#also i've been sexually assaulted so no one come at me with apologism please thanks

[shesjustanothergeek]

His Love

|Aegon II Targaryen x Fem!Reader|

Part Thirty-One

Masterlist of Series

Summary: Being a bastard born in the slums of Flea Bottom was all you were known for. Not the streak of white you had in your dark hair, the violet ring around your pupils, or how your sharp tongue and skills with the blade resembled your father, Daemon Targaryen. You were just a bastard, nothing more, but to him, to Aegon Targaryen, you were everything. You were his love.

Author's Note: This will be a heavy one, besties. We're getting into the story's darker and potentially triggering side, so I've given more detail than I usually do about warnings. Also, the song Ptolemaea by Ethel Cain heavily inspired this chapter, and I really, really recommend listening to it to connect with the reader. Thank you so much for reading!

Chapter Warnings: graphic depictions of dissociation, seizures, sexual assault, misogyny, incontinence, attempted rape, power imbalances, and murder. You have been warned.

Red Butterflies Meanings: courage, passion, the life-death cycle, fire, and survival.

"Even the iron still fears the rot

Hiding from something I cannot stop

Walking on shadows, I can't lead him back, 

Buckled on the floor when night comes along..."

- Ptolemaea, Ethel Cain

Arryk's head spun when he finally reached White Sword Tower, his armor bearing the weight of his emotions as he yanked the knots that held them together, discarding it haphazardly across his chamber. The more he thought of what he witnessed, the more his head pounded, the pain building inside until he could no longer stand it, and vomit spewed into his chamber pot.

He was an imbecile, a fool, no better than the court jester who embarrassed themselves for others' entertainment.

Arryk knew that you and Prince Aegon were close. You spent most of your days with him or Helaena as any kin would, but he should have learned, paid closer attention, and protected you from the Prince's ensnarement.

Sometimes, the knight would notice the Prince too close, a hand resting in an unusual spot or a stare lingering far longer than what was proper, but he thought nothing of it. You were a capable woman. You were far better at standing your ground than any other noblewoman regarding a male's advances. He saw for himself with the Lord Reaper of Pyke.

Perhaps that was a lie. Maybe you were not the strong woman he believed. Maybe you rejected advances because your sights were set on someone else, your heart on someone else, not because you held your honor to a high degree. You made your own choices–made your bed. You could save your own against the vices of the opposite sex yet make the choices of a hoydenish woman, and that was what Arryk sinkingly realized.

It was your choice.

***

Your chest felt hollow as you stared out a paned window in Aegon's chambers as he laced the back of your dress. The hours after Arryk's intrusion were spent inside the Prince's rooms listening to his apologies. His pleas and snivels were disregarded as you stared at the vast expanse of King's Landing.

"I'm so sorry," he cried, rubbing his tear-stained cheeks into the crook of your neck. "I am a fool. I should never have done such a thing. I-I should have protected your honor," he stuttered, swallowing the excess saliva in his mouth. "Please, speak to me. Yell at me, strike me, please just anything."

Your emotions had switched off like the flicker of a candle flame, tears long dried and left to crack on your skin. "What is there to say that you have not?"

Aegon sobbed further into you in admission, the weight of his actions lowering him to the floor as he crumbled at your feet, shoving his face into your thick skirts. He reminded you of his son who screamed and wailed if you ignored him, the same soft, wavy blonde hair below you, begging to be touched.

You did not feel anger towards the Prince. It would have been better if you did, but you could not force it in spite of your best efforts. It felt like nothing. No simmering rage threatened to boil, no sadness or embarrassment pulling at your gut. No emotion. Simply and utterly nothing, and it felt wrong. You needed to show something to sense anything.

Imagining all the hardships you faced, Ma's abandonment and the death of Lyra and Sara proved fruitless. Only when Aegon became too grabby and pinched the flesh of your thighs then did you feel something.

Pain.

It was the sensation that guided the victories of some and the downfalls of others. It brought you back to reality, feeling Aegon's rapid breathing on your wrist and realizing you had not been inside your body despite your mind moving.

"All will be forgiven with time," you decided, hand moving to stroke the fine strands on your fair-haired boy's head, "but you must swear to me you shall never do such a thing again. You will work on yourself to find what causes you to commit such atrocities. I cannot mend what has been broken if you do not know what needs to be."

You sensed Aegon's gaze on you before he spoke, nodding profusely. "I will, I will! I will do anything for you, my love!" he simpered, rubbing the tears and mucus from his lips.

"No, Aegon," you said firmly, his eyes snapping to his bleary ones. You must do this for yourself. Not for me."

He knew better than to speak again, for the only words he would utter would debase himself further, so he bobbed his head and pulled your legs closer in a mock embrace. He loved you so... so much.

"I must confront Ser Arryk about this," you began, your voice one of practice. "You will need to be the unmoving rock that the waves crash against for me. Arryk is furious and I fear he will say things that might hurt me far worse than any blow."

"I shall kill him if he tries to," Aegon declared with a fierce glint in his eyes.

While it pleases you to no end, the depth of his affections is unnecessary.

"No," you stated firmly, bending at the waist to pull your lover up to his full height, "you will do no such thing. I need your support, not your wrath."

He stared at you sternly as if ready to take up arms and defend your honor, and it warmed your heart, finally feeling something other than empty. You smiled delicately, the tug barely there as you kissed the wrinkles between Aegon's pale brows, smoothing his unruly hair.

"I love you," the words were like an oath as if this was the first time you had uttered them, "more than I could ever explain. I want you to remember that. Always."

Aegon was speechless, taken aback by the sudden gravity of your confession that he had already heard many times before. He knew he could only show his appreciation in one way when words were useless. Kissing your lips with a breathless intensity that nearly knocked you off your feet, he slowly kneeled before you.

The Prince wrote his apologies with his tongue on your cunt, drank the sweet nectar from between your legs gratefully, and once you peaked, digits twisting and pulling his silver hair, he thanked you and begged to allow him to do it once more. 

***

It was nearly impossible to track Ser Arryk after he left; even asking his twin brother led you to no answer. There was one place he could be, but you could not set foot in White Sword Tower. The mere thought of it stole the air from your lungs. Instead, you found it less vexing to wait until his inevitable appearance. After all, he swore an oath to you, and those who broke them received punishments worse than death.

Searching for your sworn shield, you ran into some welcoming faces and some not. Young Dyana was the first for you to greet along with another nursemaid now carrying the nearly fluent Jaehaerys and Jaehaera. Your littlest cousins were ecstatic to see you, almost knocking you to your knees as they squealed in delight, telling you of their day. Prince Jaehaerys declared with such vehemence that he would be as skilled as a swordsman as you, and when you brought up his Uncle Aemond, who was just formidable, he shook his head.

"There are a lot of Uncle Aemonds," he said, "there are no yous."

No matter the circumstances, the twins always make you smile. And just the same, Larys Strong's appearance asking you to share a bottle of wine regarding the previous subject he discussed always makes you scowl.

It was the hour of ghosts before the guard change, forcing you to stay awake with needlework in your hands. You applauded him for choosing such a late time, but he underestimated your will, as men often find themselves victims of.

And that was where you found yourself, staring into the once kind, soft blue eyes, now cold, impenetrable, and filled with venom.

Ser Cargyll's reaction confused you. He was your protector, not your father, but even then, you were optimistic that Daemon would be proud of what you had done. Was it because he only knew of the Aegon spoken of in rumors? The one who ate, drank, whored, and gambled in gluttonous amounts. Did he think you needed protecting from the contents of courtly gossip?

"I understand your apprehension about Aegon," you began, taking a deep breath and readying yourself for a monologue, "but I can assure you I can handle a spoiled prince."

"I have no doubt in that," Ser Arryk huffed, crossing his arms with a sneer. You were physically taken aback, your head shaking as if he struck you in the face. "Seeing as you took his cock like a common Flea Bottom whore."

Mouth gaping like a fish, you gasped, surprised at the gull of your sworn shield. The man who had comforted you after the abuse you received from Septa Mariam was insulting you and, in a way, he knew would hurt you deeper.

"I beg your pardon?" you questioned aghast, eyes wide as the conversation between friends turned to one of enemies.

"What? Did he fuck you deaf too?"

You sighed heavily, mouth in a deep frown as you glanced away, attempting to comprehend how to proceed. Anger was slowly rising within you, like the tide of Blackwater Bay, but you refused to let it control you. "I see," you answered dejectedly, "you believe like the rest of them... the rumors." It hurt to finally confront someone who thought of Aegon so lowly, having been woefully unprepared for the sheer hostility. "But you must put your trust in my judgment not to love someone who is so wretched."

"I loved you. I swore my life to you, my blood to you, and yet..." he paused, clenching his chestnut-beard jaw before cracking, "You desire a monster."

Arryk's statements befuddled you, causing you to let out an ugly guffaw. "You speak of oaths, yet your words are empty. Did you not promise to stay by my side no matter the cost? To spill your blood and offer guidance when needed and when not?" He gave you no response, his stare filled with all the hatred of the Seven Hells. "You are sworn to me!" You shouted in desperation, arms gesturing with each passionate phrase he refused to answer with only disgust.

"I am sworn to the King," he answered like a blade cracking through your ribs.

"You are an oath breaker, Ser Arryk Cargyll. Men have been punished more for less," you declared with ire, your voice husky from your previous statements.

Arryk understood what you meant by those words—the unspoken outcome of death to those who returned to their promises.

"You would never punish me," he flatly stated as if he had just said a mundane fact about the weather.

You nodded in acquiescence, sucking your cheek as if you tasted something vile. "You are correct. I am not the vile bastard people claim me to be. I do not betray and break promises I have sworn before the Old Gods and the New! Do not go back on your words simply because of your own emotions."

"I love you! I care about you morning and night, not him! I've been the one to weather the storms of your life! I have protected your honor from those who thought to use it because I believed you were kind and good!" he yelled, blue veins popping from his pale neck. "I thought of breaking my vow to the King for you! Creating a life for us where you would be free of judgment and duties, from the whispers and gossip of nobles, but you-"

"You speak as if it is my fault for your fantasies, that I gave you love letters and kisses and sang ballads." You refused to accept any blame for this. "You are a man and responsible for your own emotions, not me. Take your leave and return when you have come to your senses," you declared with finality.

