleep. The deep sort that blocks out even dreams. You are thoughtless in the void.

A swirling sensation comes over you. A subconscious dizziness that weighs down your body. The achy paralysis of an all consuming fatigue.

The layers of your unconscious slake away one by one. Your breathing picks up, your eyes roll beneath their lids, your body tingles as your senses return to you. Little by little, you float towards reality.

It’s as if you’re being tugged between two forces. The dregs of your exhaustion battle with a sharp plucking you can’t place. Your voice tickles your ears, bringing you closer to the world. Your lashes flutter as you moan, a tremor between your thighs as heat brews in your pelvis.

Your eyes snap open and your head pops up. You choke as your dry throat catches the scream that rises from your lungs. First at the memory of where you are, then at the sight of the body between your thighs. The shoulders that keep you splayed as he man bows his head to your cunt.

You try to holler but again it shrivels to a pathetic whine. His tongue smothers your resistance as he laps at your clit, swiping and suckling, playing with you expertly. You fall back and grasp the pillow, back arching instinctively into him.

He chuckles, the noise rippling into you as his fingertips brush up your thigh. Rubbing and tracing along the flesh, closer and closer to their price. Your gasp as he feels along your folds, gliding between them as he hums and tastes, drinking up the pleasure slickens your lips. 

He rolls your bud between his teeth playful as he prods at your entrance. He pushes, threatening to slide inside, then pulls back, roving up between your folds and down again. He does this again and again, each time sending a tide rattling through you.

He snickers and pushes a single finger into you. Easily sliding into his lowest knuckle, curling his finger as he tests your limits. He extends his finger again, measuring your depth and eases it out. This time, he aligns two thick digits and shoves them into you, a fiery stretch radiating into your stomach.

There’s that stubborn voice telling you to push him away, to kick and hit, to do anything but let him keep going. You can’t. It’s delectable. The short trim of hair on his lip adds just enough friction to make you writhe. How can someone so repugnant make you feel so good? Almost as good as your pulse vibrator.

You swing your hand down and latch onto his hair. You fist the strands as you put your other palm to the shave sides. You buck your hips, trying to control his rhythm as he slides in and out of you. He snarls as he wiggles his head, purring as he laps you up.

You feel your orgasm twisting and twisting. The tension knots in your muscles and curls your toes. It has you quiver as you shove his head down and moan. Your walls squeeze his fingers as a gush flows out around his knuckles.

He snickers and keeps going. You puff and push on his head as his tending grows overbearing. You try to roll him away from you but he pins you flat. He rams in as deep as he can, pressing against the sensitive ridge just behind your entrance.

You squeal and shake. Oh god, it’s too much. You don’t even think it’s him. It’s just the effort. It’s been a while since you were with a man who did more than wander aimlessly around your cunt.

He seals his lips around your clit and sucks. The pressure is immaculate. It swells and your climax spills over again. You drag your hands away from his head and brace the bed. You get lost in the whirlwind of your own pleasure.

He pops his mouth off of you. You spasm as your head lolls. You look down at him, unable to close your legs as he stays nestled between them. His mustache glistens from your stolen delight.

“Like that, kitten?” He winks.

“Wha…” you garble and push yourself up on your elbows. He keeps his fingers in you, wiggle them until you squeak.

“Those other dicks won’t treat you like a nine course buffet,” he rocks his hand at an easy tempo, “mmmm,” his eyes flick down to your cunt as he watches himself finger you, “Merry fucking Christmas, huh?”

“Wh- where–” you can hardly think straight. Something’s off, something’s missing. Is this some demented dream?

You flinch as a beep comes from the other side of the door. He doesn’t react or stop. The mechanism whirs back and the door opens. You drop your head and hide under your arm in shame before you can see who it is.

“What the fuck?” The other man exclaims, “Lloyd, get off her–”

“Breakfast, most important meal of the day,” he chuckles as his breath dances over your cunt and he leans in again. Before he can meet your cunt, he’s pulled away, his hand ripped unceremoniously from between your legs.

“This isn’t what we agreed on,” Andy snarls.

“Keep saying it and I might fucking care,” Lloyd retorts.

You close your legs and bend them as you pull down your skirt. You push yourself up against the pillows, folding yourself as small as you can as you stare at the men’s shoulders. Andy has Lloyd by the front of his black turtleneck as Lloyd grips his forearms in turn.

Andy inhales deeply and lets it out through his nose. He peeks over at you as you put your palms to your cheeks. You give a sheepish look, averting your eyes to the bedspread.

