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gaiuswrites · 3 years

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King of Cups || Chapter 9

Chapter 9: The Hanged Man

Archive: ao3 | masterlist | eight

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Summary: After some time apart, new conclusions are met.

Word count: 7.8k~

Rating: Explicit

Warnings/tags: SMUT, fingering, unprotected piv sex, emo emo emo (are we even surprised any more), mature themes, abandonment/family trauma, loss

Notes: Friends, wow. I'm honestly embarrassed by how long this took. Thank you for your patience. I hope you find the reward worth the wait. This chapter is nearly all in Din's POV until it switches and blends in the last chunk. If you’re new to KOC, you’re more than welcome to start at this chapter! Love you guys x (gif credit: @bestintheparsec)

“Din.”

Familiar fingers brush through his hair, a hand he knew once combing over his overgrown locks. He feels the drag of nails across his scalp, tucking a truant curl behind his ear, and the act feels like home— like hearth.

Somewhere beyond his open window a morning bird trills, perched in its roost nestled into the forked branch of the elm.

He breathes a sigh, the sound thick with sleep, and turns to his pillow, burying himself deeper into the linen.

“Din, honey.”

He blinks— lazily, molassesed— her shape clearing into focus.

Green eyes peer back at him, fine lines framing the corners of them, and crescents crease around her lips, pulled warm into a soft curve.

Small toys— wooden things, baubles and bits, dolls made from scraps of old fabric—litter the floor, spilling from the chest butted against the stone of the wall. A book, well-loved and dog-eared, rests on his nightstand—the one he insisted she read from each night, the story he couldn’t possibly fall asleep without hearing—the images written on the page, dancing in his small mind to the tune of her voice.

It’s all there now as it was then before.

“It’s time to wake up.”

She sits at the edge of the bed—his bed—the weight of her arm draped over his shoulder like a blanket— like shelter. Like never being fearful again. Like never dying. Like summer, forever.

“I am awake,” he murmurs, and it is with his own tongue that he speaks. Not that of a boy, but a man—unfiltered, unmodulated. Stripped of his helmet, he hardly recognizes the tenor of it, of its richness, but he feels the words reverberate against the hollow of his throat and he knows they belong to him.

Light casts through the window behind her—particles of dust, trapped in the tines. Floating there, suspended on strings.

She only smiles, and strokes a thumb across the sweep of his cheekbone, there in the room he last felt safe.

“No, not yet.”

It’s time to wake up. It’s time to wake up. Wake up wake up wake—

“Not yet.”

His eyes blur open with a flutter of his lashes, the lifeless durasteel ceiling coming into view—the jade of her gaze fading, fading. Blowing away.

He shifts a hand through his hair— through the long strands in dire need of trimming— lying on his bedroll, spine knobbing into the thin mattress. The cold metal overhead stares back at him.

His chest rises. Falls.

Din can still feel her, the warmth of her, there on his cheek.

///

There is no part of this that comes easy.

He knows what you’re thinking, he can see it in the guard you’ve encased yourself with— your glass walls, your glass house. Transparent but impenetrable, Din can only look. A spectator, watching as you go about your routines— a stranger on the outside.

And he sees how you look at him.

You think he’s fine.

You think he’s marble. Unbreakable. Impervious to time, to cold, and he does nothing to correct you; no, he allows the belief. He lets you believe the calloused veneer of his beskar— lets you assume he is more machine than man.

Din thought it would be simpler. Convenient. Din thought it would hurt less.

Because how can he tell you? How can he possibly communicate the imprint you’ve left on him— how his mind revolves around the imagery of that evening in vicious figure-eights. How he can’t unremember your heat curling around his fingers, how he can’t unbridle the pulse of his cock in your palm. How he can’t unspeak that which he called you, his virgin tongue flicking new and flighty around the word.

Cyare.

It tripped—in the midst of his pleasure, it sprang clumsy from him how the inevitable always seems to where you are concerned: transport to Coruscant, his past, his history, his identity— it just happens, reasonless, illogically. Some driving magic beckoning him to buckle, wishing him to give.

Your moans, your gasps, how you prayed his name— this is the white noise murmuring through the ship, harmonizing with the tinny mechanical beeps and settling groans of the bulkheads. You churn like smog through his helmet. Ever present, the memory of you is constant— invasive. It’s suffocating him.

He’s been dealt plenty of injuries and contusions— he has the scars enough to prove it— but it’s this. It’s this that’s killing him. It’s you.

All of these paintings, life-like and lurid, and yet it is this wound - untended, uncauterized - that scalds most: the moment Din, that beskar apparition, slipped away from you. You were there, hip under the weight of his glove, and he simply

went, like fog.

He watched your face crest and fall—felt your heart, skipping nervous like a stone over a morning pond, little waves rippling lightly, lightly out and out until it puttered quiet and

sank.

He abandoned you there. He left you before you had the opportunity to convince Din that you wouldn't do the same to him. Because Din has learned this, his suit of armor a trudging reminder of the inherent fact: good things leave.

You’ll be gone soon. You’ll leave him—he’s taking you home and you’ll leave him. His son will leave him.

He’ll be alone again. He’ll have the Crest, he’ll have the Guild—he’ll have the life he once cast in stone for himself, the life he’s worn as proudly as the Mudhorn emblem he boasts on his pauldron. But that was then - before - and he can never find his way back to that now; now that he knows what he knows—of breakfast and bitter caf and laughter like church bells and warmth and goodness and you.

There is no part of this that comes easy.

There in the galley, lamp-lit iridescence caressing your countenance, you asked him once if he was scared of anything and he told you he wasn’t sure— not yet.

Din lied.

As a rule, he doesn’t make a habit out of dishonesty; it doesn’t typically suit him, he is blunted to a fault— earning allies and enemies alike with the very attribute—but he lied to you then. Maybe his fears are the same as everyone else’s, maybe they’re simple. Human.

Maybe he’s scared that you’ll unchain him from his armor, of his shortcomings and tragic flaws and see the pulpy heart of him—that you’ll look and look and look, and you will like nothing that you find there. That he’s just a man.

And perhaps, he’d rather remain unknown than risk the chance of being unlovable.

For there is a certain hollow you befriend in the aftershock of loss—there is an aperture loss gores you with. There are some holes time can never fill; they remain trenched, dug from rusted trowels— left to fester, left to ill.

Sometimes, in the surly vacuum of space, in those dulled moments in which he has nothing but to count the seconds as they tick clocklessly away, Din attempts to conjure the last word his mother gave to him. He didn’t know it then—he didn’t know it was intended as a gift, boxed and ribboned and bowed. He didn’t realize—a child, wide-eyed with naivety, drenched in fright—that he should cherish it. Remember it. Keep it safe.

No matter how hard he tries, how hard he strains, he can’t recall it. He practices the nightmared memory of it, transports himself into that war zone, dodging shrapnel and brimstone just to catch sight of her face— and he can see her lips moving, can feel the fan of the flames as his world is reduced to cinders, but he cannot hear her.

Was it goodbye? Was it I love you? Was it be safe? Was it hide? Hide hide hide for me. Be good and hide, kind boy—

It dogs him. The nothinged mumble, his silent passenger.

There is no part of this that comes easy.

He heard you. There in Valentia, the city buzzing cacophonously like an orchestra tuning their instruments, he overheard the Twi’lek translate for the older woman.

Family, she said. You have a beautiful family.

Din has never in his life considered forsaking his Creed— forgoing the thing that saved him, made him, honed him to tungsten, sharp as a blade.

But he did then.

It was a flash, something fickle and brief— like the flicker of a candle before it diffused to smoke— but in that nanosecond he saw himself ripping off his helmet. He saw himself going to you, pulling you close to his plated chest. He saw the surprise wash over you—the shock that bubbled to elation. He saw you smile, that crippling gorgeous thing, with his own naked eyes and—

And then suddenly you were there before him, snapping Din from his reverie, blanket snug to your chest, the child — his child— slung beside you. He wished he had an explanation, but before he could process his actions his hand was drawing itself to your body, tugged by some unseen force—robbed of his autonomy— and rapturously, he touched you. He felt you.

His knuckles grazed your arm—your warmth, radiating past the aged leather of his glove—and the wisdom that woman uttered, the plain truth only the ancient could learn— only a mother could know— rattled around his mind, unanchored and barreling.

Yearn for the past. Reclaim time.

Hold onto them hold onto them hold on—

Never let them go.

Ready? he asked you, arm resigned to his side, feigning monotony beneath the cover of his visor.

You threaded an even smile to your lips, as if Din were none the wiser— as if he hadn’t catalogued every lick of your expressions, every curve and bow and wrinkle as your emotions sung across your face. As if he didn’t know when you were lying. As if he didn’t know when you were falling apart.

Ready, you replied, swallowing past the disappointment welled in your throat.

Both your hearts broke then. Perfectly—the same.

This is the Way.

///

Din is gone over a week. It’s the longest he’s ever been away for a hunt—it’s the longest nine days of your kriffing life.

The ship feels vacant without him; she’s cumbersome, too cavernous for the likes of only you and his foundling. Her durasteel sidings yawn morose against the wind beating restless against her—her metal stretching like a lothcat in a patch of sun. The doors and hatches complain ajar and gripe shut, as if she’s recalcitrant to go about her standard operating procedures without Din’s presence. The old gal misses him, down to her steely bones and dual ion turbines, and in truth — and despite yourself— you suppose a small part of you feels the same, shares an inkling of that same loneliness.

The rituals and dog-eared routines you’d drawn comfort from are now rinsed in a forlorn wash.

The single bowl of food you prepare looks wrong without its twin beside it.

You scroll a finger over your display screen, flicking through various articles, the faint light from the holopad basking the contours of your face in a lonesome shade of inanimate blue.

Anything good you hear him ask, there in your inner ear— the memory of his voice leaving a nick among the many wrinkles of your brain.

You sigh, quietly— alone. Never.

Even Munch misses him, although he expresses it differently. He’s been a downright terror with Din gone. At first it was a vacation, a luxury retreat; you and the child gorged yourself on crackers and grava berries and dried bantha meat—mindful of sweeping up the crumbs on whichever surface you snacked. You giggled and ran amok and shared secrets in code only the two of you could decipher.

But one day grew to two, and two to three and three to four and by the fifth you were out of treats and your patience too had dwindled to short supply.

The child is special— unquestionably unique. And as much as you adore him, would lay down your life for him if it came to it, Maker he is uniquely qualified to send you round the bend twice over. He’s baffling, infuriating— just like his father. Of all the things he could have inherited from the man, of course he decided to latch on to his vexing penchant for mystery.

You lost him for half a day. He was somewhere aboard the Crest, of that you knew that for certain, but he managed to enact a stunt that could’ve puzzled even the most illustrious of illusionists with how quickly and effectively he vanished, seemingly out of thin air.

He emerged eventually for dinner, babbling wickedly. There was that, at least: you could always count on Munch to — well, munch.

Over a week of this— nine days, sixteen hours, and twenty-two minutes, to be exact… But who’s counting.

The sky glitches with lightning, sparking like a bulb in dreadful need of changing, and veins of violet skitter along the horizon, chased by the clapping hammer of thunder. Fat drops of rain trace down the transparisteel, the metalled drum of their pattering against the Crest lullabying your eyelids to a slumbered close. You drift, weightless, waxing and waning in and out of a reoccurring dream that always blurs to mere suggestion - to shadow - as soon as you wake.

The harsh sound stirs you—the ramp’s gears springing to life, signaling the Mandalorian’s return. Rapidly, you blink clear the slog of sleep from your eye, re-emerging from the forgotten depths of your subconscious and half-roused, you bound from the copilot’s chair. You rally from your stupor, instinct urging you to meet the bounty hunter by the entrance—some tittering, foolish part of you still so glad and girlish just to see him.

Hobbling down the ladder with veteraned coordination - one leg one arm one foot one hand - you hop the last two rungs to land catlike on the balls of your feet, heading towards the stern of the ship and—

You don’t make it three steps.

He’s there. Din is there— nine days later and finally, like a hallucination, he’s here— ominous and backlit by the glow seeping in from the galley. An obelisk, undaunted.

Your gut somersaults, flipping until it dizzies.

Knee-jerked and reflexive, the basest part of you demands you go to him, to cross the threshold separating you— the time and space and uncertainty dredged like a moat between you two. But instead of greeting him as you wish— two arms thrown around him, welcoming him home—back to the Crest, to the child, to you—you stand there, dumbstruck and wanting.

The passage of the corridor is like a strait. It's so narrow you can smell him— his carbon musk, his petrichored sweat—and it furls thick into your sinuses, fogging up your vision, clotting the faulty wiring of your mind. He’s brought the wet in with him, drip dropping from his hulking frame to splat puddled onto the deck.

plop

A beat ferments, hanging ripe from its branch as the tempest rages outside the sheltered hull of the ship. Distantly, thunder booms from above.

“Din— hi.”

“You’re up.” He doesn’t move from the archway. Stiffened, composed from granite, the man hardly breathes. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” you offer hastily—untruthfully.

Din scans you: your obviously tousled hair, the drowsy flush kissing your jaw, the tell-tale crinkle of your tunic. Your tongue darts out to skip over your lip and his lungs pull, aching beneath his ribs.

Maker, you’re pretty even when you lie.

“Go back to sleep,” he assures, but you hardly register it; it’s scarcely above a murmur by the time the words hum through his modulator.

“Can I make you some food? Can I—"

There’s a tarred shake of his helm, tiredly dissuading you. “No, you—you’ve done enough.”

“But you must be exhausted, Din. Let me help you,” you urge, sincerity shaping the lilt of your voice. “Please, I—” You falter. Vision finally adjusted in the dimmed hall, it is then that you spot it.

Your mouth runs dry.

He’s dappled in a violent scarlet, foreign red splatters contrasted against all that silvered grey, bleeding with the rainwater to roll sanguined down the rounded edges of his armor.

Blood. He’s covered in blood.

Something pitted—something vital— in you contracts; horror, prickling the fine hairs along your forearm. “Maker, what happened?”

Eyes gaping fearful, you skitter around his breastplate, his vambraces, the paneling of his flight suit, roving meticulously in search for the source of his injury. Thoughtless, consumed with only one concern - is he hurt? - your hand flies to his chest where it rests—solid. Fretting. “Stars, are you—”

He can see it—he can see you, always—how your gaze swells, laced with a surge of adrenaline, of care, and Din lays his broad palm flat over your knuckles, grabbing your frantic attention. “It’s not mine—hey, it’s not mine.”

Your shoulders deflate, relief visibly relaxing the rigidity in your spine, and for the first time in what feels like minutes you release the breath you’d fostered high behind your teeth.

He doesn’t know what overtakes him. Perhaps it’s your sleep swollen lips or the soft petal of your cheek— taunting Din, daring him to feel you again, as he did before— or perhaps it’s the all too apparent fact that you simply give a shit about him— despite everything he’s done, all of that which he has left unsaid. That you worry. That you care.

Puppeted, arm hoisted by some invisible strings of fate—those unseen threads of inevitability—he reaches for you. Din’s thumb roams the slope of your cheekbone, the buttered hide of his glove gliding over your skin. Something rattles flustered in your chest, and you must look pathetic— how your eyes bat at him and your mouth parts, breathy and demure.

“Dala.” He sounds pained when he says it, as if it’s poisoning him; the very syllables like hemlock dripping down his tongue—slowly gradually, ending his life— this life.

This life as he knows it.

You nuzzle into the cradle of his palm, encircling a hand around his wrist, urging him still. You both know he could break away from you without an ounce of strength squandered, but he doesn’t; he listens, he quiets for you. Enchanted, neither of you dare move— neither of you, willing to shatter the profound spell of intimacy you’ve stumbled onto.

He holds you like this, and you hold him to you. His hand on your cheek; yours over the birdcaged throb of his heart— burning - devouring - its entombed aril like the heart of a dying star.

“Where’d you go?” you whisper, heathered, into the heel of his hand. There is something broken in your cadence, like the chipped rim of a fragile cup, and it punctures him just there beneath his sternum.

Where’d you go?

Where’d you go before? When you left— where did you spirit away to?

Why didn’t you take me with you?

A sick wave rots his stomach. He couldn’t answer you then, not when you were wobbly and coltish beneath him—Din can barely answer you now. His digits twine into your hair, cupping the arc of your neck. The gesture is not unkind. It is delicate— urgent, too—and the following hush you share speaks tomes for the both of you, the sob of his leathered fist admitting what he cannot utter.

I couldn’t. I couldn’t.

Maker, if you could see him. See how his face folds for you, grief lined into the shallow grooves that mark him. The cycles of it— how they bend him into something contorted. Something in need - I need you I need you I need - something ugly, he thinks. Leftover. Hidden. Hide hide hide hi—

You turn, pressing a kiss into the rough of his palm. It’s a soft thing— trepid and cautious—too worried you might frighten him away to offer anything more than a chaste brush of your lips—too worried you’ll send him scurrying back into the cratered unknown he crawled out from.

But he doesn’t.

Din doesn’t turn tail and run, he stands firm—weaving his hand further into your scalp, guiding you closer to him with a throaty sound. The forehead of his helm sinks to yours, and through its filter you discern the tremor of Din’s breathing, made fuzzy by the tinny modulator.

This is nothing like before. Din was hot blooded and vicious then, possessed by the infernal likes of some great beast, but he has since been tamed, if only momentarily—coaxed into a certain meekness by the frail ache of his heart—by the grace of your kind mouth, kissing his gun-worn glove.

He groans your name, mumbled and brassy. The two of you so close, so merged, that if it weren’t for his helmet, you’d feel the tickle of the syllables as they sweep over your face. Din repeats himself, repentant—praying for forgiveness on the cross of your name—your kiss, a benediction.

Again, he calls you. I’m sorry.

Again, you kiss him. There is nothing to forgive.

Again. Again.

With a flutter of bravado, you sling a lumbered arm over the span of his neck, notching yourself into his chest, an interlocking piece finding it’s match. Din’s forearm comes to coil around your waist, wide hand spanning the small of your back, and if possible, gathers you nearer— a growl emanating somewhere from under his beskar.

“Tell me to stop,” he breathes, bullet riddled—grating—warring with the countless shards of himself he has yet to reconcile; but his body betrays his intentions as Din’s grasp finds itself lower, filling his fingers with the plush of your ass. “Tell me, please.”

Arousal rushes to pool in your depths—at the proximity of him, the hungered way at which he paws you—and it’s a reaction you feel mimicked by the iron rod straining against Din’s flight suit, pressing into your thigh. You shake your head, gaze colored earnest, and you shift, applying a grind of your hips against him in response.

Din lets out a defeated groan; weak to you, a fabled Mandalorian warrior brought to trembling knees by the guile of a good woman. And suddenly, like striking a match in a room swarmed with gas, you are incendiary.

He’s everywhere— groping and kneading your arms, your ass, your neck and waist. You are malleable beneath him, sculpted like wet clay under his eager touch—as if he is committing your form to memory; the fervor of his grip, reclaiming time.

He hooks a hand under the crease of your knee, yanking you to the column of his armor, sealing your bodies together. Gyrating your hips against him, your clit yearns against his thick outline as you dig into the cowl draped over his shoulders.

Sliding his hand down your backside, he presses his palm into your clothed heat from behind, pads of his fingers insistent as you saddle your spine into his touch, granting him better access. His cock brays, straining beneath his many layers, and a withered moan breaches past your lips.

“Gods, Din.”

Din. He can’t stand that—his name, lush in your wet mouth—and without ceremony, drops your leg from where he’d glued it to his hip. Like a beggar, impoverished and need-stricken, he begins to fight with your clothing, half tempted to rip the damn things off you, leaving you tattered; he’d happily buy you a new wardrobe if it meant having you as he’s wanted for these long months—naked and vulnerable and his.

Your tunic and pants come off in a flurry, your underwear too, discarded hastily in some forgotten corner—and with a hand on your chest, he walks you backwards until your bare ass connects with the durasteel, a jagged inhale tearing through you at the chill. A question knits your brows to meet as Din paces away from you, increasing his distance.

“What are you-”

He interrupts you with a groan. “Just - gedet’ye - just let me—”

His gaze drips like wax down your body—eyes dressing over your clavicle, the supple weight of your breasts, the gorgeous dusting of hair at your mound, the sweet press of your thighs as you clench them together, your pretty knees, your pretty ankles, your pretty feet, pigeoned inward nervously.

Pretty pretty pretty—fuck, all of you. So fucking pretty.

With the cock of his chin, his gaze returns to the heave of your breasts—tracing over your nipples pebbling in the everpresent draft of the Razor Crest— and you rile under him, heart stammering loud—so loud you’re convinced he can hear it with the aid of his helm. And Maker above, the way you’re fucking staring at him—all hooded lids and flushed cheeks. Din wants to fucking ravish you.

Dismantle you.

Pick you apart bit by bit until you’ve come undone completely.

And as if slogging through gravity itself, movements prowled, he steps to you. Din finds your hips, running the whisper of his gloves along the slopes of your sides; a master of patience, commanding time to his will, he crawls up your skin

slow

deliberate.

You’re all but helpless to the shiver that traverses the planes of your body, zipping along your synapses like the fault lines of a quaking planet—cracking you open, exposing your molten core. You’re not proud of the noise you make when he cups your breasts. Starved, you whine as he takes you into his hands, pinching and groping until you’re pert and sore and you drive your pelvis into him, rutting yourself against his frame like some flea ridden slum-mutt in the prime of her heat.

Din seethes, mumbling in Mando’a—spitting curses you can’t pretend to comprehend, but that blot warmth along your cheekbones at the oaky depravity of which he utters them.

He seals over your mound, blood pumping at your seam, bundle of nerves pulsing steady against the heel of his hand. Immobile, he waits, hovering stagnant and teasing before his lust to feel you outweighs his desire to make you be good and wait—and parting through your curls, he kisses the tips of his orange gloves into your honeyed cunt.

It’s dirty. He’s dirty, he’s fucking filthy—covered in foreign blood and alien soil—and you feel depraved, unclean. Powerful. You feel, perhaps, as the Maker intended—wild and without shame, to roam his gateless garden and sully the soles of your feet.

You feel raw. Din Djarin sands you raw.

The pump of his wrist is merciless, pistoning in and out in shallow thrusts, knuckles angled to prod at that spot— that piece of primordial heaven sequestered at the channel of your cunt—and he keeps discovering it over and over again with a sharp shooter’s precision—zeroing in on his mark and releasing the trigger. Dead eyed.

You grab greedily at his bulge, at his cock begging for regard beneath the protective fabric covering him, and you squeeze the best you can. The angle is awkward and unweildy and it’s not nearly enough for either of you, but it conveys your intention well enough.

Can I have this? Will you give this to me?

Din growls his reply, leaving your pussy to fumble with the waist of his trousers, fidgeting over the pesky buttons—the final of the flimsy holdouts separating you and the tempered steel hanging solid between his legs. It bobs free from his pants, ruddied tip straining and pining for you, and without spending another moment idle, he rediscovers the warmth of your naked body— molding himself to your form, his grip once more finding the pit of your knee and bracing it to his side.

He ruts the underside of his shaft through your slick folds, his blunt head nudging at the swollen cleft of your center—each pitch of Din’s hips sending bolts of pleasure crackling through your core. He’s stifling a string of moans while he does it, while he undulates against you, the sighs and gasps digitized to near silence as he coats his cock in your gloss—and not for the first time do you find yourself considering how fucking colossal Din is. How fucking virile and engulfing, like blaster smoke and tabacco and cedar. Like coaled smog from a cremulator. Like giving life, like taking it away— like mercy. Vengeance.

Din swipes your standing leg up to match the other in a fluid motion, effectively levitating you off the ground with only his palms secured beneath your hamstrings and your strangled hold around his neck to suspend you.

“Tell me to stop and I will.” He’s practically begging you now, anguish wrecking through the timber of his voice—grasping blindly for an excuse not to lose himself in you completely, not to bury his primal drives and fears into the chasm of your sex.

You’ll leave him you’ll leave him he’s terrified you’ll leave him

“I-I don’t want you to stop— I want this. Din, I want you, I missed you. I miss you.” You miss him. He’s right here, cock streaking through your middle and still, you miss him. You’ll never stop missing him—wanting him. An unscratchable itch at the median of your back, burning for his affection, for his touch.

He releases a husked sound at that, as if hearing it from you hurts— your words, purpling a bruise into the bloody beat of his heart—and like a dipping sun sinking below the crust of a darkening planet, the last of Din’s resolve fades to utter black as he finally - finally - buries himself into where you weep for him.

Oh Maker. Fuck, fuck—

You muffle a relieved cry, forehead collapsing to the slope of his shoulder. Your walls shutter, blinking and gasping around his cock as he rolls up into you, lips pulling taut around his girth with each drag through your cunt. Din fucks you slurred and languid—his pace, sweltering like a summer fever—heavy, punitive. Smothering and thick. You can feel every vein, every silken ridge, as he notches himself inch by inch— the cant of his hips meditated, aiming to melt you open with each wave.

Stuffed to the hilt inside you, he rakes in a ragged breath, calming the race of his bloodstream drumming percussive in his ears.

It occurs to you then that he might be trying to be careful with you, curled around him like this, crushed up against the bulkhead. You think he might be treating you as a jeweler would handle a rarified gem— gentle and tip-toed, afraid of letting you clatter to the counter, of scuffing your facets— devaluing you.

But you don’t want that. You don’t want cautious or considerate or any of those awfully pious things. You want to be owned. Devoured. You don’t want to feel anything else but him. You want him to need you so terribly, so primally, he bleeds. You want to forget your own damn name and replace the memory of it with his—just his, to sit besot like liquor on your tongue. Din Din Din.

“Fuck me— please - please - fuck me harder Din.” Fuck me like you need to. Fuck me like you want me— please just tell me you want me. Tell me I’m wanted. Tell me I’m worth this.

You can see the deliberation span over his mask, the light glinting off the steel there hesitant, wary. Are you sure?

“Fuck me.” I want this. I want you.

He wants to give this to you somewhere soft— somewhere you deserve. With a feathered mattress and molted down pillows and gauzy curtains billowing in a sea breeze as light dapples prismed patterns on your dewy skin. He wants to give this to you somewhere beautiful—perhaps on that planet you once probed him about - Adega - with its red trees and warm nights and friendly natives you’d cherish and keep aloft in your breast.

He wants you to feel safe. Adored.

But what he wants and what he needs are two vastly different things—two opposing extremes at odds with the other. Because he needs to fuck you here— it has to be here. Needs to score your backside with metaled bites from the Crest’s unforgiving interior; needs you crumpled and sloppy, panting out his name to echo shamelessly into the deviled bowels of his gunship.

He needs you charred for him. Scorched earth.

And with your panted pleas, lilting addictive and irresistible, he is all but helpless to deny you— to deny himself. Relenting, resolved, his voice bottoms out.

“I-I’m gonna fucking ruin you.”

He fucks you frenzied. The snap of his hips drives you into the wall; he lifts you off his cock just to spear you on it once more, fucking up up up into you, unleashing all his strength— his neglected need—into the grail of your womb. The salted slaps of skin are loud enough to make a lecher blush. It’s a chorus of beskar rattling, wet and ugly and Maker, he’s splitting you open and all you can do is mewl.

You screw your eyes shut, lost to oblivion—crown of your head shoved back, jugular bared for him like prey before the slaughter.

“No.” Leveraging his mass against you, Din clasps at the nape of your neck to command your focus, forcing your chin. “No, look at me,” he orders, brutal and sinewed and there’s desperation there. Din needs you looking at him — seeing him— the embrace of your gaze like a life raft, tethering him here, grounding him to this plane of existence, the one where he has found salvation—if only fleeting, if only like hourglassed sand sifting through his fingers—within the temple of your body. Struggling and led-lidded, you pry your lashes apart, shivering as you drink in the punishing expression leering across his visor; and as you always do, you peer past the murky T there, meeting his eyes camouflaged in their sockets behind it.

“There you are. There you are, my pretty thing - hnng—” He silences himself with a hoarse moan, the sensation of you clenching firm around him, gripping Din like a man would a rope, dangling some feet above the ground, hiccuping him to stutter. “T-That’s it, dala—fuck, y-your pussy is so godsdamn tight.”

You go boneless at the praise—at how he tongues out those fond epithets, vehement and covetous and brined in sincerity—and your breathing quickens as you soak the coarse weave of Din’s flight suit, chafing your clit to shambles with each bow of his starved sex.

You’re close. Stars, you’re so kriffing close—reach out and touch it and you’re there, a promise fulfilled dancing at your fingertips—and you almost tell him; you wish you could - don’t stop don’t stop please right there Din - but you’ve lost your voice, vocal chords stricken with tension. More than that, you’ve lost the wedge of your brain that recognizes articulation all together. Speech itself. You’re wasted. You’re shattered. You’re being fucked within an inch of your sorry life.

Nimbled, without a word of warning, Din relocates— grappling under the plats of your thighs and bracing you featherlight to his chest—negligible in comparison to the ton of armor he dons cycle after cycle, weightless when compared to that of his Creed, hanging like a yoke around his gullet. You yip in surprise and scramble around him, calves digging into his back, forearms clamped around his shoulders—his cock remaining delved within your pussy with each footfall.