He acted like a petulant child- far worse than you had ever seen Aegon. The man seemed entitled to your emotions as if you owed him for not reciprocating his feelings.

Arryk could not stand this. How could you be so selfish and uncaring? He loved you. He loved you! Why didn't you love him back?

"You are your blood," he spat, raising a gloved finger in ridicule, "a harlot and a monster."

It felt as if you got a blow to the chest, arms wrapping securely around yourself. You loved your Father and your Mother; they were good people. So why did it hurt?

Ser Arryk left without another word, large oak doors slamming shut behind him. He entered without hesitance when he reached another set of intricately carved wood, fitting that of only those who lived in Maegor's Holdfast.

The Queen sat within her solar, a cup of evening tea resting on a saucer in her lap. She wore her dressing gown, staring idly into the warmth of the fire as Ser Arryk's presence caused a start. Ser Criston stood not too far from Alicent, the hand on the pommel of his sword as he began to scold the knight.

"Ser Cargyll, what is the meaning of this?" Criston questioned, irritation laced in his words. Arryk had not realized he was out of breath until he attempted to speak, words becoming difficult to create. "I must speak with her grace. Tis a matter of great urgency."

Ser Criston bristled, scowling as he stood tall in the face of the disheveled knight. "You may speak to her highness on the morrow. It is too late for audiences and hardly proper."

Arryk sucked in a breath as he readied to protest but was stopped short by the rise of the Queen's hand. Her protector stared at her in confusion, telling with his eyes that he was not pleased with her allowance of this.

"Please, ser," Alicent spoke with her smooth alto, gesturing to the area before her.

Ser Arryk took a few calming inhales, wanting to speak as eloquently before the Queen Consort of the Seven Kingdoms, giving her a brief bow. He was unsure of how to word it. He knew if he spoke with the scorn he felt within, Alicent might not perceive the honesty of his confession and take it as an upset man with bruised pride.

"I have served as a steadfast member of the Kingsguard. I have not shied away from any challenge nor dishonored him," he began, the rise and fall of his chest steady. "I did not cower when your father, the Lord Hand, tasked me with protecting the King's granddaughter. However, lately, there have been revelations that have caused me to question where my loyalties lie. I seek your guidance, my Queen, regarding the Princess." The Queen stared at him with concern, brows wrinkled, and plump lips pursed. 

"I happened upon your son, Prince Aegon, and the Princess within his bed chambers."

Ser Criston could not hide his shock, glancing at Queen Alicent to see her unphased reaction. "I initially believed the situation to be non-consensual, but her grace explained that it was not, that they are in love. It worries me that if word should travel and Prince Daemon discovers the relationship, I should be punished for not protecting her honor."

He purposefully hid the valid reason for his appearance, knowing he could be punished if he revealed it.

Alicent inhaled, silently relieved that someone else shared her concerns regarding you and her son. She placed her tea on the foot table before her, gently wiping the corners of her lips and clearing her throat.

"I understand your concern, Ser Arryk. Who all knows of this?" she inquired with a frown.

"Just my brother, Erryk, and I. He has known for some time but protects the Prince's secrets."

"I see," she responded, voice resigned. "I thank you most graciously for coming to me. You have done your duty well, ser. You needn't shoulder this burden any longer. I shall take care of the matter. You may take your leave."

The knight bowed his head, the weight on his chest still there, but not for political affairs, as he swiftly exited, thanking the Queen for her time.

Criston studied Alicent once the knight left, eyes scanning over her form. He could tell from the years of servitude when she was hiding something, her fingers begging to pick at her digits, but being the ever-dutiful protector, he remained silent.

The Queen stewed in the quiet, her teeth gnawing on her plush lip. Endless outcomes ran wild through her mind, all of them creating a ball of anxiety. Finally, when she was too far lost in her thoughts, she grabbed her tea and took a calming sip.

"Ser Criston," she spoke, startling her sworn shield, "please summon Lord Larys. I wish to speak with him."

***

You found yourself within the Godswood as you always did in times of strife, gazing up into the golden leaves of a Cottonwood, the soft rustle of branches reminding you of inaudible whispers. They were hard to make within the darkness, only able to see the outlines with the dusting of stars, but they gave you comfort. The Old Gods watched you with their unseen eyes as your fingertips traced the rough bark, grass crunching beneath your boots.

You recalled your first time within the Godswood since arriving in King's Landing, trying to seek peace yet being disturbed by a drunk and blubbering Aegon. The memory pulled a smile onto your cold cheeks, a nostalgic feeling coming over you as you thought of your time under the Heart Tree together. It felt like an age ago now. Such foolishness you did then...

You hadn't returned to Aegon yet, needing time within yourself to fully comprehend such a betrayal from your knight. It was still raw, the wound gaping and pooling with blood as it seeped into the sod below. Arryk hurt you far more than you ever thought him capable.

Your relationship with the knight began purely logistically. You needed to gather as many allies as possible, and you had succeeded by having your maids, Madam's web of spies in the Keep, and a Prince and Princess. The now missing piece was a protector. Some of you desired to march to the Commander of The Kingsguard, Ser Harrold, and tell him how Arryk had betrayed his oath in more ways than one, but you could not. 

You had unknowingly shattered Ser Arryk's heart, and some part of you that had grown fond of the knight was pained because of it. You were confident that he would return once he fully understood you did not mean to do so and would forgive him.

Suddenly, a quiet cracking noise came from the far corner of the Godswood. Your head snapped, and your hand instinctively went to your dagger. Instead of a foe, the metal and glass shack of Helaena's butterfly hut stood, the rhythmic thunk, thunk, thunk becoming louder as you trekked across the yard.

You observed in awe as a newly hatched butterfly, a mix of red, black, and tan, white dots that looked like eyes, flapped its inexperienced wings, repeatedly flying into the glass wall. Your heart broke for the insect, glancing at the door. If you unlatched the shack, you could free the singular insect for a time of freedom beyond its transparent cage but doom the rest of the cocoons to the frost. Or you could leave it to be the only one that dies, continuing the life cycle for the dozen other insects evolving into their destined form.

You stared at the lone creature for a moment, your teeth tugging at your lip before making your way to the inside of the Red Keep.

***

When you entered your hall, seeing no guard at the door was surprising. Usually, you expect to catch a member of the Gold Cloaks fast asleep outside your door, especially if Ser Arryk was not posted. You did not think the knight was so careless as to leave a member of the royal family unguarded, but people acted out of character in anger, so you did not hold it against him.

Upon entering your chambers, you found the cause of the missing protector. Lord Larys Strong sat at your dining table, the flagon of wine he promised glinting in the candlelight.

"I see now why there is no guard at my chambers," you began, eyes scanning the Lord for any potential threat. "Did you pay him or offer a girl indebted to you?"

Larys grinned, mirth in his stare, and bowed his head as his palms rested on the firefly of his cane. Would it be so terrible if you broke the thing?

"Princess, you speak so lowly of me. Words like that wound a man's heart." He brought his hand to his chest, emphasizing the mock pain. "I have come to have that drink with you."

You stared at him skeptically, your eyelids slit as you placed your fur coat across the back of an empty chair at the table. "I do not recall agree to such an invitation," you spoke, taking your seat and peering into the red liquid inside the glass.

Larys took his drink, lifting his cup in a slight toast. You followed his actions, sipping the cup demurely as only an action of politeness. It stunned you momentarily that the Lord had chosen your favorite Essosi wine, flashing him a tight-lipped smile as he watched expectantly. "I do hope your only reason for being here is not regarding our previous conversation. My mind has not changed."

"I understand it has not, Princess, but I want you to understand that I have yet to fail the Queen and do not intend to do so now," he responded with a stern furrow of his brow.

Rolling your eyes, you groaned, taking another sip of your wine before speaking. "I am not leaving King's Landing, and that is final. Queen Alicent knows now that I shall not, and neither of you has the power to do so." You stood from your chair, fists on your hips as you leaned against the oak table, looking down at the crooked man. "I am here in my Mother's stead. You recall the Lords trying to remove me from the Small Council and how it faired?"

The Master of Whispers nodded in recollection, crossing his ankles as he gazed above at you, his mousy brown hair falling behind his ears. "I remember that, indeed. It was quite a sight," he chortled, "you inspired enough courage in the King to leave his sick bed, and not even the namedays of his children could do that."

You giggled at his words, but it quickly became a cough, your mouth dry as you took a swig of the Essosi wine to coat your throat. "Yes, and you remember his words? That I'm to be retreated as an extension of Princess Rhaenyra. You would not remove the heir to the Iron Trone from her rightful seat?"

The Strong Lord hummed through his nose, taking a drink in silence, his beady stare on you. Something was always hidden with his gaze as if he knew the very thoughts inside your head. You grew uncomfortable as your mind wandered, fidgeting with the golden rings on your fingers. The betrayal of the Red Keep was profound, which you understood from a very young age and was the whole purpose of your prolonged stay here, but it still amazed you when you met it head-on.

The only reason for the questions around your Mother's legitimacy as heir was the fact that she had a cunt instead of a cock. The ruling lords feared what change Rhaenyra would cause with her rule. It threatened the centuries of tradition they had created, a tradition that served to their advantage. If a woman ruled the Seven Kingdoms, what would that mean for them? What would it mean for all the eldest daughters tossed aside in favor of a younger son?

It would mean women would no longer be the property of their fathers and husbands. They could not barter and sell for their advantage. It would tell women they weren't the lesser sex; they were not subservient but equal, and that threatened men's power.

"My Mother will create a new order for the realm, Lord Larys," you declared flippantly, your palms becoming sticky. "She will not be the exception but the rule, and you will either bend the knee for her when the time comes or lose your life." You raised a brow as if to invite challenge, daring the Lord to say the treasonous words that were written across the lines of his face.

Larys smirked as always, sighing as he twirled his cane between his digits. "We shall see," he stated wistfully, eyes trained on the object in his hands.