“Outside.”

Andy tries to move Lloyd. He can’t. The men stare each other down. The latter scoffs and shoves the other’s hands off his collar. The part, squaring their shoulders and posturing like animals.

Not a word passes between them as Lloyd raises his two fingers, “let me just get cleaned up.”

He sucks his fingers clean and you grimace, turning your head to hide behind your eyelids. He snickers again and a sole scuff before footfalls trail out the door. Another deep breath and another pair of steps pace away. The door closes and you’re left to silent confusion.

You look around the room as more of the previous night pieces together. You bounce to the edge of the bed in a sudden panic as you look around. Ernie!

You hear a scratch, then another, and a puff of nostrils. You spin to face the small door on the opposite side of the room. You round the bed and turn the handle, finding both your dog and an en suite bathroom.

“Oh, Ern, thank god,” you bend to hug him around the neck. He smells like bacon. You stand as you pat his head; he must’ve been lured in by the delicious cured meat. “Silly.”

You drag your hand away and turn to the room. You look around as you consider your options. There aren’t many. That door is locked and the walls are soundproof. You’re not going to be saved by some miracle hero. You’re also not going to fight off three men for much longer. Not through brute strength.

Give a little, get a lot. This isn’t a typical fight. It’s three against one. You’re outnumbered. You can’t win alone, but you also won’t gain any allies. There is something they say about that; the enemy of my enemy…

You go to the tall wardrobe and open the door. You pick out a red sweater dress with bell sleeves that ends just across your thighs. With it, you take a pair of similarly coloured panties; a thong but the least skimpy of the collection. You also grab a pair of black knee socks to keep your toes warm.

Ernie goes to the door and lays down in front of it. He’s always your little guard. Wherever you are, he puts himself between you and any entrance. He’s like a furry knight.

You go into the bathroom and shut the door behind you. You flip on the light and take in the space. A typical bathroom; a shower with a completely transparent wall, shining counters, and a porcelain toilet beneath a silver set of shelves.

There’s a towel on the bar. You put the clothes on the closed toilet and undress. You crank on the shower and wait for the booth to fog up. You step inside and let the heat soak into you. It’s almost comforting, as much peace as you’ll find in this place.

You use that moment to think. You don’t have a clear plan. You can’t have one but you have an idea. As much as you can barely stand those men, they would say the same of each other. You can use that.

You use the body soap in the bottle with the cupcake as a cap. You smell like a candle as you rinse off. You turn off the flow of water and turn to the door. You push it open and step onto the mat, stopping short as you find someone waiting on the other side.

Andy sputters as his eyes rove up and down your body. You cross your arms, and hand over your pelvis as you gasp and shy away. He clears his throat and snatches the towel off the bar, holding it out as his eyes skim the ceiling.

“Sorry, I… I didn’t mean to scare you–”

“It’s fine,” you assure him as you accept the towel and cover yourself. You gotta get your shit together. You have to let them think they have you cornered but you can’t really get yourself stuck. “I was just cleaning up, I’m sorry. I… I should’ve asked.”

“No, it’s okay,” he assures you, “I should be sorry. About Lloyd. He shouldn’t have… just barged in.”

“Oh, uh…” you look away. You’re genuinely embarrassed.

“He likes to do whatever he wants. Not anymore. I’ll make sure of that, honey. If he pulls anything, I want you to tell me, can you do that?”

You turn back to him. You meet his eyes. You see the strain around them. He’s fighting not to look down. 

“Sure,” you agree. 

“Good,” he says, “I…” He glances around, “I should let you get dressed. When you’re ready, you can come out and join us.”

“Okay,” you smile and sway back and forth, “Andy?”

He looks at you, his eyes alight, “yes, honey?”

“You said you won’t let them hurt me, right?”

He nods, his face softening, “I won’t.”

You let your lips tremble and squeeze the top of the towel, “promise?”

“I promise,” he assures you. “You’re precious to me. I…” he swallows, “I wouldn’t have done all this if you weren’t.”

“I… you’re right, it is a lot,” you go to the sink and look in the mirror before taking a bottle of expensive cream from the shelf over the toilet. You read the label, “you know, I could never afford this on my own. Ninety-five dollars an ounce.”

“I know,” he drones, “it’s why I got it for you.”

“You?” You hold onto the small tube as you peek at him.

“The others… they helped me get you. That’s it. Everything else, I did. For you.”

“That’s so sweet,” a tremor breaks through your voice, an unintended affect.

“Let me know if I missed anything,” he inches back slowly, “if you need… anything.”