Four long strides and he’s reached his destination: a large crate, stranded just outside the hallway leading to the galley. Stooping at the waist, he lowers you down with astonishing ease until you’re flush on your back, knees flanking his frame. You heave a sigh, petulant and wanting, when he slips from you mid-adjustment, a lewd squelch accompanying the movement. It is to the fervor of your clawing, desperate nails scratching down metal - please please please - that he glides back into you with one deft sweep, a satisfied gasp tumbling loose from him.

He looms over you now— Din, a tower unyielding—thrusting into you rough and hard and perfect. He’s filling you in undiscovered places long gone unrealized, nooks you didn’t know you had—the length of him completing you, making you whole.

“Tell me to stop,” he pants, orange pads of his gloves dimpling your hips.

With a tremor of your chin, you moan—broken and chirping. “Don’t - please - please don’t - shit - don't stop—” Your prayers convulse, dying in your throat, sentence cut short as he circles his thumb over your clit, catching at your slippery bud. Ever the marksman, he’s debilitatingly attentive to you, the hide of his glove snagging against your cleft, and combined with the steady rock of his dick shredding you open, you’re all but defenseless to the dawning of your release, crawling closer and closer and—

“Din,” you pant, ”Din Din Din, I think I—I’m gonna cum. I’m gonna, oh Maker—”

The muscles in your stomach seize, a twisted expression cramping your brow. You scamper to his arms, reaching out for something - anything - a parcel of real estate to clutch onto while you unravel. You’re grappling with his pauldrons, the pulsepoint at your wrist humming over the symbol welded to his shoulder, and you mage into starlight. You’re fizzing. You’re blind. You’re atomic and phasing in and out of realities and you burn— a meteor hurtling through the upper atmosphere crashing crashing crashing and—

Language exhausted, all there is left for you to do is cry, the evidence of your orgasm ricocheting like a hail of gunfire against the Razor Crest walls.

“That’s a good girl, that’s a good girl for me—f-fuck." It’s like taking a jab to his solar plexus, how you cinch around him— the corset of your walls milking his cock until he’s shaking, stumbling. The drive of his pelvis has gone erratic, the throbbing bloom gnashing its teeth in his gut—that rabid thing desperate to be released, uncaged—teeters on the identical ledge you’d just leapt from.

“Tell me to stop - please - tell me to, tell me to stop—” You’re all eyes. Your whole face, swallowed by the sweet, glassy orbs notched below the quiver of your forehead, and you’re looking at him like he could hang the damn moon and it’s too much— it’s too much too much he can’t levee this raging need— and with a hurried gasp he pulls out of your heat to tug at his slicked cock— panting ragged as he gushes onto your stomach, your legs, your pretty pussy made pink and puffy with abuse.

His breathing is labored; you can see it in the mountainous rise and fall of his chest plate as his strokes slow, his other hand digging into your flesh, indenting you. He exhales, scraping clean the fissure between his lungs, and Din tips his head, angling it backwards— granting you a rare sliver of the stubbled swath along his neck. The sightly patch, treasured behind his silvered grotto, shouldn’t be the thing that plays upon your heartstrings like one would pluck a harp— not after he’s burrowed himself inside you, not after he’s carved you to his likeness— but it does. You’re butterflied and cherry blossomed and you grin— not so much on your lips but in your soul, and there is a purring warmth that’s radiating like candle flame from the anima alive beneath your breasts and—

And then, suddenly — like time, like memory— he is gone.

He leaves you. Mirrored, he does as he did that night—laying a squeeze into the meat of your hip, he transpires to atoms, dissipating round the unknown bend of a corner and you’re alone again—alone, with only the citric bile steeping in your insides to accompany you, threatening to rise up your windpipe.

No. No no nonono—

Din’s presence, a beacon in the moonless night, disappears— leaving you orphaned and moored and mortified. He’s done it again— he’s left you, he keeps leaving you— and it renders you sick; viscerally, you’re angered and ill and green-washed with naivety.

Fool you once, shame on them. Fool you twice, and what in Maker’s name did you expect? A declaration? An about-face? As if a Mandalorian could let the beskar from his blood. As if Din could reanimate the cadaver of his past—could slip into that old snakeskin he’d shed cycles before.

It paralyzes you. Immobile, you are chambered flat on your back in the resin of your embarrassment, bereft of your vision as you stare sightless into the steel. You’ve separated—your mind and your body disjointed like oil and water, and you don’t hear it. You don’t hear the tread of Din’s feet, you don’t register his aura, Illuminous in the archway; you don’t see the stray towel fisted in his grip, you don’t feel the clench of a frozen hand around your heart as he does his. For he sees you there—a tick in your jaw; eyes distanced, fogged—and he knows he’s done this to you. The scarring of how he derelicted you then tarnishing the new-leaf flesh of the present.

He steps towards you, closer now, and your alerted gaze pins to him. A surprised expression makes a home there, astoundment freckling your face— and although he hasn’t earned the right, it strikes him bullseyed between his plated ribs because it hurts— the obvious shock of him returning for you hurts. Din is not a good man— not all of him. Sometimes, you and all your heaven-lit gleam, you make him forget that.

But sometimes, you make him remember.

And Maker, if you don’t look good like this. Streaked with his seed, creamy white pearling the maps of your body, the shine of it catching in the cannistered shafts of filtered light.

There’s a word for this—for you, for how you look, splayed and painted with his cum—with him. It puffs up like petals would, there in the square of his center. He’s never said it. His mouth doesn’t know the feel of it, his lips don’t know its shape. It’s scribed in Mando’a, and as native as the language is to him—as fundamental as Basic, if not more so—the word itself is foreign. Gawky. The thought of it alone hobbles through his mind on foaled legs. Din keeps this word barred, its essence clinging to the iron partitions of his skull, its perfume clouding his senses, his better judgement, his confounded rationality dangling precarious by a string.

Beautiful. Mesh’la.

You shift under his watchful eye, knees steepling mousy, and gingerly, he prizes the two apart and you let him.

You let him you let him of course you let him.

Din runs a damp cloth up your seam, up those hypersensitive folds, towards the expanse of flesh leading to your belly, and you hiss—a startled chill icing through your body.

“It’s cold,” he informs you, well after the fact, and you chortle a note in response. He continues to lave you clean, the drag of the material smoothing over your stippled planes and it’s intimate—how he takes you under his care, how he unmakes his mess.

Your heart, silly flustered thing it is, it tells you the act feels worshipful—reverent, maybe—but your head convinces you to look away, to cower, to do anything but address the blaze left in the wake of the rag he’s swiping over you. It’s too much. You feel vase-like— fragile and dainty, for the bounty hunter to either fill with wildflowers or crush under the heel of his boot— and it’s too unbearable. Bringing a hand to your sweat-sheened face, you shadow your eyes, ostriching shyly— if I can’t see him, he can’t see me.

A clipped tone escapes his helmet and it’s a sound you can’t place— it’s short, a blip—and you presume he’ll remain mum until he speaks. “You don’t have to hide from me.”

You don’t have to hide from me. I don’t want you to hide from me.

You nearly whimper at that. There’s something endearing and bronzed about how he says it, something torn, too—and you peak through the curtain of your fingers to watch him perform his ministrations. Almost begrudginly, you remove your hand from it’s shelf, resting it on the swell of your breast while he passes the cloth along your inner thighs, erasing the sticky traces of himself. There’s a quiet pause, a moment of distilled nothing before—

“I didn’t think you were coming back,” you admit, small.

He soothes his thumb into the crook of your hip, voice blunt with guilt. “I know.”

Sighing, you nod a little thing, a half-gesture, practically creeping under the Mandalorian's radar undetectable. Thunder shouts, lightning cracks— the bombastic storm outside apathetic to the lull within. Din clears his throat, rasping. “Was that okay?”

You resist the temptation to snort. Din is such a juxtaposition—one you don’t imagine you’ll tire from any time soon. He’s dangerous and protective and clever and strong and kind, despite his best efforts to snuff his compassion to ash like the butt of a dead cigarette. Lifting your palm from its perch, you extend to him, measuredly sliding your fingers against the crate— stretching stretching until he meets you, dubious and toddling like a child’s first steps, orange-dipped digits touching nude flesh. Your everbright grin brightens all the more— bewitching, back-breaking—as you entwine your hands to mesh.

“More than okay,” you say coyly. “Was that-was that good for you?”

Din huffs out an airy chuckle rich with disbelief, like he can’t fathom you’re even asking him—like you’d even have to ask at all. “That was—that was good. Very good,” he confesses gruffly, never a man for poetry, breathlessness still apparent in the bleed of his vocoder. “Even better than I imagined.”

A feline grin unfurls your lips, boldly quirking the droll corners of your mouth. “You imagine this often, Mando?”

Smirking wry and devastating, Din ushers you up by your woven hands, your body pliable and easy to his will; uprighted, his hips slot between your pretty knees, and he expertly twists your arm behind your back, snaring it there. Spine swooped, breasts brushing against his beskar, your nipples pebble cold. “Don’t let it go to your head, dala,” he gravels, visor tilted down at your dwarfed form, tenting you.

“Well," you tease lightly, "I’ll try my best.”

And you look at each other with all the tender awkwardness of two people standing on the edge of a brave new unknown.

Nervous, girlish, you smile.

Fluttering, pussy-drunk, he smiles back.

///

Nested in the pronged branch of a tall tree spindling up from the graveled soil, Din— a man, a boy too— reclines supine against the bark. His feet dangle like they did then, back when he wasn’t so afraid, and the air is dusted with a rosy haze as dusk settles upon the tired day.

The sun sets. The world twinkles a midnight blue, winking starshine as she spins.

Somewhere, behind him, his mother calls him home for supper.

tags: @girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @pedros-mustache @miranhas-art @djarrex @djarinsbeskar @bookloverfilmoholic @keeper0fthestars @misguidedandbeguiled @bookishofalder @helmet-comes-off @grumpymuffinmama @niiight-dreamerrrr @spideysimpossiblegirl @janebby @greatcircle79 @gracie7209 @thatonedindjarinfan @altered-delta @email2ash @stevie75 @shegatsby @onebrownoneblue @uniquebiscuitmongerdonkey @severinsnape @kirsteng42 @justanothersadperson93 @mrsbentalmadge @radiowallet @librariantothejedi @whataperfectwasteoftime @babydarkstar @punkremus @mandobloggin @alma-rt1 @not-the-droids @pedrostories @kylieann0716 @jk7789

#King of Cups #din djarin x reader #din djarin x fem!reader #din djarin x you #din djarin x ofc #din djarin #the mandalorian #mando x you #mando x reader #mando x fem!reader #din djarin fanfic #din Djarin smut #the mandalorian fanfic #star wars fandom

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tamlinsbedroom · 3 years

Text

Chaper 9: Awaited Rutting

When I awoke, Rhysand was on the other side of the bedroom packing a suitcase for us. I silently observed him until he finally felt my heavy eyes on his back. His shirtless back, I should say. I watched the muscles ripple as he moved.

“Like what you see?” He purred. I blushed and much to my dismay got out of bed, wobbling up to him. He pulled me into him and I breathed in his scent that both lulled me to sleep and made me wake up.

“We’ll winnow to the Spring Court after breakfast.” He smoothed down my hair as he spoke. “Did you sleep well?” I nodded, but not before my stomach growled. He chuckled, zipping the suitcase shut.

“Let’s get you some breakfast, Alanna darling.” He grabbed my hand and walked downstairs with me carefully, gesturing for me to sit at the loaded table. I wasn’t shy as I gathered waffles, bacon, and eggs onto my plate. Even though we were winnowing, something told me that I was going to be in desperate need of strength for what I felt was going to happen later…

I saw Rhys smirk at me out of the corner of his eye.

“Yes, it truly is astonishing how neither of us have ravished you yet.” My eyes widened and I was thankful that we were the only ones there.

“Are you nervous?” He asked me. I wasn’t about to lie when he had a direct pathway to my mind.

“Yes…” I admitted. He smiled softly and set his hand on mine.

“We will go at your pace. You don’t have to worry when it comes to us. We’d never do anything you didn’t want to do…even Tamlin. Though his past actions do make me have my doubts.” I didn’t ask what actions those were. We finished up breakfast quickly and Rhysand gathered up the suit cases.

“Ready?” He held out his arm to me. I nodded and took it.

In a whirl, we were suddenly in the Spring Court again, right outside the front doors of the manor. Not half a second later, the doors flew open. Tamlin greeted Rhys with a hard look, his jaw clenched. He looked at me and that look subsided, checking over me as if to see if I was okay.

“Come in.” He held the door open for me, but when Rhys came up behind me it “magically” shut on him.

“Rude rude rude.” Rhys mused. Tamlin snarled at him, pointing a finger.

“You are never to take her against her will again. I mean it.”

“Of course. It had to be done this once, and you know it. You should be thankful because right now I have half a mind to—“

“Hey.” I butted in. “Can you two relax? I’m safe and here. You,” I gestured to Rhys, “keep telling me alllll about how this mating bond is supposed to make you act like rutting stag and yet you’re both bickering like a married couple!” They looked equally as shocked at my little outburst, before chuckling.

“You’re right, darling.” Said Rhys with a grin. “Allow us to show you what you so desperately want to see.”

Tamlin was in front of me in a heartbeat, slamming his lips against mine with fury and passion. I kissed back, the fire being fed gasoline as the blood in my veins heated.

Rhysand was behind me, pressing kisses on my exposed shoulder before I heard a loud rip. My dress, well, what was left of it, was on the floor in pieces. I was now stark naked between the two men. Rhys grabbed Tamlin and I as we winnowed to the lord of spring’s chamber.

“You have no idea how long we’ve been waiting for you.” Said Rhys, his lips now attacking my chest, tweaking my hardened nipples between his fingers as Tamlin made his way in-between my legs. He spread them harshly, hungry for the feast that awaited him.

“Go on, Tamlin. Feast on our mate.” Tamlin growled in answer, his tongue delving inside of me as Rhys continued to fondle my breasts.

“F-fuck!” I moaned out in a high pitched wail, never have felt this sort of pleasure. Tamlin’s tongue now was licking my clit in stripes, spitting on it and kissing it, quite literally making out with my pussy.

“How does she taste?” Rhys asked, peering down between my legs. Tamlin came up with his chin glistening.

“Like raspberries and cream.” He grunted, delving back down to suck my bundle of nerves in his mouth, ever so slightly clamping his teeth down on it. Just enough so that I felt the intense pressure. Rhysand turned to me and kissed my lips, his tongue sliding into my cavern and quickly dominating my own. He tasted like melons and strawberries from breakfast still, and—

“Oh my gods!” I yelped at Tamlin inserting not one, but two of his large fingers inside of me.

“Easy.” Rhysand said to him. Tamlin began curling them into my g-spot and my eyes rolled back into my head.

He kept fingering me for what felt like hours before taking them out and shoving them into my own mouth. I sucked around them, my tongue dipping between the digits.

“She’s ready.” The high lord said to the other.

“Who do you want first?” Rhys asked. That decision felt impossible to make, and Tamlin glared at him sideways.

“I don’t know…” I couldn’t choose without disappointing one of them. To my absolute surprise, Tamlin spoke.

“I’ll take her mouth.” He said to Rhys, looking equally as shocked. He nodded, and the males—my males, started stripping in front of me. Their chiseled abs and muscles shined in the light, and when they dropped their pants at the same time…mother above.

Their cocks were equally as large…and as beautiful. Tamlin’s was curved ever so slightly upward, a vein running through it. It was just as sun kissed as the rest of his skin, the tip a pretty pink. His balls were round and oh so heavy. Full of cum. Rhysands, on the other hand, was straight, with more veins on it. The head was a reddish pink, and his balls were just as big and full. I was about to be bred by these two—

“Are you ready?” I hadn’t even noticed Rhys between my legs, Tamlin in front of me, cock heavy on my lips.

“I want you both to breed me.” I didn’t know where those words came from, but I meant them with every cell in my body. They looked at each other, nodding. Tamlin waited to put it in my mouth, instead opting to kiss my temple and rub my arms comfortably.

“I need you to tell me if it’s too much, alright?” Rhysand told me, concerned at how fragile I was.

I felt the tip sting as it stretched me, Rhys looked into my eyes deeply.

“Are you okay, darling?” He asked reassuringly.

“Mhmm…just slow…” I held onto Tamlin’s hand, my grip tight as he slowly pushed into me.

“Such a good girl.” The blonde whispered into my ear, kissing my neck over and over again.

When Rhy’s was fully sheathed inside of me, I thought that I was going to explode. I had never felt so utterly full…his cock touching every inch my walls.

“You feel so. Fucking. Good.” He paused his words on each thrust. “Dammit I can’t hold back…”

Tamlin opened my mouth with his fingers, gagging me as a sort of test before he put his dick down my throat. I nodded at him…I needed him. The males were quenching a thirst I’d never known I had. His cock hit the back of my throat as I hollowed my cheeks around it.

“I wonder if your pussy feels as good as this pretty little mouth.” Tamlin mused, now fucking my throat at the same pace as Rhys fucked my pussy.

“Tamlin…you have no idea.” Rhysand was now pounding me, his balls clapping against my ass. He grabbed my ankles and put me into a mating press, his cock going even deeper. Tamlin pulled out to give me a breather, tears streaming down my face along with spit. Rhys frowned.

“Don’t rough her up like that.” Tamlin snarled and made a comeback.

“Then come fuck her throat and see how hard it is not to.” Rhys laughed, and I felt it surge deep within me. That familiar feeling of being right on the edge, about to jump off. Rhys pounded faster, and harder, and deeper.

“I’m going to cum inside of you. Mark you as mine. My one and only mate. Get ready Alanna darling…I’m cumming!” He did just that, his hot seed shooting against my cervix as he grunted deeply. He was about to collapse on top of me when he pulled away. Tamlin, now out of my mouth stood between my legs.

“My turn.” He smirked. Rhysand was now next to me, his hand in-between my legs. Rubbing his cum into my clit as Tamlin thrusted in. I almost came then and there, the sheer pleasure overwhelming.

“Gods you were right, Rhysand. Her mouth is heaven but this—“ He thrusted particularly hard “—is beyond compare.”

My clit continued to be fondled and rubbed by my other mate, all while my blonde one drilled me. Rhys fucked me with passion, with force. But Tamlin…he fucked like an animal. Both of the males made me feel so good in equally as addicting ways. I was lucky—so incredibly lucky.

“P-please Tamlin, Rhys. Make me cum…I can’t take it anymore!” I yelled out, right on the edge when a few more rubs and thrusts tipped me over.

It came crashing down not like a wave, but a tsunami. Rhys held me as I must have dug my nails into his arms.

“Dammit she’s clenching so fucking hard! I’m cumming—“ Tamlin released inside me lastly, his load just as big and hot as Rhysand’s.

I nearly passed out when Tamlin pulled out, laying down on the other side of me.

The evidence magic bond was leaking out of me onto the sheets, all three of our essences. Rhys went to go grab a warm wash cloth as I caught my breath next to Tamlin. When he was back, Tamlin held one of my legs open so Rhys could wipe the sweat and cum off of me. I flinched when it made contact with my overstimulated clit. Rhysand apologized, pressing a simple kiss to it. He discarded of the towel and went to lay next to me.

Both of the males at either of my sides made me feel the most protected I’d ever felt in my entire life. Rhys must have heard me as he squeezed my arm.

“Thank you. Both of you.” I spoke alas.

“What for?” They both said in unison, making me giggle and them glare at each other.

“Everything.”

They both kissed my cheeks, Rhysand to my right and Tamlin to my left.

“Sleep, Alanna.” Said Tamlin. Draping an arm over my midsection.

“She’ll need it for the amount of fucking we’re all going to do tomorrow.” Rhys mumbled with a smirk, snuggling up to my side and kissing my forehead. This wasn’t so bad after all.

#rhysand x oc #tamlin redemption #tamlin smut #acotar fanfiction #tamlin fanfiction #rhysand fantiction #rhysand imagine #tamlin imagine #acotar smut

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northofdespair · 3 years

Text

You know @obiwanobi , it really didn’t take much to tempt me lol.

Part two of this post! And uh, well, it got significantly spicier than the previous part now that our favorite Togruta apprentice has vacated the scene.

This one is for @crvdematter , who really started the whole thing months ago, and I feel terrible for forgetting to mention you in the last post! Really, it’s a miracle that I’m coming out from under my nice, cozy rock to give you E-rated Obikin of all things, so hopefully it’ll make up for my grievous omission! Thanks for sparking this into existence!

SPICE under the cut. 😘

Enjoy? 😨🥰

~*~

This is not the first time that Obi-Wan has kissed him while he has a split lip, and Anakin is sure that it won’t be the last.

The pain is a constant, throbbing reminder of their earlier tangle, even as his Master sucks it gently in apology, but Force, Anakin never wants him to stop. He lifts a hand to squeeze Obi-Wan’s wrist where his face is framed by gentle, bloodied hands, then settles his arms around Obi-Wan’s neck with a shuddery sigh.

Obi-Wan’s tongue slides into his mouth and he lets out a guttural moan of approval at the sensation. It spurs his Master on just the way he knew it would, and Obi-Wan leans forward into his space to pin him against the wall. The weight grounds him, steadies him, and he breathes in the comforting scent of Obi-Wan between kisses. Force, even covered in sweat and blood, Anakin loves the spice-and-tea scent of him.

There was a time that Obi-Wan had left one of his robes in his quarters on the Resolute. His Master never noticed the missing garment, prone as he is to dropping the damn things in every corner of the galaxy, and Anakin decidedly did not tell him. It was a lonely month in space, far away from Obi-Wan and even Ahsoka, and if he wrapped that cloak around his shoulders at every sleep shift he got? Well. No one had to know.

The increased proximity lends itself to intimacy, and they both moan quietly into each other’s mouths as their growing erections press together for the first time that night.

The first time in too long, really, and Anakin feels giddy with the promise that this is theirs. That they can have this, and it doesn’t have to stay in the darkness of the Coruscanti underworld. Obi-Wan wants him, loves him, and this night won’t end in longing glances when they think the other isn’t looking, nor will they have to part.

Obi-Wan breaks the kiss to bite and kiss along Anakin’s jaw, sliding his fingers back into Anakin’s hair, and oh, Anakin could give himself up to the Force with how good those fingers feel tightening against his scalp. He gasps instead, rolling his hips forward to seek out more friction. In a rather uncharacteristic move, Obi-Wan lets him. He even grinds against him in return as he sucks on the tender skin behind his jaw, and Anakin whimpers into the open air at the allowance.

The indulgence doesn’t last long, however, before Obi-Wan nips at his earlobe and murmurs,

“Shall we take this back to the Temple then, dear one?” his voice rasps with lust, and Anakin gives a full-body shudder at the feel of it in his ear before he shakes his head.

“No. Not- ah- not now,” he swallows as Obi-Wan presses a kiss to the hollow of his throat with a speculative hum.

“No?” he comes back up to purr low in Anakin’s ear, “Why would that be? Do you want to stay where you can cry out for me? Where no one but I knows the sound of your voice? Or is it that you cannot wait that long?” Obi-Wan punctuates his last words with a hand squeezing over Anakin’s erection in his trousers, and Anakin pants out his breath at the pressure.

“Please, Master. Both, just- fuck me here, please,” he begs, tightening his hold around Obi-Wan’s neck.

His Master presses a long, firm kiss to Anakin’s lips before breaking it to look into Anakin’s eyes with his own intense, crystal blue stare. The sight of him, pupils blown and cheeks flushed in the dim, blue light of some far-off neon, makes Anakin’s stomach flip.

He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to it; the way Obi-Wan stares at him with such desire plainly written on his face. He’d never quite been able to decipher it completely, the way Obi-Wan looked at him, but now he thinks he knows.

It was love, always love, and before there was a strange wistfulness that he never understood until tonight. There is no wistfulness to his gaze now. Now there is only heat and desire, amplifying the love he now readily identifies. It’s enough to make him dizzy, especially when his Master rasps, “Since you asked nicely,” and drops to his knees.

Anakin leans heavily against the wall for support as Obi-Wan wastes no time in tugging his trousers and undergarments down to his feet, taking his erection in hand and meeting his eyes as he presses a kiss to the flushed head. Anakin bites his lip, no longer noticing the sting as he watches Obi-Wan reach into his own trouser pocket with another hand to produce a packet of bacta.

Obi-Wan flicks his tongue against the slit, drawing out a surprised little moan from Anakin’s throat, before pausing to coat his fingers in bacta. Soon he’s rubbing cool circles at Anakin’s entrance, and Anakin gasps at the feeling, grinding back almost involuntarily to coax them in.

Obi-Wan stares up at him with something like wonder on his face and shakes his head slowly.

“The things you do to me,” he whispers, and leans forward to press a kiss to the side of Anakin’s cock.

“You’re one to talk,” Anakin’s breathless rebuttal breaks off in a broken moan as Obi-Wan takes him into his mouth and breaches him at the same time.

He clutches at the back of Obi-Wan’s tunic as lightning-hot arousal shoots down his spine.

It’s funny- all this time, between their fights and sex in back alleys just like this one, they’ve been sort of ignoring the fact that it’s happened at all when they get back to the surface. Obi-Wan was right; what happened here, stayed here, no matter how much Anakin longed for that to change. But all of this time, they’ve been learning each other’s pleasure. What makes the other throw their head back or bite down in desperation.

And so he is no match for the tongue that swirls with a knowing twist, the second finger that eventually adds to the first as he opens for his Master, and the deep, rumbling moan of Obi-Wan’s voice around him.

“Master. Master I’m- hhahhh- I’m going to cum if you-“ Obi-Wan curls his fingers at that moment, and he cuts off with a whimper, clenching his fist in Obi-Wan’s tunic and gritting his teeth against the crashing wave of arousal that follows.

His Master pulls off of his cock with a wet pop and looks up at him speculatively, adding a third finger and watching intently as Anakin groans from deep in his chest.

“Do you want to come now, darling?” he asks, squeezing at Anakin’s thigh to catch his attention.

Anakin tries to clear his head enough to think. He- he could come now, and he knows that Obi-Wan would fuck him just the same, but...

“No. No, I- with you, Master. Please.”

Obi-Wan smiles up at him, stretching the wounds that decorate his own face after his night of fighting, and kisses his thigh.

“All right, love.”

Anakin sighs through his nose at the simple, gentle response, and lets his head fall back against the wall as he closes his eyes and attempts to calm down a bit. Obi-Wan’s fingers have all but stilled in him, occasionally moving slow enough that the quiet tide of pleasure he feels isn’t enough to push him back to the receding edge.

It’s a testament to how well Obi-Wan knows him, how much he can read his expressions and his countenance in the Force, that the moment he feels like he can keep going, his Master spreads the three fingers and curls them once again to brush against his prostate. He inhales sharply through his nose and clenches his mechno-hand against the wall behind him at the sparks of pleasure that crackle through him.

“Are you ready, sweetheart?” Obi-Wan’s voice falls, deep and gravelly from his mouth.

“Yes, Master,” he whispers.

“Good.”

Obi-Wan presses one more kiss to his thigh before removing his fingers with a wet squelch and rising slowly to his feet. Anakin clenches around nothing, swallowing a whine as Obi-Wan caresses his skin on the way up. This time, it is he that draws Obi-Wan into a kiss with a hand around the back of his neck. His Master willingly goes, quickly taking the control that Anakin so readily gives.

In battle, he does not mind control. He might even go so far as to say that he thrives on it.

On missions and even in teaching, he will gladly lead.

But oh, in this.

In this, he wants nothing more than the way Obi-Wan dominates him with his tongue.

In this, he wants nothing more than Obi-Wan’s weight, pinning him to the wall, caging him in, grounding him.

In this, he relinquishes all control to his Master, until he cannot think beyond the violent pleasure that flows like magma through his veins.

The biting kiss does not last long before Obi-Wan breaks it with a low growl, dipping down to grab the backs of Anakin’s thighs and hoist him up against the wall. Anakin lets out an undignified squeak and scrabbles for purchase on Obi-Wan’s shoulders, wrapping his legs around his Master’s waist.

Obi-Wan chuckles. “All right?”

Anakin huffs indignantly. He opens his mouth to respond, but before he can, he feels Obi-Wan’s hand shift, and suddenly the head of his cock is nudging at Anakin’s entrance. He hadn’t seen Obi-Wan slick his own cock, or even push down his own trousers, but he’s certainly not going to complain. His voice gives way to a high-pitched whine, pleading wordlessly for Obi-Wan to just-

“Ahhhh-“

Obi-Wan’s cock finally sinks into him, all at once, and Anakin keens.

Force, he could come from the stretch alone. If Obi-Wan didn’t appear to need a moment himself, he might have. But Obi-Wan simply pants into his neck for a stretch of time as Anakin does the same into his ginger, sweat-damp hair, and it both calms and stirs up the sea of need between them in one fell stroke.