You moved yourself off the table to protest but nearly fell, an abrupt burning sensation radiating within your gut, catching you unaware. Groaning, you cradled your stomach and rested on the wood for support. You felt your body begin to weaken with every minute of discomfort, a sudden onset of symptoms that reminded you of when you ate tainted food. Grunting, you glanced at Larys, the man now observing you with an expecting look in his blue eyes.

"I apologize, my Lord. I believe I may have eaten something foul today," you gritted out, sweat beginning to seep from every pore in your body. "Please, excuse me and we shall reconvene at another time."

"No, Princess. I intend to stay. As I have said, I have yet to leave my Queen's wishes unfulfilled, and you are no different."

You stared at him perplexed, vision going blurry momentarily as a stabbing pain scorched your insides, and suddenly it all made sense.

Your gaze quickly flickered over to the half-drank cup of wine, the absence of a guard, and Larys' calm demeanor. You could see it in his eyes, the same cold, icy gaze as he watched your knees buckle beneath you. Pushing yourself off the table, you made your way for the exit. You would not sit idly and allow this man to escape with whatever he had done. You would fight until your heart finally ceased to beat.

The Lord stuck out his cane before you gained enough distance, causing your knees to crash against the stone floor, pain radiating throughout your body.

You whimpered pitifully, the sound causing shame to rise as you attempted to push yourself up, but your arms gave out, collapsing again. Larys stood from his chair, his dragging gait and rhythmic tapping of wood creeping up behind you as you turned to face him, back pressed to the cold floor.

"Tell me," you rasped, the mere act of speaking creating a combination of exhaustion and nausea, "what have you done?"

He peered down at you through the end of his nose, the tip of his cane pressing into your chest as you pushed your body away. You couldn't catch your breath, a buzzing within your ears sounding as Larys began to speak.

"I saw you, the morning of Ser Lorgan's death, in the lower quarters of White Sword Tower. I followed you in." He lowered himself to the ground next to you, your limbs unable to move as a helpless terror rose within your heart. "I saw what you did, Princess. You murdered an innocent man, severing his head from his body, and when finished, sat at the table, you broke your fast."

Tears cloud your vision, leaking from your eyes with abandon as you struggled to breathe, the once thoughtless task becoming laborious. He knew all this time that you were the killer the scullery maids feared at night, yet he said nothing. He could have easily used that knowledge to blackmail you from Kings Landing. So why... why did Larys Strong choose death? What could he possibly gain from your murder?

Larys' hands made their way to your skirts, sliding the thick fabric you once held pride in up your legs. You could not feel the sensation, nor your lower limbs, horror tearing at your mind as his fingers went to your stockings next.

"Stop," you inaudibly muttered, mouth full of lead. "Make it stop."

You were praying to anything, anyone who would listen to your cries– any god, Old or New, the Seven, Valyrian, Pentosi, the Drowned, anyone who would help save you from this fate. It was not enough that Larys had incapacitated you; he had to defile you, too.

"I was confused, at first, why you would seemingly murder someone at random. It took time, but eventually, a connection was made. Ser Edder and Lorgan were the ones that punished the two women who attempted to help you flee all those years ago." Larys removed your boots and stockings, baring your unmoving limbs for his eyes to feast upon. "Lyra and Sara I believe. A whore and a maid."

He stroked his thumb over the arch of your foot, admiring the concave flesh as he brought it to his lips. You gagged, abdomen lurching as you turned your head to the side, a mixture of blood and digested food spewing from your mouth and onto the floor beside you. The vile man proceeded to cherish the soles of your feet as one would a jewel, nuzzling his face into them as he licked a stripe from your heel to toe.

"Make it stop. Please, I've had enough," you cried, the words only a murmur.

There was fear within you, but what overshadowed it was sadness. You had finally found the happiness you craved, the missing piece within your life that would ultimately make you whole, and now it would be taken away. You did not mourn for the loss of life. You wept for Aegon, Luke, Jace, Joffery, Helaena, Jaehaerys, Jaehaera, your Mother and Father for the years you would miss, for the events you would never see. 

You would never see the twins grow into adults, little Aegon and Viserys speak their first words, or the babe growing within Helaena's belly. You would not see Aegon become the man he was meant to be, to watch him blossom into the loving father and husband he was always capable of being. You feared what would become of him without the one he depended on. Would all your planning and sacrifices be for naught?

Larys glanced back up at you, noticing the pile of gore beside your head, stained lips and tears, smiling as he gingerly placed your foot down, proceeding his assault onto the next.

You were relieved to some degree that you had lost all sensation in the lower half of your body, a welcomed gift from whatever poison he chose.

"You poor thing. Sweet, mourning lamb, there's nothing you can do. It's already been done," he cooed, leaning above you to brush a strand of loose ebony hair sticking to your forehead. "The poison will kill you soon, and you shall not remember a thing," he declared, kneeling as he shoved himself between your legs, undoing the laces of his breeches.

"Poison Hemlock is often mistaken for carrots by young children in the Riverlands. 'Tis a volatile thing. Sometimes, it starts with vomiting, tremors, and uncontrollable movements of the muscles, but one thing is for certain: you will die tonight, Princess, alone and at the mercy of a man who you think yourself above."

Your heart began to race impossibly faster as Larys shifted your skirts, pulling the knot of your small clothes and dragging them down your legs. He brought the sweat-soaked fabric to his nose, burying his face as he inhaled your natural scent. It sent another wave of disgust, coughing up excess saliva and leftover blood as you choked.

Suddenly, you felt as if a wave rolled through your head, an intense pressure pounding inside your skull as you lost all the breath within your lungs. Larys looked up at the noise, seeing your horror-stricken gaze as your body went rigid, your eyes involuntarily rolling back until he saw nothing but the whites of them. Your body began to convulse uncontrollably, your mind losing consciousness and control.

Larys sneered in distaste at the abrupt cut off to his fun, adjusting himself more comfortably between your legs. He had hoped there would be more time before the hemlock took full effect, but this would have to do. At least he would no longer hear your pathetic mewls of protest.

He waited patiently until the tremors subsided, leaning back on his haunches as he observed the pink bubbly froth seep from your mouth, tearing his aching cock from his trousers as he began to stroke himself to total hardness.

Larys felt the warmth of liquid on his knees before he saw it, a puddle of urine soaking through the material of his breeches as he moved your legs over to the side. He was disgusted with his now urine-soaked clothes, insulted that you would do such a thing as if you had control over it, standing with the help of his firefly cane. He peered down at your still convulsing form, intrigued by your body's lack of control despite your unconsciousness.

It was disappointing that he could not derive some pleasure from his actions. It left him woefully unfulfilled, but he was satisfied enough to have kept his promise to the Queen, to reduce someone who thought so highly of themselves to a pissing, vomiting mess. Larys left your chambers with a smile on his mousy face, as silent as the rats within the walls of the Keep. 

Masterlist of Series

So what do y'all think? I warned that it would get darker here, but it's ASOIAF. What did you expect? I wanted to express the reader's fear and the sense of violation she felt during the poisoning scene, so I hope I did a good job with that. I also really wanted to not just do the type of poisoning scene where people cough up some blood and then be done with it. I'm probably on the FBI's watch list for my search history because I did so much research on the effects of Poison Hemlock and different types of seizures. XD

Also, when I was little, I gave my mom a bouquet of poison hemlock. To be fair, the white flower is pretty, and I was like 8.

I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and thank you so much for reading!

Tagged Peeps: @zeennnnnnn, @malfoytargaryen, @targaryencore, @justasmallbean, @omgsuperstarg, @sommornyte, @silverslive, @ynbutbetter, @legolas017, @iiamthehybrid, @dd122004dd, @ladybug0095, @millies0bsimp, @kalfild, @sheislonelyalways, @tempt-ress, @minttea07, @trikigirl271, @esposadomd, @prettywhenicry4, @daenerysqueenofhearts, @justarandomflowerchildofthenight, @pastelorangeskies, @existential-echo, @priyajoyy, @merovingianprincess, @candy12110, @w3ird11, @ruhjkie, @somemydayy, @marikkjj, @zillahvathek, @sunfyresrider, @heavenly1927, @hjgdhghoe, @im-sidney, @aurorathi, @marihoneywk, @xitsemm

[moorishflower]

Hi, Heather! I hope the New Year is treating you well :D Just as a heads up—this ask contains a question about sexual assault as it pertains to the Corinthian in Wings, so if you do answer, please feel free to do so in whatever way you’re most comfortable with, for yourself and for your blog! Also so sorry tumblr is making me split this into several parts, cries T_T

Okay question! A friend and I were talking about Wings yesterday over shaved ice and we both thought that the Corinthian’s role was perhaps a Circe parallel? Or maybe a Calypso parallel, since her and Odysseus’s interactions in the epic can also be interpreted as sexual assault (re: Odysseus’s entrapment on her island, and only being able to leave until Hermes (Dream?) comes to free him/let him know he’s free to leave). (2/4)

I was also trying to fit Eleanor’s role in there somewhere, perhaps as Nausicaa? Eleanor/Hob’s first meeting gave me similar vibes as Odysseus/Nausicaa’s, with both Hob and Odysseus kinda popping up outta nowhere and their appearances being very distinctive (although Hob, thankfully, was not naked LMAO I think that would’ve been a bit much for poor Eleanor XD). (3/4)

All of this, of course, assuming Hob is playing Odysseus’s role at these points, which I know often switches in Wings (and quite brilliantly!) But anyway, would love to hear your thoughts on this, if any! :3 Thanks so much again for sharing this delight of a story <3 (4/4)

Hello friend! I've just copied over all your asks so that I don't bombard you all with them one at a time <3 No need to apologize!

