#my fic ♥︎

[tinysunshine]

[ Klaus Mikaelson x Stripper! Reader ]

18+ (Minors DNI)

*Female Reader, Inclusive Language

You’re a dancer at Klaus’ favorite strip club.  He’s one of your best customers, always slipping hundreds into the band of your panties or bra, although he hasn’t asked for a private room with you yet. Klaus Mikaelson is a king around this city - half vampire, half werewolf, the first of his kind. The entire city lives in fear of the big bad wolf.  But you can’t deny the curiosity you feel towards the man, the monster, that is Klaus Mikaelson. When he finally books a private room and asks specifically for you, your feelings for him change. Suddenly he doesn’t seem so bad, so scary - or maybe he still is, but every night you spend with him and with each dance, you realize you’re foolishly falling in love with a real-life monster.

*Warnings: violence, death, rough sex, mentions of past abuse

*Plot with porn, Alternate Universe, but don’t worry, Klaus is Klaus :)

Word Count: 12.9k

Kinks: unprotected sex, oral sex, face sitting, rough sex, spanking (just a little), dirty talk, dry humping, creampie, light Dom/sub, protective Klaus

___

The lights in the club are dim, and the bass from the music blasting makes it feel like the floor is vibrating, which makes it a little hard to stay steady on your feet. You’ve been working at the club for almost a year, but you’ve never quite gotten used to what it feels like to be on this stage.

All eyes on you, the heat from the lights above, music so loud that it literally hurts your ears, makes it hard to even hear the lyrics of the song playing, which can sometimes fuck up your dance cues.

On stage, you feel like you’re in a world of your own, and sometimes you don’t know if that’s good or bad. Dancing has always been your passion - although stripping was never your dream. From a young age, you were trained as a ballet dancer, with competitions and private training and practices every day after school; it was your whole life.

But things change and shit happens, and although you’re not where you want to be in life, you’re still doing what you love to do, which is dance, even if it’s not the way you imagined it.

That’s got to count for something, right?

On stage, it’s all about creating a fantasy for the people in the audience. Rich men, successful men, men with high status - they all frequent this club. It’s one of the nicest in the city, but you’ve heard from a few of the other dancers that the men here are no different than the men at the shitter, seedier clubs. It doesn’t matter what a man does for a living, you suppose, because if they’re throwing cash at a girl who’s half naked and desperate to pay her bills - it’s not like they’re a good person.

You’ve learned your lesson with men, and you learned it the hard way. Men will always be men - or whatever fucked up version of masculinity they follow that makes them believe they’re a man. Rude, crude, violent and mean.

But you’ve got bills to pay and money to make, so you do your best to give them a good show.

Especially because he’s in the audience.

Klaus.

At the thought of him, quite literally the man, the myth, the legend - a flurry of butterflies erupts in your stomach. It’s a sinking, almost nauseous feeling, but it’s definitely a feeling that’s a little more good than it is bad.

The thought scares you, that you feel this way about Klaus Mikaelson. That you could associate anything good with him. You’ve heard his name since you were a teenager, back when he first came to this city and, well…

Ruined everything.

You spin around the pole and do your regular routine, legs aching in the skyscraper heels you're wearing, tits almost spilling out of your tiny bra. Your head is pounding because the music is so loud, and by the time you’re on your knees collecting the bills thrown on stage like you’re some kind of performing animal in a zoo, you’re covered in sweat, feeling sticky and over-touched and very much like you need a drink.

You’re thinking about Klaus your entire break. It gets so fucking hot in the club, with all the people and the smoke and the movement you do. You chug some water, fix your makeup, stand in front of the fan in the back room to cool down as much as you can, but he never leaves your mind.

Because you know he’s waiting for you.

It’s been going on almost two months now, this thing you have with Klaus Mikaeslon. Although thing is a generous word for it. You work almost every night during the week, and Klaus visits the club almost every night. You’re not sure if it’s to see you in particular, but you’re fairly certain that no other dancer goes near him.

Because everybody hates him.

Klaus Mikaelson has the city in the palm of his hand. When he strolled into town years ago, what was once a bustling, wonderful place to live slowly turned sour until what was left of it was just plain rotten. Klaus brought violence, mayhem, and a harem of other dangerous supernatural creatures along with him when he moved into town, and destruction came along with them.

You’re not sure what brought him to this specific city, just that it changed life as you know it. Klaus brought death, destroyed lives, and while a lot of the things that happened didn’t come from his hand directly, he’s the cause of all of it.

Nobody wants to serve him a drink, let alone dance for him. It doesn’t matter how much he tips - the other girls want nothing to do with him. Everyone blames Klaus for all the problems in their life. Why they’re working a dead end exploitative job, why they can’t find a happy relationship, why they’re trapped in this town. It’s valid hatred, and you understand it, would be the first to preach about the way your life has changed since he moved into town.

But you think differently than the others. Because while they all see the bars of the cage the entire town is trapped in, in Klaus Mikaelson, you see your freedom. The tips he gives you, that you’ve been stashing away, are going to be your ticket out of this town. While the bartender and the bouncer need to be compelled to let him in and bring him drinks, you go to Klaus willingly.