“I will,” you turn back to your reflection. You know he doesn’t mean anything. If you asked him to take you home, you don’t think he’d listen.

You wait for him to go. You only realise when he’s gone that you really are shaking. You’re afraid. Even if these men are dumb, they scare you. You have to be very careful.

🎀

When you’re dressed, you find the door open, waiting for you. You go down the hall as you hear a commotion. Ernie’s paws tap on the floor as he wiggles in his pre-meal dance. He must be so hungry!

He drools as he threatens to jump up at Ransom who holds the open bag of kibble in his arms. You know by the torn top that it’s the very same from your cupboard. He fights to keep from spilling as he’s corned by the Saint Bernard.

“He’s going to bite me!” He yells.

“Suck it up, buttercup,” Lloyd appears in the doorway, “you got one job, the dog food. So feed the damn dog.”

“You feed it,” Ransom slams the bag down on the table against the wall, “just watch your fingers.”

Ransom holds up his bandaged hand; Ernie’s work. You almost laugh. You’re proud of your boy.

“Ah, hello, pussy cat,” Lloyd turns his attention on you, “look who’s up from her cat nap.”

You blink at him dumbly. He smirks smugly and winks, pointing at you with two fingers. Those two fingers. You shudder.

“I can feed him,” you offer. “He needs a bowl.”

You head for the front room but Lloyd is quick to block you as he stretches his arm across the expanse of the hallway, “I’m still a bit peckish, can I get something to eat?”

You cringe and back up. Ransom comes closer as Ernie’s distracted by the bag of kibble, his nose pressed to the side. You gulp as the men zero in on you.

“She tastes like honey,” Lloyd comments, “you want some? I’ll bend her over and you can go through the back, huh?”

Ransom snickers as he steps up next to Lloyd, “how do you know?”

Lloyd growls and tilts his head, “how do you think?”

“How the fuck did you get away with that?”

“I didn’t,” Lloyd sneers, “Mr. Bossy Pants spoiled the meal.”

“Uh, oh, please, I… it’s Christmas,” you show your palms, “so I think we should, er–”

“It’s Christmas so why don’t you give us a present?” Ransom grins, “got a couple I can think of under that sweater.”

“I– but Andy–”

A sudden crash and scatter makes you all flinch. The men turn and you look between them to find Ernie tearing into the bag of kibble. You rush forward, elbowing the men as you race towards him. You pull him back by the collar, barely able to keep him from pigging out.

“Please, he needs a bowl,” you plead, “he’s on a controlled diet.”

“He’s a dog,” Lloyd sniffs.

“Yeah? And you gave him bacon!” You accuse.

“What’s going on?” Andy appears from the front room.

“Great,” Lloyd grumbles.

“Stupid dog,” Ransom snarls, “that’s what’s going on.”

“Honey,” Andy ignores them, rushing to you, “are you okay?”

“No,” you pout, “if he eats too much, he’ll be sick.”

“Aw, it’s okay,” he rubs you back through the sweater. You note how eager he is to touch you. “I’ll clean up, you get him in the kitchen.”

“I’ll go with her,” Lloyd offers, “there’s knives in there.”

“Ransom,” Andy grits and rescinds his hand as he turns to glare at Lloyd, “you can take her.”

The other two men stare each other down, just like before. That argument isn’t over and you’re not sure it ever will be. Whatever their plan is doesn’t seem to be going as they expected. You can only hope that it doesn’t.

[luveline]

you're writing for bradley!! i am so so excited!! could i request just some domestic fluff with shy!reader and bradley? maybe her coming home from a long day and he's just the perfect boyfriend with a glass of wine and a hug ready for her? love u gorgeous 💗

thank you for requesting, babe, I absolutely adored writing this and him, let me known if you have any more!! —bradley helps you feel better after a bad, long day with wine and a multitude of hugs. fem!reader 1k

You push into your apartment, a ground floor slotting of sandblown terracotta tiles and wooden shutters weakened by termites, and pause. There's something wrong, a humming sound. 

You take a step back toward the door and slide your phone from your pocket. 

Hi Bradley, where are you? I think somebody has been in my apartment. Should I worry? you text him. You've continued a streak of politeness with him even now, too shy to dip into the familiarity you feel when he's holding you close over the phone. You follow it up quickly. Don't worry, I'm sure it's okay. Do you know what time you'll be coming over? Any time is OK.

"It's me!" Bradley calls with an easy chuckle. Couch springs creak as he jumps up, and a second later he appears in the living room doorway with a frankly breathtaking grin, shoving his cell into his pocket. "I'm coming over right now. Holy shit, would you look at you?" 