So first thing's first is that the notion that my fic is being discussed between multiple people in meatspace over tasty frozen treats is THE most tickling and wonderful thing I have heard this week, I am enamored, I love it and I am SO grateful that Wings has generated enough interest in the meta of it to be DISCUSSED <3

So the Corinthian is, first and foremost, a parallel to Polyphemus! To a slightly lesser extent he is also a reference to all the times that yeah, Odysseus ends up trapped on an island because of the ~wiles~ of a sorceress/nymph/whatever, but there's an absolutely wonderful line in the A.T. Murray translation of The Odyssey which is "For he was fashioned a wondrous monster, and was not like a man that lives by bread, but like a wooded peak of lofty mountains, which stands out to view alone, apart from the rest." Polyphemus is the monstrous son of Poseidon, so we already have the parallel there between Corinthian and Dream, created/creator, but the primary reason that I mapped Corinthian to Polyphemus is because of hunger. Polyphemus is a glutton and possessed of monstrous hunger, devouring 6 of Odysseus' men and blatantly flouting the concept of guest-rights, and it's his hunger (and his thirst) that Odysseus understands and which allows him to trick Polyphemus into drinking too much wine. I think there's an excellent parallel between the hunger that Hob Gadling has for living, and the hunger that the Corinthian has for the EXPERIENCE of life. He doesn't want all of the mess and the sorrow and the actual humanity, he just wants the parts that ping his adrenaline and his oxytocin. That's why, when Hob tells him that he's HUMAN, and the Corinthian can't take that away from him, Corinthian is so upset. Because Polyphemus will never be a god, even though he says "For the Cyclopes reck not of Zeus, who bears the aegis, nor of the blessed gods, since verily we are better far than they" (saying basically that the Cyclopes don't pay attention to the gods because they're BETTER than gods), and in the same way Corinthian will never be HUMAN, even though he tries to wear all these trappings of humanity.

I think you can definitely make the argument for clearer parallels between Corinthian and Circe, because Circe DOES, in the end, tech Odysseus something valuable, in much the same way that Hob learns something valuable (that he's human! and no one can change that!) during his time on Depression Island. And there is that aspect of sexual violence, which I think is a lot more sinisterly-portrayed with Circe than it is with Calypso, probably because Circe is you know a powerful sorceress possessed of her own agency etc etc.

As for Eleanor, you're absolutely right! When I wrote out my notes for the story, at the very beginning ("notes," I say, as if it wasn't just chapter titles and quotes from the Odyssey that felt like they resonated, lol), I had originally mapped Eleanor to the sirens, on the grounds that she was drawing him into a dream that could never be real to him. But that eventually felt disingenuous, because Hob VERY much loved Eleanor, canonically, and even in this fic he loved her desperately. Nausicaa is the only female character that Odysseus acknowledges as being deserving of a fine husband, and you could argue that she's something of the "one who got away" for him. If he weren't consumed by his quest, he very well might have stayed with her. "Far off we dwell in the surging sea, the furthermost of men, and no other mortals have dealings with us." is the quote that I pulled the chapter title from, and I think that Eleanor still managed to represent something that was holding Hob in stasis, and that it wasn't tenable, but like...it also wasn't bad? The Phaeacians are SOFT, gentle, hedonistic, removed from the troubles of the world, and I feel like Hob at that point was so desperate to try and hold on to himself as a 'living' person that he was willing to try and remove himself from the narrative that way, for a time. It didn't work, of course, because he he didn't have enough information about the structure of the story at that point to truly defy it, but he TRIED.

And lastly, it's worth saying that I don't know if there's a single point in story where Hob or Dream are inhabiting only ONE character at a time. The tropes that make up the characters take turns at the forefront, but at the end, Dream is as much in his own odyssey as Hob is. Hob is the same obstacle to his own self-realization as Poseidon is to Odysseus. All these facets exist within the same gem, just depending on how you turn it towards the light. :3

Thank you again for absolutely making my night, and for such lovely asks! I hope that your shaved ice was good and your week is going well!!! <3

[strawbxrrytiger]

i'm gonna post this here because for anyone who doesn't use twitter or hasn't heard the news from a friend, you need to know.

cw for sexual assault, grooming, pedophilia, and more. overall cw/tw for fucked up shit;

elliot gindi was a small voice actor mostly known for his role as Tighnari in Genshin Impact.

he grew popular because of this, his character was beloved and his voice acting made Tighnari loved even more.

he was looked up to and had an ever growing fanbase.

but, behind the scenes, he was

grooming

blackmailing

abusing

being transphobic

asking for MULTIPLE teenager's nudes (which included a 14 & 17 year old)

being sexist

being racist

being manipulative

and overall being an egotistical asshole

this twitter post was compiled by his mod team and shows not only victim's stories but evidence of his admittance (which he did in his "apology").

this is the thread i made compiling all of the evidence from the victims that wasn't included in the doc. it is being regularly updated with stories from more victims that have come forward since the release of all the information + creepy encounters others have had.

i personally was close with him, we DMd and talked and he listened to me vent about my financial situation and family situation multiple times. he even had gone to a point where he gave me $200 to help out.

he had joined a private server with a couple of friends and i n would have us essentially do the mods' work for him in scouting out people who needed to be talked to/banned

on top of that i was also an emote artist of his.

if you were in his streams/discord you most likely recognize this

it's the emote i drew that he used

DMs to show so you know i'm not BSing, his profile changed because he's a childish 31 year old man who thinks making his profiles blacked out/blank and edgy will help his case (spoiler alert: it won't).

we also had numerous interactions in his server (i'm sentient sushi)

why am i showing all of this? because i've seen people saying that all the evidence is false, and people are faking it to try and tear him down. which is far from the case. he was someone i, and many others involved in calling him out, admired. we have no reason to shit on his name for "clout" or to "tear him down." everything is real and he needs to be torn to shreds for what he has done. for the people he hurt and manipulated.

he'd lure people into a false sense of security so they couldn't run away when he started being sexual and creepy. this behavior is disgusting and no one else deserves to be put through it.

so, please, support the victims. spread their messages and lift their voices. he needs to pay for the people he's traumatized.

even if you don't have a Twitter account i encourage you to read through everyone's stories and know what happened. real people went through this and real people suffered.

they deserve nothing but to be uplifted and praised for not only their bravery but their ability to encourage others to step out and say something. most of the victims are close friends of mine and they're such wonderful people who have had to deal with such a nasty, nasty man. do whatever you can to give them the support and love they need - the mods included. they had to deal with his bullshit behind the scenes and they didn't deserve it. they spent their time and effort managing the server of a man who was taking advantage of the members.

so, please, PLEASE never support elliot gindi. ever. he's an awful monster that hides behind a kind demeanor. he just hurts, and hurts, and hurts some more.

thank you for taking time to read this and spread the word even more than it already has been. everything helps and everything matters.

[whatwedowithknives]

(TW: sexual harassment, sexual assault, pedophilia)

I am, in general, not up to date on Vic Mignogna. Whatever he's been cast in, what cons he's been to recently, whether he updates his Twitter account that I'm assuming he has... I know the bare minimum there is to know about him because I make an effort to avoid him and any of his fans. Last I heard him he was in Ouran. Why?

The first anime convention I attended was in, hmmm... 2008? (give or take a year) which I realize is only about a decade ago, but here's the thing: even back then, I'd heard about what a creep he was. In forums and fan-groups, girls my age and just a bit older (I was 12-13 at the time) were talking about how he'd grope them during photoshoots, how he'd hug or kiss them without consent, how he'd call them "babe", how he'd flirt with them shamelessly, and even how he would slip them a copy of his room key.

When it came to my attention now that cons are banning him, that even some employers are firing him, I couldn't help but think:

It took this long?

This has been going on for over a decade. I think it's obvious that it has only been addressed because now we have more immediate forms of social media, and corporations can be publicly held responsible for the actions they do or do not take. The safety of young women and underage girls has never been a concern of any corporations; it is only now that they face consequences that conventions are acting.

But it's a sign times are changing for the better, even if progress is slow and not propelled by concern for the victims. In an ideal world, Vic would be out of a job by now, his roles recast with other far more talented actors, to prevent him from ever having a chance to harass or assault anyone ever again. We're not there yet, but Funimation should be taking notes.

And to everyone who insists nothing has been proven, that we shouldn't burn him at the stake: you are saying you believe one man over the literal hundreds of women that have come forward. You are saying every single one of these women are lying. I hope you understand just how incredibly unlikely that is.

[inhuman-obey-me]

Hey, I kinda wanted to ask about the brothers (and possibly undatable if that’s ok) on mc revealing that they’ve been in an abusive relationship (involving having been SAed if you’re comfortable with that) because they’re either going to finally start dating, or are talking about having sex, and mc knows this is an important thing to share with a partner (we stan healthy communication) and also possibly them wanting to…take care of the human who did all that shit to mc. (If y’all aren’t comfortable with this ask, that’s 100% ok, either way, thanks for making the content you do!)

Hi, sorry for the wait on this!! -- it's a bit personal for me too, so they ended up long. Also, I started off trying to do all 11 of the brothers/undateables at once, but I've decided to split it into 3 parts instead (older brothers, younger brothers, + undateables), so please be patient a little longer for the rest of the characters. In the meantime, hope this is good -- and please do mind the content warnings!