Because even though Klaus carries violence everywhere he goes, even though he could crush this town and everyone in it with ease, even a monster like him isn’t desperate enough to compel every single person working at a strip club to give him a good time.

That’d be pathetic, and you don’t know a lot about Klaus, but you know that pathetic is the last thing you’d use to describe him.

This thing you have with him is nothing more than three dances whenever he’s at the bar. Three dances is as long as you’re allowed to dance for someone without them getting a private room - club rules. Klaus never asks for a private room, but that’s fine by you.

Usually, by the end of those three dances, you’re no less than eight hundred dollars cash richer.

It does something to you, knowing that this monster sits around the club waiting for you. Or, when your insecurity is talking, you think that maybe he just settles for you, not down quite bad enough to compel a girl to dance for him. Maybe you’re just the low hanging fruit who’s willing.

You push those thoughts away as you make your way through the haze of cigarette smoke and neon lights to the far end of the club. Klaus is at an open booth, tucked away from the others, and when you see him, you lose your breath. He’s got a calm demeanor that only someone truly powerful could have - leaning back, drink in hand, and when he sees you, his lips twitch into something between a smirk and a half-hearted smile.

“You’re late,” Klaus says, his voice low, teasing, because it’s not like you have a set time to see each other whenever you’re working, although it is a little later than you normally meet up.

But you blush, flattered by the teasing tone, but also a little scared. You might have this thing with Klaus, but he’s still an unpredictable supernatural being that can do more bad than good. You could really get hurt if he lost his temper around you.

And it’s not like anyone at the bar would be able to stop him.

It’s a terrifying thought, but you try to play it off. “My set ran late,” you explain, the stories you’ve heard about Klaus killing people for less than making him wait going through your mind.

But then he grins, and you know he’s just teasing, so you step between his open legs, place your hands on his shoulders. He’s handsome, annoyingly so, and you wonder how such an attractive man can be so dangerous. It just doesn’t seem right.

It’s hard to breathe around Klaus. Whether that’s from fear, or something else, you’re not sure. The air between you both has always been charged, thick with something unsaid. You’ve never felt anything like it before.

You’ve been trying to ignore this feeling for months, but you’re not stupid. You can see the way Klaus watches you, waits for you, the way he slips his cash into your thong or bra, with hands that are soft despite the violence they can hold, the way his gaze lingers just a moment too long even when the dance is done, or before it’s even started - like he wants to touch but doesn’t know how to do it without making a mistake. Without scaring you off.

It’s different from the way the other men at the club touch you. Different from the way they look at you, with lust in their eyes and their hands rough and selfish. There’s something soft about the way Klaus handles you, and maybe you’re just crazy for thinking so, and maybe it’s just a mask Klaus wears to hide his truly dark nature - but you’ve been dancing for him for months. Surely the mask would’ve slipped by now?

There’s something refreshing, you think, about the beast that is Klaus Mikaelson. He’s a bad person, and that’s all there is to it. There’s no faking, no lies. He is what he is.

“Don’t worry, love,” he says, reaching out and touching you. It took him three weeks to actually put his hands on you, and even then it was only for giving you your tip. He’s gotten more comfortable as time goes on, and right now he grips your hips, although gently.

You’ve gotten used to the feeling of random hands on your body, so much so that you don’t even notice when someone is touching you half the time, but you do notice when Klaus touches you. There’s no way you couldn’t. You feel it, deeper than just the touch it is, because his hands aren’t random, and the electricity that you try to ignore that he carries in each touch isn’t random either.

He moves his hands from your hips, slides them up to your waist, before letting go completely. He smirks. “I know you’re just giving me a chance to miss you,” he says, before reaching in his pocket for his wallet.

His touch leaves goosebumps, even when you’re burning hot.

“What did you think of my dance?” You ask, while Klaus grabs a chunky stack of cash out of his wallet. Unlike the other men at the club, who only hand you cash when they want something or want an excuse to touch you, who try to be graceful about it and look for the right moment, there’s something almost clumsy about the way Klaus handles the money. Practically throws it at you, before you’ve even done anything to earn it yet.

He stuffs them into the band of your panties on your hip, trails his hand up to your bra where he puts some more, and then looks up at you from his seat and motions for you to turn around.

“Spin around, sweetheart, let me see you from behind,” he orders, and you do as he says, ignoring the arousal you feel at his demand. You refuse to believe, refuse to even entertain, the idea that a man like Klaus Mikaelson could ever turn you on. “I thought you were brilliant, as always. You’re like a goddess up there,” he says as you turn around for him.

It’s a nice compliment, even if it does come from the terror of the town. Being on the stage, being a stripper - it feels demeaning a lot of times. Like you’re a piece of meat. But Klaus calling you a goddess, well, it makes you feel like you’re on a pedestal to be admired instead of owned.

And you needed to hear that tonight.

___

“I heard him call her by a nickname. I walked past them the other night, and he was smiling and laughing. They joke with each other. God, she makes me sick,” you hear as you get off the stage, walking into the back room to put your cash in your locker. You just had an amazing set, and your body is sore and you’re sweaty but you feel good.