When Anakin is seconds away from begging Obi-Wan to move, he lets out a cry instead as Obi-Wan growls and pulls out slightly before snapping his hips forward. The pace he sets to begin is slow for what feels like only a moment–though it is surely longer–as their pleasure quickly builds.

Obi-Wan mouths at his neck as Anakin gasps with every thrust, clinging desperately to Obi-Wan’s back. He feels Obi-Wan shift him in his arms and wonders idly if he’s too heavy after Obi-Wan’s already strenuous evening, but all thought is immediately erased as Obi-Wan finds what he was looking for and Anakin sees stars.

“Master,” he moans breathlessly, and Obi-Wan groans.

“Force, you’re perfect. You take me so well, darling. So good,” the words melt into Anakin’s veins, and he moans from deep within his chest as Obi-Wan nips at his throat. “Can you come from this, darling?”

“Yes. Yes, Obi-Wan, Master, yes, just don’t stop- ah- don’t stop, please-“

His words devolve into incoherent babbling into Obi-Wan’s ear as their pace quickens, and the sound of skin on skin echoes in the empty alleyway.

“Come on then, love,” Obi-Wan’s voice is rougher now than it has been tonight, and Anakin knows by some thoughtless instinct that he’s close as well. “I’ve got you. Come for me, Anakin. Love you, dearest. I love you.”

And that, with one more thrust against his prostate, is enough. Anakin throws his head back against the wall and comes so hard he sees white. A deep, punched-out noise rises from his chest and his nails sink into Obi-Wan’s tunic. His mechno-hand scrabbles so hard he’ll probably leave marks, awash as he is in the tempestuous wave of pleasure.

He is distantly aware as Obi-Wan thrusts rapidly a few more times, fucking him through the crest of his orgasm before he comes with a snarl of Anakin’s name and a bite to the juncture of his neck. Anakin gasps at the pleasure-pain of teeth set into his flesh and shakes with aftershocks as Obi-Wan pulses inside him.

They come down slowly, breathing together as Obi-Wan mindlessly kisses at the bite and Anakin strokes his Master’s hair. A few long, peaceful moments pass this way, simply holding each other and pressing lax kisses into each other’s skin and hair before their position grows to be too much.

Obi-Wan slides out of Anakin, setting an apologetic kiss to Anakin’s cheek at the hiss of discomfort it draws forth. He sets him gently to the ground and steadies him with hands at his waist when Anakin’s legs shake at the reestablished equilibrium. Anakin bows his head for a moment to collect himself, and when looks up he finds Obi-Wan watching him with a soft smile on his face.

His eyes twinkle in the low light, and Anakin’s breath hitches quietly. The communication that passes between them then is too marvelous, too complex for words. Just by staring into his Master’s eyes, Anakin knows that Obi-Wan understands all the words he can’t bring himself to speak into the night air.

Softly, in the back of his mind, he feels the stirring of a familiar pathway. He sucks in a quiet, surprised breath as he realizes at once just what it is. He hasn’t travelled that road for a long, long time, but he knows the well-worn path of their training bond better than life itself.

Obi-Wan searches his eyes even as he strokes over the quiet remnants of the bond, and Anakin knows the question that lies behind the icy blue of his Master’s gaze. And just as he knows the question, he knows the answer. He reaches for his own side of their bond and brushes away the cobwebs, pushes aside the vines, and then-

A rush of consciousness, not his own, floods into his very being, overwhelming and all-consuming as a sandstorm. He hadn’t really known what he was missing, hadn’t let himself miss it, but oh. Obi-Wan’s Force signature dances with his own and fills the dark places of his mind with beautiful light.

It’s overwhelming, awe-strikingly powerful, and the rightness of it fills a part of his soul that he didn’t know he was missing.

He gasps brokenly, tears welling up and spilling over his eyes before he can stop them, and Obi-Wan laughs wetly. Anakin can feel his joy in the Force, as physically as the hand that comes up to wipe his tears away.

Hello, dearest, Obi-Wan’s voice echoes brilliantly in his mind. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?

Anakin can only nod through the tears, completely overwhelmed by the resurgence of their bond. He had thought he’d never feel this again. The fact that it was Obi-Wan who initiated their re-connection is almost surreal.

Force, they have so much to talk about, but for the moment, Anakin simply shuts his eyes and breathes.

Patient as ever, Obi-Wan holds him quietly until he is sure that Anakin can stand on his own before setting about putting them to rights. Anakin had all but forgotten that they are standing in an abandoned alley, half-naked with cum drying on the front of his tunic and dripping down his leg. He winces at the realization, shifting uncomfortably as Obi-Wan pulls up his own trousers and produces a cloth from his pocket. He wipes Anakin down gently before lifting his trousers and handing him the cloak he’d dropped when Obi-Wan first kissed him.

“Thank you,” he says quietly.

The bond somehow feels so fragile, so new, that he’s afraid he might shatter it if he deigns to speak through it. Obi-Wan casts him a gentle, knowing look, and kisses his cheek.

“You’re welcome,” he smiles.

Like a picture coming back into focus, Anakin suddenly notices the wounds that litter Obi-Wan’s face and dip down into his tunic.

“Master,” his voice comes out as a pained breath.

Obi-Wan raises his eyebrows in question, then winces as it pulls on a nasty-looking bruise. Their bond colors a sheepish pink, and Anakin tries not to reel from the sensation of the extra feedback.

“Ah. Yes, that.”

“What happened? You never let them touch your face,” he reaches forward to brush his fingertips lightly over the deepest bruise.

“Yes, well, that Devaronian was tougher than he looked. You landed a hit or two as well, I daresay.”

Anakin grimaces. “Sorry.”

Obi-Wan shakes his head with a fond chuckle.

“You should see the other guy,” he winks.

Anakin huffs a laugh and shakes his head in return, and when Obi-Wan smiles at him? He knows then and there that no matter how fragile their bond may feel, no matter what happens next, they’re going to be okay.

#obikin #top!obi-wan #bottom!anakin #spicy fic #north writes #spice with feelings #anakin's pov #let me know if you want more tags #goodness it's been so long since I've had to tag anything #what do I dooo #hope you all enjoy!#and thank you for the lovely response to the last part omg #idk what to do with myself #fight club au

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hunnybadgerv · 2 years

Text

Tracker: Vague Prompts

Adapted from the Vague Prompts collection originally posted by @ladylike-foxes

VAGUE PROMPTS 1:

Secret that stays in the cave

Buried beneath a mountain of furs

“The concept of wolves will never get old…”

Haunting night song; brother sleepwalking

Moths in a forgotten shed

“There’s an unfamiliar perfume on her wrists, I don’t recognize the scent.”

Following your idol too closely

Plucked every red rose from the garden and burned them

“You keep lifting me up—but this time, I won’t come down.”

The temptation of giving in, surrendering to dark, sweet elysium.

A thing no god wants to see

“Keep the cloth from covering her face.”

The bed is empty when (….) get(s) back

The line between them is a thick mistake

“I watched you watching me from the window.”

Fingers scrubbed to bleeding

The Woman in the Painting

“We need to look beyond the ghosts we’ve created here.”

Things that die over and over

Keeping dead flowers

“Perhaps it was preordained, perhaps it was simple circumstance.”

The comedy of gulls

The feeling of hollow kisses

“It’s hard to breathe when you look at me like that.”

VAGUE PROMPTS 2:

“Who gave you such radiance?”

Wounds too deep to spill blood

A new sweetness, a new pleasure

“Just that unknowable shadow under your eyes.”

The comfortable chaos between

Bells ringing that no one has shaken

“You worry is needless; it won’t consume me.”

A sacred little fragrance

Like running with a knife in the dark

“You don’t know whether you are damned or martyred.”

Fever dream statue, gilded in gold

The painted figurine of a desperate heart

“We bared our throats for our god.”

Fondness for bruises left by love

Silence that cuts like a knife

“I guess I’ve been dead for a while.”

Minor gestures of springtime joy

Like wood with a gift for burning

“My bleeding out, is that what sets you free?”

Violence of a different kind

Spreading within the bones like slow mycelium

“Don’t you have a home these days?”

Secrets beneath floorboards, memories in the walls

First warm breath of the dawn

“Remember what brought you here and what drove you out.”

Bare skin on damp ground

Deafening beat of a bloody heart

“No one sings while they burn to death.”

Milky-eyed stare, blank but knowing

The sickly-sweet scent of dying flowers and decay

“They say she sold her soul to a dark god.”

Sun-bleached bones, picked clean

Lips the color of a violent death

“Those are not a cat’s eyes…”

A sprig of hemlock twirled between fingers

The numbness of fear clawing its way inside

“Who is the grave for?”

Pouring unfamiliar potions into bottles of fogged glass

A maze of empty tunnels

“Shh. Wait for The Singing to pass.”

If they wept for him, he couldn’t hear it.

Seeking revenge for denial of flesh

“Something has been following us for awhile now.”

Driven mad by the whispers

Fleeing spiders their only warning

“Living things can haunt too.”

VAGUE PROMPTS 3:

Thin as moss under naked feet

Not the drowning but the breath after

“There is nothing quite as sublimely unsatisfying as infatuation.”

Tucked away with a soft smile into a pocket

Ritual burning of incense

“The poor fools don’t hear their echo in each other.”

Eighty-four rules of decorum

Veins ahum with the thrill of a shared secret

“She’s fond of being dreadfully candid.”

Sounds of music still playing in the distance

The fog of warm breath on cool glass

“So lovely, it makes my bones ache.”

Climbing the narrow stone staircase by candlelight

A modest diadem, worn uncertainly

“But I’ll still linger there when there’s nowhere else to go.”

Eyes like stone grave markers

Baby blue and cruelly soft

“Oh, I’m quite sure I’ll regret kissing him.”

A glisten caught in the sand

Feeling it safely in hand

VAGUE PROMPTS - EERIE EDITION:

Bare skin on damp ground

Deafening beat of a bloody heart

“No one sings while they burn to death.”

Milky-eyed stare, blank but knowing

The sickly-sweet scent of dying flowers and decay

“They say she sold her soul to a dark god.”

A sprig of hemlock twirled between fingers

The numbness of fear clawing its way inside

“Who is the grave for?”

“Shh. Wait for The Singing to pass.”

If they wept for him, he couldn’t hear it.

“Something has been following us for awhile now.”

Driven mad by the whispers

Fleeing spiders their only warning

“Living things can haunt too.”

A forgotten room In the Shadows (Yvaine Cousland/Nathaniel Howe)

#DADWC Prompts #Prompt Fill Tracking

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pressedinthepages · 3 years

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Scene

next fill for @witcher-rarepair-summer-bingo

also big thanks to @major-trouble for beta-ing and @sometimesiwrite and @rawrkinjd , as well as friends in the Cake Shop for helping me spin this story together <3

Prompt: Remote/Magical Toys

Relationship: Geralt/Eskel

Rating: Explicit

Content Warnings: modern au, soft dom/sub play, subspace, domspace, public sex (kinda), marking, bruising, reverse stripping (aka getting dressed), dressing each other, edging, orgasm denial, frottage, penetrative and oral sex (m/m)

Summary: After a hard day, Geralt found his husband, Eskel, getting ready to treat him to a relaxing evening out.

Geralt sighed as he pressed the garage control that was hooked onto his visor. He leaned his head back against the well-worn interior for just a moment before pulling out his keys from the ignition and pushing open the driver’s door. The bed creaked as its weight resettled from Geralt rising out of the truck. He pushed the door shut with his hip, wincing a bit as the hinges groaned. Gotta add WD-40 to the list.

He ran his hand down the line of his jaw, scratching the tired skin lightly. His feet hurt, his back hurt, hells, even his eyes felt strained on the drive home in the light from the late afternoon sun. But even before he opened the door that led into the house, Geralt could feel the low thrum of music being played just a bit too loud, and he wouldn’t have been able to suppress the grin on his lips if he tried. Eskel was cleaning.

Something low and cozy unfurled itself in Geralt’s stomach, stretching out languidly in the relief of feeling at home. Eskel, with his broad shoulders and penchant for wearing trousers that were just a tad bit too snug around his bum, was just beyond that door, tidying his big ol’ heart away while waiting for Geralt’s return. Coming home to his husband never failed to make Geralt’s knees wobbly with affection and sweet words spill unbidden into the air. No matter what had happened that day, no matter how drained Geralt felt before he crossed the threshold into their home, Eskel was somehow always exactly what he needed.

And it varied. A lot. Some days, Geralt needed soft words and cuddles on the couch that stretched into the pastel lights of pre-dawn. Other days, Geralt needed Eskel’s sharp wit and bold hands that took him apart atop their crimson bed sheets. And still others, such as this day that found Geralt, he didn’t really know what he needed. He was really looking forward to their dinner out, a chance to relax and unwind without any of the outside world pressuring in, but he couldn’t quite place where he needed his head to be to feel at peace.

Geralt shook his head fondly as he turned the brass knob, stepping through and letting it click shut behind him. The sweet, crisp scent of Pinesol greeted him as he walked into the house before toeing off his work boots in the laundry room. Geralt’s socked feet padded quietly out into the hallway, following the sound of instrumental lo-fi playing through a speaker towards the kitchen, where he was met with a pair of fiery golden eyes and a palm facing him, willing him to stop in his tracks.

“AH, ah, don’t come into the kitchen. Just mopped,” Eskel smiled as Geralt backed away with a smirk, his own palms turned up in peace. “Just have this last corner to hit and then I’m good to go.”

Geralt hummed and leaned on the frame of the doorway, his eyes tracking down the swell of Eskel’s arms at the seams of his well-worn henley, the dark hair flopping down into his eyes with just the hint of a little curl at the ends. Eskel turned his back to him and pushed the mop into the corner, scooting backwards bit by bit.

“Hair’s getting long,” Geralt drawled. “You’ll be needing some of my hair ties soon enough.”

Eskel huffed and glanced over his shoulder, still swiping back and forth across the floor and blowing his hair away from his eyes. “Got an appointment next week for a trim, it’s gettin’ to be a bit mu-”

“Cancel it,” Geralt whispered as Eskel reached the edge of the tile and his bum knocked into Geralt’s hips. Geralt set his hands on Eskel’s waist as he stood to his full height. One of his hands trailed up Eskel’s back and tangled into the soft strands of hair at the nape of his neck. “I like it long like this…”

Eskel hummed from low in his chest, rumbling back into Geralt. “I’ll think about it.”

Geralt pressed his lips into the hollow of Eskel’s neck. “Please do. We should get ready for dinner.”

Eskel nodded and swallowed thickly, taking a calming breath before reaching for the mop bucket and toting it back into the laundry room. He wiped the sweat from his brow, the echo of Geralt’s lips still floating on his neck. He heard the low hum of the water heater kick on as Geralt got into the shower, so he unceremoniously dumped out the dirty water and left the mop propped up to dry.

He puttered around briefly, rinsing off his hands and patting them dry on his jeans as popped back into the kitchen, keeping his feet light as he grabbed a glass from the cabinet. He quickly filled it with ice and water from the dispenser in the refrigerator before walking back down the hallway towards their bedroom. Eskel pondered as he walked, honing in on Geralt’s disposition. He had clearly been in a good enough mood to be a tease, but Eskel wasn’t blind. He could see the dark circles tinging the tender skin under Geralt’s eyes, the weight of his consciousness dangling heavily from his solar plexus and pressing behind his ears.

Eskel moved over to the bedside table and set the glass of water down and left his phone to charge before walking to their closet. He had an idea, and a damned good one at that. He just needed to move quickly in getting himself ready so that he could focus on what Geralt needed. Eskel stripped out of his comfortable lounging clothes and chucked them aside, cocking his hip as he decided what to wear.

He slid on a slightly more respectable pair of jeans that hugged his ass quite nicely, sitting comfortably on his hips. Next, a simple hunter green button-down, loosely tucked in with the top few buttons left undone. Eskel finished it off with a dark brown leather belt and a pair of grey oxfords. Easy enough, he thought as he heard the shower turn off. Now, for the fun.

Eskel strode back and forth between the closet and the bed a few times, depositing new items with every pass. A pair of dark, not-quite-black jeans, a blue shirt with silver pearly buttons and a subtle paisley print, a soft pair of briefs, all folded neatly at the edge of the bed. Geralt’s most comfortable pair of nice boots, the soft leather buttery as Eskel set them with a pair of socks peeking out.

A simple black box, no larger than a shoe box, was set atop the comforter as well. It had been tucked away for a solid two weeks, just waiting for the perfect opportunity to reveal as Eskel’s surprise. Eskel put his hands on his hips and looked down at the spread just as the bathroom door opened, the soft spice of Geralt’s body wash carried over on a burst of steam. Eskel turned around and smiled as Geralt quirked his brow at him. “What, no red shirt tonight?”

“Variety’s the spice of life, Geralt.” Eskel tracked his eyes slowly, obviously, reverently over Geralt’s hair already neatly tied at the nape of his neck, down his broad chest and his narrow waist, his skin glistening with water droplets that trailed their way down to the towel slung around Geralt’s waist. “Speaking of, can we do a scene tonight?”

Eskel flicked his eyes back up to Geralt’s face, his sharp eyes catching the blush that just barely crept up Geralt’s neck. It even peeked a bit over the faint freckles on Geralt’s cheeks, like watercolors sweeping across parchment. It was that, those little things that no others had the privilege of witnessing, that always gave Eskel the most euphoric sense of joy.

Geralt nodded and cleared his throat lightly. “What-uh, what did you have in mind?”

Eskel held out his hand and his smile grew as Geralt slipped his fingers in between his own. “I want to take care of you, let you have a quiet night where you can get away from all those thoughts bouncing around your skull.”

Geralt hummed and looked over Eskel’s shoulder to the bed with a cheeky smirk. “Picked out an outfit for me?”

“Mhm.” Eskel ran his other hand up Geralt’s shoulder and watched the goosebumps bloom in its wake. “Figured that even if you don’t wanna scene, I could still help you get ready.”

“Tell me more.” Geralt appraised the box on the bed suspiciously, but with an enthusiastic glint in his eyes.

Eskel followed his gaze. “We’ve got a quiet booth for dinner tonight, set aside in a corner. I’ll dress you, be sweet. But I figured that tonight might be good to try this out…”

He turned and grabbed the box, handing it to Geralt to open. Geralt’s fingers worked quickly, tipping the lid open and turning out what lay inside into his palm. It was a toy made of velvety black silicone, a sleek graduating plug with a tapered tip and a flared base. It was reminiscent of some of the toys that they had used in the past, but Geralt could tell by the way that Eskel was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet that he was in for a pleasant reveal of just what this toy had to offer.

“I’ll work you open,” Eskel rumbled, reaching behind him for his phone, “and put that in. I-I’d like for you to wear it at dinner. And...I’ll be able to do this-” Eskel pressed on the screen on his phone and the toy gently vibrated in Geralt’s palm, practically silent, “whenever I want.”

“A-are you gonna make me cum at the table?” Geralt whispered, glancing back and forth between Eskel’s fingers and the still-vibrating plug.

“Would you like that?” Eskel asked, removing his thumb from his phone, letting the toy fall still.

Geralt swallowed thickly and let his mind wander. No work, no outside world. Only Eskel, the man that he loved more than words could dare to say, doting on him and showering him in pleasure that he so rarely afforded himself. It didn’t take long for Geralt to make up his mind. “Y-yeah, I’d like that.”

“Then when we get back home,” Eskel slipped his phone into his pocket and rolled his sleeves up to his forearms, revealing olive skin dusted with pearly scars here and there, “we can indulge more. But I think we should just keep the scene for the dinner.”

Geralt nodded, “I agree. I know that I’m going to want to ravish you by the time we get back here.”

Eskel brought his hand up to Geralt’s neck and pulled him in, resting their foreheads together and closing his eyes. He breathed in deeply, the soft musk of clean Geralt warming his chest and down his hips. “Safewords?”

“You know my word.”

“Doesn’t matter. Still need you to tell me.”

Geralt sighed with a smile that betrayed the tease on his tongue. “Steel.”

Eskel nodded. “Steel.”

“And yours?”

“Silver.” The word dripped from Eskel’s lips, passed merely on his breath to Geralt’s ears.

“Silver.” Eskel watched Geralt’s eyes begin to haze over with his eagerness, his readiness for what was so close to come.

“Ready then?” Geralt nodded and blinked, clearing himself for the touch of Eskel’s hands and the mind-bending surge of Eskel’s being bleeding into his own.

Eskel took a deep breath and felt himself slip into the role, the dominant, the caretaker. He stood up straight and allowed all of the bold streaks within him to flare out into the very tips of his fingers where he reached to pull Geralt to the edge of the bed. “Let’s get you dressed, love.”

Geralt sighed as soon as he felt Eskel’s strong touch on his skin. Eskel could feel the steady thrum of his heart in his chest, and he watched Geralt’s eyes haze over and flick down, slipping into his own role as the submissive, the wanted, the cared-for. A lazy smile pulled at his lips when he looked back up into Eskel’s eyes, and Eskel could practically taste the adoration that swam around in his vision.

Geralt’s skin was warm and dry as Eskel ran his hands over his shoulders and down to the towel at his waist. He untied the little knot and pulled it away, leaving Geralt’s side for a moment to hang it on the hook on the bathroom door. He heard the low whine that tore itself from Geralt’s throat and he hummed reassuringly. “Don’t worry, love. Just don’t want to leave a mess. You saw all the cleanin’ I did today?”

Geralt nodded as Eskel came back to him, stopping behind him and resting his hands on his hips. He peered around and met Geralt’s gaze when he turned his head, two pairs of maple-gold eyes boring into each other. “Did it for you. I’ll always do it for you, anything.”

Geralt gasped as Eskel’s hands pushed at his hips, leading him to prop one knee up on the edge of the bed and brace himself on his hands atop the dark sheets. Something low and intense burned in Eskel’s stomach at the little noise, so acutely aware of how difficult it was to drag noises like that from Geralt. “Y-hmm. You know that I’d do anything for you, Eskel. You need only ask.”

“I do,” Eskel murmured, kissing down the line of Geralt’s spine, smirking at the goosebumps that erupted around his hips, “in a heartbeat. You’re my everything, and I know that you love me more than you can rightly say.”

Geralt could feel the denim of Eskel’s jeans scratching against the backs of his bare thighs, setting their two roles apart in stark contrast. Naked, needy, exposed. Dressed, giving, guarding. The rough planes of Eskel’s cheek glanced over the small of Geralt’s back as he kneaded his hands gently into the swells of Geralt’s bum, leading him into the headspace of comfort, care, trust. Geralt felt the reins of his mind loosening with each moment that passed, yielding to the loving hands that roved restlessly atop his skin.

Eskel’s blood thrummed molten in his veins as he reached to the bedside table and found the bottle of lube, watching the little shudder along Geralt’s hips as he clicked open the cap. “Now,” he groused, slicking his fingers in a generous amount of the lubricant. “Don’t want to get you too worked up. This is for later, but I want you to be stretched out and comfortable.”

“A-alright-” Geralt hummed as Eskel gently pushed at the tight ring of muscle between his thighs, not actually pushing in, but more around. Loosening him. Relaxing him.

Eskel’s mind and body warred with themselves as he watched Geralt shake ever so slightly under the ministrations of his fingers. Eskel inhaled deeply, centering his energy in his pelvis and the tender spots behind his ears. He slowly pushed into Geralt’s entrance just up to his first knuckle, smoothing his other hand back and forth over Geralt’s hip. He bit the inside of his cheek in an effort to keep it together, dammit as the keen from behind Geralt’s teeth reached his ears, the sight of Geralt’s toes curling as he attempted to quell any other little noises from betraying his tender state. Geralt’s hole fluttered and pulsed around him as he slid his finger out and back in again, working it just a bit deeper each time. Once he was buried up to the knuckle, Eskel let out a breath that he hadn’t realized that he had been holding.

“Gods, Geralt,” he breathed, entranced by the sight of his finger, shining with lube, pressing in and out and around Geralt’s entrance. Eskel’s cock was certainly showing interest, twitching in the rough confines of his jeans. “You always feel so fucking good for me.”

Geralt’s breath punched out of his chest, his arms suddenly falling slack so his hands bunched in the soft fabric beneath them, his face braced against the comforter. A small voice at the back end of his mind fought the praise, told him that he didn’t need it, that he didn’t deserve it. But this was Eskel talking. Eskel, who had known every inch of Geralt, inside and out, for as long as either of them could remember. Eskel, whose own secure walls had been methodically weathered by Geralt’s love. Eskel, who loved him more and more every day.

So Geralt really couldn’t find it in himself to listen to that insignificant voice. It wasn’t terribly often that either of them had the opportunity to scene quite like this, as Geralt’s mind tended to be far more...stubborn than Eskel’s when it came to letting go. Oh, but when he could? Geralt indulged.

Eskel dripped more lube down Geralt’s cheeks, sliding in a second finger on his next pass. Geralt’s back arched and Eskel watched as the muscles in Geralt’s thighs and down to his calves rippled. Geralt let out a shuddering breath, the end tinged with a growl from the back of his throat.

Patience, Eskel. He had a very specific goal in mind, and that goal required resistance, endurance, restraint. Never mind that his cock was trying valiantly to make itself known, to get him to just rip his trousers off and sink into that tight, wet heat. Eskel hung his head as he worked Geralt open, willing himself calm, searching out the path to Geralt’s pleasure that had become so well traveled for him.

Geralt pushed his hips back into Eskel’s fingers, searching for more. “Esk, please. I-I need-”

“I know what you need, love,” Eskel hummed and tightened his hold on Geralt’s hip, stopping the roll of his hips back onto his hand, “and what you need, Geralt, is a bit of patience.”

Geralt gasped as Eskel thrust a third finger inside of him, stretching him wider and searching for that hidden spot nestled away. Eskel shifted, placing his knee up on the bed beside Geralt and twisting his arm so that he could crook his fingers just so. He finally brushed over that spot that sent stars up Geralt’s spine, but he didn’t linger. He couldn’t.

“You ready?” Eskel rumbled, loosening his grip on Geralt’s hip. A low growl peeled from his chest when he saw the red marks shaped in the pads of his fingers, knowing that they would soon be pretty purple bruises on one of Geralt’s most intimate spots.

“Y-yes,” Geralt sighed, sliding into a whine as Eskel pulled his fingers from inside of him. The toy was light in Eskel’s hand as he coated it with lube, dripping an extra little bit between Geralt’s cheeks as well before pressing it just barely against his entrance.

Geralt tried to rock back into the contact, his hand reaching back and grasping desperately to twine his fingers with Eskel’s. Eskel’s heart soared in his chest, feeling just how badly Geralt wanted this. He stroked his thumb over the back of Geralt’s fingers as his other hand slowly guided the toy into Geralt, lightly thrusting through the tight ring of muscle until it sat comfortably flushed inside of him.

Now, it was nowhere near the size of Eskel’s cock. It was only about the length of a typical plug, and the girth of two of Eskel’s thick fingers. But it still filled Geralt quite nicely, his slender fingers clenching the blanket with enough vigor to leave creases in their wake. His eyes rolled back into his head and all he knew was pleasure in its purest form, a constant thrum inside of him as his body adjusted to the toy.

Eskel couldn’t tear his eyes away. Geralt, bent over on the bed, his shoulders heaving with heavy breaths, his ass shining with the lube that dripped languidly down the insides of his thighs. The peek of the toy, a black flare sitting nestled along the slope of the inside of Geralt’s cheeks. Eskel slid his hands through the coarse hair on Geralt’s thighs and back up once again, spreading his ass and taking one last, long look.

“You alright if I go grab a towel? Need to get you cleaned up before dinner.” Eskel murmured low, trying to keep his voice steady and calm while a different part of his brain that he was trying very hard to ignore was stomping its feet and losing itself in the ideas of just what Eskel could do with Geralt right now, dammit.

Geralt grunted and relaxed his hands, searching for words that landed no further than the tip of his tongue. Eskel grinned to himself as he watched the gears kick back on in Geralt’s head, cracking through the haze of the subspace that he had so gently, so lightly been cradled into. He hadn’t truly slipped completely into that haze beneath consciousness, but he was lingering in that odd, yet still quite pleasant, space in-between.

Eskel shook his head and gave Geralt just a moment longer. It was so easy for either of them to fall silent while in the cozy embrace of subspace, even one as light as where Geralt found himself. But then, when adjustments needed to be made and the two of them needed to move on to the next part of the scene, they needed words. Not mumbles, not shaken heads. Clear, not cock-drunk words, that show that they came from a settled mind and knew just what they wanted.

“Geralt,” Eskel gently stroked his thumb back and forth on Geralt’s hip, coaxing him back into himself and lowering his head down to be level with Geralt’s. “Need you to use your words. Tell me, can I get a towel for you?”

Geralt’s chin turned lazily towards him, his honey-golden eyes blinking with an ever so slight furrow of his brow. “M-mhmm. Yes, Eskel. I’m good. I’m here.”

Eskel nodded, pressing his lips to Geralt’s temple and scritching the hairs at the nape of Geralt’s neck. “Alright, I’ll be quick.”