- Mod Chaos

Click here for Part 2 - Younger Brothers

Part 1 - Older Brothers

cw: mentions of past abuse + sexual assault, body horror, violence, torture, gore, entomophobia

LUCIFER

Initially, Lucifer's expression remains stoic, as he takes in everything you tell him

He feels awful all over again for the times he himself nearly killed you, but stays focused on what you're telling him now, trusting that you've forgiven him and accepted his prior apologies

If it gets too much, and becomes hard for you to keep talking about it, he offers -- only with your consent -- to look at your memories himself, so you don't have to relive it in trying to describe it all to him

He holds you close, whispering words of encouragement, comfort, and reassurance

While he doesn't really explain to his brothers, leaving that up to your discretion, he gives them some strict new instructions to help make sure that they never cross any boundaries or set off any triggers around you

He slows down a lot on how pushy his flirting can sometimes come across as well, limiting it more to smooth lines and soft words

In terms of sex, he usually still enjoys taking the lead, but he'll make sure you never feel like you're not in full control and keeps an eye out for the second you seem like you might be uncomfortable, stopping to check in even if you don't ask him out loud

He loves and respects you absolutely, and all the more for what you went through

One day not too long later, he departs to the human world for a "business trip"

He shows up at your abuser's door with a charming grin on his face, strolling past them into their home without being invited in, and quietly casting a silencing charm over the place under his breath as he does so

While they protest in alarm at this stranger walking in, he simply smirks in response

With a flick of his pinky, their body is sent crashing into the nearest wall, and with another flick, and magical ropes shoot out, binding them in place

Lucifer casually pulls a whip from his jacket and places a curse upon it, and then he gets to work

With each strike of the whip, your sniveling ex relives a vision of one of your memories from that time, but from your perspective, with your feelings from each of those moments

Every bit of fear, of powerlessness, of shame, guilt, anger, depression -- whip, whip, whip

Between each blow, he questions them with the authoritative glower of one who, well, often doles out punishments to those who never learn

He demands they answer for what they did to you, and every time they answer unsatisfactorily (which is pretty much every time), he adds a dose of hellfire to the next whip strike

When Lucifer senses the human is at their absolute limit, he calls forth a stream of insects, blood red with glowing orange antennae, from the shadows -- Devildom cockroaches, summoned directly from the deepest, oldest tombs of the realm

The creatures swarm upon their prey, nibbling at their wounds with pincers of paralyzing venom

Once they're fully paralyzed, Lucifer looks for the dullest knife he can find in their kitchen and slowly opens them up, the blunt blade carving rough, jagged lines upwards from their stomach all the way through to their throat

He pulls up a nice, comfortable chair to watch them bleed out, as he keeps eye contact with their horrified gaze -- the only part of them still capable of moving at all

Afterwards, he cleans up his handiwork by setting the whole place ablaze with a wave of his hand, watching in pleasure as this source of pain from your past disappears in flames

MAMMON

He's a little surprised at your seriousness when you come to him to start talking, because you're usually all about having fun together, but he quickly understands why

As you tell him about your ex, there's a look on Mammon's face that you've never quite seen before, a seriousness that you've always known he was capable of but that he hasn't really shown much

He's so quiet that you might almost think he's not listening, but he is, he really is

He's very tender with you for the next week, making you feel like absolute royalty with how far he goes to make sure you're feeling absolutely comfortable and safe at all times

Even though he's never meant all those little remarks like calling you a stupid human, and he's pretty sure you know that, he still feels guilty for all the times he has, and pledges silently never to say them again

Intimacy-wise, he can get really embarrassed at times, but he fights every tsundere impulse to hide behind fake dismissiveness or insults because he really wants this relationship to just be honest and sweet for you

He won't quite admit to you that he wants to brutally destroy your ex in revenge, but he definitely sends some crow familiars to track them down

Without even actively doing anything, the power of his anger curses them to misfortune, leaving them constantly with the worst of luck at anything money-related and leaving them penniless besides

However, the moment you so much as imply that you'd like them dealt with, he's taking his intel and racing off to do exactly that

The deafening screech of an angry crow is the only warning your ex gets before a massive bird-like figure swoops down from the sky to snatch them away

Mammon whisks them out to a massive field, letting the tips of his wings and claws tear roughly into their flesh with some satisfaction as he drops them to the ground

Harsh winds generated by his sharp wings beating from the sky slice further cuts all over their skin, each one stinging acutely at the jagged way the air cuts into them

With a swift dive, Mammon picks them up again, this time by the skull, and smashes them into a nearby tree

As they try to get oriented and look up at him, he just sneers back down at them, mocking them for thinking they could get away with hurting you

Using a baseball bat cursed with Midas's touch that he got from the witches after much pleading and deal-striking, he strikes wildly at their body, transforming their skin in spots until they are fully encased into a twisting, terror-frozen statue of pure gold

Even then, he continues battering at them, spreading the golden curse deeper through their whole body until the bat starts splintering apart

With a certain delight, he begins tearing their golden form into a gleaming pile of perfect coin-shaped rounds

Half of the coins go to the witches as payment for the bat, and the other half are traded for some sweet, sweet Grimm

LEVIATHAN

Leviathan always gets riled up about the things he cares about, and when it comes to you, the world better be fucking prepared for what he'll unleash on your behalf

But first comes taking care of you, and he does so tenderly and sweetly

He listens attentively as you tell him about your history, and is so grateful that you'd choose to talk about this to him rather than one of his brothers

He never pushes you to explain more than you're ready to offer, but lets you know that he's listening for whatever you're willing to share

And he'll be ready to listen whenever you're ready to share more, whether that's today, or tomorrow, or five months from now, or even if it's never

Afterwards, he goes through some anxiety exercises with you to make sure you're okay

If you're up for it, he offers to sprinkle a little bit of soothing water magic into the bath to help you relax too

He's pretty shy about intimacy anyway, so he often lets you take the lead and determine what you're comfortable with, and that helps him feel more comfortable and confident about it too

As for "taking care of" the person who did that to you, he's chomping at the bit to tear that miserable wretch to pieces, just say the word

They awake to the feeling of drowning, and are met by the glow of a pair of orange-purple eyes, before they realize he has clawed fingers digging into their throat, choking them

Choking and drowning alone would be too soft a punishment for them, however, and he floods the room with vicious waves that batter them back and forth

The waves drag everything else in the room into their pull as well, creating powerful vortexes littered with random furniture and items from which smash against them at high speed

As he beckons forth every bit of water he can, all the plumbing bursts apart as well, further flooding the place and creating smaller jets of water which are sharper and cut at their skin, their blood mixing into the streams until the whole room is awash in red

At that point, Leviathan wraps everything inside of a watery bubble, transporting the whole scene to the middle of the sea, where he can transform to his full serpentine length

He wraps himself around them then, the sharp edges of his jagged fins digging into them painfully all over, and hisses into their ear so they know exactly why he's doing this

With a single twist of his body, he simultaneously tears their flesh apart with his fins and breaks their spine, killing them instantly and dropping the chunks of their body all throughout the water

The fish in the area eat well that night, and Levi himself personally gobbles up the human's soul as soon as it leaves their body, as well as their head

[ignis-scientia-estrogen-brigade]

I've got an idea- first time the Strategist picked up a male lover. Don't care what flavor of guy. I'm honestly very interested to know what you think would catch his eye enough to test the waters. Sexy eloquent times to make my queer heart sing, please and thank you? (P.S. bonus points for a neck tie of any sort being involved.)

[ISEB Author’s Note #1: I’ve had this Ask sitting in my inbox for ages, and it was one I had looked forward to tackling for a long time. Sadly, the demands of real life seemed to distract me every time I sat down to work on it; in an effort to wrap it up once and for all, I admittedly rushed through the prose a bit more than I would’ve liked. Likewise, I tried to avoid a specific dilemma that often crops up in fanfiction—the premise of two male paramours written 100% for the consumption of a female demographic—but as I am not a gay man myself, my attempts may have ultimately proved futile. For any of my followers who choose to skip this particular fic, I’m going to try very hard to get through at least one other Ask in my inbox before the day is over, so stay tuned!]

[ISEB Author’s Note #2: If you’ve kept up with any of my other fics at this point, you may be asking yourself why I avoid naming the paramours who happen to cross paths with everyone’s favorite strategist. The answer is simple: It gives the reader the option of projecting either themselves or their own OCs onto the characters in question. By naming them, I feel like it confines the story to my own personal headcanons; without the pesky limitations of names or titles, the reader is at liberty to imagine Ignis Scientia fellating Ronald McDonald, for all I care. That said, I fear I will be unable to circumvent the issue of naming the protagonist in my next work of Specs fanfiction; the best I can hope for is that you’ll come to love that character as much as I have!]

Ignis x Male Suitor; 6800 Words

Redunkulously NSFW

He isn’t quite sure where the palace rumors about him originated from; contrary to popular belief, the strategist didn’t actually entertain a plethora of paramours all at once. It was hard enough keeping tabs on the three men who were entrusted to his care, and juggling several partners without the others’ knowledge was just asking for trouble.

The gossip was doubly bewildering to Ignis Scientia considering he hadn’t bedded a lover for the first time until considerably recently—much to the teasing of his friends. Even Prompto, the bumbling idiot around women that he was, had managed to cajole a bored classmate into sleeping with him well before Ignis had ever shared himself privately with another. But he hadn’t been in the same kind of hurry to exercise his sexual prowess like the others; establishing one’s virility was all relative, and physical intimacy was no more or less a validation of masculinity than slitting an enemy’s throat.

But he had eventually taken part in a man’s customary right of passage, and the rumors about him had begun to spread within the Citadel like wildfire not long after. He wonders if his proclivity for indulging in an evening drink at the same bar several of the royal Kingsglaive frequented has piqued the curiosity of more inquisitive observers—the seedy underbelly of Crown City was fertile breeding grounds for palace whispers, and the women who visited the establishment on the regular were indeed quite beautiful—but that’s not precisely why he comes here.

It’s actually because of the bartender; specifically, the delectable cocktail he creates using aged Altissian scotch with a twist of Duscaen orange rind is what prompts the strategist’s returning patronage. Ebony is inarguably his preferred beverage of choice, but there’s nothing quite like a stiff drink after spending an entire afternoon walloping on his undisciplined pupils to ease the tension in his shoulders. If he didn’t have to get up so early every morning to prepare his royal charge for the day ahead, Ignis might not have any reason to leave the bar at all.

It also helps that the man behind the counter is easy on the eyes; maybe it’s because his clipped accent draws attention to his strong jawline when he elongates his syllables, or perhaps it’s simply because the strategist appreciates someone who isn’t afraid of donning a pair of classic suspenders. The bartender often pairs them with a crisp button-down shirt and necktie—both in varying shades of black, per the royal dress code—and he hasn’t been absent once since Ignis took up his admittedly fallible habit.

Which is why he’s somewhat perplexed to find that the mixologist is not at his usual post when he strolls into the tavern that night. The strategist is reticent to inquire into the man’s whereabouts for fear of perpetuating even more rumors about himself—behind the safety of Insomnia’s walls, bored Kingsglaive seemingly have little better to do than to hypothesize about the relationship status of a lowly Crownsguard—so he spends several minutes casually wandering the floor’s perimeter in search of the only company he cares to entertain at this particular establishment.