You hold your bag closer to your side, hair not nearly as neat as it started that morning, the day's chaos etched into the small wrinkles either side of your eyes. "Me?" 

When he smiles, it's all white top teeth and joy. For someone who's been through so much, and who works so hard, he's a shaken bottle of fizzy happiness whenever the moment allows —you barely have time to put your bag next to the rack of shoes (and there, his shoes you must've missed toed off and perfectly aligned with your sandy flip flops) when he's crossing the hall in quick strides and pulling you into an ecstatic embrace. 

"Hey," he says, kissing your cheek, moustache not scratchy but far from soft. It rubs a wonky trail as he kisses without goal. Kiss on your nose, your cheek, close enough to your eye to make you cringe and back away. 

"Hi, Brad," you say breathlessly. 

You need time to prepare yourself for seeing him usually, his sudden closeness catching you off guard. You struggle to make any sense of how much he likes you, but you've given up denying his attention. You want it too badly. 

He doesn't stall at your obvious (embarrassing) flustering; he doubles down. His arms like steel cords behind your shoulders, Bradley noses at the side of your face, his breath warm on your cheek as he says, "Sorry, I thought surprising you might be nice, but I didn't think about your nerves." 

"My nerves," you say. 

"Your bad nerves. You're flighty." He gives it another press, the straight line of his nose digging into your cheek before he pulls away. 

Bradley doesn't give you time to miss his arms around you. He makes for the kitchen, notices you aren't following, and grabs your hand. Tugging, he takes you into the kitchen and elbows open your refrigerator, revealing a better sight than what you'd seen this morning. 

"I had to go out again when I saw your fridge," he says, ducking down to push aside what looks like the makings of your favourite meal to unearth a pretty bottle of red. "Sweetheart, when you said you had a shitty breakfast, I was picturing, like, half a grapefruit. Did you eat anything?" 

He only knows what you'd texted him, shitty breakfast code for the found half of a cereal bar in your jacket. 

You don't like to text Bradley too much in case you put him off, but today was bad, and you know he doesn't mind. He'd told you so only a few days ago. His hand full of your stomach, hot under the collar, you can't remember what you'd been talking about initially, your memory intricately busy remembering the planes of his tightly muscled torso and the feeling of his weight atop you, but suddenly he'd been leaning down, brown eyes pleading. "You can talk to me," he'd said. "About anything. I want to hear it. You know that, right?"

So you texted him somewhere around lunch time and had been delighted to find him puttering around doing a whole lot of nothing. He's been keeping himself busy on leave, staying fit, helping your elderly upstairs neighbour put together her new chest of drawers between half marathons and surfing, regular dreamboat stuff. 

I think I'm having a bad day, you'd said. What are you up to, Brad? Can I still see you tonight? 

Why do you act like I'm not obsessed with you? he'd text back immediately. Kidding. Kind of. What's wrong? Can I bring you lunch? 

Raincheck on lunch? I don't think I'll have time. I'll explain later if that's OK. Miss you. 

Miss you too, baby. I wanna hear all about it tonight.

You blink up from his hands to find him staring at you worriedly. You're in your own head, exhausted and a little muddled after such a long day, and he clearly doesn't like it. 

"Is wine gonna make you feel worse?" he asks, tapping your thigh with his knuckles. 

"Definitely not," you say.

"Before dinner?" 

Your smile turns sheepish. You want the wine much more than the dinner, but if you get both, you won't complain. 

He leans back against the fridge, arms crossed, the neck of the wine bottle held precariously in a confident hand. "Sure you're okay?" he asks. 

"I will be." You take a brave step forward and look up into his face. It's difficult to grasp what it is he sees in you when he's like something out of a movie, all brains, brawn, and bleeding heart. You don't get it, but he wants you, and he's here. "Thanks for coming over, Bradley." 

"This shtick again?" he asks, raising his brows. 

"This shtick again," you repeat, grinning at the implication. 

He hooks your ankle with his. "Thanking me for coming over is like thanking a fish for swimming. Couldn't stop myself if I wanted to." 

Your laugh is a wheeze. Brad does you the generosity of pretending you've made a more intelligible sound and pulls you in for a one-armed hug, rubbing a rough up and down into your side. It's such a nice feeling to be tucked up under his arm that you can almost forget how badly you want a glass of wine. 

"Want the big glasses from the top shelf?" Bradley asks knowingly. 

"Yes. Please."