He stepped into the bathroom and found a clean washrag, running it under some warm water and ringing it back out before quickly washing his own hands. As he stepped back into the bedroom, Eskel found Geralt sprawled exactly as he left him, thighs open and head resting on the comforter. “Melitele help me,” he whispered so as not to startle him out of his fragile state of bliss, “Geralt, you are far too pretty.”

Geralt grunted again, a huff of laughter playing on his tongue. “Nuh-uh,” his voice was muffled where his lips turned into the soft red blanket, “y...you’re too pretty. With your long hair, fuck. Can’t wait to pull on it.”

Eskel shook his head and smiled, carefully reaching out to drag his fingers up Geralt’s leg. His heart warmed in his chest and the swell of Geralt’s wish sent lovely visions through his head. “Hush, you. Let me clean this up…”

He slid the warm towel around Geralt’s bum, gently wiping away the stray lube and beads of sweat that had found their way into the small of Geralt’s back and down around where the toy poked temptingly out of him. Eskel hummed low as he went, carefully wiping around Geralt’s front and finding him a bit more than half-hard.

“Well,” Eskel rumbled, using a firm hand to clean away the last few drops of lube from where they had dripped down his thighs, “someone has been enjoying themselves…”

“Mhm,” Geralt sighed, lifting his head up and propping himself onto his hands. “No shit. You were buried to the knuckles and have been whispering sweet things into my ear. Can you blame me?”

“Never,” Eskel whispered, wiping his hands off and pressing his lips to Geralt’s shoulder blade. “Now, I need you to roll over so we can get you dressed. Go slow, don’t want to jostle anything unnecessarily. And don’t even think about tryin’ to help me get you dressed. That’s my job.”

Normally, Geralt would give him snark with his sharp tongue about getting him worked open and kind of sticky so soon after his shower. He wouldn’t want the praise, the soft attention. But Geralt in this role? He had needs locked away that his conscious mind wouldn’t let spill from his lips, wouldn’t allow him to seek out with just anyone. But Eskel? Oh, Eskel had torn right past the walls that Geralt had kept so strongly built around his most tender parts long ago, but it wasn’t often that Geralt let himself get this relaxed, this malleable.

Eskel guided Geralt gently but with confident hands, hands that had squeezed and molded and felt every inch of skin on his body more times than either of them could count. Eskel smoothed his hands down Geralt’s hips and over his thighs as he settled on his bum with his legs hanging off the side of the bed, resting back on his elbows and looking up at him through his lashes. He’d started the journey back into himself from the fog of pleasure, though he was still pliant and smiley when he met Eskel’s eyes.

“How’s it feel, Geralt?” Eskel’s breath caught in his throat when Geralt swallowed thickly and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. His cock, nestled half-hard at his hip, was beginning to flag just a tad, though it was clear that Geralt was fighting for any modicum of self-restraint.

“Mmm. ‘s good. Comfortable.” Geralt’s voice was rough gravel at the bottom of a riverbed, bubbling and tumbling up his throat. Eskel squeezed Geralt’s thighs, reassuring them both in the soft gesture.

Eskel nodded with decisiveness, letting his fingers slip from Geralt’s legs. “Right then. Let’s get movin’. Underwear first.”

Eskel picked up the soft dark pair of briefs, running his fingers along the waistband. He knelt down between Geralt’s legs, pressing his lips to the inside of his knee. He slipped the shorts over one of Geralt’s feet, followed closely by the other. He pulled them up slowly, letting them chase the path that his lips made until he reached the crest of Geralt’s hip. Eskel tapped his fingers on the side of Geralt’s leg and flicked his eyes up to him, a wordless request. Geralt clenched his jaw as he lifted his hips off the bed and Eskel quickly pulled the underwear into place.

Geralt let out a soft punched noise from his chest as he landed back down on the bed. “Alright?” Eskel asked, standing back to his full height.

“Mhm,” Geralt sighed, his eyes fluttering slightly. “Just...snug in there. ‘S nice.”

“Good,” Eskel grinned, reaching down to adjust how Geralt’s cock was sitting in the soft cradle of the briefs. He was hot and heavy in his palm, valiantly pulsing with Eskel’s barest touch. “Now, give me your hands. I’m gonna help you up and into your pants.”

Geralt grunted, moving like his arms were pushing through jello, slowly sitting up and slipping his fingers into Eskel’s. His chest was flushed pretty pink and his skin was pleasantly warm to the touch. Eskel gently pulled him up, smoothing his hands up Geralt’s arms as he adjusted his weight to standing on his feet once more.

“There’s my man,” Eskel growled from the space nestled right beneath his sternum. Geralt’s knees wobbled as he gasped into Eskel’s ear, clenching his teeth before setting himself right once more.

“M’kay,” Geralt swallowed and nodded, that same soft look still swimming in his eyes. “We can do pants now.”

Eskel pressed his palm firmly into Geralt’s chest above his heart, running his fingers through the dark thatch of chest hair. He leaned over to the bed and picked up the neatly folded jeans, letting them open as he dropped back to the floor at Geralt’s feet. He felt Geralt’s eyes on the crown of his head as he situated the legs of the pants in between them.

“Ask first,” Eskel looked up, catching the bright flicker of Geralt’s eyes boring down into him.

Geralt’s cheeks flushed a bit further, trailing down his chest. “C-can I touch you? Please?”

That was always the most difficult part for Geralt, scene or no. Saying, out loud, what he desired. Not for lack of trying on either of their parts, and they had known each other intimately for so long that they knew, most of the time, just what the other was seeking. But they both knew, too, how long Geralt’s stubbornness would keep him bottled up and silent, keeping down his own wants and needs in pursuit of Eskel’s. But that wouldn’t do.

So Eskel, in an effort to nudge Geralt into being more comfortable with saying what he needed, asked him to. Often. And Geralt had responded well, especially when Eskel offered his soft, gentle praise in return.

“Of course, love,” Eskel said, lowering his voice to as growly as it dared get. “I am yours to touch, always.”

Gods-be-fucking-damned, Geralt thought as he looked down at Eskel, his face level with Geralt’s still quite interested cock and his comfortably full ass. Eskel was clearly affected too, his chest flushed red through the peek at the top of his shirt, his trousers just a tad too snug around his arousal. Geralt threaded his fingers in the soft mahogany strands of Eskel’s hair, just running idly as Eskel’s hand found his ankle.

“This one first,” Eskel said, still staring directly into Geralt’s eyes. Geralt lifted his foot and let Eskel slide the denim over and up, letting the leg pool around his ankle when he led it back down to the floor.

“And the other, now.” A mirrored repeat, Geralt’s fingers still running rivers in Eskel’s hair. Longer than it had been in quite a while. Little curls on the end, enticing him to wrap his fingers in and hold fast. But that wasn’t part of the plan.

Not that night, anyways.

Eskel stood slowly, hooking his fingers into the waistband and dragging the jeans up Geralt’s legs. The denim hugged his legs firmly when Eskel stood back to his full height, his eyes still locked with Geralt’s as he settled the waistband on his hips and did up the zipper and buttons. Geralt had softened enough by that point so as not to be completely obvious in the tight pants, though Eskel still used a gentle hand to guide his cock into a comfortable position.

Geralt bit the inside of his cheek as he felt Eskel’s hands smooth up over his stomach and onto his neck, cupping his cheeks and pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. Geralt turned his head just a tad and slotted their lips together, not pushing or deepening, just sort of... holding each other, feeling the sweet embrace of their lips against one another. Geralt sighed as Eskel moved away, grabbing Geralt’s shirt off of the bed.

“Come now,” Eskel chuckled, “can’t just kiss you all day. We’d never actually get to dinner.”

Eskel led Geralt with a hand on his hip to spin, his chest now at Geralt’s back. Eskel dragged his nose down the slope of Geralt’s shoulder as he slid the sleeves of the shirt over Geralt’s hands and up his arms. The fabric was cool over his flushed skin, light and breezy despite the stuffy appearance. Eskel adjusted it so it sat correctly over Geralt’s broad shoulders and skated his hands back down to Geralt’s hips. He tapped his left hand twice right over Geralt’s hipbone, prompting a spin once more.

Geralt smirked and spun around on the balls of his feet, just slow enough that he knew would push and prod at the bottom of Eskel’s almost endless well of patience. He knew he had hit it perfectly when Eskel’s crooked brow came into view, one of his hands resting comfortably on his cocked hip.

“How long do you think I can keep this up before you look at your watch?” Geralt drawled, playful affection tinting the heavy snark in his voice.

“Geralt…”

“Well, you’ve spent a decent chunk of time playing with my ass, at this rate we won’t be getting to any sort of restaurant before …”

Eskel tilted his head, a playful warning, but a warning all the same. He was, after all, the one in charge. “As much as I would love to watch you try and find out, we’re not testin’ my resolve this evening. Not yet.”

Eskel smirked, hooking his fingers into Geralt’s belt loops and yanking, slotting their hips together and brushing their noses. “For now though,” he whispered into Geralt’s mouth, having ended that bout of silliness quite effectively, “let’s wrap this up, shall we?”

He ran his hands up beneath the edges of Geralt’s shirt, all the way up to his collarbones before grabbing onto the fabric. Eskel started a few buttons down, showing off a triangle of pale skin marked with shiny scars and smattered freckles. Eskel’s fingers danced quickly down the rest of the pearly buttons, neatening and straightening as he went all the way down to the last one. He leaned in and pressed his lips to Geralt’s cheek as his hands snaked around his waist, tucking the hem of the shirt snugly into the band of his trousers as they moved back around to the front.

Geralt returned the peck on the cheek before Eskel backed too far away, smiling at the soft blush that skated over Eskel’s nose. “Anything else?”

“Sit back down on the edge of the bed,” Eskel slipped his phone out of his pocket and looked at the time before setting it on the comforter. “Need to get your shoes on, then we should be ready to go.”

Geralt nodded and sat, kicking his feet idly while Eskel knelt back on the floor. “Got my good boots out?”

Eskel looked up at him through his lashes, “Of course I got the good ones, this is not amateur hour, Geralt.”

Geralt nodded and set his feet on Eskel’s thighs. “I like these boots.”

Eskel smiled and pressed his lips to the inside of Geralt’s thighs, kissing the rough denim and feeling the yield of the soft flesh nestled beneath. “I know. ‘S why I picked them.”

Eskel moved quickly, easily slipping the socks onto Geralt’s feet, followed by the comfortable leather boots. Eskel did up the laces, only knotting them a single time. Just as Geralt preferred.

He stood, bracing his hands on the bed on either side of Geralt’s thighs. He kissed Geralt gently before grabbing his phone, backing up just outside of arm’s reach. “Right then, love. Wanted to ask you something. Would you like to see how the toy feels when it’s on before we leave, or would you rather it be a surprise?”

Geralt met Eskel’s eyes, finding them clear and soft. Not the eyes of his dom, demanding answers and compliance with only a look. No, those were Eskel’s eyes. The eyes of the man with a heart of gold that Geralt loved more than life itself. Geralt shook away the last tendrils of the hazy submissive role that had enveloped him so nicely over the last while, mulling over his two options clearly in his mind.

If there was something that Geralt tried to avoid at all costs, it was surprises. Generally speaking, it was rare that anything ever truly surprised him, but there were always some exceptions. Even still, he preferred to be prepared for any possible outcome, especially when his ass was involved.

But fuck, when it came to Eskel? He would put his life in Eskel’s hands without a second thought. He knew that Eskel would never do anything to put him too far outside of his own self, his own comfort. Eskel knew him better than any other person, inside and out. He would never ask for anything outside of what Geralt would ever want, and he would handle Geralt with the finest gloves like the finest china.

Geralt’s eyes flicked to Eskel’s fingers. Before, when he had been teasing, Eskel’s fingers tapped his hip and flexed impatiently. An act. But in that moment, while Geralt was deciding just how he wanted to find his pleasure? His fingers were still, his posture relaxed and his eyes searching Geralt’s as if he could find the answers to all of life’s problems in the sunrise-golden irises.

Geralt cleared his throat and smoothed his hands over his thighs. “I...I want it to be a surprise, please.”

Eskel smiled warmly, clicking to lock his phone and slipping it back into his pocket. “Alright, good. But...and just so you know, I would’ve said this either way, but you have to be vocal with me. Need you to be honest, all evening. Less, more, not enough, stop. Anything and everything that you’re feelin’, I need to know. You have to promise me that, Geralt.”

Sure, Geralt was putting his trust, his vulnerability, his control, into Eskel’s well-worn hands. But...not really. They both had control, they both knew that this was a two-person dance that needed communication. And Geralt knew that Eskel would never ask for something that Geralt could not give, not now and not ever. So Geralt didn’t need to think twice about nodding, saying, “Of course, Eskel. I promise.”

“Wonderful,” Eskel rumbled, slipping back into the dominant headspace now that he had gotten confirmation of their needs. “Now, let’s get in the car.”

The car ride was quiet, peaceful. Eskel drove, one of his hands gripping onto Geralt’s thigh the entire journey. Not with any sort of force, but strong enough for Geralt’s mind to latch on to and yearn for more. Besides that, Geralt didn’t really know where they were heading. He figured it would be somewhere nice, especially as Eskel had spent so long planning this evening out.

“I can hear you thinkin’ from over here,” Eskel grinned, peering over at him before returning his eyes to the road. “Go on. Ask.”

Geralt swallowed and blinked out the window at the sunset, bright oranges and reds and purples painted across the sky. “What, uh… where are we going for dinner?”

Eskel grinned and squeezed his thigh lightly, pouring every ounce of his love into the tips of his fingers to bleed into Geralt’s leg. “I’m taking us to Falenti’s, I know you like their Saltimbocca…”

Geralt’s eyes lit up and flicked over to Eskel, finding the self-satisfied grin that tugged at the scar over his cheek. “I do love that sauce. Will… will you order for us?”

“Was hoping you’d ask that,” Eskel blinked slowly, his voice tumbling lower and lower the closer they got to the restaurant. “I like when you let me take care of you like this. You won’t have to think about a thing.”

Geralt preened the slightest bit in his seat and threaded his fingers with Eskel’s, letting Eskel stroke his thumb over the back of his knuckles as they pulled into the parking lot.

The weight of the toy in Geralt’s bum shifted as he rose out of the car, drawing a gasp up into his chest. Eskel knew, of course, and walked around to slide his hand back into Geralt’s. “Alright? Still good?”

Geralt grinned and leaned his head onto Eskel’s shoulder. “Yeah, still good. I’m… I’m excited.”

Eskel’s eyes went soft and his smile felt so much more real in that moment when he pressed his lips onto the crown of Geralt’s head. “Me too, love. Me too.”

Eskel led the two of them into the restaurant, a burst of cool air welcoming them as the door opened. They approached the host stand, finding a young woman with kind eyes and a bright, if not a little too much so, smile on her face. “Hello gentlemen, doing alright this evening?”

Eskel smiled and pulled Geralt closer, wrapping his arm around Geralt’s hip. “We’re doin’ wonderful, thank you. We have a reservation under ‘Rivia,’ please.”

The young woman tapped a few keys on the desktop in front of her before grabbing two menus. “Follow me to your table, your server will be right with you.”

Eskel guided Geralt by the hip, feeling the barely-there softness of the tummy that he had been trying to get Geralt to build for years beneath his fingers. Just as requested, the two of them were escorted to a booth in the corner, sequestered away from other patrons. Private, or as much as they could be in a public restaurant.

It was dark, lit only by a lone sconce on the wall that bathed the mahogany table in a warm glow. “As I said, your server will be with you shortly.” The young woman left their menus on the table and departed, leaving the two men to relax into their seats across from one another.

Eskel watched Geralt shimmy and shift around in the seat, attempting to find a comfortable position with the secret hidden inside of him. Eskel smirked, pulling his phone out of his pocket and onto the table, Geralt’s eyes immediately shooting over to it and back up to Eskel.

“Now, we won’t start at least until I’ve ordered,” Eskel said as he opened his menu, his tone borderline flippant. “After, though, ’s free game.”

Their server came over, another young woman dressed entirely in black, with a black apron tied around her waist. “Hello gentlemen,” her voice was quiet and calm, gentle waves in the dark air. “My name is Lou, I’ll be your server this evening. Can I start you boys off with something to drink, or are you ready to order?”

Eskel slid his foot up the outside of Geralt’s calf, causing him to jump slightly in his seat. Eskel grinned with a wink before turning to Lou. “I think we’re ready, actually. We’ll just do water to drink, and we’ll start with the Zucchini Fritti. I’ll have the chicken Bellini, and he’ll have the Veal Saltimbocca. We’ll have to see how we’re feelin’ for dessert, so we’ll decide on that later.” Eskel’s voice was still low, almost growly, and Geralt was mesmerized as he listed off their order. Struck dumb, he watched their server bounce away before returning with their glasses of water, leaving them alone once more.

Eskel sipped his water, looking straight over the table at Geralt, whose own eyes were glued to where Eskel’s free hand now hovered over the screen of his phone.

“T-thank you for ordering for us, Eskel,” Geralt murmured, watching the minute tease of Eskel’s fingers just barely not touching the screen.

“You’re very welcome, my love,” Eskel replied, just as quietly. “Wanna start you slow, so you have a chance to get used to the feeling.”

Geralt nodded, feeling a rush of heat bloom up his chest as he squirmed a bit in his seat. Eskel chuckled, seeing the enthusiastic glint in Geralt’s eyes as a good sign.

Geralt watched as Eskel finally, gently pressed his finger to the base of the phone and dragged up, only just barely on the screen. He felt the toy rumble to life, and he gasped despite being prepared for the sensation. It was pleasant, and Geralt already itched for more.

Geralt hummed and let his eyes fall closed, his fingers gripping onto the edge of the table. “Fuck, Eskel,” he breathed, his lungs playing catch-up with how intensely his heart was beating, “f-feels so good.”

Eskel was enraptured, watching in real time as that familiar submissive haze fell over Geralt’s eyes. “’M glad, will this be what you need?”

Geralt nodded and swallowed thickly, letting his head fall to his chest. Eskel hummed and drew his fingers up under Geralt’s chin, lifting his eyes back up to him. “Words, love.”

Geralt’s cheeks flushed and Eskel smiled, keeping his eyes soft. “Y-yes, Esk. It’ll b-nnng. It’ll be perfect.”

Eskel bit the inside of his cheek as he spotted their server returning to their table just as Geralt’s hips started to shift back and forth, chasing the soft vibrations of the toy. Eskel took his finger off of the phone and Geralt’s eyes shot open, defiant and his mouth fell into a grimace that disappeared as soon as their server came into view.

“Alright boys, one order of the Zucchini Fritti. Anything else I can get for you?”

“No, thank you,” Eskel said, shooting a sly look at Geralt out of the corner of his eye.

Lou left them once more and Geralt sagged into the cushions, his chest heaving with deep breaths. “Shit. Can always trust you to let me get all caught up and then fucking cut me off-”

Eskel hummed and reached for one of the little rounds of crispy zucchini. “You gotta trust that I know what’ll be good for you. Within reason, of course, but I want you to be able to let me take the reins. Without attitude.”

“You love my attitude.”

“I do, just as I love the rest of you. But if you want to be bratty, maybe I’ll just keep you on the edge all night, not let you finish at all?”

Geralt coughed as he sipped his water, sitting back up in his seat. Well. I guess that’s me shutting up... for now. “N-no. I’ll behave. Promise.”

Eskel grinned wolfishly. “Good. Now, let’s eat for a bit, then we can keep playing.”

They ate quietly, letting their minds relax and settle back into the liminal space nestled between their brows. As the plate was emptied, Eskel reached across the table and grabbed onto Geralt’s hand. Lou came back around and took the dish, letting them know that it may be a while before their entrees came out, as there had been a mishap in the kitchens.

“Not a worry, Lou,” Eskel smiled kindly, “we’re a patient bunch.”

“Most of the time…” Geralt grumbled under his breath.

Eskel clenched his jaw and shot Geralt a Look with his eyebrows raised. “When it counts, we’re very patient. Don’t worry about us Lou, we’ll just... relax for a bit.”

Lou had no sooner spun on her heel away from her table when Eskel slid his finger back onto the screen of his phone, cueing the toy inside of Geralt to vibrate significantly more intensely than it had before. Geralt clenched his fingers in Eskel’s hand and his body clenched before relaxing right back into the weight of the toy. His hips thrusted absently with the vibrations, following the pattern that Eskel drew back and forth on his phone.

In the back of his mind, Geralt was minutely aware of their public situation, especially as the crotch of his trousers drew tighter around his growing erection. But Eskel was whispering across the table to him, boring his golden eyes up and down Geralt’s body as if it were the first and only time that he’d ever get the chance to see him like this.

“Gods, Geralt,” Eskel breathed, tracing arches up and down on his phone to increase and decrease the speed of the vibrations of the toy in waves. “You know, I bet that if anyone were to look over here right now and see you thrustin’ up so desperately into nothing, they’d be so godsdamned jealous of me... cause I’m the one that gets to sit here and watch.”

Geralt felt like he couldn’t breathe, his body like one big nerve ending that kept twitching and shaking. The toy pressed against his prostate and he could feel his cock leaking into his briefs, and he just barely bit back a moan that threatened to escape from behind his teeth. Geralt glanced up at Eskel and came this fucking close to cumming in his pants then and there.

To anyone on the outside looking in, anyone who didn’t know the intimate tells that Eskel so carefully kept stowed away, he would almost look bored as he absentmindedly scrolled around on his phone. But Geralt, who knew every minute thing that made Eskel who he was, could see right past it. Eskel’s barrel chest, dusted with coarse dark hair that peeked through the V of his unbuttoned shirt, was flushed maroon and hitched with deep breaths taken through his nose. His hand, still gripped in Geralt’s fingers, was sweaty and his eyes were dark and lusty as they tore like fire over Geralt’s skin.

Eskel slowed the toy down, tapering the vibrations until they stopped all together. Geralt knew now to trust in Eskel’s judgement, especially considering that he really was gloriously oblivious to the specifics of their surroundings. Eskel took a deep breath in and leaned over, giving his hand one last squeeze before letting go. “Food’s on the way. Take a deep breath, love, you’re doing so fuckin’ well.”

Geralt let a dopey smile pull at his lips as he stretched his fingers and his legs out, still comfortably aroused, and maybe a little frustrated with being cut off again, but endlessly loved. His mind swam with the look in Eskel’s eyes, the lingering warmth of Eskel’s hand still nestled in the grip of his fingers.

Two steaming plates were set before them, deep aromas tickling Geralt’s nostrils. His mouth, having already been watering from their previous activities, sighed in contentment.

“Alright, how’s everything look?” Lou asked, looking back and forth between Eskel and Geralt.

“Looks perfect, Lou. Thank you.” Eskel smiled as Lou turned away, lifting his fork and putting together a generous mouthful of sautéed chicken smothered in a creamy white wine sauce with roasted peppers and olives. His eyes fluttered shut as the softly savoury taste hit his tongue, indulgent and instantly satisfying the craving in his stomach. He still felt the tingles of a craving much lower, baser, but it was quieted for the time being.

Geralt discreetly adjusted himself as soon as Lou had stepped away, giving him the perfect timing to make himself comfortable once more. His prosciutto wrapped veal wafted a heady scent of sage and fire-roasted garlic up to smother his senses, and though Geralt could not ignore the still weight resting in his bum, he found himself seeking out the intense flavors that rested atop the plate.

The two of them ate in relative silence for a bit, broken only by the occasional murmur or offer to try each others’ dish. Every now and then, Eskel would nudge his knee up against Geralt’s, putting soft pressure to just... feel him.

“Geralt...” Eskel put down his fork and finished chewing, looking for his husband’s eyes across the table.

“Yes, love?” Geralt’s eyes flicked up briefly to Eskel’s, then back again when he saw the fond look at him across the table.

“Can—sorry, do you mind if we step out? I’d like to just talk for a bit if that’s alright. Only if you want, if you need to stay in it, I’m happy to stay.”

Geralt’s chewing slowed as he, too, lowered his fork. “Sure, we can pause. You alright?”

Eskel smiled reassuringly, “Yes, Geralt, I’ve never been better.” He reached for Geralt’s hand across the table, “I’m just… I’m incredibly happy, you know. With the life we built and the life we share.”

“It’s quite something, isn’t it?” Geralt said fondly. “If we can ever get the tiling in the downstairs bathroom finished.”

“That is your pet project Geralt, and you know it.”

“Well, if it’s any consolation, I finally decided on the colour—”

“Aaand let me guess: you’re waitin’ for it to go on sale?”

“That was one time, Eskel, and you know it.”

“That’s all beside the point. This all started because I was feelin’ a bit romantic, you ornery old thing.”

“Alright, alright. I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to side track you. There’s a reason I married you, you know?” Geralt sighed fondly and rested his chin in his hand.

“Only the one?”

Geralt shook his head with a smirk turning the corner of his lip. “If we’re counting the entirety of ‘Eskel’ as a single thing, then yeah. Just the one. Although, putting a vibrating plug in my ass and taking me out to dinner is pretty high on the list.”

“Shame those things weren’t around for our wedding night,” Eskel cheeked, waggling his eyebrows.

Geralt narrowed his eyes playfully. “First of all, are you calling us old? Secondly, I cannot imagine walking around with this thing in my ass at our reception.”

Eskel shrugged. “Who said it would’ve been you wearing it?”

“Careful, now. I can’t get too far away from the scene or I’ll never get back in.”

Stroking his thumb over the back of Geralt’s knuckles, Eskel smiled softly. “Of course, love. Maybe we’ll revisit that idea later. You know, sometimes I wonder just what I did to deserve you in my life.”

Geralt’s heart swelled and he squeezed Eskel’s hand. “You didn’t have to do anything, Esk. We deserve each other, always.”

“I love you Geralt, I can’t say it enough times, but I do. So much.”

“I know, Eskel. I love you too, forever.”

They slipped back into a comfortable silence, just relaxing and enjoying each other’s air. Their plates slowly emptied, neither of them bothering to worry about saving anything for leftovers. Just as Geralt was sopping up the remainder of the sauce at the bottom of his plate with a chunk of bread, Eskel coughed lightly.

“Wanna get back into the scene, love?”

Geralt nodded, giving Eskel’s hand one last squeeze before slipping it away. “Yeah, that’d be nice. Might need a minute, though.”

Eskel smoothed his hand on his jeans and set his fork down on his barren plate. He dropped his voice back down into the just barely growly register that he knew set Geralt’s blood alight. “What do you need from me?”

Geralt’s fingers flinched and he dropped the bread onto the plate, spattering the sauce just a bit. “Shit, just that. J-just talk to me for a second.”

Eskel cocked his head and leaned back in his seat, letting that bold streak that rested low in his stomach crawl up into his chest and down the line of his shoulders. “Want me to tell you how good you’ve been all evening? How I’ve been sittin’ here, watchin’ you give yourself over to me like it’s still that very first time, or maybe how nicely you fit in the palm of my hand?”

Geralt’s eyes, already hazy and soft, followed Eskel’s hand as he reached over to his neglected phone. He felt himself clench around the toy in anticipation, but Eskel only slipped the phone into his pocket and bored his intensely golden eyes back into him, so deep that Geralt felt his very being warm with the twin suns of Eskel’s eyes.

“You alright, Geralt? Feelin’ good, drifty?”

Geralt hummed and nodded his head, resting his hand in his lap, letting just the tip of his fingers brush over his comfortably interested cock. His breath pushed out of his lungs in a soft keen, briefly closing his eyes in an effort to keep himself together under Eskel’s scrutinizing gaze.

“Geralt, I need words. Feelin’ good?”

Geralt cleared his throat and reopened his eyes, patting his own thigh a few times to wrangle what little bit of control that he still felt behind his eyes. “Y-yeah, Esk. ‘M floaty. But not too floaty…”

“Good,” Eskel rumbled, and Geralt felt the soft vibrations up his spine even without the toy inside of him even being turned on. “Will you be alright for me to run to the restroom for a moment?”

Geralt clenched his jaw with a light chuckle. “Yeah, I’ll be fine. I’ll try not to get into too much trouble without you here.”

Eskel smirked. “Geralt, that’s the only time you ever do get into trouble. Ah, hang on. Lou’s coming back, but I’ll take care of her. Just be good for me, yeah?”

Geralt hummed a quiet, “Yeah, Esk,” just as Lou rounded the corner of their table. “Everything good here? I’m guessing you won’t need any boxes,” she smiled, lifting their empty plates away from the table and balancing them on her arm.

Eskel smiled back, crossing his legs beneath the table and brushing against Geralt’s shin. “It was delicious. Now, I think we’re actually going to skip dessert tonight, but is there any way that we can just sit here for a bit longer? We don’t get to go out terribly often, an-”

Lou held up her free hand and shook her head with a grin. “Not a worry, gentlemen. You can have this spot for as long as you’d like, and I’ll leave you be. Just poke your head around if you need anything, and I’ll leave the check up at the host stand.”

Eskel nodded and he shifted in his seat, the weight of his phone burning a hole into his patience. “That’s perfect, Lou. Thank you so much, we’ll be sure to give you a shout if we need anything, but I think we’re good for the time being.”