It’s only after he’s poked his nose into every corner and booth—keenly aware of the probing stares the Kingsglaive have trained on him—that he steps back outside and into the brisk night air. The smell of smoking tobacco wafts through his nostrils, and he follows the odor around the corner of the building until he finds its source: A gentleman is leaning against a brick wall in the alleyway behind the bar, nursing a cigarette and dressed in a crisp button-down shirt, necktie, and suspenders.

“For a moment, I thought I was going to have to construct my own concoction this evening,” Ignis says as he stops beside the man.

“Sorry,” the bartender chuckles. “Just taking a short break. Standing on my feet for hours on end gets the better of me sometimes.”

The strategist runs a hand along one of his own sore biceps. “I can relate. If I didn’t have your alcoholic curatives to look forward to, I fear I would have to resort to acquainting myself with Crown City University’s local fraternity chapter. Either that, or I’d have to learn how to pour myself a proper glass of scotch.”

The man snorts softly. “I certainly wouldn’t mind seeing what some of my patrons on the other side of the bar might come up with.”

“I have some skill in backward-engineering recipes,” Ignis concedes, “but there’s an art to zesting an orange I haven’t quite mastered yet.”

The bartender takes a drag off his cigarette and shakes his head. “Perhaps, but nothing someone of your talents with a knife couldn’t acquire. At least, if the grumblings of the bruised Kingsglave inside are to be believed.”

Ignis’ lips twist into a wry grin; he spends most of his time at the Citadel tutoring the palace’s lower security detail in the study of hand-to-hand combat—that is, when he’s not occupied with his duties to the crown prince—but is remiss to pass up any opportunity to humble Regis’ more arrogant bodyguards whenever they offer to cross daggers with him. “Come now—surely Nyx isn’t still bitter about the finger I broke?”

“Only slightly,” the bartender demurs, and withdraws a small case from his trouser pocket. “Cigarette?”

The strategist hesitates briefly, then plucks one from the outstretched box. “Sure.”

The bartender then ignites a lighter in his direction, and Ignis leans over to kindle his smoke. His face is in close enough proximity to the man that he can smell the subtle fragrance of his cologne; his cheeks warm slightly when the aroma activates a deeper, more primal area of his brain, and he joins his impromptu counterpart against the wall as the chemicals in the tobacco work their magic through his tight muscles.

“At the risk of sounding like I’m prying,” he says through a hazy exhale, “what is a fit young gentleman like yourself doing working as a bartender in Insomnia? The Citadel’s recruitment offices would positively wring their hands in delight if they saw you walk through their front doors.”

He’s not wrong about the fit part; the strategist surmises only a blind person could miss the sharp definition of the bartender’s torso beneath his tailored shirt. But the man plays coy, and brushes his observation aside with a curious flick of his wrist. “I’m not as young as I look,” he says.

“Oh? How old are you, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Thirty-two,” he replies. “And if you don’t mind my asking, how old are you?”

It’s not often the strategist feels encumbered by the age gap between him and his elders, but the bartender’s soulful eyes seemingly penetrate his deepest insecurities. “Nineteen going on forty, according to my friends,” he quips.

“Scarcely more than a child. I bet you haven’t even seen the world yet, have you?”

Ignis busies himself with his cigarette, if only to avert the older man’s probing gaze. “Not precisely, no.”

The man then grows quiet; after a while, he takes a final drag off his smoke and crushes the discarded butt beneath his heel. “To answer your question, I’m not as fit as I look, either. I was living in Tenebrae when the Imperial assault there occurred.”

The strategist ruminates over the meaning behind his mention for a long moment, until the pieces click into place. “Were you injured?”

The bartender kicks his right foot against the brick wall, and Ignis can hear the faint clink of metal. “Lost my leg below the knee in a daemon attack.”

An inkling of guilt trickles through Ignis’ gut, and he frowns. “My apologies.”

“None the worse for wear,” the man says jovially, “but it does limit my professional options a tad.”

“You probably presume I’m an naïve anklebiter who is unaware of the true dangers of Eos prowling just beyond the city’s walls.” The strategist gnaws on his lip as he tosses aside his own cigarette butt. “I suppose that would not be an entirely inaccurate observation.”

“Not at all.” The bartender resumes his place against the wall, only now he’s a step closer to Ignis, near enough that he can sense the warmth emanating from under the man’s tunic. “Although I do wonder sometimes why you show up to this place all alone night after night, when the palace rumors that have reached my ears suggest you are anything but lonely.”

“I’m going to have to do something about those pesky palace rumors,” Ignis mutters irritably. “It’s a small wonder the entire constituency of Insomnia doesn’t think I keep intimate company with a pack of Sabertusks by now.”

“What intimate company do you keep, then?”

His gaze suddenly darts over to the bartender. “Come again?”

The man has one eyebrow cocked in his direction, the faintest hint of a grin touching his lips. “Was that impolite of me to ask?”

“No, it’s just—” In an uncharacteristic loss of composure, the strategist finds himself stumbling over his words. “I should think you would hardly find the interests of a mere Crownsguard entertaining, when there are undoubtably more important individuals that vie for your attention.”

“The Kingsglaive only talk to me because they think I’m easy to impress. Libertus Ostium is evidently harboring a behemoth-sized phallus beneath his royal raiments, if one were to believe even a fraction of his boasting.”

Ignis can’t quite stifle a laugh. “Libertus walks around like a nudist in the Citadel’s locker rooms, so I know it’s not that big.”

“I know it’s not, either.”

The way the bartender tosses him an mischievous wink gives the strategist pause. “…right.”

“So do the beasts of greater Lucis truly tickle your fancy?” the man continues. “Or is there more to your unassuming character than meets the eye?”

Ignis glances cautiously over at him, not entirely confident in his own ability to read between the lines. “I find an exceptional intellect to be most intriguing, above all else.”

“That’s not exactly the narrowest of requisites.”

The strategist views his own sexuality in the same manner as the approach to warfare; tried and tested methods are often the most applicable policy, but are wholly conditional depending on the circumstances. “I suppose that hinges upon your definition of narrow.”

“So then, whereabouts would you assess my intellect?”

The lines are becoming more distinct now, and Ignis offers him a small smile. “I think anyone who has overcome the tremendous amount of adversity you have is certainly worth getting to know better.”

The man purses his lips in thought, and for the briefest of instants Ignis ponders what it might be like to feel the bartender’s warm breath on his neck. Then his companion abruptly pushes himself away from the wall and moves to exit the alleyway. “If you care to learn more about my exceptional intellect,” he calls out over his shoulder, “I live in the biggest apartment complex on Twelfth Street. I’m off at midnight.”

Biggest apartment complex on Twelfth Street isn’t the most explicit of directions, Ignis surmises, considering 12th Street ran the entire length of Crown City. But the strategist has the advantage of logic on his side, and there are a few hints he can infer from what little he knows about the bartender.

The man has a prosthetic leg, which meant that the radius of walking distance he was limited to was no more than ten or so blocks from the bar. It was conceivable he might’ve driven to his place of employment, but as the metropolitan area where the tavern was located offered very little street parking, it seemed rather unlikely. Within those constraints, that left two possible structures for consideration; one was a story taller that the other, but the shorter one spanned a greater width along its facade.

So Ignis situates himself equidistant from the two apartment buildings, and waits silently beneath a flickering street lamp in the hopes of picking up on another, more audible clue. On weeknights like this, the roads and alleyways were quiet enough to hear the sound of footfalls on the sidewalk, and indeed the strategist is rewarded by the soft grinding of a mechanical joint not long after the top of the hour.

“It appears my enigmatic instructions gave you far less trouble than I had anticipated,” the bartender says, as he steps out of the shadows and into the brassy light. “I suppose they don’t call you The Strategist without due cause.”

“If your intention was to be purposefully vague,” Ignis counters, “I wonder why you bothered inviting me to your residence in the first place.”

“One can never be too careful, what with the eyes of the crown peering through every nook and cranny of this city.” The man stops beside him and looks him up and down once. “Besides, there’s something to be said about gauging a person’s interest with discretion.”

Ignis raises a dubious eyebrow. “So you were testing me?”

The man’s gaze settles in on his own. “Just curious to see how far your youthful inquisitiveness would lead you.”

Admittedly, the women who had attempted to play bashful games with him in the past had held the strategist’s attention scarcely beyond a single heartbeat. But the bartender was neither bashful nor a woman, and Ignis can’t help but be more than a little intrigued. “Truth be told, I was hoping it would lead me to that drink I never got this evening.”

His pulse elevates slightly when bartender flashes him a wide grin before heading off in the direction of the taller of the two structures. “I’ll have to charge you a premium for dipping into my own inventory. Good Altissian scotch is hard to come by these days.”

The strategist trails a few paces behind him, the subtle sound of creaking metal echoing in the bartender’s wake. “Unless you have an automated teller machine squirreled away somewhere inside your apartment, you’ll have to settle for a more informal method of compensation.”

“I’m sure we can come to some sort of arrangement.”

Ignis takes note of his companion’s thinly veiled insinuation as he follows him down a footpath terminating in a corner unit at the end of the complex. The man then withdraws a set of keys from his pocket and unlocks an ornate front door; serving drinks to thirsty palace guards is clearly a prosperous business venture, the strategist surmises, if he’s able to afford such posh accommodations in a part of Crown City as upper-class as this. The bartender plays the consummate gentleman, holding the door open for Ignis patiently until he is fully inside the dwelling.

The strategist focuses his attention on the furnishings of the room when the bartender taps a light switch on the wall; there’s nothing particularly out of the ordinary beyond the usual bachelor décor—high ceilings, leather furniture, an array of liquor bottles displayed behind a glass cabinet in the kitchen—but a curious oil painting on the wall catches his eye.

“The Birth of Eos,” Ignis comments, sifting through the assortment of useless information he keeps filed away in his mind at all times. “It’s not often you see classical Tenebraen art this far from where it originated. You mentioned you were present during the Imperial invasion—are you from there originally?”