“Wonderful,” she smiled and turned away, leaving Eskel to quirk his brow at Geralt.

“Sure you’ll be alright?”

“Mhm. I’m good. Gonna miss hearing you talk. But ‘s okay. You’ll be right back.”

Eskel smiled and nodded. “I sure will. Won’t be but a moment. Promise.”

Geralt watched through hooded eyes as Eskel sauntered off towards the restrooms, his shoulders broad and imposing even through the low, dim lights of the dining area. Geralt’s mind felt warm and while he immediately felt the loss of Eskel being within his reach, he knew that rationally, Eskel would never actually leave him for long, especially not during a scene. Over the years, they’ve figured out a balance, a dance back and forth of where their hard boundaries lie, and what could give with the well of their trust. Geralt allowed himself to relax back into his seat and his mind began to wander, floating out into the hazy edges of his awareness while waiting for Eskel’s return.

In the meantime, Eskel pushed open the swinging door to the restroom and let it fall shut behind him. He took a deep, calming breath in through his nose and held it, clenching his jaw as he counted back from ten. Watching Geralt, so willing, so relaxed, so eager, fuck it was doing things to his head. Well, and to his cock.

Eskel stepped up to one of the urinals and undid his belt and opened the fly of his jeans, letting his half-hard cock bounce into the open air. He was tempted, just for a moment, to take himself well and truly in hand and finally grant himself that sweet relief that had been hovering on the horizon for the better part of the evening. But no, no he couldn’t do that. It would be wrong, a cheat in their game. They were both clearly aware of the expectations, and Geralt had handed himself over to Eskel with the explicit trust that Eskel would be in complete control. And Eskel choosing to get up and leave Geralt alone in the tender embrace of his light subspace while he jerked off in the bathroom felt... wrong. Like he distorted and tainted the trust that was so delicately gifted to him and had lost control.

They both knew that nights like this, placing their very beings into the hands of one another in pursuit of comfort and indulgence, were for each other. They focused in on what the other needed, what they wanted. Geralt trusted Eskel to handle him with hands honed from years of practice with each other, and Eskel trusted Geralt to do the same.

Eskel sighed and hung his head, closing his eyes and focusing on anything other than the hot thrum of his blood calling him to seek out his climax. He relieved himself quickly, tucking himself back into his jeans and washing his hands. The hum of the hand-dryer was still resounding off the walls as Eskel glanced around the empty bathroom. He smirked to himself as he slipped his phone out of his pocket. Just a tease…

Geralt’s mind had just started to feel thorny around the edges, turning in on itself with harsh spikes when he felt that same soft rumble start up at the base of his spine. Ah, he thought to himself as his lips turned up in a soft grin, just as I was starting to miss him.

His arousal swelled between his thighs as the vibrations intensified, growing higher and dipping back down to a gentle hum in slow waves. Geralt’s mind wandered to Eskel, his beautiful, glorious Eskel, hidden away and still thinking of him. He arched his back and tried to sink his hips into the comforting pulsations inside of him, so achingly close to the sensitive bundle of nerves that had been relaxed away. His body yearned for more, everything tensing and relaxing and seeking out that which had not yet been awarded.

Three long, hard bursts shot up his spine and Geralt gasped, his eyes flicking over to where Eskel was exiting through the restroom door. His eyes were on Geralt the entire way back to the table, but Geralt’s eyes were on Eskel’s thumb, still pressing up and down on the screen of his phone. Feeling the patterns as he watched the separate movements that caused them in real time made his cock flex hard in his jeans, his hips stuttering as he felt the beginnings of climax overtake him.

“Not yet,” Eskel growled as he slid back into his seat, lifting his thumb completely from the phone screen. The toy came to a halt, dragging the explosive release of Geralt’s climax back down into the small of his belly as his lungs heaved in desperate breaths.

The phone clattered onto the table just as Geralt felt the tinglings of feeling return back to his fingers where they had been gripping onto the edge of the table. Geralt clenched and unclenched his jaw, seeking Eskel’s eyes in his own.

“Got pretty close there, huh?” Eskel drawled, thick and husky with just the hint of a tease seeping from behind his teeth.

Geralt swallowed thickly and nodded, screwing his eyes shut, still achingly within reach of his climax, even without the constant hum of the toy inside of him.

“Do you wanna cum, Geralt?”

His eyes shot back open and found Eskel’s finger hovering over the phone’s screen. He felt every thing all around them: the cool air coming from the vents above them, the well worn cushions beneath them, the lacquered wood beneath his fingers, the rough denim over his thighs. The soft cotton of his briefs sliding and pressing into his cock, slick and catching with the amount of precome that had been leaking from his neglected tip.

“Tell me,” Eskel whispered, coaxing Geralt along, putting the words right at the tip of his tongue, leaving Geralt with only the need to push them from his lungs. “Tell me, and you’ll have it.”

The air felt suspended around them for what could have been the beginnings of a lifetime. Neither of them could look away, their golden eyes melting into ore between their prone forms. Geralt was ready, so fucking ready, and Eskel was ready to give it to him. It wasn’t exactly the most difficult choice that Geralt had ever had to make.

“Yes,” Geralt breathed, tasting his desperation claw its way up from his chest. “P-please, Esk. M... make me cum.”

Eskel smiled, his teeth bared and almost wild as he pressed his finger firmy down to the screen, causing the toy to vibrate strong and fast and hard, pulsing against Geralt’s prostate and fucking holding there. They both knew how close Geralt was. His cheeks were flushed high and pink, trailing in soft brushstrokes down his neck and below the collar of his shirt. Eskel reached out with his free hand and grasped onto Geralt’s once more, watching Geralt’s hips reach a breaking point in their rhythm before suddenly stilling.

Geralt came with only the slightest noise, just little stunted, guttural grunts escaping up out of his chest, his eyes screwed shut as his climax overtook him. Geralt’s hips twitched and stuttered in aborted thrusts, completely unconsciously. His conscious mind was nowhere to be found, floating through time and space with the comfort of being cared for and grasped onto whiting out his vision. His mouth hung agape and he threw his head back against the high back of the chair, his chest heaving, racing, trying to bring him back into his own mind and into Eskel’s waiting hands.

Their surroundings started to push at the fuzzy edges of Geralt’s mind, the muted sounds of a still busy restaurant, Eskel’s finger slowing the toy down to a low rumble, the cooling wetness pooled in his briefs. Eskel’s voice, fading into the soft mush of his mind, “-so fucking good, Geralt. So beautiful, you’re killin’ me. You’ve gotta know how much I need you, need you more than air, love.”

Geralt blinked his eyes back open, finding Eskel in a... precarious position. His own chest dark and ruddy, little pearls of sweat beading in the hollows of his exposed collarbones. Sitting across from Geralt with his broad shoulders, hips slightly slumped to accommodate the now far-too-tight crotch of his trousers, eyes dark, mouth open slightly with his free hand beneath the edge of the table. Gerat could see from the way that he was moving that he was just barely palming himself through his pants, not seeking his own climax yet, but so starvingly desperate that he truly could not help himself.

Eskel’s thumb rubbed slow, soothing circles over the back of Geralt’s knuckles, escorting his mind with an anchor to tether his focus. “M-may I come sit next to you?”

Geralt smiled dopily and nodded, chuckling a bit as Eskel clambered out of his seat and into the spot at his side with all of the grace of an over-excited newborn horse that hadn’t quite found its legs yet. Eskel set his hand at the nape of Geralt’s neck and pulled him close, slotting their lips together with a fervor that only barely made its way to the light of day. Eskel rumbled soft whispers into Geralt’s mouth as they kissed, praises and words of wonderment, somehow sounding half-drunk and stone-cold sober in the same breath.

Eskel pulled back only enough to allow words to drift over the air between their lips, resting their foreheads together and rubbing his thumbs back and forth through the soft hairs at the base of Geralt’s skull. “How’re you feeling, love? Comin’ back?”

Geralt smiled, blinking slowly at Eskel and glancing around. He was no longer exactly blindingly comfortable, especially with the feeling of his own spend cooling in the tight embrace of his briefs, though he still felt safe and content and sated, wrapped in Eskel’s arms. “Yeah, Esk. ‘M good. That was... fuck, that was nice.”

The smile that Eskel shot Geralt was one that would saunter unbidden through Geralt’s mind until the day he ceased breathing on this earth. It was light and soft, lilies preening in the moonlight under which they bloomed. “Yeah? Here, hang on. You sh-”

“Yeah yeah, drink some water. I know,” Geralt grinned, pecking his husband on the lips once more before pulling away, though Eskel still kept him comfortably within his embrace. The glass of water, sweaty with condensation, was cool as Geralt lifted it to his mouth, letting it calm his humming muscles as the water spilled out and down into his throat. “You always break out of the scene so soon, ‘s always when I cum-”

“You’re just so damn sweet when you finish, Ger…” Eskel nuzzled his nose into the crook of Geralt’s neck, his brown curls tickling the tender skin and bringing goosebumps in their wake.

The weight of the toy still sat warm inside of Geralt, and though he flexed around just the smallest tinge of oversensitivity, it was... well. It was another thing for his mind to focus in on and cling to. “So, handsome,” Geralt set the empty glass down onto the table and ran his finger down Eskel’s neck, trailing through the dark thatch of chest hair that peeked out and hooked into the V of his open shirt. “Wanna let me take you home?”

They wasted no time in making themselves scarce, Eskel nearly ripping his jeans in his haste to remove his wallet from his pocket. He left a (thankfully, already prepared) wad of cash on the table as a tip for Lou and tucked his far too obvious for polite company erection into the waist of his pants. Eskel scooted out of the booth first, holding out a hand for Geralt to take as he followed suit.

They hurried to the host stand, settling their bill before leaving, tearing through the front doors as if their very lives depended on them getting back to their home right the fuck now. Eskel reached over the center console once they got into the car and kissed Geralt with enough heat to make a damn volcano jealous, nipping his lip and breathing his name into his mouth before pulling away like he had been struck by lightning.

“Gotta-” Eskel swallowed thickly and put on his seatbelt with a look on his face like it was physically paining him to part from the soft warmth of Geralt’s lips. “Gotta get home, or else I’m just gonna fuck you in the car.”

Geralt hummed and did up his own seatbelt, letting Eskel shift the car into drive and pull away from the restaurant and onto the highway. “A tempting offer. But both of our backs would be fucking shot in the morning. Gettin’ too old for that.”

Eskel chuckled, crooking his eyebrow. “You’re tellin’ me. Maybe we should take up yoga-”

“Don’t you even start. Unless I get to watch you do nude yoga on a mountaintop while the sun is rising, I don’t wanna hear it.”

“Maybe we’ll head up the mountains for our next vacation, see the leaves change colors?”

Geralt sighed with a lazy smile playing at his lips. “T-that’d be nice.”

Eskel hummed, and they sat in comfortable silence for a while. That is, until they got about halfway home and Geralt started to get bored. He looked over into Eskel’s lap, finding him still hard and tenting his jeans, his hands twitching restlessly on the steering wheel.

“You know,” Geralt hummed, reaching over and placing his hand high up on Eskel’s thigh, firm and holding fast just shy of where he knew Eskel was aching for his touch. “I have some ideas for just what I’d like for us to do when we get home.”

Eskel quirked his brow and kept his eyes stubbornly on the road, though his knuckles grew white with how hard he was gripping the steering wheel. “Y-yeah?”

Geralt then started whispering, honey-laced sweetness tinging the fucking list that he rattled off into Eskel’s ear. Everything from how he wanted to draw out Eskel’s pleasure for as long as he could last, down to licking the salt of his spend off of every inch of where he marked Eskel’s body as his own. Eskel groaned and his breath hitched every now and then, his knee bouncing with anticipation and just the briefest tinge of impatience.

Eskel threw the car into park once they pulled far enough into their driveway to not get clipped by cars passing on the road, his parking job about as straight as he was. He jumped out of the car and didn’t even make it to the damned door before he started stripping out of his clothes, popping open the buttons of his green button down and tugging it free from where it had been tucked into his jeans. Geralt followed behind him with a smirk, stepping across the threshold of the house and over Eskel’s haphazardly abandoned shoes.

Geralt pulled the front door shut and locked it just as Eskel crowded up behind him, spinning him ‘round and cupping the nape of his neck with his hand.

Eskel kissed him deeply, licking into his mouth and moaning, trying to undo the dainty, pearly buttons of Geralt’s shirt that he had so delicately done up only a few hours prior.

“Geralt,” he could taste Eskel’s moan on the tip of his tongue, calling out to him and begging for everything that he had.

“Yes, love?”

“Take me to bed.” Eskel’s eyes were wide and dark with lust as he finally yanked the sleeves down Geralt’s arms and let it fall to the floor.

Geralt led him towards the stairs, both of them frantically stripping their clothes away, leaving Eskel completely bare and Geralt still in his briefs when they got to the foot of their bed. Eskel dropped to his knees and mouthed at the soft cotton of Geralt’s briefs, nosing along the mostly-soft cock that was still damp with his spend.

Eskel’s eys swam with the vision of Geralt, his hands spread out on their table as his climax washed over him, his eyes hazed and his jaw slack with all-encompassing pleasure. Eskel shifted his knees forward and dragged his hard cock along Geralt’s shin as he teased his cock with his lips, suckling and groaning into his hip.

“E-Esk,” Geralt breathed, sinking his fingers into mahogany brown hair that had no business being as soft as it was. “Fuckkk, you’re too good to me.”

Eskel shook his head and rutted his hips against Geralt’s leg, dripping precome into the coarse hairs that trailed down towards his feet. “N-no. Not good enough. Never good enough for you. But you make… you make me better. Better than I ever thought I could be.”

Geralt knew that feeling. Hells, he felt it every damn day. But they both knew, logically, that they were everything that the other needed, everything they wanted. Eskel would say it though, whenever it popped into his mind, he would question why Geralt chose him. After all these years, everything that they went through together, he still couldn’t let himself believe that he could be enough for Geralt.

Geralt gently tugged Eskel’s hair, tilting his head back to look him in the eyes. Those beautiful golden eyes, brimming suns nestled in the warmest face one could ever hope to find.

“Doesn’t matter if you think you’re good enough,” Geralt murmured, tracing the line of Eskel’s brow and down his jaw, “but that I choose you. Everyday, I choose you. I love you more than every moon, every planet, every star in the sky. And I love you more every day.”

Eskel groaned and leaned forward, licking the line of Geralt’s growing arousal through his briefs. He could taste Geralt’s spend through his briefs as he licked and sucked at the dark fabric, coaxing his husband back to full hardness while Geralt’s fingers combed his hair back from his face, his spine shuddering.

“F-fuck,” Eskel gasped, resting his forehead into the crook of Geralt’s hip, still licking softly at the base of his cock through his briefs. “Ger, I-I need to be inside of you, please”

Well, and who was Geralt to deny a request like that?

"Hmmm, best quit dawdling with my briefs, then. Get in me," Geralt rumbled with his fingers still snugly nestled in Eskel's hair.

"Is this proactive enough for you, then?" Eskel smirked up at Geralt as he yanked his briefs down his legs. Geralt chuckled as he stepped out of them and Eskel shouldered his way between his thighs. He was gentle as he reached back behind Geralt’s balls, wrapping his fingers around the base of the toy and wiggling it free, soothing his fingers around the now empty, pliant hole. “Fuck, you’re still so fucking wet. All this lube and cum here, bet I could just slip right into this loose little hole, couldn’t I?”

And then Geralt felt his feet leave the ground as Eskel gripped hard onto his hips and shoved him backwards, sending him flying through the air to bounce onto the bed. Now, Geralt would deny it till the day he died, but he let out a short, barking, high pitched squeal of delight in the brief moment of being sent airborne by his husband’s hands.

Eskel crawled onto the bed and hovered over him, growling as Geralt planted his feet and twisted the two of them, pushing and yanking and wrestling atop the covers until Geralt was firmly settled atop Eskel, straddling his tree-trunk thighs.

Geralt settled his bum on Eskel’s hips, slotting their cocks together and thrusting lightly, sending sparks up both of their spines at the sudden rush of pleasure that shot through their bones. Eskel keened from the backs of his teeth and his grip tightened on Geralt’s hips. “D-don’t tease, please-“

Geralt grinned wolfishly. “You’ve been teasing me all night, love. You can’t take even a little?”

Eskel growled and his hips thrust harder, faster, bouncing Geralt in his lap. “You already came, I’ve been half-hard since I got you dressed.”

Geralt ground his hips down and cut Eskel off with a groan, still the great heft of muscle and softness under his hands. “I want to ruin you, love.”

Eskel moaned and threw his head back. “Do it, please Geralt. I’m yours. Fuckin’ wreck me.”

Geralt shifted his hips and lifted up on his knees, taking Eskel’s cock in his hand. He watched the shiver ripple through the small of Eskel’s stomach before he scooted himself forward and lined him up at his comfortably stretched entrance and started to sink down oh so slowly.

“F-f... fucking shit, Esk-” Geralt could barely connect strings between words as he was filled so completely, so perfectly.

Eskel moaned loud and unabashedly, his voice cracking as Geralt’s hips met flush with his own. “I-I was right. Sti-mmm. Still so fuckin’ loose, took me like nothing.”

“Now,” Geralt leaned down and brushed his thumbs over Eskel’s nipples, relishing the shockwave that it sent through the surface of his skin. “I’m going to ride you, and I want to make you cum so hard that you won’t be able to walk until tomorrow. Deal?”

Eskels eyes rolled back in his head as Geralt clenched his muscles around his cock, groaning into the space that kept Geralt’s lips just out of reach of his own. “Hu-h... yes, fuck. Deal, p-please…”

Geralt circled his hips and rolled back and forth, not driving Eskel in and out, just coaxing him into every nook and cranny nestled away inside of him. He sat up, bracing his hands on Eskel’s chest, his fingers dimpling into the soft muscle that tensed under his touch. “Mmm, feel so good, love. I wanna watch you shatter for me-”

Eskel’s breath hitched as Geralt shifted up and rocked back down, the slick slide of his hole gripping his cock like the last tether to the map of euphoria he was so desperately following. “I-shit, not... not gonna last long, not like this--”

Geralt leaned back down, the angle pushing Eskel deeper inside of him with each soft, devastatingly slow roll of his hips. “Then don't.”

Eskel felt every inch of his cock dragging along Geralt’s walls, impossibly warm and slick and tight, overwhelming him as he finally found the path to his release. But Geralt was trying him, forcing his hand at patience and restraint. Long, slow thrusts down, driving them further into truly becoming one. His mind frayed at the edges, electric tendrils sparking alight as Geralt’s pace just barely, minutely started to falter, both of them finding themselves at the edge of their patience.

And as Geralt was ruining Eskel, Eskel blabbered endlessly about how good Geralt was. How he loved seeing that floaty look in Geralt's eyes at dinner, knowing Geralt was trusting him entirely. Fuck, how good he looked when he came, and how Eskel could hardly control himself.

Eskel knew how to make it go a little faster. Geralt admired Eskel’s patience, it was something that had cradled him during the hardest days and the warmest times. Especially since Geralt had the patience of a hamster. All it took was a little... tactile persuasion.

Eskel’s hands found those same marks on Geralt’s hips that he had left behind earlier in the evening and fucking lifted him, dropping him back down as Eskel’s cock drove into him at the pace he’d been chasing so desperately.

Geralt slid his hips up and down, taking off at a breakneck pace that Eskel encouraged with wordless gasps and huffs from the depths of his lungs. Their skin slapped hard, Eskel’s shouts of pleasure tearing from his throat nearly drowning out Geralt’s sighs and quiet groans in response.

Geralt tried to keep control, to keep Eskel worn thin and ragged. But Eskel had at least 50 pounds of muscle on him, and besides, Geralt was fucking weak for being a little manhandled like he was nothing. He could feel every shudder that worked its way beneath Eskel’s skin, calling out to him and enticing him closer and closer to his own release.

“E-Esk-” Geralt breathed, his thighs quaking and his stomach clenching with anticipation of what was about to spill from his lips. “Ta...take what you need. F-fuck me, go on-”

Eskel ground his hips up, shoving his cock deep within Geralt with a dull roar that clawed its way from his throat and into the static air that dripped with their arousals. Eskel sat up and wrapped his arms around Geralt’s waist, his fingers digging into the hollows at his shoulder blades before twisting them around, practically throwing Geralt down onto the bed and hovering over him.

His hair, soft and curled at the ends, dripping beads of sweat onto Geralt’s cheeks, hung down in curtains that bounced and flailed as Eskel ploughed into Geralt. He was mindless, everything he ever wanted to know was hurtling towards him relentlessly from where it was tucked away inside of Geralt. Eskel would follow Geralt to the very ends of the Earth, and Melitele’s tits, it fucking felt like he was about to find that threshold.

Their arousal kept building, bouncing and amplifying off of each other, neither of them able to so much as think further than the immediate moment. Completely lost, with only each other to guide them. It was an overwhelming, all encompassing euphoria that just refused to reach a peak. They sprinted together, needing just that one last little push to finally plummet into blissful oblivion.

It was Geralt who finally spoke, husky whispers as his nails scratched along Eskel’s scalp, clawing at his hair in an effort to find something to hang on to. His bottom lip was swollen from where he’d been biting it, and the words tumbled off of his tongue unbidden. “Esk-love, p…please-“

Geralt didn’t often beg. But when he did? It was almost exclusively when Eskel was balls deep inside of him. And Eskel was weak for it.

The fucking sound that Eskel made when he climaxed was world-shattering, to say the least. A growl torn up from his chest that bursted into a shout, followed by high, breathy gasps into Geralt’s mouth. Eskel’s eyes screwed shut as he ground deep, his hips stuttering and his jaw flexing and shaking as his climax overtook him. Geralt felt the vibrations of Eskel’s chest where it pressed into his own, and when Eskel finally leaned down and mashed his lips to Geralt’s:that’s what finally set him off.

Geralt’s cock flexed and his legs shook where they were wrapped around Eskel’s waist, hot white spurts of spend shooting out of him. Nothing outside of that moment mattered, there was nothing that existed other than the heavy weight of Eskel resting atop him and grinding as he spilled into Geralt. Geralt’s body shook with waves of pleasure that threatened to send him into an impossible spiral into endless euphoria.

Eskel dragged his hands along Geralt’s sides, pressing his lips to any and every inch of skin that he could reach as their orgasms faded, leaving them dripping sweat and breathlessly gasping into each other.

“Damn,” Eskel panted, his voice hoarse and lined with velvet. “Geralt, you came on the sheets again.”

“Fuck,” Geralt twisted his head around, finding the small pools of his spend seeping into the dark maroon of their sheets. He grinned and stuck his tongue out, lapping up a few drops of spend from where it had spattered onto Eskel’s chin. “You love it. I’ll throw the laundry in before I go to work tomorrow.”

“We gotta get better about puttin’ the towel down,” Eskel sighed, resting his forehead down onto Geralt’s. He felt the occasional stunted flutter of Geralt’s ass around his softening cock and fuck he was so warm and good and everything Eskel could ever dream to want.

“Sheet’s are already fucked, go ahead and pull out,” Geralt murmured, trailing his fingers through Eskel’s hair and twisting around the ends.

“What if I wanna keep it in? Just for a bit,” Eskel rumbled, brushing their noses together and blinking his bright golden eyes with just enough softness to melt Geralt’s heart.

Geralt hummed and ran his hands down Eskel’s flanks. “I like when you keep me full. I could take a little nap like this.”

“Go ahead,” Eskel whispered, watching Geralt’s eyelids flutter diligently. “Rest, love. You know I’ll still be here come morning.”

Geralt shook his head and huffed from his nose. “Nuh-uh. W-wanna just hold you. Like this.”

They lay together like that for a long while, Eskel wrapped up in a tight warmth and feeling Geralt’s hands slowly track up and down and across the planes of his back. Everything was so soft, so warm, and watching Geralt’s eyes slowly drift shut, stubbornly blinking back open before falling closed, was lulling him into that liminal space that drifted just before sleep.

“L-“ Geralt cleared his throat and pressed his lips to the corner of Eskel’s mouth, right in the crook of his scar. “Love you, Esk.”

Eskel rolled them to the side and tucked Geralt into his chest, shifting their legs so that Eskel’s soft cock could still rest nestled inside of Geralt. “Love you too, Geralt. Endlessly.”

#wrsb #smut #geralt/eskel #gereskel #gerskel #witcher rarepair summer bingo #otp #dom/sub #heed the content warnings

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sinisterlyhan · 4 years

Text

02. lee felix / 1923 words

hybrid!felix, oral (m receiving), throatpie, very slight fluff

a/n: decided to write a short little drabble before uni completely consumes me.

you knew you should have never let minho spray that weirdly scented perfume on you, especially after you talked to him about how shockingly well felix has been behaving even during his heat cycle at the moment.

but alas! you bought into his half-assed lie and believed him when he said the scent of matatabi would soothe a cat's agitation during their heat. now that you thought back to it, you finally realized how stupid it was for you to just let him spray the catnip perfume all over you.

however, to your defense, you did it for felix. you probably wouldn't have trusted minho right away if you didn't adopt a cat hybrid into your home, but felix was here now and you'd do anything to help him get through the mating season comfortably.

you only believed minho because you were worried about what felix was going through. and doing that has gotten to this point in your day—with felix withering beneath you as your delicate hands stroked up and down his hardened length.

you had no idea a simple plant could have so much effect on him. as soon as you returned home, he had pushed you up against the wall and started uncontrollably whimpering as he ground his hips against yours. strings of incoherent begs leaving his lips as his cat ears perked up on top of his head, indicating his excitement.

it was a mix of the nature of the heat cycle, the effect of the matatabi, and the fact that your sweet body scent mixed in with the overall aroma that got him so damn agitated as soon as you entered your apartment.

felix had been so good during his heat, surprisingly well-behaved that you underestimated how bad—or horny—he could actually get if given the chance to set his emotions free.

"(name)–(name)–please..." he whimpered under your hands, his tail elegantly wagging at his side as his hips bucked up needily.

you furrowed your brows curiously at him. you wondered if he was in pain; has he gotten so desperate that his body started to tingle in longing for a sense of your touch? what would happen if you leave him to his own devices here, with his cock erect and his tip red with pre-cum leaking down his shaft.

there were still a lot you don't know about a cat hybrid. you didn't know what took over you when you decided to take felix in, perhaps it was his innocent face or the fact that you had been at your lowest point back then. you had wanted a companion, and you got one. a very loyal, loving one as well.

rubbing your thumb over his slit to gather up the sticky substance, you dragged it down his length before taking his base in your hand. he hissed, his legs trembling in anticipation and pleasure, and you smiled.

you could tease him next time. you did make a mistake of trusting minho, and now felix had gone spiraling down a hell hole because he could pick up your scent better than anyone else could. this was partially your fault, you would admit.

besides, he could consider this a thank you gift, for being there for you all these times and taking such good care of you emotionally.

"ahh!" felix threw his head back against the couch when you finally took him in your mouth. his hands curled into fists and he brought it up to his chest, shyly holding them in place as you continued to suck on his tip.

your tongue flicked across his slit as your lips sucked on the sensitive bud lightly, sending waves of euphoric sensation over his lower body. your hand pumped the uncovered area slowly, rubbing him up by flicking your wrist.

you were taking your time with him, and felix didn't much mind it.

removing yourself away from him, you spared him a short glance as your hand picked up its pace, moving up and down his shaft and squeezing lightly at the tip. you didn't stop looking at him when you leaned back down, your tongue sticking out to press flatly against his member so you could lick up his length.

felix moaned, his voice unusually boyish and low. his eyes were squeezed shut at the overwhelming sensation, every little thing you were doing to him being exaggerated by his heat cycle. and he whined whenever your tongue would stop at his tip, not touching where he was most sensitive.

he wouldn't touch you, he wasn't sure if he was allowed to, so he resulted in withering underneath you as his nails dug into the heels of his palm. it was almost adorable to watch him act so weak and defenseless at the mercy of your touch, so much that you decided to tease him no longer.

you finally took him in your mouth after a few more pumps. your lips wrapped around his shaft and his tip being welcomed by the warmth of your tongue inside your mouth. felix let out a groan when you sucked in, your cheeks hollowing to give his cock a satisfying pull.

it was all rushing to his head, the pleasure and the fulfillment. he has been holding himself back for so long. as soon as his heat started, he had this urge to jump on you. it didn't help that you acted so casual around him still, inching so close to him so he was forced to sniff you out every waking second.

all felix wanted this week was to give in, to fuck you, to satiate the itch in his abdomen.

but he wasn't sure if you would agree to it, nor could he tell if you'd be weirded out by his attempts, so he kept it all to himself. he spent his alone time touching himself to the thought of you, spent his night rutting against your pillow and washing the sheet manually later.

none of those were ever good enough for him. nothing could compare to the feeling of his cock stuffed into your pretty, little mouth; sucking and licking at him until his voice had gone hoarse from the moans and whimpers.

bobbing your head along his shaft, your slurps become louder and more obnoxious by second, as did his shameless hip bucks grew more and more frequent.

giving him one more suck, your wet lips popped off his tip and you gave yourself a moment to breathe. felix whined from above, his hands slumping to his side as he peered down at you with a childish pout, his ears flapping down as if begging you for more.

you could only smile at him—how he managed to look like he wasn't getting his dick sucked off was beyond you, but he looked cute nonetheless.

"i want to cum, please help me, (name)," he asked politely, his low voice timid.

god, his voice never fails to surprise you. so sultry and deep, but it came in complete contrast to his baby cheeks and sparkly eyes. the contradiction was fascinating and, almost, alluring to you.

"i will," you replied faintly before leaning your face close to his cock once again. your tongue flew out to touch his glistening skin, and you licked slowly up to his tip before you wrapped your mouth around him again.

as you bobbed your head, you picked the time to lean down on his cock so his tip poked at the entrance of your sensitive throat. you gagged at his size, an uncomfortable feeling rising in your chest at his dick being lodged so far back in your throat.

felix winced, his eyes widening as a choked gasp got pulled out of his throat. his mouth stayed open at the feeling of your warmth brushing all over his cock. your tongue sloppy with not much space to navigate and your teeth just barely grazing along his dick as you moved.

you repeated the cycle over and over. bobbing your head and stopping to deep-throat him, letting your gags stimulate him every once in a while. and he could only feel his release approaching, being energized by not only the way you sucked on him, but also by the seductive scent surrounding your both.

it was heavenly, nothing short of a catharsis that released all the pent-up energy he had stored inside his body ever since his heat cycle started. you managed something his little hands could never be able to achieve—not so much talking about orgasm, per se, he’s had plenty just on jerking himself off when you’re not at home.

it was the yearning that got fulfilled, he supposed, an orgasm for the mind; the yearning to have you snug in the middle of his legs and his cock buried deep in your pretty mouth.

you felt his dick twitch in your mouth, and felix’s breathing was becoming more ragged and loud as his climax approaches. so you hollowed your cheeks once more as you went down on him, letting your throat tickle his sensitive tip one more time before he suddenly let out a shameless whine.

his hands finally made their way to your head, clamping down on either side to keep you in place as he threw his head back at his release. hot liquid sprouted from his slit, decorating a bitter taste along the walls of your throat, and you tried not to struggle with swallowing all of him with his cock still stuffed far inside your mouth.

his grip was released when he was finally done. you slowly cleaned him up by sucking on him as you moved your head along his length, finding his little whimpers at the overstimulation quite the adorable sound to hear. when you figured you were done, you finally pulled off him with a wet pop and your lips red from the ordeal.

felix squeezed his thighs together then, his sweaty forehead the remains of the extreme pleasure he felt from you. bringing his hands up to his cheeks, your eyes automatically followed along and you found a light blush adorning the freckled canvas.

“thank you...” he muttered under his breath, his voice no longer low but more high-pitched and shy. “i’m sorry, i hope that wasn’t bad...”

you reached up his body, your torso brushing past his cock ever so slightly before you weight leaned on top on him. felix winced with a shut of his eyes, still feeling the jolts of electricity whenever you come in contact with him. you brushed his cheek with the back of your palm, a gentle look on your face.

“not a problem,” you said. “i’m supposed to take care of you, right? so i’ll do that.”

felix opened his eyes to look at you, his eyes unreadable as he recounted just how lucky he got to have you pick him up from the streets and brought him home. not to mention you did everything for him starting from then on, even... well... what happened just now.

“i...” he breathed out then, his eyes showing nothing but sincerity as he whispered, “i want to make you feel good too.”

your eyes widened a little at his words, confused, and what came next made your confusion turn into complete bewilderment.

there was a poke at your stomach, your stomach that laid right between his knees.

you knew what it was.

and when you looked back up at felix, his blush only deepened.

oh god, he meant sex. he wants to have sex.

#stayhavennet #inkidz #stray kids dark hours #stray kids smut #skz smut #skz dark hours #lee felix smut #felix smut

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albino-whumpee · 3 years

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Mareland

I´ve had the idea of simulation theaters for SUCH a LONG time, I needed to take it out of my system. Mare Land is a shop or “theater” that allows you to live to every single adventure you would desire. A bit like SAO but without, ya know, the part of getting stuck there. Hope you like it~ TW:// captivity, forced labor, mental manipulation and implied abuse, creepy whumper

“Glad to see you back” a boy with white hair greets you. He’s wearing a black, spotless dress-coat. Eyes clean you from toes to head with a sincere smile. “Excuse my rudeness, I’ve thought of you as one of our regulars” A gloved hand goes to his chest and the boy bends in reverence “It’ll be my pleasure to show you what’s on stock in this humble store of experiences” the boy bent up, white hair tied up into a half ponytail following the flow “now, shall we?”

The boy doesn’t wait for you and begins walking through the large corridor with neon lights that read “Mare land” on vibrant purple.

“My name’s Salarien” the boy announces glancing back at you for a second “I shall be the one to show you Mare Land’s attractions tonight” his eyes are like honey, but under so many neon lights they seem to radiate a dangerous red glow. “Mare Land was born for the purpose of enriching the guest´s life through simulated experiences. Providing them with singular emotions that would otherwise be never lived” The plain hallway, starts to get more and more doors. Each with a different frame and lock “Mare Land bases on the user´s experience tastes. Our gallery of experience rooms with their unique story telling is the broadest of them all, if I dare say so myself. We have more than 300 of them!” The boy promptly opens one of the doors and stretches his arm for you to see what´s inside. “I´m sure one of them most be of your fancy”

A room with a beautiful view of the sea from what seem to be jungle cliffs fills your vision. You can hear some birds and can not tell where the sky merges with the see. You feel an ache to run in the sand.

“Quite the view, right?” he asks before closing the door. He puts his fingertips together and walks to another frame. “If the guest wishes for a more silent scenario…” he opens the door to a desolated place. Looks like a warehouse with an improvised surgical table. Unused. As the subject is still on a box on the other side. Muzzled and tied. They glare at you with rage and a slight hint of fear before the door closes. “Every room comes with it´s unique habitants and world rules. Which should accomodate to your tastes and needs” the boy explains as he keeps walking. Signaling you to a door that says “in progress”.

As all the other doors, this one has a small window on the front. It´s foggy, but you can see a man with chains on his hand. You don´t get to see what´s tied to them, as Salarien begins to talk again. “No need to worry about privacy. We take those matters seriously and keep a close eye into keeping everything confidencial” You turn your head back as he talks, but he goes too fast to stare too long “And no worry about touching things that have been used over and over. As the memories are reset after the experience ends, everyone gets to feel a fresh start!” he says with a delighted tone.

You reach what could be called the office. With a singular door frame of white embedments and fine gold broidery. As he enters the door and you get in, you notice it´s but a simple office with a big metal door on the back. With no windows. A big lock restraining the entrance. There´s a black desk with two chairs of the same color. “Please, have a seat” Salarien sits behind the desk and takes out some papers as you sit down. “Now, then. What kind of experience would you like to have? We can arrange the room of your dreams. With you as the protagonist, the villain or the caring sidekick” He smiles reassuringly noticing a bit of tension on your shoulders “There´s always a way to get out of the experience and change if the guest so desires. A simple word or a simple gesture. The habitants can not leave their experiences, so there´s nothing to fear. Mare Land guarantees the safety and enjoyment of the guest to the maximum” he gestures with his hands as he talks.

You ask for their prices and an expression beyond delighted adorns Salarien´s face as he hands you a list. The cheaper ones are the protagonist experiences. “It´s not usual for guests to choose that road” he explains pouring tea on a cup he hands you. “Villains roads are lot more fun!” so the price is higher than the other two.

He walks you through some paperwork about confidentiality and payment after you decide to go for the sidekick road. He´s nothing but happy to see you sign them and simply walks you to your door.

“Please remember, the word´s Tollens. Once the word is said twice, you will be out immediately. Our staff will be more than delighted to show you the way out, once it´s done. For now…” he interrupts himself to open a door with a worn out metal cover “may your experience be delightful!” he says before you enter and hear a click on your back. The world, foggy until now, becoming clearer.

——-

When the clock hit midnight, the experiences were over. Wether the guest had desired it or not, they all were required to leave at that time. People with serious, mild or simple injuries would be helped by a medic team. The people that were wearing a mad smirk would be taken out accompanied. Those who could walk on their own were showed to the exit by Salarien himself. Always a bright smile on his face as he heard the guests gush about how much fun it had been and how much they were wishing to come back already.

After nobody was on the building, Salarien went back to the office where the door was now half open. Lock not to be found. The boy inhaled deeply and went through it. He heard the usual dry click of the lock on his back.

The spotless dress-coat slowly disappeared as he went deeper into a thick gray fog. A metal collar started to become visible as well as some bruises on his skin and wide eye bags. The boy stopped walking as he met his owner. Bowing at the red haired person seating on a white throne, with the same delicacy from before. Reminiscents of magic still on the waving fingers.

“Come” his owner told him. He was quick to kneel by their side. Feeling a hand passing through his dirty white hair. “I´ve been thinking about the improvements we could make on the experiences, Salarien. Look” the person showed the boy their journal. Filled to the very edges of the paper, Salarien read through it all and looked back at their owner with the same hollow eyes. The ginger was not surprised. Salarien wasn´t meant to show emotions in front of them without an order. “Am I not the best?” Neither was he allowed to talk there. So, he settled for nodding.

“The habitants never leave, isn´t that right, Salarien?” their owner repeated lifting their chin up to him see the smirk on their face. “Except you” they said brushing their thumb against the boy´s unexpressive face “Oh, and how handy! I couldn´t tolerate any of them for even a second! You´re a very good boy” Their voice filled with honest praise wasn´t enough to make the boy´s poker face sway “They just enjoy their dream and go home, but me? Mare Land´s owner? I get to enjoy all of them. Even so, I seem to only like yours” The person´s voice filled with cockyness as they rested their chin on their hand. Savoring on Salarien´s glare. “You may go to sleep now, boy” They commanded. Salarien rose up and bowed before walking away “Another day of work awaits” they said watching the boy curl up on the floor after connecting the chain on the the wall to their own collar. Falling asleep immediately. As every night.

—-

“Smile for me” their owner told them as to wave them goodbye on his way to work. Salarien put the fake smile he wore everyday at the store and bowed as the person shushed them away. The metal door connecting to the store opened.

Going through it, Salarien´s spotless dress-coat came back a as a smile was forced into his face, now cleaner than ever.

A black ribbon tied his hair, long to his shoulders. The boy touched it curiously. That was new. “A gift” a whisper told him from beyond the locked door. “Happy birthday, Salarien” The boy turned to the closed door.

“Thank you, my lord” he said as he bent down with a smile that hurt to fake “I´ll treasure it” he said on a cheerful demeanor. Even when he knew none of what he was wearing was real.

A whisper of a laugh haunted him as he went through the store. A magic key on their hand. They pulled a curtain besides the embroided door that was the entrance to the office and inserted the key on it. At the turn, the store was filled with screams. For just a moment, it was hell. The next, a quiet cemetery.

Salarien went to inspect on every door. The effect was that every habitant was knocked out and had no memories of the day before. He passed by one of their newer experiences. One with an albino boy. He was not sure if his owner had designed that experience with him on mind. Not that it mattered.

Salarien kept walking, checking on the hazel eyed boys, the winged creatures, the artic one, the demi human, the fox people and a long etcetera.

Salarien knew he was there, opening the store to new visitors because he had been the first of all. The first experience. So old and used, the owner would repulse the idea of sharing him. They had said it was his birthday, but that was just a foreign concept that meant nothing to him. As far as he could recall, he had had the same face, the same body, since forever.

He had wondered once why didn´t he just run away. He had all the keys, knew all the ways out, the timing, the perfect plan. But he had a feeling, that if he ever tried stepping just an inch outside the store, he would evaporate into dust.

And sent back to a very, very pissed off owner.

A human met his eyes at the store entrance and the boy hanged the smile on his lips as every other day. Bowing at the possible guest with a innate elegance.

“Good morning, mistress. Welcome to Mare Land, the store of incredible experiences”

#whump #writing #mareland #Salarien #rogue #captivity #Stockholm syndrome #mental manipulation #creepy whumper #tw implied abuse #collars #my writing #original fiction

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sinsbymanka · 4 years

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One more for @pookydraws! This is actually a gift from @tessa1972 who donated to RAINN and then donated the commission to Pooky! I love you both and thank you for being so supportive of each other and all of us! This smutty drabble features Pooky’s Sarita Amell and King Alistair Theirin!

Do you want your own fluffy and/or smutty drabble? I’m still accepting donations through Ko-fi for RAINN! I met my goal BUT you can still donate there and hit me up anywhere to let me know what you’d like! You can also donate and receive your drabble anonymously. I will not post your name or tag you in the post.

Title: The King’s Reward Pairing: Female Warden/Alistair Theirin, Female Amell/Alistair Theirin Rating: E Content Warnings: Post Dragon Age Origins, Explicit Sexual Content, Oral Sex Read on AO3

Alistair knew there were less pleasant places that Denerim in the summer. Abandoned crypts. Swamps. The Korcari Wilds. Anywhere that served Orlesian cuisine exclusively. Orlais in general.

Yes. There were certainly worse places to be than the sweltering heat of Ferelden’s capital city. But it was certainly hard to remember that when he’d taken off everything except his own skin and still felt like he’d stepped into mage fire.

He reclined on the chaise, rubbing the back of his palm across his nose, and frowned down at the near illegible tiny print blurring before his eyes. Andraste, he’d been at it for hours. He had to be nearly done.

Alistair cast a despairing glance at the stack of papers on the floor, the rest of his newest Antivan trade treaty. Then he pinched his nose, hard, and sunk further into the plush material.

It was Sarita’s favorite chair. He’d hoped sitting on it would help him channel some of her focus, but so far he’d been disappointed. He just… wasn’t as good as the minutiae as she was. Frankly, the fact Ferelden didn’t fall into chaos as soon as she rode out of the capital city was a miracle sent from the Maker himself.

But she had a duty. They both did. She fought the blight, for both of them, because he’d had to forsake his oaths for a crown. His sword languished in a training yard, his crown fit ill upon his head, and Sarita…

Sarita was his mistress instead of a queen like she should have been.

It had been the right thing for Ferelden. The only thing to do, really. That didn’t mean it didn’t sting. Though things were changing. The situation in Kirkwall was becoming tenuous, proving the Circles didn’t work. Once that keg exploded, and it was about due to at any moment, it would be a matter of time until the established systems fell down around his ears.

He’d be ready. They’d defeated the blight, after all, and once the old rules were gone…

Well. It was a pleasant daydream. Much more pleasant than Antivan trade treaties, in fact. He tossed the paper to the side and laid his head back, luxuriating in the faint breeze that stirred the curtains. He closed his eyes and conjured Sarita’s azure eyes, the blonde hair tucked behind the curve of her ear.

She’d be back soon. He couldn’t wait.

------------------------

Alistair didn’t know how long he slept, but the soft sound of movement drew him from heavy, blissfully dreamless, sleep. Even after years, his gut reaction was to freeze and hone in on the small noises, searching for danger while keeping his eyes closed. He heard the rustle of silk. The splash of water.

Then he felt thin, staff calloused fingers tracing over the hard planes of his muscles.

“Sleeping on the job, your highness?”

He chuckled, stretching his arms above his head before opening his eyes. Above him, Sarita returned his crooked grin with one of her own, walking her elegant fingers down his chest.

“You’re a sight for sore eyes.” He rumbled.

“Not as much as you were.” Sarita’s expression shifted into a wicked smirk, searing hot gaze dropping down his body.

That was the moment Alistair remembered he was snoozing away in all his Maker-given glory.

“You’re lucky I wasn’t a servant.” Sarita added, eyes twinkling.

“Maker’s breath. I’m lucky you weren’t Oghren.”

“Oh, he was with me. I’d say you struck him blind, but I’m not sure he noticed.”

Alistair laughed. “Sounds like Oghren.”

Sarita hummed a muted agreement, her eyes trailing down his revealed skin. Cheekily, Alistair snatched her fingers from his chest and brought them to his lips, kissing the tips while he held her gaze.

“And have I struck you blind like the Revered Mother always said would happen?”

“Not yet.” Sarita purred, leaning over him on the chaise. “Have you missed me?”

“Endlessly.”

Joy sparked to life in her eyes. She brought her lips closer to his, leaning in to whisper against them. “And is this our treaty with Antiva?”

“It is.” He replied, pious as possible. It was made difficult because his sleep addled mind had finally caught up to look beyond Sarita’s stunning eyes and the golden fall of her hair.

His lover wore a simple silk robe, the pale material almost sheer in the late afternoon sunlight. She smelled of lavender, clearly already washed up after her arrival. The loose tie of the robe let it fall just right so Alistair could trace the swell of her breasts.

“It’s all done?”

“Just needs a final stamp. Got to read through it and make sure they didn’t put me dancing naked in the town square as one of their…”

Alistair lost his train of thought watching Sarita capture her plump lip between her teeth, peering at him through her long lashes. His breath caught in his chest as her finger drifted lower, scratching at his abdomen with blunt nails. His cock twitched with interest, beginning to swell between his thighs.

“Maker’s breath. You’re beautiful. I’m still a lucky man.”

“Working hard and compliments?” Sarita questioned. “It sounds like someone has earned a reward.”

“I have behaved myself. Ask anyone- oh Maker.”

Sarita’s quick fingers pulled the knot in her robe and it fell from her shoulders like Andraste herself was unveiling her most glorious masterpiece to the world. Alistair pushed himself up, eager eyes darting over her exposed flesh. The curve of her waist, the fullness of her hips, and those breasts.

Andraste herself didn’t have a nicer pair of breasts. Alistair knew. He’d been shoved in front of many statues of the blighted woman.

...not that he’d been looking at Andraste’s breasts.

Before he could fall further down that train of thought, Sarita settled herself on the opposite end of the chaise. One firm, strong hand pushed him back into a reclining position, her smile absolutely wicked. The kind of smile that always heralded the best activities.

“I know just the thing to show my appreciation.” Sarita purred, running her hand back down his body. His cock, fully erect, bobbed as she trailed her teasing touch up over his stiff length. He watched her smile grow predatory.

“Just enjoy, love. Allow me.” She whispered.

Truly the only thing he could think to say was a prayer of gratitude for the lovely creature in front of him. Sarita stole the words out of his mouth by dropping her pink lips to the tip of his manhood, pressing a perfectly filthy kiss to the tip.

Alistair swallowed, hard, and brought his hand up to cup the soft skin of her cheek. She leaned into his palm while her quick tongue darted past those tempting lips to lick a stripe down his length.

Alistair grit his teeth together, blowing his breath through his nose. It’d been too long, she’d been gone too long, and he wasn’t going to last. “Sarita…”

“I know.” Her own voice was husky with desire, blue eyes molten with it. “Thank Andraste for Warden stamina, right?”

“It’s a perk.” Alistair breathed. One of the few, but he’d take it. And her. He was certainly going to take her thoroughly before the evening was over.

She smirked, wrapping her long fingers around the base of his cock and opening her mouth.

Warm. Wet. One of Alistair’s hands threaded gently through Sarita’s hair, the other roughly grabbed onto the delicate upholstery of her chaise. His back arched, although force of will kept his hips steady while Sarita swallowed his length in her hot, willing mouth. Years of habit meant she took him easily almost to the hilt, the hand wrapped around his base stroking what she couldn’t take comfortably.

Those sharp eyes looked up at him again and Sarita squirmed between his legs. He could smell her own desire, heady in the air, as she bobbed back up his length. His cock slipped from between her lips and she placed another kiss on it’s tip before diving back down.

Someday, she was going to kill him and Alistair wouldn’t even complain. His moan of approval rang out in the silent room while his fingers stroked through her soft hair. She felt… Maker, she felt fantastic.

Then her tongue swirled around him and he hissed, knuckles gripping the chair going white. “Sarita.”

She made a noise of approval that vibrated around his length and he moaned again. That only emboldened her to devour him with relish. Her teasing tongue danced over his throbbing shaft, she hollowed her cheeks to suck him deeper into her mouth.

Alistair’s hand trembled. Fire ignited in his spine, traveling down to his groin. He clenched his jaw, trying to stave it off, until Sarita’s eyes found his again.

He was lost the second he saw the matching heat in her gaze. With a groan of defeat, Alistair surrendered to the pleasure she coaxed from him. His head fell back, something buzzing in his ears as his cock swelled further before everything went white.

Searing white. Hotter than anything he’d ever touched.

He came back to himself in pieces, panting and slick with sweat, Sarita’s fingers swirling patterns over his thighs. He huffed a small, choked laugh that was matched by her giggle.

“Missed you.” She admitted softly, resting her head on his thigh.

“Only cause you love me.” He murmured.

“I do. Very much.”

His heart melted in his chest and he looked back down into her angelic face. “Good. Cause I’m quite mad for you.”

#manka's friend fiction #charity fundraiser #dragon age #dragonage #dragon age origins #alistair theirin #female amell #alistair x warden #alistair x amell #pookydraws

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minimitchell · 4 years

Text

🎃🎃🎃 ooooh, spooky halloween smut 🎃🎃🎃 (based on a prompt by anon)

“This seat taken?”

Callum looks up from his drink and into clear, blue eyes, surrounded by the dark silk of the man’s mask. There’s some fake blood dripping from the corner of his mouth and he’s wearing a cape over a black dress shirt and dark pants. He’s obviously supposed to be a vampire, albeit a kind of low-budget one.

Granted, it’s not like Callum himself can talk; his costume consists of his old work suit and a painted-on moustache in a sad bid to look like Gomez Addams. It was a sort of last minute decision to go to this year’s Halloween party in the Vic, which explains why the only mask he was able to find is a black, glittery one, that completely messes with the rest of his outfit.

It’s the theme for the party tonight - everyone has to wear a mask. It’s a fun idea; even if you can still kind of tell who’s who, there’s a little element of mystery to it all.

The guy in front of him definitely wears the mystery well though. There’s some fire in his eyes, the interest clear as day, and Callum is very much on board with this. He nods and gestures to the seat next to him at the far-end of the bar, watching the man as he sinks into it and immediately turns towards him.

“All alone tonight?”

“Seems like it.”

Flirting isn’t really his strong suit; he’s more of a romance and rose petals kind of guy. It doesn’t deter the guy though, on the contrary, he tilts his head to the other and there’s a devastating smirk crawling onto his face at the confirmation that Callum is here alone.

“Let me buy you another drink then.”

He’s already motioning for the barman before Callum can even agree to his proposition and it doesn’t take that long for another beer to appear in front of him, the guy handing over some notes to pay for both of their drinks. He goes to clink their pints together but Callum moves his glass back towards him before they have the chance to meet.

“I don’t even know your name. Bad luck, innit.”

It’s a complete lie; just a pretense to find out the guy’s name, to tease him a little bit. By the looks of it, it’s working well, if the way his eyes darken that little bit is anything to go by.

“Ben.”

He holds his pint forward again, rim tilted towards Callum, his tongue running along his bottom lip. Callum is transfixed by it; has to follow it with rapt attention. He lets Ben wait for another moment, almost enough for him to pull his glass back again, before he finally clinks their glasses together.

“I’m Callum.”

They hold each other’s gaze while taking a long pull from their beers and just this simple act is so full of sexual tension that Callum can barely swallow the alcohol in his throat. He’s about to suggest that they get out of here and go back to his house when one of Ben’s hands finds its way onto his thigh, effectively cutting off any possible remark in his brain. It slides further towards the inseam of his suit pants and then slowly inches upwards, closer and closer to his groin. There’s a wicked smile on Ben’s face, the rich blue of his eyes slowly being swallowed more and more by the black of his pupils.

“You know, Callum, I live just ‘round here.”

Callum gets what he’s implying, of course he does, but he hesitates to take him up on his offer. He wants him and it’s more than obvious that Ben wants him as well, but for some reason, he doesn’t really want to be taken home by him right now. There’s fire licking up his spine, anticipation making every extremity tingle and burn, and he doesn’t want to waste those precious minutes it’ll take for them to make their way to Ben’s home. Not when he knows that there’s somewhere a lot closer they can go - the thrill of it technically being in public only adding to the fire in his veins.

“Me too. Can’t really wait that long though.”

His words make Ben bite his bottom lip in response, eyes travelling over the expanse of Callum’s body. He regards him for a couple of moments, almost so long that Callum thinks he’s about to decline the offer, before he gets up from his seat and threads their hands together, pulling Callum with him.

“Come on then.”

It seems like Ben has the same idea Callum had, because he pulls them both through the heavy, wooden doors into the backroom of the Vic and then into the toilets, checking to make sure they’re the only ones in there before he finally seals their mouths together in a fiery kiss.

The kiss is heated and hurried, but so so good. Their tongues brush together briefly but it’s enough to make want spread throughout Callum’s entire body, his hands coming up to squeeze Ben’s waist before they’re making their way to the man’s neck, settling just under his jaw. Ben makes these little noises whenever one of them dives back in for another kiss and it’s intoxicating to say the least.

When they both come up for air next, Ben uses the moment to walk them backwards and into one of the stalls along the back, pressing Callum against the now closed door of it. He dips his head to mouth along the sharp edge of Callum’s jawline, darting his tongue out to run along the skin afterwards.

“Are we really gonna do this here?”

The question makes Ben kiss up his neck and lips again, pulling back to catch Callum’s eyes.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never thought about it. Besides, this was your idea, Cal. You wanted to do a little ‘roleplay’.”

He’s right, of course he is, how could he not think about dragging his boyfriend in here to have his way with him whenever they’re sat around a table and Ben is laughing, is looking, like he does. He’s pretty much irresistible to Callum and they aren’t exactly shy or conservative when it comes to sex. And Callum isn’t afraid to bring up things he wants to try anymore, completely confident that Ben will agree to try pretty much anything as long as Callum is into it.

And he did agree when Callum brought up the idea of pretending they don’t know each other at this party and feign that they’re just two strangers meeting and having some fun with one another. It feels good, right even, that they can be spontaneous and open like that. That they can try things and have a partner that’s not judging, but always willing to go along with their wishes.

“Yeah, you’re right, come on.”

They immediately get back into the swing of things, mouths and tongues sliding together and hands roaming each other’s bodies, unbuckling belts and prying open each other’s pants. Ben reattaches his mouth to Callum’s neck, sucking on the skin over his pulse point until Callum is panting into his ear. He runs his mouth along Callum’s neck until he reaches the side of his face, his mouth now right below his ear, breath fanning out over the shell of it.

“Did you like it? Some stranger chatting you up, buying you drinks, wanting to take you home with them?”

There’s no real jealousy in his voice. They both know for certain they only want each other; that they’ve only ever wanted the other since becoming serious. They don’t like to share, don’t want to, but he wants Callum to know that he’s desirable even if they were just pretending to be strangers. He would choose Callum in every version of his life, whether they knew each other or not. He’s sure of that.

“Only ‘cause it’s you.”

His last words are strangled, cut-off by a groan forcing its way out of his throat when Ben wraps his hand around his rapidly hardening cock. There’s some fake blood on Callum’s chin now, obviously caked from Ben’s face onto his while they were kissing and his little drawn-on moustache is smeared beyond recognition. He looks thoroughly debauched already and Ben absolutely loves it.

Ben drops to his knees in front of him, pulling his pants and boxers down just enough to get Callum’s dick free, trailing his tongue from the base all the way to the head. Callum lets out a groan at the action, tangling his hands into Ben’s hair.

The best thing about being together for almost a year now ist that Ben knows exactly what makes Callum tick; what makes him lose his mind. He knows to press his tongue just to the underside of the head, knows to tongue the slit on the upstroke and knows to keep as much eye contact as possible, because that really gets Callum going.

He hollows out his cheeks and runs his mouth up and down a few times, tongue darting out and tracing the thick vein in-between. Callum has to break the eye contact between them before he’s coming just from the sight of Ben on his knees in front of him and his head thumps backwards against the door, eyes squeezed shut.

It doesn’t really help, not seeing anything, because it only intensifies the feeling of pleasure Ben’s bringing to him with his talented mouth. What’s ultimately his undoing is Ben trailing one finger down to his rim, just pressing against his entrance, coupled with Ben humming around his dick. The vibrations send shockwaves through his whole body and before he can even warn his boyfriend, he’s coming down his throat with sharp pants and grunts.

Ben swallows him down completely, making sure that no drop escapes and stains the dark material of his suit pants, before he’s making his way up his body again until he reaches his mouth, making Callum taste himself on his tongue. They’re still trading kisses when Callum reaches down to Ben’s pants, lowering the zipper and getting Ben’s dick out of its confines.

He’s running his hand over it in a steady rhythm, running his thumb over the slit on every other upstroke. It makes Ben keen, his head falling forward into Callum’s neck, where he takes the skin back into his mouth, sucking on it and running his teeth along it.

Ben is well on his way to climax, can feel the white-hot pleasure of his orgasm approaching from how turned on he’s been practically since Callum had suggested this little charade, when they both hear the door to the toilets open and feet shuffle in. They catch each other’s eyes for a second, Callum stopping his movements on Ben’s dick. It’s like they’re silently communicating whether to try and keep going or wait it out, even if the idea of listening to some guy relieving himself isn’t the most arousing right now.