The bartender is already in the kitchen, retrieving a couple of glass tumblers from an overhead shelf. “I am. Most of my family relocated to Crown City after the assault, but I still have a few cousins living there. I assume you’ve never been to Tenebrae?”

“I have not,” Ignis says, “but Noctis spent some months there as a child, and regaled its beauty to me many times.”

“It truly is a lovely place, when it’s not crawling with Magitek infantry.” The man rummages through the refrigerator for a moment before withdrawing an orange from the crisper and setting it on the kitchen counter. “I seem to recall a royal retinue gracing the country with their presence for a time. The prince was recuperating from a daemon attack, am I correct?”

“Indeed.”

“Nasty beasts—the one interaction I had with them was once too many for my liking.” He then unsheathes a paring knife and deftly peels off a strip of rind from the orange. “May I ask how long you’ve been in service to the crown?”

“As long as I can remember,” Ignis murmurs, his attention still wrapped up in the details of the Astral depicted in the image. “I was recruited as somewhat of plaything for Noct when I was six years old.”

“If you’d had the choice, would you have done things differently? Explored other avenues?”

“I’ve… never really given it much thought, to be honest.” He finally tears his eyes away from the painting just in time to see the bartender uncorking a bottle of scotch and pouring a splash over both tumblers. “The circumstances I found myself in as a child seemingly dictated my lot in life.”

“I suppose there are far less honorable professions than that of a royal Crownsguard.” The man drops a twist of orange rind into each glass, then strolls over to where Ignis is standing before offering him one of the drinks. “Like bartending, for instance.”

“Bartending is absolutely an honorable profession. Just imagine how dreary the world would be without the simple joy of drinking oneself to oblivion.” The strategist smiles at his counterpart as he raises his tumbler to his lips. “What do I owe you?”

The bartender narrows his eyes. “How about an answer to a personal inquiry?”

“All right.”

“Are you virtuous?”

Ignis nearly chokes on his scotch. “Am I what?”

“Perhaps ‘unsullied’ is the word I was looking for.”

He then frowns, not entirely sure where the bartender’s line of questioning is headed. “Certainly not. I wouldn’t be having to field salacious whispers about myself if I were.”

The bartender takes a long sip of his drink before setting his glass down on a nearby end table. “I only ask because I never quite know what gossip to believe. Perhaps if the one set of rumors were untrue, the other rumors I’ve heard might be false as well.”

The strategist’s brow furrows. “What other rumors?”

“That you’ve engaged exclusively with women.”

“That… is not false, no.”

The bartender takes a step closer to Ignis, near enough that he can smell the scotch on the man’s breath. “Does the notion of entertaining the company of men trouble to you?”

The strategist’s eyes fall on the bartender’s necktie, and he briefly calculates the amount of time it would take to fashion it into a makeshift manacle. “I should think not. One willing body is as warm as another.”

“But you can’t speak from experience?”

“I cannot.”

The bartender tilts his head thoughtfully to one side. “How curious.”

Ignis’ grip tightens around his cold beverage, the hackles on his neck tingling in mild irritation. “I’m not intimidated, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“Are you sure about that?”

For a long moment, the two men stare each other down in silence; then the bartender casually reaches over and plucks the tumbler from Ignis’ hand before closing the distance between them. The strategist’s breath catches in his throat when the man runs his fingers lightly across his bare cheek, and his spectacled eyes fall shut when their lips finally meet.

There was something to be said about all the things that made women so delightfully feminine—small statures, dainty fingers, rosy lips that teased Ignis in all the right places. But the raw energy the strategist could taste on the tip of the bartender’s tongue was unlike anything he’d experienced before; the smell of the man’s cologne mingling with the oaky flavor of aged Altissian scotch muddles his senses and sends electrical impulses firing from his brain down to his feet with lightning speed.

Ignis clutches at the bartender’s necktie absentmindedly, if only to stop his knees from giving out from under him entirely. He has nothing to fear, however, because his companion’s hands are already circling around his waist, his strong fingers gripping the small of his back. He presses his chest up against the man’s torso, and for all the effort the nineteen-year-old strategist has made at crafting a mature and collected demeanor, he suddenly finds himself succumbing to the childish desire of wanting to be held.

But the bartender stifles his juvenile instinct by breaking their kiss, stepping backward a pace before Ignis can drag him to the nearest flat surface and strip him of his clothes entirely. “If this is your first attempt at wielding a sword,” he says as he reaches for Ignis’ glass, “you might want to finish this first.”

“My expertise admittedly lies with the lance, but there are some notable similarities.” The strategist grudgingly accepts the drink from the bartender’s hand and knocks it back in one swig. “How different could it be?”

His counterpart is already making his way toward a room at the end of a hallway, and Ignis abandons his empty tumbler before trailing him through the open door. A large bed is situated in the center of the space, and the bartender loosens his necktie as he lowers himself onto the edge of it. “I presume if you haven’t entangled yourself with a man before, you might have some inquiries as to the delegation of certain tasks.”

The strategist hesitates as he watches him discard his tie on a nearby pillow. “I suppose my expectations do align a bit more toward the traditional.”

The bartender then unbuttons the top two closures of his shirt, and Ignis catches a glimpse of his smooth collarbone. “I’ll tell you what,” the man says. “I have trouble being on my knees for too long a time. If you can spare me the effort of overexerting my right leg, I’ll let you play whatever role you like to your heart’s content.”

“An agreeable strategy,” Ignis replies, and slowly makes his way toward the bedside.

The bartender’s skin is as soft as he imagined it would be when the strategist finally traces his fingers along the lines of his chest. His hands then move to tug on the elastic of his suspenders, and a flutter of anticipation stirs in his belly when he slips them down past the man’s firm shoulders. His companion’s eyes never leave his own, and he waits unflinching while Ignis tackles the rest of his shirt buttons.

“I must admit,” the bartender says in a low voice, “I was expecting a bit more jittering from a man who’s only practice is with the fairer sex. Do they temper your nerves in steel at the Citadel?”

The strategist snorts softly as he liberates his partner from his tunic. “Not quite. The drink helped.”

He then covers the bartender’s mouth with his own before he can respond with a clever retort, dropping his hands to the man’s waist to release his belt buckle. At the back of his mind, Ignis knows this is little more than a momentary tryst, a mutual understanding between two men simply in need of alleviating a bit of life’s pressures; still, the bartender is tender in his touch, caressing the strategist’s jawline with gentle fingers and nipping softly at his lower lip.

Ignis then drops to his knees and eases the bartender out of his trousers; he isn’t quite sure what he was expecting his own reaction to be, but the sight of the man’s right leg causes his heart to seize up in his chest. Aluminum plates and copper wiring shaped into a respectable facsimile of calf muscles and an ankle joint encases everything below the knee, and Ignis runs his hand along the bartender’s thigh before stopping just above the artificial limb.

“You don’t have to worry about dancing around my feelings,” the man says quietly. “I can hardly even remember how it happened nowadays.”

Ignis had seen the visible scars carved into those in service to the crown who had been involved in action on the Imperial front; he’d even seen the emotional impact the terrors of the night had had on his closest friend. But he had never borne witness to the horrors of bloodshed in such close quarters before, and suddenly it felt as if the war against the Empire was right outside his doorstep.

The strategist glides tentative fingers down the man’s right leg, noting the transition between the warmth of his skin and the coolness of the polished metal. “Does it hurt?”

The bartender offers him a cheeky grin. “Only when I kick someone.”

The tension in his chest ebbs, and Ignis brushes a cheek against the inside of the man’s thigh. “Do warn me if you happen to be ticklish, then. In my experience, tooth enamel is rather weak against metal.”

He can feel the bartender’s hands sift through his hair when he moves to relieve him from his briefs; the strategist was scarcely bashful in the presence of bare flesh, but his cheeks unconsciously redden when he lays eyes on his partner’s burgeoning erection that matches the pressure in his own trousers. The dull ache of intoxication is causing his head to swim, although whether it was from the alcohol he consumed earlier, or simply a side effect of his increasingly demanding libido, Ignis isn’t quite sure.

And while he may have had little experience with manipulating a sword, the strategist knows what he likes whenever he happens to be on the receiving end of a lover’s generosity; his hands move instinctively to grip at the base of the bartender’s strengthening rigidity, his mouth enveloping him fully, his tongue pressing hard against the sensitive part just below the head. His partner’s fingers tighten around his temples once before drifting down the back of his neck; he is quiet in his reaction to Ignis’ gentle probing, but the fingernails the strategist can feel digging through the fabric of his shirt speak volumes.

Ignis takes this as a positive sign, and settles in more comfortably between the bartender’s legs. He then allows one of his hands to circle around the man’s artificial calf—he isn’t sure whether his partner has any feeling below his right knee, but the smooth metal is enjoyable to the touch nonetheless—and supplements his oral machinations with the other. The bartender’s own hands eventually let go of their vice grip over his shoulders and drift down the front of his chest, and Ignis can feel the buttons of his shirt loosen with each passing stroke of his tongue.

He pauses only briefly to give the bartender free rein to discard his shirt on the floor, glancing up as the man leans down to steal a kiss. Then Ignis returns his attention to the task at hand, closing his eyes against the sensation of warm flesh thrusting hard against the back of his throat. The scent of cologne and scotch and male pheromones that swirl in the air around his nostrils serves only to urge the strategist onward, and he reaches down to loosen the zipper of his trousers to relieve himself of the pressure plaguing his own groin.

The bartender remains silent, but Ignis can sense the man’s breath shortening in his lungs, can feel the pulsing of blood locked tightly inside the tissue of his shaft. And he can hear the sound of his mechanical ankle flexing and clenching in time with Ignis’ movements, until his tremors reach all the way to his hands and he tilts the strategist’s chin up with trembling fingers.

“Perhaps it would be best if we moved on to other things,” he says hoarsely. “I wouldn’t want to dirty up your spectacles.”

The strategist levels him with a malevolent grin, and draws himself up to his full height. The bartender’s hands drift to the waistband of his trousers, tracing his fingertips lightly over Ignis’ arousal before tugging on the pockets of his pants and dropping them to the floor. The strategist rakes his gaze over his partner’s taut abdomen when he pushes himself onto the bed and reaches for a drawer in the nightstand; after a moment, the man withdraws a small bottle and tosses it in Ignis’ direction.