There’s a glint in Callum’s eyes suddenly and before Ben can question it, he continues tugging on Ben’s cock, harder and faster than before, letting the wet slap of skin against skin fill the little room. Ben can’t stop the loud moan from spilling out of his mouth and Callum's smile is nothing short of devastating at hearing it. It’s the first time he’s even remotely let on that there’s some small exhibitionism kink hiding in him and the revelation does nothing but fuel Ben’s budding orgasm.

They barely register the embarrassed cough and the door opening and falling close again, too caught up in getting Ben to tip over the edge. It doesn’t take more than a couple more tugs from Callum’s hand, turning his wrist on the last stroke, before Ben is coming as well, coating Callum’s skin with cum.

Callum cards his hands through Ben’s hair and down his face until his breathing returns to normal and his heartbeat normalizes. He presses another deep kiss onto Ben’s lips, but it’s less heated now; slow and full of love this time.

He loves this about them; that they can be passionate and wild one minute and then soft and gentle the next. It’s been that way since the first time they collided with each other, like some sort of weird yin and yang, and it still remains the same today.

“That was something new.”

“I just hope it wasn’t someone we know.”

Ben’s pressing his forehead against Callum’s, laughter spilling out of his mouth that Callum joins in on immediately. Eventually, Ben pulls away and starts tucking them both back in, making them look as presentable as they can be. Callum’s gelled back hair is a mess, as is his face, caked in fake blood and smeared eyeliner. There’s glitter falling from his mask onto his cheekbones and the whole picture is equally funny and hot to Ben.

“God, your costume is shit.”

“Hey, Lexi did her best okay.”

They’re sharing another small smile with each other, Ben finally reaching up to take off Callum’s mask and Callum doing the same for him in return. They come together in another gentle kiss before carefully opening the stall door, making sure that they’re still alone in here.

“Come on, let’s go home. Callum, was it?”

Callum darts his hand out to swipe at Ben, but all he does is capture Callum’s hand in his, using it to wrap it around his body so their bodies come close again, Callum’s arms around him; chest against back. Someone yells at them when they go through the doors into the pub again, Callum not deciphering whether it’s because they’re not wearing their masks or because they just got off in the toilets, but he doesn’t even care.

He’s happy and fucked-out and so in love and the best thing is, it’s all real and his forever.

#ballum #ballum fic #my writing #ballumhalloween2020 #not me writing a halloween prompt when i don't even like halloween

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the-fiction-witch · 4 years

Text

Yes My Queen

TV SHOW WOLF HALL COUPLE RAFE SADLER X READER RATING SMUTISH + (I honestly don't know what to call this, passionate words? Flirting? Ye old flirting where you intensely stare and talk to each other you know what I'm talking about)

I smiled as I walked through the gravel pathways of the garden, I stopped to smell the sweet red roses growing, the sweet British rose smell filled my sinuses, I stood again and fixed my sweet blue dress, I stepped through the garden seeing the sweet flowers, and beautiful tree's. I found my little stone bench surrounded by ivy, and flowers, hidden away under an arch. I smiled and took a seat, as much as I wanted to relax myself I sat up ridged keeping my back up m corset helping me a little with it. I could hear people as they walked past, also walking in the gardens. I could hear their whispers, the rumours, the hushed giggles behind the hands of maids, soldiers and business men. I did my best to ignore it all. But there are times I can't help it, I had to listen even if each time I did it almost forced me to tears. "Have you seen the King's little side piece?" "she's a beauty" "They say he's bedded her in the royal bedchamber" "I heard the maid's saw them kissing in the drawing room" "I heard it was the "I heard He's going to wed her" But I often forced myself away from the rumours, I didn't want to hear them. I wanted to ignore the things they said behind my back, to appear as if they didn't bother me, as if there words didn't sting my very soul, I slipped off my little shoes, letting my bare feet so sweetly in the soft green grass, my dress hiding it all from the eyes' of passers by. "My Queen," I heard making me look to my side, I knew the boy, he was tall, skinny, older than me for sure, his black clothes hugged him closely, his hat concealing his blonde hair he bowed to me seeming nervous to speak with me "Good day to you Master Sadler, You bring news from My Lord Cromwell I presume?" "Yes my lady" He nods "I uhh I was meant to supply your husband but know one seems to know where in the castle he is? Has he gone hunting?" "No, he's in the castle, or so he told me" I answered "Pass it along to my Lord Harriot, he shall pass it forth to my husband" "Yes my lady" He nods "Before I go. Might I say that your dress looks beautiful My queen" I blushed slightly, It had been so long since I had received a compliment "Thank you Master Sadler, You are such a sweet, smart soul. I see why My Lord Cromwell keeps you in his household" "Thank you my lady, I do not deserve such praise, but I will accept it from my queen nonetheless, for I could never deny my queen'' He smiled bowing to me again before he headed off to find Lord Harriot, heading towards the summer house, he had the right idea Lord Harriot likes a fine ale and a fine maid girl, often he can be found in the summer house converting among the young ladies there. I wanted to follow him but I didn't want to fuel the rumours and the idea that I was already hearing the whispers and rumours of my husband and the new young girl from court was enough, I didn't want to hear rumours too of the queen seen with a ward boy. I slipped my shoes on and headed deeper though the garden holding my hands tightly together as I walked my dress moving against the grass and stones, My shoes crunching the uneven stones, My sleeves slightly moving against each other where I held my hands tightly, My sweet cotton vail to hide my hair away, from prying eyes and from the sun, I looked across the garden seeing on the other path, My husband walking with that young lady on his arm, the two laughing, I pretended to ignore it and continued on back into the castle heading up without a word to my library. I sat in bed doing my knitting as I usually did as he returned from his 'meeting' and got changed climbing into bed beside me, "Good Evening My king" "Hello y/n" He sighed "How was your day?" "hardly a moment of peace" "I see, I spend much of my day in the garden and Library" "that's nice" He sighed "What did Cromwell want?" I asked "what?" "There was a message come through from lord Cromwell. Did you get around to it my king?" "How do you know?" "His ward couldn't find you, so he came to me with it" "And you did what!" "I sent him off with it to lord Harriot" I answered "Ohh, Well that was good. thank you y/n" "You're welcome My king, So what did he want?" "Nothing to do with you" He says turning away and blowing out the candle "Yes my king."

I sat as I usually did in my library, I wanted nothing to do with the flying rumours, the things they said about my husband and that they said I was blind or that I was a fool. I didn't want to react even if I hated that my husband spends his time with a little thing from court. I knew If I made a scene I would be losing my head faster than a slap would land on his cheek. I knew about it all... the long nights, the days away, the hidden kisses in the castle, The girls, half my age, and twice as beautiful as I had ever been, the only thing that brought me peace was a simple knowledge. I am the Queen. I am the Queen. I am the Queen. I am the Queen. and it's not as a pride, or as if I was hungry for the position, but that Of all the beautiful women in the world, He chose me, He might have eyes that wonder but I am the queen he chose to be the queen. I sat in my usual chair close to the fire place, I always felt at home here with my books, the balcony doors closed tightly watching the rain batter them, the glow of the fire and few candles I had lit the library with the beautiful fire glow, I hummed a sweet tune making notes in my book. "My Queen?" I heard at my door making me get up from my seat putting my book down hiding it among others I looked to the door where I saw "Master Sadler, to what do I owe this pleasure?' I asked "The uhh the king sent me my lady, he had businesses with my Lord Cromwell, he said that they will be busy for most of the day and that I should make myself useful and keep you company" "That's very sweet of you" I smiled "my husband didn't sent you" "I'm sorry?' "Cromwell sent you, didn't he?" "He did" 'why did you lie to the queen?" "He asked it off me my queen," "To make it seem as if my husband thought of me" I sighed "I would adore to have your company Master Sadler" I smiled "Then I shall happily supply it my lady" he smiled shutting the door "Will you sit?" I asked "If you ask it of me" "Master Sadler please came forth and sit with your queen" I laughed sitting back in my chair he nodded and came over putting his hand on the other chair a moment, it was strange, they had put in the chair to match my own for when the king was courting me, he would come and read me poems pitching my woo and all moments, but the chair dusty and dirty he hadn't used it since we were married in all honesty I didn't mind. "Is that a new coat Master Sadler?" I asked as he has been standing there with his hand on the chair a while now "Ohh uhh yes my lady," "It makes you look handsome" I smiled as I began to knit "please sit, I insist" He nodded and took off his coat sitting in it on the back of the chair before sitting down on the chair "you look beautiful my lady" "Thank you master Sadler, you are always one to complement" "Because I feel the queen deserves to be complimented more than she is" he says "would you ask anything of me my queen?" "I would ask of you to smile, and to keep me company" "Then I shall do so my lady" he smiled "I should always smile, for I am one so very few lucky in this world." "Lucky?" "Too look freely upon, the most intelligent, the most gracious, the most beautiful woman in the world, I could die moments from now and I would die happy, truly joyous to have seen your face my queen" I blushed hard stopping my knitting to take a breath "Knowone has spoken to me that way in years" I blushed "been a long time since a man had pitched me woo master Sadler, not commonly done to a married woman" "In sorry my queen" "You need not apologize master Sadler, it was beautiful" I smiled "are you practicing?" "Practicing?" "For a young lady?" "No, my queen. I meant it for you" "Oh, well it was very beautiful, thank you" I blushed "you should save things like that for your Young ladies" "I do not have any young ladies, hardly the time I suppose" "Boys your age should always look to young ladies, people may start to question? Your getting to that age when boys break off and begin there own households" "I know, but I cannot bare it" "Whyever not?" "For I love one… that I can never have" "Don't we all" "My queen" he says gripping the chair tightly barely looking at me "may I speak frankly?" "You may master Sadler" I nodded "The king… he is a fool." I glanced up at him curiously eager to hear the rest of his words "He is a fool, the most foolish man in England, for only a fool would act the way that he does" "Master Sadler, as queen I could have you executed for saying such treason against my husband?" "You could" he nods "in fact I beg it of you" "What?" I asked in shock "I beg that these words will send my queen to call the guard upon me, to end my life for these treasonous words against the king, for perhaps… if my heart stops beating. It may end this ache inside my heart, this ache for you. My queen" ".... Master Sadler" I said in shocky heart racing my breaths quick, my breasts heaving, my toes and fingertips tingling, I felt as if I was to faint, It had been so long since I had heard sweet words from a man, but never like this my husband had never said words to me that affected me in this way, I stood trying to regain my composure "I uhhh I uhhh" I stuttered "My queen." He says moving to his knees in front of me "please, hear me." "I will master Sadler" "The king is a fool. A hollow man. He is foolish beyond compare. That he chooses to lie to you. To make a fool of you. To… take another woman. To consort with her. To abandon his oaths, his duties to you, to be with her. This girl she doesn't compare to you, in any way." He explained "she is a slut. A witch. A whore. To have dragged your husband from you. I can only imagine he is under a spell of small mindedness to ever even dream of stepping away from you my lady" he explained "I truly cannot see why any man of stable mind would turn his back on you. For you are more beautiful than the most perfect english rose. More breathtaking then even the most beautiful stars in the sky. Kinder than a thousand mothers, sweeter than the most freshly picked sweet summer strawberries, you are immeasurable to any other woman on this very earth, every second that I spend with you I wish for a thousand more," he explained I was struggling to breath these beautiful words, better then any poetry the king had ever wooed me with "I am enamored by thee, even though thou enjoined to another, I know not of your maidenhood preserved and I do not care. I wish to be with you, physically, emotionally, in all the ways that you may permit me to be I know these words against the king and these words to you my queen are enough to ensure my execution, and you will suffer no I'll favor from myself if you were to have be taken to the gallows for any of these words but… if so, I ask only for one kiss upon those lips and I can die joyous and peaceful for just for a moment I would have touched higher than heaven." "Master Sadler I uhhh… I uh, I have been heard such, beautiful words" I smiled taking hand pulling him to his feet ''you should not have wasted them on me" "Why not, there will never be another woman in this world more deserving of them then you," "You should have saved them, for a beautiful woman. You could marry, have a life and family with." "I don't want to be married" "You-you what?" "I do not want to be married. I do not want a life. I do not want a family with… anyone but you" "But I am the queen… I'm married. I - I" "If the king can have his consort girls" he smirked "I see no reason the queen can not have me" "Ohh master Sadler" I blushed I thought a moment I knew I did desire him and that knowing he felt this way about me too only made my decision more complex, he was right my husband runs off with younger women has nights and kisses with them what is to stop me from having my own little.. play thing "Kiss me." "Yes my lady" he smiled gently pressing his lips against my own, his lips where smooth and soft, his gentle movements against my own, I kissed back moving in time with him as much as I could, I closed my eyes feeling such heat and emotion in the kiss knowing that my husband had never kissed me this way, my moved my hands from his slowly going up his arm he moved a step closer and slipped his hands to my waist his thumb rubbing on my dress as he moaned into my mouth I moaned gently back moving my hands up more to his chest and shoulders gently rubbing him as our kisses grew more passionate "m- my queen I-" he stuttered between kisses unable to truly Remove himself from my lips, I pulled back resting my head on his own "Yes?" "I beg for forgiveness my lady" "Forgiveness? Whatever for?" "For… for… myself" he says between gasps his eyes tightly closed, I glanced down and saw the tightness that now restricted him, but more importantly a patch darker then the rest of the fabric of his clothes and some even on my dress "Ooh. Master Sadler" I giggled blushing hard "I think you may have gotten a little overexcited" "How could I not? Being permitted to kiss the most beautiful woman in the world, how was I supposed to contain myself?" "I have not felt the touch of a man for so long. Let alone the touch of an eager man" I smiled playing with the ties of his shirt "I have never known the touch of a woman. Let alone a woman as beautiful as you my queen" "Did you enjoy kissing me?" "Did I? Do I need to answer that, my lady?" he blushed looking at the mess he had made of himself "did you enjoy to kiss me?" "I did" I smiled moving my hands from playing with his shirt up his chest to his shoulders grabbing his collar with my hand and pulling him back to kiss me, he instantly kissed back eagerly wrapping his arms around me tighter till I pulled back leaving him needy "Master Sadler! Time to go!" We heard as cromwell knocked on the library door "Yes Lord Cromwell" he answered unhappily but he had to reply or riso our Discovery "You will be returning to his house now I suppose?" "I shall, but I will beg the heavens for us to be reunited again my queen," "Will you write?" "Yes my queen" he blushed "and uhh it's Rafe. Rafe Sadler." "Rafe, such a beautiful name." I smiled "such a lovely name for Such a lovely boy" I giggled "y/n. Y/n y/l/n" "Y/n…. Angels themselves couldn't make something that sounds more heavenly to me my love" he smiled giving me a gentle kiss before he moved away getting his coat and covering himself from what had happened "I will pray to all the gods in this world that it will be soon I shall get to see your beautiful face again, to feel your sweet hands, to… kiss your perfect lips my love" "I shall do the same my love" I smiled giving him a tight hug he hugged me back before he hurried off to Cromwell and whatever he needed him for.

I sat in the garden on my usual bench watching the gentle rain bouncing off the roses and the leaves of the trees, the gardens empty of people, but I liked them this way. "It's beautiful to watch the garden in the rain" I smiled "It is. Not half a beautiful as you my queen, but beautiful nonetheless" Rafe smiled holding my hand on the bench hidden by my dresses huge skirt, "but I suppose of I judged the world in comparison to your beauty nothing would even seem pretty at all" "Where did you ever get so beautiful with your words?" I asked "Reading mostly. Or perhaps it is due to having the most wonderful muse" he says kissing my cheek "Where is your master today?" "With the chancellor. Why do you ask?" "The king said he was with your master" "Umm" he nods "and I suppose you told him you were with your handmaid's?" He smirked, stroking his fingers against my hand "if only they knew? Right darling?" "I know what he's doing" I laughed "Do you?" "I can see him" "Where?" "Third window from the door," "Left or right?" "Left" "Ohh I see. It doesn't bother you?" "I can't allow it to bother me. I do not wish to give him the satisfaction of getting a rise out of me." "Why don't we… make him jealous?" "Is that a feeble attempt and asking for a kiss?" "Yes it is" "Good" I smiled giving his lips a sweet kiss "come on, he's busy so the bedchamber is empty" I smiled tugging him with me heading inside and up to my bedchamber.

I smiled laying in my bed the cotton sheets hugging my naked skin, as I gasped for my breath. Rafe laid with me too naked, sweaty, gasping for breath against the other pillow "ooohh my god, y/n." He gasps "I love you" I smiled nuzzling into his neck pulling his body close "Uhh I love you too…" "Did that feel good?" "Good. There are no words in this or any other language for how amazing that was my love" he explained holding my chin "I can only beg my queen for forgiveness… for the mess I made of her" "You are forgiven my darling" I smiled pulling his sweet hair a little to kiss him deeper he wrapped his arms around me again pulling our bodies inches from each other "again?" "Yes my queen" he smirked.

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imagineclaireandjamie · 4 years

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Will there be any more Chain of Command or are you done writing it?

Chain of Command: Part 17:

Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3 || Part 4 || Part 5 || Part 6 || Part 7 || Part 8 || Part 9 || Part 10 || Part 11 || Part 12 || Part 13 || Part 14 || Part 15 || Part 16

It was just before dusk as Jamie pulled Donas to a stop. Lallybroch seemed as if it were getting closer but as the light started to fade, Claire sensed a rising fatigue in Jamie’s pose. Kissing him quickly between his shoulder blades, she dismounted and took Fergus from his arms.

“There’s bread and dried meat in the saddlebags, you get those out and get something inside you and I’ll find us some wood for a fire.”

“Is there anything ye didna think of, Claire?” He asked quietly as if he didn’t expect an answer. Taking the food, he perched, letting his back rest against a nearby tree. He let the nearly-fresh bread sit on his tongue for longer than he usually would, allowing the taste of it to fill his mouth.

“Better?” She asked, reappearing from beyond the trees with various bric-a-brac stuck to her hair and skirts.

He chuckled at the sight of her, her curls all tangled and falling from where she’d attempted to tie them out of her face. She’d always been adverse to wearing a cap, despite the occasional glances from others in their household, one of the signifiers of her fierce independence. With wood and kindling poking from between one arm, her son slung tightly off her free hip and the slight pinking colouring her cheeks, he fell in love with her all over again.

“Aye,” he whispered softly, “much thank ye.”

Passing Fergus deftly across to him, Jamie watched Claire settle to her business. They hadn’t been separated for long but he felt as if he hadn’t looked at her properly for years. Her hips swayed delicately as she prepared the kindling on an already charred piece of land, her fingers lithely shifting the small pieces of dry wood until they sat effectively on top of one another.

“He probably needs changing,” turning her head, she caught him in the act of staring at her, “why don’t you take him to the stream, you can wash up whilst I finish up here?”

Though he knew he wasn’t in the best state, he hadn’t thought about cleaning himself since leaving the garrison.

“There’s soap, it’s wrapped in a little leather sash.”

He gave her a look, one that communicated that she’d definitely thought of absolutely everything before coming to his rescue, and it made her smile shyly.

“Your mam,” she responded, “she came after me and passed over a lot of it. I was worried, at first, that she’d chased after me to convince me to ride back to Lallybroch but when she pulled up, she was just delivering some items she thought I’d need.”

Pulling the soap from its wrapper, he chuckled at the idea of her rushing away from the big house without even a shawl to keep her warm. His heart missed at beat as he passed by her, his free hand brushing over the top of her head as they touched briefly.

Down by the small stream, he removed the filthy clout from Fergus and began washing it, his son cradled against his chest. Enjoying the simple pleasure of bathing them both, he removed his clothes and sat himself in the cool water. He watched as the dirt and filth flowed away from him, the water turning from clear to brown and back to clear again in a matter of minutes. Immediately he felt at ease, and though the sun was setting and the air was causing the skin on his arms to prickle, he sat for as long as he could, letting the flow cleanse him.

“Do you need me to wash your hair for you?”

The voice startled him, but he smiled as he turned to catch Claire sliding down the bank towards him.

“The fire is ready when you are, but I was worried that you might have disintegrated since you’ve been so long.”

“I feel as if I’ve never had a wash, it was good to feel clean again.”

Taking the soap from where Jamie had placed it on a hollow rock, she rubbed it over her dampened hands letting it sud and bubble between her fingers before putting it back down and running it through his hair.

It wasn’t long before she had both Jamie and Fergus wrapped up in clean tartan and sat by the roasting fire. The crackle of the wood kept them company, filing the forest with sound as they leaned quietly against one another. With their bellies full and warmth flowing around them, Claire lay her head on Jamie’s shoulder, her eyes opening and closing slowly.

“I’ve waited for this for weeks.” She whispered, her hand coming to rest across his exposed knee. “I sat on the steps at Lallybroch and begged for you to appear at the end of the road just to have you close to us again.”

He hadn’t been incarcerated for an incredibly long time, but from the moment he’d been taken, his thoughts had been solely of Claire. “I wish I hadna been gone at all.” Sighing, he turned a little, enough that he could lean slightly and kiss her forehead. “But ye were the only thing that got me through. I didna sleep. They gave me hardly anything to eat and the sounds that echoed through that horrid place sent shivers down my spine, but the knowledge that ye waited for me gave me hope. Ye kept me alive and sane in there.”

“I wanted to kill your uncle for setting you up, I still might.” She whispered, the anguish clear in her tone.

“Trust me, mo nighean, he isna worth it.”

“If I have to go all the way to Westminster to protect you, Jamie, I will. God help me I will. I’ll ride there by myself if I have to. I don’t relish the thought of having to sacrifice any member of your family, but he will not take you from me. Do you hear me?”

She was quiet but passionate, a spark roaring into an enormous flame at the mere idea of having to protect her family from harm.

Placing Fergus on the mossy ground by his side, he made sure he was bundled from the cold and far enough from the fire that he’d remain safe and warm, Jamie turned and took Claire’s face in his hands. Cradling her heated cheeks, he let his nose rest softly against hers as the two breathed the same air for just a moment.

Their lips met as if drawn together, slow at first, the gentle caress of their tongues making Claire gasp as she straddled his waist.

“Oh, lass…”

Rolling her hips once, she pushed him back, making sure he was comfortable before removing the tartan covering his lap. With no more need for words, she tugged the laces from her bodice, slipping the fabric from her shoulders as she pressed forwards once more. As the fire burned steadily on, Claire and Jamie locked lips once more, their soft sighs mingling with the evening sounds surrounding them.

– — –

With the sun rising, the steady glow of it heating them as they climbed the final hill, Jamie buried his face against Claire’s neck, watching calmly as the big house finally came into view.

“Home,” he sighed against her, causing her hair to ruffle slightly as he spoke, “a beautiful sight if I say so myself.”

The ruffling of the curtains made them both aware of the family moving around down below - though they were still too far away to be seen. Driving Donas onwards they both breathed a sigh of relief. Holding on tightly to one another, they made the last part of the journey in complete silence, letting the morning tweet of the birds guide them forwards.

#Anonymous #;mod mbd #chain of command #jamie and claire

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cerezawrites · 3 years

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Prompt 2: Aberrant

“It is preposterous! Unnatural, even!” the drab-clad Elezen spat, his face turning red. “That any power of darkness should bring good in this world - hardly an idea worth considering. The Fury damn those who would turn to evil means!”

“Calm down, Mattheiu” another Elezen, a woman of the High Houses by her bustle. “We’ve known that the Exorcists have worked with unusual magicks. Is it so hard to believe that there COULDN’T have been a relationship between them? It would have predated the Church and all...”

The two stood in the corner of a large hall, at the moment host to a massive party, such that even this outburst wouldn’t go noticed. Cereza stood, ostensibly admiring a painting of one of the owner’s great-great-great-ad infinitum ancestors with a flute of sparkling cider in one gloved hand, but her attention was on the debate that had unfolded.

The opening of Ishgard had many impacts upon the city, and the histories of magic, and their connections to lost civilizations in a past age, had caused a small but notable stir amongst the academics who understood the principles. Such things weren’t major debates in other lands - there, the debates were more focused on the use of specific branches, rather than the overall origin - but here, yet another belief was being upturned.

“The origins of the Exorcists’ magic is simple - it is the elements that surround us, granted by the Fury and the other gods. No ancient black wizardry had a hand in inspiring that holy art. It is an instrument of faith, nothing more.”

And there was the opening.

“If that is truly the case, why then did the Heretics have the same powers? Why was Ars Almandel and its twin, Ars Notoria, almost condemned as a heretical text, if the magic it grants was not of the faith?” THAT got the man’s attention, but Cereza stood, back to him, still studying the vaunted elder’s painting.

“How dare you compare our arts to that of heretics!” She could see his face turning redder still.

“I’m not,” she said, finally glancing over her shoulder. “I’m asking a fundamental question of faith - from whence does evil come? Only in this case, it’s a question more of, from whence does YOUR form of evil derive its power? Certainly they could develop it from accursed sources, but if that were the case, why are the spells so similar?” She finally turned and faced him. “And moreover, if it were the case, why then does the Church have to train Inquisitors, if their faith would provide the power?”

The crowd was starting to pay attention, but the man Cereza faced had eyes only for her, and not in a good way. The other Elezen, the woman in the bustle, did find her point worth pouncing on. “That is a good point… Natural magic is rare here in Ishgard, and only the priests and inquisitors and their ilk do wield it regularly. Chirugeons also can get it through study… but you never just see the truly faithful summon fire or mend grievous wounds.”

Cereza nodded. “Beyond which, Ishgard’s once and once again allies use similar arts, and yet no accusation of heresy or witchcraft is levied against them - at least not in general, barring occasional foreign victims of the overzealous Inquisition. Why, did Thordan the III not even commend a young magus some centuries back, making him an honorary knight of the realm?”

“That’s enough, both of you!” the man shouted. “The magicks of the church are holy blessings. Your.. thaumaturgy and arcanamia are all hollow imitations of Fury-granted grace! And were you Ishgardian, I’d challenge you to a duel!”

Ah, about time. Cereza motioned over a servant, and asked the girl to hold her drink, as she strutted up to the red-faced man, tugging off her right glove. “Well, well… If you are so eager…let’s not let my nationality limit us. Duelling is common in other parts of Eorzea after all. Ergo… I challenge YOU.” With that, she slapped the red faced Elezen with her glove, and the crowd was silent. For his part, Matthieu was shocked, but then his anger returned. “Very well, then!” He strode off, and had servants bring a blade and shield. When he returned, he said, “Well then! What weapon do you choose?”

Cereza smiled as she replaced her glove and tapped the ground with her cane before throwing it into the air in a spiral. She caught it and held it out like a sword - and in fact, it WAS, or perhaps had become, a sword, a dueling rapier to be exact. She held it out in front of her, her left hand held behind her. “I think my old reliable will work here. A weapon of another time and place.” The blade was intricately crafted in a near-Eastern style. “But, one far more suited to this duel than you might think. First blood then? Or best of some arbitrary number?”

The man scoffed. “Such a small blade, and you dare think you’d get even one hit, let alone three of five? Besides, for your heresy, it should be death, but I’ll take yielding.”

Cereza nodded her head with a smile. “Oh good… some fun for once. Well then, en guard!”

The floor had cleared, and the two circled it weapons poised. Mattheiu struck towards her first, shield over his chest to limit the exposure of his thrust, and Cereza had to dodge to the side, swinging wildly and hitting only air. He repeated the trick, and she dodged again -b ut it was closer this time. And again, and this time he managed to knick her hand. “Ha, a hit!” He exclaimed. He didn’t raise his arms to gloat, though, remembering the terms… but that wasn’t the opening she was looking for anyways.

“Well then, I suppose I can’t afford to be sloppy anymore,” she said, as she focused on the blood on his blade. She removed one glove and replaced with a black one, then cupped the end of her sword. Her blade’s “pommel” separated, a gem glittering red, floating in her hand. Mana flowed from the accelerator focus into the blade, and she kept her attention on that blood as she leapt forth, the magic guiding her. The sudden leap pushed him back this time, and she made a stroke at him as he flailed, then another two slashes, and three more to finish it off. Mattheiu fell back on the ground, his jacket ruined, and shouted, “I yield! I yield!” before scrambling to get up and leave the party. Cereza smiled and dismissed the blade, replacing it with her cane once more.

The host, a member of House Hallienarte, came and bowed to her, as did the Elezen woman. “My apologies for that,” the host said. “Our guests should not have their honor questioned in this place of peace.”

Cereza shook her head as she took her drink back from the servant who held it. “Think nothing of it, Baron. Your guest had too much to drink and was too forthcoming with his unsavory opinions. I merely dealt with an insult in the way we should. Thank you again for the invitation, however.” She curtsied. “I didn’t realize I had left such an impression on my last visit.”

“The honor is mine,” the baron said with a bow. “You’ve aided our house in many endeavors. Recovering my cousin’s heirloom left a special impression, and she insisted I invite you.”