“For your own pleasure,” he offers. “If you need more, there’s plenty where that came from.”

Ignis eyes the vial of lubricant in his hand; if a full bottle wasn’t enough to prime the evening’s activities, the strategist had grossly underestimated the proportions of his own equipment. But before he can even remove his smallclothes, the bartender rolls over onto his chest and props himself on his elbows.

Ignis finally abandons his briefs on the floor and eases himself onto the bed beside his lover. “If you don’t mind,” he says, as he gestures for the bartender to assume a comfortable position on his back, “I generally like to see my partners’ faces in the heat of the moment.”

“Missionary? Really?” The man lets out a laugh. “I should think you were an old maid, with that sort of taste.”

The strategist tucks the bottle of lubricant beneath his arm and plucks the long-forgotten tie up off the pillow. “There are ways of reinventing the familiar.”

The man’s eyes widen as Ignis gathers his wrists above his head. “If you were hoping to avoid a metal foot to the teeth, this might not be the best course of action.”

The strategist loops the tie around the back of the headboard and secures the bartender’s hands. “A calculated risk.”

When he is satisfied with the strength of his knot, Ignis rocks back on his knees and rids himself of his last remaining accoutrement: his glasses. There was something about the absence of the familiar weight across the bridge of his nose that made him feel even more naked and vulnerable than being nude in front of a lover; perhaps it was the comments he inevitably received from his paramours on how different he looked without them that triggered his insecurities about his own image.

But the bartender mercifully makes no wry quips about his youthful features, and instead watches with curiosity as Ignis uncaps the vial of lubricant; cold serum drips down into his palm, and gooseflesh ripples through his skin when he touches the viscous liquid to his screaming erection. He then pours a generous amount over his partner’s loins, spreading the fluid across the man’s shivering flesh with warm hands, until he stops to press a finger inside the most sensitive and intimate part of his lover’s body.

Only then does the bartender finally make a sound; Ignis introduces a second finger, and is rewarded not with a kick to the jaw, but a louder, more audible gasp from the man. The exploration of discovery was wholly universal, the strategist surmises, and probing a man’s canal was not all that different than teasing the sex of a woman. He leans over and nuzzles his nose against his partner’s neck, his hand still buried between his thighs, and the bartender tilts his face toward the strategist’s in a furious attempt to meet his lips.

Ignis indulges in his desire, but only briefly, because it isn’t long before the man’s hips are quivering and his insistence is making itself known. The strategist withdraws his hand and positions himself above the bartender, then reaches down for the base of his own shaft and nudges the head against the entrance of his lover’s body; the lubrication has its intended effect, and the strategist’s elbows nearly give out from under him when he presses his heat inside his partner.

It was an altogether different sensation than what Ignis had experienced in the past; the taut walls of a man were more rigid, the muscles tightening against his ardor more acute, than the soft folds of a woman. He ceases all movement for an instant to allow for the sudden dizziness in his head to pass, and moves to rest his cheek against the bartender’s chiseled torso until his mind is clear enough to actively quell the throbbing in his loins.

When he is certain his body won’t betray him and spill his seed unceremoniously within five seconds of penetrating him, Ignis finally lifts his head to cover the bartender’s parted mouth with his own. His kiss is gentle at first, then more urgent as buries himself fully inside his partner; the man arches his ribcage and wraps his ankles around the back of the strategist’s knees—his left leg warm, his right cool to the touch—until their two bodies are nearly as one and his partner’s hard-as-stone manhood is trapped between both their abdomens.

Ignis grips at the sheets on either side of the bartender’s head when he begins to move, if only to protect the man from his fingernails that are desperate to mark their territory. But he can’t safeguard his partner from his teeth, and indeed the strategist is unable to resist the urge to leave a trail of gentle love bites down the man’s collarbone. His lover’s arms strain against the shackles of the necktie, so Ignis teases his tongue along the inside of the man’s biceps in an effort to distract him from the knot fettering his wrists.

The strategist eventually settles his hips into a comfortable rhythm, and studies the planes of his lover’s face as he seeks out visual and audible clues that might reveal to him the thoughts turning behind the bartender’s mind. He can see his jaw clench tightly when Ignis meets the edge of his resistance, can hear the carnal growl coming from deep within his throat; he can also feel the warm droplets pooling onto his partner’s abdomen, a telltale sign of the man’s ardor inching ever closer to its breaking point.

So Ignis doubles his efforts, and aims for the same firm spot he can feel with each passing drive of his hips. The bartender’s thighs are gripped tightly around his waist, his moans growing louder in his ears, his arms fighting the ties that bind them. Ignis bites down hard on the inside of his cheek in a rapidly failing attempt at mitigating his own rising fervor; it doesn’t help that lubricant smothering both of their flesh makes the strategist’s thrusts glide with the ease and pleasure of a well-oiled machine.

The bartender’s eyes suddenly flash with a fire that catches Ignis off guard. “Untie me,” he whispers.

The strategist hesitates for a moment, then leans down to touch his lips lightly to his partner’s cheek. “It won’t be much longer, I promise.”

The man levels him with a steely gaze. “Do it before I break this headboard, damn it.”

It doesn’t take a strategist to pick up on the deadly seriousness of the bartender’s voice; he immediately moves to loosen the knot, and the man’s hands are on his buttocks the instant they are freed. His mouth seeks out Ignis’ with a hunger of a rabid Voretooth, and he grinds his hips agonizingly against the strategist’s aching loins; even Ignis, the silent lover he often was, cannot entirely contain the gasp that escapes his lungs, and he closes his eyes when his partner’s writhing intensifies beneath him.

This isn’t precisely how the strategist had planned things to occur; drawing out sensual pleasure was a marathon, not a race, and he’d hoped to prolong his partner’s ecstasy at least a little longer than it had taken him to down his cocktail. But the bartender’s fingers clawing urgently at his lower back is doing nothing to impede the familiar pressure constricting the base of his shaft, and his body has wrenched his own free will away from him in favor of progressing autonomously through his thrusts.

It’s his partner’s climax that ultimately tips him over the edge, and the strategist has but a heartbeat to register the sensation of warm, milky fluid squeezing through the tight space between their bellies. Then his own orgasm is tearing through him, so he yields himself over to the inevitable; he grits his teeth as his hips jerk in time with the pulse of his contractions. When the final wave of his climax has exhausted itself, he summons the last of his self discipline and gingerly lowers himself to the bartender’s chest rather than collapsing under the weight of his own mass entirely.

The older man rakes his hands gently through Ignis’ scalp and they lay in silence, their hearts beating nearly as one. The strategist resists the urge to laugh aloud at the ludicrous notion that there was something inherently immoral or emasculating about bedding a gentleman; sword or sheath, one willing body was truly as warm as another. After a moment, Ignis pushes himself off his partner and reaches for his spectacles resting on the nightstand.

The bartender peers over at him as he settles his glasses across the bridge of his nose. Admittedly, this was the part of the evening that Ignis was always the most tentative of; his loyalty is first and foremost to the crown, and he recognizes the damage he risks to his credibility with each surreptitious dalliance he engages himself in. It’s why he hides behind a cold and aloof demeanor whenever he returns his lenses to his face; feelings of longing and affection would only get in the way of a man who has sworn his allegiance to a life of royal service.

Mercifully, the bartender makes no indication of a desire for pillow talk; he simply retrieves a hand towel stored in a drawer in the nightstand and wipes the fluid from his belly in silence. Ignis’ heart aches inside his chest at the painful austerity of their resolution, but it’s the price he must pay as a Crownsguard, a fleeting moment of euphoria in an otherwise restrained existence.

The bartender then offers the towel in the direction of the strategist. “Care for a cup of coffee?”

He takes the rag and cleans up the product of his own desire between his thighs. “If you happen to have Ebony, I’d be in your debt.”

The man tosses his legs—mechanical or otherwise—over the side of the bed and draws himself upright. “I’d be an embarrassment to my vocation if I brewed anything less than the best.”

Ignis watches as the man quickly throws on his briefs and trousers before exiting the bedroom. He then glances around in search of his own wardrobe—how his shirt ended up all the way in the threshold of the door, he can’t quite remember—and dresses in silence, an odd sense of dismay washing over him. In hindsight, bedding the one person in all of Insomnia who knew just how to pour a proper glass of scotch perhaps went against his better judgment.

The alluring aroma of freshly-brewed coffee is already swirling in the air when the strategist finally moves into the living room. The bartender is leaning against the kitchen counter, his arms crossed over his bare chest, his flat abdomen on full display for Ignis’ viewing pleasure. “Is everything all right?” the man asks. “You seem to be mired in a cloud of melancholy, all of a sudden.”

Ignis adjusts his spectacles out of nervous habit. “I was just thinking it might be best if I gave up my drinking habit for a while.”

The bartender frowns. “Are you worried about what I’ll say? I’ll have you know that no one keeps secrets in Crown City better than I do.”

“I’ve heard that before,” the strategist mutters, “but loose lips appear to follow me wherever I go.”

The man then retrieves two mugs from a cabinet, topping them both off with Ebony before moving to stop beside Ignis. “Libertus’ reputation seems to be no worse for wear, despite my best efforts,” he teases.

The strategist accepts the mug the bartender is holding out for him and grimaces. “Your discretion is appreciated.”

“If you choose to distance yourself from your fallibilities, I’ll try not to take it personally.” The bartender sips at his Ebony and touches a hand to the small of Ignis’ back. “But a little youthful capriciousness scarcely tarnished a man’s respectability. I should think your name might be famous across Lucis one day.”

“‘The Philanderer’ doesn’t exactly have the ring I was hoping for.”

“You have nothing to fear—‘The Strategist’ has already taken root in the minds of others. It may have reached the ears of even Tenebrae by now.” The bartender then leans over and presses a chaste kiss to Ignis’ cheek. “If you ever happen to make it there, do be on the lookout for the floating castles—they are truly a sight to behold.”