“Well, I much appreciate it.” She curtsied again, and the Baron left her alone with the woman. “And you, mademoiselle. I heard you debating our unfortunate acquaintance earlier. I hope the duel hasn’t put a damper on your evening.”

“Oh, perish the thought. It was time he got thrashed for that. But tell me, your sword… that wasn’t just swordplay, was it? There was...something else at work.”

“Indeed. A blend of magicks, and a bit of preparation, helped to enhance the blade. Combined with a small homing spell to track my blood and guide my leap forward, and it proved quite invaluable. Alas, I think I spent the reserve mana in the blade’s accelerator for now.” She shook her head. “Ah… but my manners. Lady Cereza Hoid, at your service.”

The elezen offered her hand and curtsied, and Cereza took it and brought her forehead to it. “Lady Maricelle Dzemael. A pleasure to meet you.”

The two spoke for a bit, before a server came and handed Maricelle a letter, offering a chamber for her to read it in. There was something odd about the servant… but Cereza simply waited until Maricelle returned, sighing.. “Ah… It seems that Mattheiu has left for the evening and refuses to return… and he was my escort.” She turned to Cereza. “I hate to impose… but it is getting late. Would you be able to walk back with me? I trust the streets of Foundation, but…”

Cereza smiled. “Of course. I was actually heading that way myself.” She finished her drink - the only one she’d had all night, and bid farewell to the host and a few others, before returning to Maricelle’s side. “Please, unto the night.”

The two strode out, and Maricelle said, “There is a shortcut back this way… come, follow.” Cereza didn’t get a chance to protest before her charge fled down the darkened alleyway.

“Well, so much for both worry and trusting the streets,” she muttered under her breath as she went in behind. The alley was dark, only lights from the few house windows to illuminate the way, and the aether seemed to stir oddly.

She caught a glimpse of Maricelle’s dress, and followed, only to keep a few steps behind each time. The dress led down a maze of alleys, definitely not a shortcut. “Maricelle?” Cereza called into the night.

She heard the other lady call out, “This way, Cereza…” But something in her voice was… wrong. Cereza drew out her blade again, and approached more cautiously.

Around the corner, she saw a terrible sight. Maricelle floated inside a cloud, under the control of the servant who’d handed her the letter. Damn, she thought, should have kept my eyes on him.

“Ahahaha… easy enough to lure you in… a pity how simple it was, really. But when I realized who you were… I couldn’t have you running around ruining my plans.”

“A compulsion, then,” she said. “Have the girl misunderstand the way home… probably a spell trapped in the letter.” “Indeed,” the “servant” said. “You were always a sucker for a pretty face and a damsel in distress. You gave me the perfect opening… baiting her cousin into that duel. But you can’t harm her now.”

Cereza looked at her, trapped and unconscious in the miasma. He looked at the girl and… smiled. And the cloud - an extension of the Voidsent in the servant, seemed to shimmer nervously. Didn’t know they could do that, she thought.

“You think it was coincidence I was here, Achtrasi?” she said, calling it by one of its names - not its true name. Not yet. “I knew you’d made it into the city… tracking down the relic was easy enough. The servant opened it instead of the Baron, though, so you had to make do. I knew one way or another you’d be at that party… and you’d use the girl as bait. You always liked hostages… ones that would inspire chivalry in your hunter.”

The cloud rumbled. “Well well… clever. But it doesn’t matter. You already used up your mana… what do you have that would help you save her without that?”

Cereza’s smile widened. “I DID say it was empty, didn’t I? I could channel through it, but you wouldn’t give me that kind of time… but see, there’s a trick I’ve learned. It IS empty… Well… except for one or two little spells I managed to catch...”

The creature’s cloud seemed to shimmer in uncertainty. “Wha- What? What the-”

It didn’t finish its curse, as a pillar of white aether hit the cloud square on, not harming the girl inside but dissipating the trap she was in and letting her fall to the ground. The servant stepped back and tried to run… until a ball of red light came immediately after, driving it into the wall.

The servant stood up, but it was no longer truly that form. Its true form bled through the body, broke through it, shedding the corpse and revealing a giant warrior, made of shadow and smoke, with two knives in its claws.

Cereza regarded it, and put her sword away. She instead reached into the aether once more and summoned out a tome, a blue-covered grimoire with gold embellishments.

The scream intensified, and Cereza smiled. “Ah, you recognize this grimoire, don’t you? I’m not part of the church, admittedly… but that’s not a requirement. The girl is right - the magic isn’t a gift of faith. But credit where it’s due… they do have their exorcisms down pat” She flipped it open to a page she’d bookmarked, and recited the spell within. The words were prayers to the Fury, but though they were somewhat slanted to an Ishgardian interpretation, that wouldn’t make them any weaker - it wasn’t like summoning a Primal, where faith became aether to be channeled through prayer. The spell was quite more the opposite in effect, really.

“O Fury, Halone in the Heavens above, hear this call and bind this child of the Void, Achtrasi!”

The voidsent charged her, but as its blades came down to cleave her, chains of ice held them - and its body - leaving it paralyzed in place. The words shaped her aether through the circles, and resonated with a spell of banishment. “In the name of the Fury,” she called, careful not to shout lest she awaken anyone, “I command thee, demon. Descend into the Seven Hells, and be banished from this land. Hurt her children no more. By her spear!”

An aetherial lance drove into the head of the beast and through its torso, and it vanished into smoke, the dark energies that made up its power vanishing. Cereza closed the book and banished it back into the aether - no sense getting caught with it BY one of the Inquisitors. She could play the part of exorcist, but she wasn’t a part of the order, and being caught with that tome could spell trouble even now. Instead, she drew her sword again, and went to the girl, channeling the white mana to cure her and help her recover.

Maricelle opened her eyes. “I… what… what was that?” she stammered as she regained consciousness. “I remember… you… and a party… and then….

Cereza closed her eyes in relief. “Voidsent,” she said when she opened them again. “Demon. Possessed that poor servant… and decided to use you as bait for me.”

Maricelle shook her head. “The… the dark magics? Was my defense… unjust?”

“Hardly. Damned thing was summoned back in the Fifth era. Your trust in the truth is valid.. This was just an evil spirit, not some divine punishment. And.. possibly my fault. It knew to use you as bait… I just knew it would, and planned accordingly. But even so…”

Maricelle stopped her before she could continue her apology, then sobbed and clung to Cereza. Cereza held her, a bit awkwardly, but understandingly, knowing the fear from such things. “You kept me safe… that’s all that matters.” She eventually calmed down, and sniffled. “Just… get me home. Please?”

Cereza smiled and nodded. “Of course. But… I think this way, this time,” she said.

#ffxivwrites #FFxivwrite #FFxivWrite2021 #ffxiv

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aboveallarescuer · 4 years

Text

Dany and Missandei’s relationship

This is a list of all the passages from the books featuring key moments in Dany and Missandei’s relationship.

Here is what some casual fans think of their relationship:

She has consistently appeared to forget about the people she’s conquered beyond their capacity to serve and obey her. And sure, Missandei is her best friend, but she’s essentially a token on Game of Thrones, meant to be a stand-in for the Unsullied as a whole, a relationship that convinces us Dany loves her people. But this doesn’t really align with the way Dany has treated all those other Unsullied.

All of this means that when we see Dany freaking out while Missandei dies, it rings more than a little hollow; Dany’s best friend may be a person of color, but that doesn’t make her less problematic as a white savior. (x)

I would argue that the books (and heck, the show as well!!!) tell a very different story.

A Dance with Dragons

ADWD Daenerys X

Jhiqui and Irri would be waiting atop her pyramid back in Meereen, she told herself. Her sweet scribe Missandei as well, and all her little pages. They would bring her food, and she could bathe in the pool beneath the persimmon tree. It would be good to feel clean again. Dany did not need a glass to know that she was filthy.

As the world darkened, Dany settled in and closed her eyes, but sleep refused to come. The night was cold, the ground hard, her belly empty. She found herself thinking of Meereen, of Daario, her love, and Hizdahr, her husband, of Irri and Jhiqui and sweet Missandei, Ser Barristan and Reznak and Skahaz Shavepate. Do they fear me dead? I flew off on a dragon’s back. Will they think he ate me?

ADWD Daenerys IX

“Even if the pits must open, must Your Grace go yourself?” asked Missandei as she was washing the queen’s hair.

“Half of Meereen will be there to see me, gentle heart.”

“Your Grace,” said Missandei, “this one begs leave to say that half of Meereen will be there to watch men bleed and die.”

She is not wrong, the queen knew, but it makes no matter.

As Jhiqui brushed Dany’s hair and Irri painted the queen’s nails, they chattered happily about the day’s matches. Missandei reemerged. “Your Grace. The king bids you join him when you are dressed. And Prince Quentyn has come with his Dornish Men. They beg a word, if that should please you.”

Little about this day shall please me. “Some other day.”

ADWD Daenerys VIII

“My queen?” said a soft voice in the darkness.

Dany flinched. “Who is there?”

“Only Missandei.” The Naathi scribe moved closer to the bed. “This one heard you crying.”

“Crying? I was not crying. Why would I cry? I have my peace, I have my king, I have everything a queen might wish for. You had a bad dream, that was all.”

“As you say, Your Grace.” She bowed and made to go.

“Stay,” said Dany. “I do not wish to be alone.”

“His Grace is with you,” Missandei pointed out.

“His Grace is dreaming, but I cannot sleep. On the morrow I must bathe in blood. The price of peace.” She smiled wanly and patted the bed. “Come. Sit. Talk with me.”

“If it please you.” Missandei sat down beside her. “What shall we talk of?”

“Home,” said Dany. “Naath. Butterflies and brothers. Tell me of the things that make you happy, the things that make you giggle, all your sweetest memories. Remind me that there is still good in the world.”

Missandei did her best. She was still talking when Dany finally fell to sleep, to dream queer, half-formed dreams of smoke and fire.

The morning came too soon.

ADWD Daenerys VII

Dany sat amongst the rumpled bedclothes with her arms about her knees, so forlorn that she did not hear when Missandei came creeping in with bread and milk and figs. “Your Grace? Are you unwell? In the black of night this one heard you scream.”

Dany took a fig. It was black and plump, still moist with dew. Will Hizdahr ever make me scream? “It was the wind that you heard screaming.” She took a bite, but the fruit had lost its savor now that Daario was gone.

When he was gone, Missandei brought the queen a simple meal of goat cheese and olives, with raisins for a sweet. “Your Grace needs more than wine to break her fast. You are such a tiny thing, and you will surely need your strength today.”

That made Daenerys laugh, coming from a girl so small. She relied so much on the little scribe that she oft forgot that Missandei had only turned eleven. They shared the food together on her terrace. As Dany nibbled on an olive, the Naathi girl gazed at her with eyes like molten gold and said, “It is not too late to tell them that you have decided not to wed.”

It is, though, the queen thought, sadly. “Hizdahr’s blood is ancient and noble. Our joining will join my freedmen to his people. When we become as one, so will our city.”

“Your Grace does not love the noble Hizdahr. This one thinks you would sooner have another for your husband.”

I must not think of Daario today. “A queen loves where she must, not where she will.” Her appetite had left her. “Take this food away,” she told Missandei. “It is time I bathed.”

Missandei reemerged from inside the pyramid. “Reznak and Skahaz beg the honor of escorting Your Grace to the Temple of the Graces. Reznak has ordered your palanquin made ready.”

Meereenese seldom rode within their city walls. They preferred palanquins, litters, and sedan chairs, borne upon the shoulders of their slaves. “Horses befoul the streets,” one man of Zakh had told her, “slaves do not.” Dany had freed the slaves, yet palanquins, litters, and sedan chairs still choked the streets as before, and none of them floated magically through the air.

“The day is too hot to be shut up in a palanquin,” said Dany. “Have my silver saddled. I would not go to my lord husband upon the backs of bearers.”

“Your Grace,” said Missandei, “this one is so sorry, but you cannot ride in a tokar.”

The little scribe was right, as she so often was. The tokar was not a garment meant for horseback. Dany made a face. “As you say. Not the palanquin, though. I would suffocate behind those drapes. Have them ready a sedan chair.” If she must wear her floppy ears, let all the rabbits see her.

ADWD Daenerys VI

When Daenerys returned to her pyramid, sore of limb and sick of heart, she found Missandei reading some old scroll whilst Irri and Jhiqui argued about Rakharo.

A cool wind was blowing on her terrace. Dany sighed with pleasure as she slipped into the waters of her pool. At her command, Missandei stripped off her clothes and climbed in after her. “This one heard the Astapori scratching at the walls last night,” the little scribe said as she was washing Dany’s back.

Irri and Jhiqui exchanged a look. “No one was scratching,” said Jhiqui. “Scratching … how could they scratch?”

“With their hands,” said Missandei. “The bricks are old and crumbling. They are trying to claw their way into the city.”

“This would take them many years,” said Irri. “The walls are very thick. This is known.”

“It is known,” agreed Jhiqui.

“I dream of them as well.” Dany took Missandei’s hand. “The camp is a good half-mile from the city, my sweetling. No one was scratching at the walls.”

“Your Grace knows best,” said Missandei. “Shall I wash your hair? It is almost time. Reznak mo Reznak and the Green Grace are coming to discuss—”

“—the wedding preparations.” Dany sat up with a splash. “I had almost forgotten.” Perhaps I wanted to forget.

Daario’s announcement had sparked an uproar. Reznak was wailing, the Shavepate was muttering darkly, her bloodriders were swearing vengeance. Strong Belwas thumped his scarred belly with his fist and swore to eat Brown Ben’s heart with plums and onions. “Please,” Dany said, but only Missandei seemed to hear. The queen got to her feet. “Be quiet! I have heard enough.”

ADWD Daenerys V

She would have kissed her good knight on the cheek, but just then Missandei appeared beneath the arched doorway. “Missandei?”

“Your Grace. Skahaz awaits your pleasure.”

“Send him up.”

ADWD Daenerys IV

The queen welcomed them warmly, then summoned Missandei to see that the girls were fed and entertained whilst she shared a private supper with the Green Grace.

… but Daenerys Targaryen had other children, tens of thousands who had hailed her as their mother when she broke their chains. She thought of Stalwart Shield, of Missandei’s brother, of the woman Rylona Rhee, who had played the harp so beautifully. No marriage would ever bring them back to life, but if a husband could help end the slaughter, then she owed it to her dead to marry.

How could I ever hope to sleep, knowing that my captain so close? “Send him up at once. And … I will have no more need of you this evening. I shall be safe with Daario. Oh, and send Irri and Jhiqui, if you would be so good. And Missandei.” I need to change, to make myself beautiful.

She said as much to her handmaids when they came. “What does Your Grace wish to wear?” asked Missandei.

Starlight and seafoam, Dany thought, a wisp of silk that leaves my left breast bare for Daario’s delight. Oh, and flowers for my hair.

ADWD Daenerys III

“Wherever the Mother of Dragons goes, the Mother’s Men will go as well,” announced Marselen, Missandei’s remaining brother.

ADWD Daenerys II

She could hear the soft sounds of sobs. “Who is that weeping?”

“Your slave Missandei.” Jhiqui had a taper in her hand.

“My servant. I have no slaves.” Dany did not understand. “Why does she weep?”

“For him who was her brother,” Irri told her. The rest she had from Skahaz, Reznak, and Grey Worm, when they were ushered into her presence. Dany knew their tidings were bad before a word was spoken. One glance at the Shavepate’s ugly face sufficed to tell her that.

“Your servants were set upon as they walked the bricks of Meereen to keep Your Grace’s peace. All were well armed, with spears and shields and short swords. Two by two they walked, and two by two they died. Your servants Black Fist and Cetherys were slain by crossbow bolts in Mazdhan’s Maze. Your servants Mossador and Duran were crushed by falling stones beneath the river wall. Your servants Eladon Goldenhair and Loyal Spear were poisoned at a wineshop where they were accustomed to stop each night upon their rounds.”

Mossador. Dany made a fist. Missandei and her brothers had been taken from their home on Naath by raiders from the Basilisk Isles and sold into slavery in Astapor. Young as she was, Missandei had shown such a gift for tongues that the Good Masters had made a scribe of her. Mossador and Marselen had not been so fortunate. They had been gelded and made into Unsullied.

When she returned to her rooms atop the pyramid, she found Missandei crying softly on her pallet, trying as best she could to muffle the sound of her sobs. “Come sleep with me,” she told the little scribe. “Dawn will not come for hours yet.”

“Your Grace is kind to this one.” Missandei slipped under the sheets. “He was a good brother.”

Dany wrapped her arms about the girl. “Tell me of him.”

“He taught me how to climb a tree when we were little. He could catch fish with his hands. Once I found him sleeping in our garden with a hundred butterflies crawling over him. He looked so beautiful that morning, this one … I mean, I loved him.”

“As he loved you.” Dany stroked the girl’s hair. “Say the word, my sweet, and I will send you from this awful place. I will find a ship somehow and send you home. To Naath.”

“I would sooner stay with you. On Naath I’d be afraid. What if the slavers came again? I feel safe when I’m with you.”

Safe. The word made Dany’s eyes fill up with tears. “I want to keep you safe.” Missandei was only a child. With her, she felt as if she could be a child too. “No one ever kept me safe when I was little. Well, Ser Willem did, but then he died, and Viserys … I want to protect you but … it is so hard. To be strong. I don’t always know what I should do. I must know, though. I am all they have. I am the queen … the … the …”

“… mother,” whispered Missandei.

“Mother to dragons.” Dany shivered.

“No. Mother to us all.” Missandei hugged her tighter. “Your Grace should sleep. Dawn will be here soon, and court.”

“We’ll both sleep, and dream of sweeter days. Close your eyes.” When she did, Dany kissed her eyelids and made her giggle.

A soft rustle made her open them again. She sat up with a soft splash. “Missandei?” she called. “Irri? Jhiqui?”

“Your Grace?” Missandei stood in the door of the queen’s bedchamber, a lantern in her hand. “Who are you talking to?”

Dany glanced back toward the persimmon tree. There was no woman there. No hooded robe, no lacquer mask, no Quaithe.

A shadow. A memory. No one. She was the blood of the dragon, but Ser Barristan had warned her that in that blood there was a taint. Could I be going mad? They had called her father mad, once. “I was praying,” she told the Naathi girl. “It will be light soon. I had best eat something, before court.”

Missandei returned with a melon and a bowl of hard-cooked eggs, but Dany found she had no appetite.

It was blood the Meereenese yearned to see, not skill. Elsewise the fighting slaves would have worn armor. Only the little scribe Missandei seemed to share the queen’s misgivings.

ADWD Daenerys I

“Your Grace,” said Ser Barristan Selmy, the lord commander of her Queensguard, “there is no need for you to see this.”

“He died for me.” Dany clutched her lion pelt to her chest. Underneath, a sheer white linen tunic covered her to midthigh. She had been dreaming of a house with a red door when Missandei woke her. There had been no time to dress.

The Undying of Qarth had told her she would be thrice betrayed. Mirri Maz Duur had been the first, Ser Jorah the second. Would Reznak be the third? The Shavepate? Daario? Or will it be someone I would never suspect, Ser Barristan or Grey Worm or Missandei?

Missandei announced her. The little scribe had a sweet, strong voice. “All kneel for Daenerys Stormborn, the Unburnt, Queen of Meereen, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Khaleesi of Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Shackles, and Mother of Dragons.”

A Storm of Swords

ASOS Daenerys VI

“I must remember to do something about the flies,” Dany said. “Are there many flies on Naath, Missandei?”

“On Naath there are butterflies,” the scribe responded in the Common Tongue. “More wine?”

“No. I must hold court soon.” Dany had grown very fond of Missandei. The little scribe with the big golden eyes was wise beyond her years. She is brave as well. She had to be, to survive the life she’s lived. One day she hoped to see this fabled isle of Naath. Missandei said the Peaceful People made music instead of war. They did not kill, not even animals; they ate only fruit and never flesh. The butterfly spirits sacred to their Lord of Harmony protected their isle against those who would do them harm. Many conquerors had sailed on Naath to blood their swords, only to sicken and die. The butterflies do not help them when the slave ships come raiding, though. “I am going to take you home one day, Missandei,” Dany promised. If I had made the same promise to Jorah, would he still have sold me? “I swear it.”

“This one is content to stay with you, Your Grace. Naath will be there, always. You are good to this—to me.”

“And you to me.” Dany took the girl by the hand. “Come help me dress.”

Daario and Ben Plumm, Grey Worm, Irri, Jhiqui, Missandei ... as she looked at them Dany found herself wondering which of them would betray her next.

“Your Grace,” said Missandei, “Ghiscari inter their honored dead in crypts below their manses. If you would boil the bones clean and return them to their kin, it would be a kindness.”

The widows will curse me all the same. “Let it be done.”

“Noble Ghael,” said Missandei, in the dialect of Astapor, “is this the same Cleon once owned by Grazdan mo Ullhor?”

Her voice was guileless, yet the question plainly made the envoy anxious. “The same,” he admitted. “A great man.”

Missandei leaned close to Dany. “He was a butcher in Grazdan’s kitchen,” the girl whispered in her ear. “It was said he could slaughter a pig faster than any man in Astapor.”

I have given Astapor a butcher king. Dany felt ill, but she knew she must not let the envoy see it.

“...To prove his faith, Great Cleon offers to seal your alliance with a marriage.”

“A marriage? To me?”

Ghael smiled. His teeth were brown and rotten. “Great Cleon will give you many strong sons.”

Dany found herself bereft of words, but little Missandei came to her rescue. “Did his first wife give him sons?”

“Any man who wishes to sell himself into slavery may do so. Or woman.” She raised a hand. “But they may not sell their children, nor a man his wife.”

“In Astapor the city took a tenth part of the price, each time a slave changed hands,” Missandei told her.

“We’ll do the same,” Dany decided. Wars were won with gold as much as swords.

“Your Grace?” Missandei stood at her elbow wrapped in a bedrobe, wooden sandals on her feet. “I woke, and saw that you were gone. Did you sleep well? What are you looking at?”

“My city,” said Dany. “I was looking for a house with a red door, but by night all the doors are black.”

“A red door?” Missandei was puzzled. “What house is this?”

“No house. It does not matter.” Dany took the younger girl by the hand. “Never lie to me, Missandei. Never betray me.”

“I never would,” Missandei promised. “Look, dawn comes.”

[...] Dany held Missandei’s hand as they watched the sun come up.

“There is nothing to stay for,” said Brown Ben Plumm.

“Your Grace, the slavers brought their doom on themselves,” said Daario Naharis.

“You have brought freedom as well,” Missandei pointed out.

“Freedom to starve?” asked Dany sharply. “Freedom to die? Am I a dragon, or a harpy?” Am I mad? Do I have the taint?

ASOS Daenerys V

“Strong Belwas is hurt.” His stomach was red with the blood sheeting down from the meaty gash beneath his breasts.

“It is nothing. I let each man cut me once, before I kill him.” He slapped his bloody belly. “Count the cuts and you will know how many Strong Belwas has slain.”

But Dany had lost Khal Drogo to a similar wound, and she was not willing to let it go untreated. She sent Missandei to find a certain Yunkish freedman renowned for his skill in the healing arts.

“Missandei,” she called, “have my silver saddled. Your own mount as well.”

The little scribe bowed. “As Your Grace commands. Shall I summon your bloodriders to guard you?”

“We’ll take Arstan. I do not mean to leave the camps.”

Dany had stopped to speak to a pregnant woman who wanted the Mother of Dragons to name her baby when someone reached up and grabbed her left wrist. Turning, she glimpsed a tall ragged man with a shaved head and a sunburnt face. “Not so hard,” she started to say, but before she could finish he’d yanked her bodily from the saddle. The ground came up and knocked the breath from her, as her silver whinnied and backed away. Stunned, Dany rolled to her side and pushed herself onto one elbow ...

... and then she saw the sword.

“There’s the treacherous sow,” he said. “I knew you’d come to get your feet kissed one day.” His head was bald as a melon, his nose red and peeling, but she knew that voice and those pale green eyes. “I’m going to start by cutting off your teats.” Dany was dimly aware of Missandei shouting for help.

Missandei was pulling Dany to her feet when she heard a crack.

ASOS Daenerys IV

Irri and Jhiqui had covered the floor with carpets while Missandei lit a stick of incense to sweeten the dusty air.

“Missandei, what language will these Yunkai’i speak, Valyrian?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” the child said. “A different dialect than Astapor’s, yet close enough to understand. The slavers name themselves the Wise Masters.”

“Wise?” Dany sat crosslegged on a cushion, and Viserion spread his white-and-gold wings and flapped to her side. “We shall see how wise they are,” she said as she scratched the dragon’s scaly head behind the horns.

The hours crept by on turtle feet. Even after Jhiqui rubbed the knots from her shoulders, Dany was too restless for sleep. Missandei offered to sing her a lullaby of the Peaceful People, but Dany shook her head.

On the morning of the third day, the city gates swung open and a line of slaves began to emerge. Dany mounted her silver to greet them. As they passed, little Missandei told them that they owed their freedom to Daenerys Stormborn, the Unburnt, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros and Mother of Dragons.

“Mhysa!” a brown-skinned man shouted out at her. He had a child on his shoulder, a little girl, and she screamed the same word in her thin voice. “Mhysa! Mhysa!”

Dany looked at Missandei. “What are they shouting?”

“It is Ghiscari, the old pure tongue. It means ‘Mother.’”

Dany felt a lightness in her chest.

ASOS Daenerys III

“All?” The slave girl sounded wary. “Your Grace, did this one’s worthless ears mishear you?”

[...] “Your ears heard true,” said Dany. “I want to buy them all. Tell the Good Masters, if you will.”

“The Unsullied will learn your savage tongue quick enough,” added Kraznys mo Nakloz, when all the arrangements had been made, “but until such time you will need a slave to speak to them. Take this one as our gift to you, a token of a bargain well struck.”

“I shall,” said Dany.

The slave girl rendered his words to her, and hers to him. If she had feelings about being given for a token, she took care not to let them show.

Dany turned away from him, to the slave girl standing meekly beside her litter. “Do you have a name, or must you draw a new one every day from some barrel?”

“That is only for Unsullied,” the girl said. Then she realized the question had been asked in High Valyrian. Her eyes went wide. “Oh.”

“Your name is Oh?” 

“No. Your Grace, forgive this one her outburst. Your slave’s name is Missandei, but ...”

“Missandei is no longer a slave. I free you, from this instant. Come ride with me in the litter, I wish to talk.” Rakharo helped them in, and Dany drew the curtains shut against the dust and heat. “If you stay with me you will serve as one of my handmaids,” she said as they set off. “I shall keep you by my side to speak for me as you spoke for Kraznys. But you may leave my service whenever you choose, if you have father or mother you would sooner return to.”

“This one will stay,” the girl said. “This one ... I ... there is no place for me to go. This ... I will serve you, gladly.”

“I can give you freedom, but not safety,” Dany warned. “I have a world to cross and wars to fight. You may go hungry. You may grow sick. You may be killed.”

“Valar morghulis,” said Missandei, in High Valyrian. 

“All men must die,” Dany agreed, “but not for a long while, we may pray.” She leaned back on the pillows and took the girl’s hand. “Are these Unsullied truly fearless?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“You serve me now. Is it true they feel no pain?”

“The wine of courage kills such feelings. By the time they slay their sucklings, they have been drinking it for years.”

“And they are obedient?”

“Obedience is all they know. If you told them not to breathe, they would find that easier than not to obey.”

Dany nodded. “And when I am done with them?”

“Your Grace?”

“When I have won my war and claimed the throne that was my father’s, my knights will sheathe their swords and return to their keeps, to their wives and children and mothers ... to their lives. But these eunuchs have no lives. What am I to do with eight thousand eunuchs when there are no more battles to be fought?”

“The Unsullied make fine guards and excellent watchmen, Your Grace,” said Missandei. “And it is never hard to find a buyer for such fine well-blooded troops.”

“Men are not bought and sold in Westeros, they tell me.”

“With all respect, Your Grace, Unsullied are not men.”

“If I did resell them, how would I know they could not be used against me?” Dany asked pointedly. “Would they do that? Fight against me, even do me harm?”

“If their master commanded. They do not question, Your Grace. All the questions have been culled from them. They obey.” She looked troubled. “When you are ... when you are done with them ... your Grace might command them to fall upon their swords.”

“And even that, they would do?” 

“Yes.” Missandei’s voice had grown soft. “Your Grace.”

Dany squeezed her hand. “You would sooner I did not ask it of them, though. Why is that? Why do you care?”

“This one does not ... I ... Your Grace ... ” 

“Tell me.” 

The girl lowered her eyes. “Three of them were my brothers once, Your Grace.”

Then I hope your brothers are as brave and clever as you.

ASOS Daenerys II

“The Good Master Kraznys asks, are they not magnificent?” The girl spoke the Common Tongue well, for one who had never been to Westeros. No older than ten, she had the round flat face, dusky skin, and golden eyes of Naath. The Peaceful People, her folk were called. All agreed that they made the best slaves.

#daenerys targaryen #missandei #valyrianscrolls #dany relationships #dany passages

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