Nights like these are rare. Feeling good is rare, to be honest. You were hoping to drag the feeling out a little longer, but no such luck.

Can’t say you’re surprised.

You’re trying not to let it bother you, that the girls you work with are so hard on you, seem to really dislike you, but you can’t really blame them. People caught on pretty quickly, that you’re the only dancer in the club willing to dance with Klaus, and since they hate him so much the hatred spills over onto you.

You think that some of their fear does too.

“I can hear you, you know,” you tell the girls, and they just shrug, one of them scurrying off because she’s too nervous to face you, the bolder one coming closer while you open your locker.

“I don’t care,” she says, although spits is a more accurate description. “How can you dance for him? He’s ruined our town. Our lives. Did you forget that, Y/N, or did he compel you? We’re all worried about you,” she says, as if she really gives a fuck about you or your safety.

You’d roll your eyes if you didn’t feel the same way, deep down. Because she’s right, and you know she is, but you can’t control the pull you have to this awful man.

Still, you’re defensive.

“I’ll do what I have to do to get the fuck out of this town,” you finally snap, not looking the other woman in the face. You’re mad, but you’re not brave, and confrontation has never been your thing. “I have a plan, unlike you, and if dancing for Klaus Mikaelson is going to get me there, I’ll do it. It sure beats being on his bad side,” you say, slamming your locker shut.

It’s impossible to leave town without money, but it’s also impossible to make money in a town like this. Under the thumb of someone like Klaus, controlled by his army of hybrids so nobody dares leave the borders of the city - it’s security so nobody gets out of town and spills the truth of what happens here. Klaus and his hybrids make it impossible to get ahead.

But you’re getting there. Slowly but surely. You really believe, or want to believe, that you’re going to be okay.

Because it’ll be hard to leave with money, but without it - it’ll be truly impossible.

“Whatever,” your fellow dancer says, acting as if you didn’t snap on her. “Just don’t forget why you’re dancing in Pleasers instead of ballet slippers. It’s because of him.”

You walk past her on your way out, funny enough, you think sarcastically, to go see Klaus. You always know when he arrives because the entire club is on edge, and the looks you get from the girls and the managers make it pretty obvious, what they think about you and what you’re doing with him.

When you get to Klaus, you’re upset, and you don’t waste time with pleasantries. You’re worried, that the little chats you two have, the humanity you’re starting to see in Klaus Mikaelson, is ruining your judgment of him. He’s killed half the town, has control of every aspect of this city, and you can’t forget that.

While you dance for him, on him, feel the touch of his hands and the drag of his cash against your skin, you keep reminding yourself of that. Like a mantra, on repeat. He’s a bad man, he’s a bad man, he’s a bad man. It gets worse when you grind against his lap and feel a rush of arousal, knowing that your nipples are hard against the fabric your bra and Klaus can most definitely see.

He's a bad man, he’s a bad man, he’s a bad man. But then it’s his last dance, and he’s just slipped a hundred dollar bill into the back of your thong, and his hands are running up and down the smooth skin of your thigh, and all you feel is pure, animalistic desire.

“Pretty little thing you are,” Klaus remarks, looking at you with an expression no murdering psychopathic werewolf vampire hybrid should be allowed to wear. “Absolutely gorgeous. Going to have to get one of my hybrids to rob another bank if you take any more cash from me,” he says, but you don’t laugh. You don’t know if he’s kidding or not.

Klaus hands you an extra tip when the dance is over, and he opens his mouth to say something when one of your managers walks over. Barry. Slimy and annoying and misogynistic and disgusting. You don’t see him a lot, since his business partner usually runs things, but when he is around you know it’s probably going to be a shitty shift.

“Y/N,” he says, and you freeze. What happened to using your stage name only? What happened to trying to keep a low profile, to not have any stalkers or the fucking villain of the city knowing your real name? Barry is such a fucking dumbass.

Still, you bite your tongue, ready to reply, when his hand lands on your shoulder. You’re still between Klaus’ legs, standing while he sits, and you can see the look on his face when Barry touches you. It’s strange, coming from the same guy that watches you dance for a hundred other men each night on stage, the same man that watches those men touch you and give you money just like he does.

But there’s fire in his eyes. Anger. And for the first time ever, you feel genuinely scared around Klaus.

You step towards Barry, and you know that move probably pisses Klaus off even more, even though you’re not really sure why he’s mad.

“Sorry, Mr. Mikaelson,” Barry says, totally unapologetic. Idiotic, that he doesn’t know he’s looking the grim reaper right in the face. “Someone’s requesting, Y/N. Private dance,” and Klaus just nods, but that look never leaves his eye.

You bid Klaus goodbye, thank him for his money, and follow Barry towards the private rooms. But you almost trip, only graceful on stage in these stupid fucking shoes, and Barry grabs your arm to steady you, drags you to the back rooms so fast it’s hard to even keep up.

…

A few days go by, and Barry doesn’t show up to his next shift.

Another few days go by, without anyone having heard from him.

The next day, there’s a news report for the neighboring town over, since this city doesn’t bother with its own news anymore. The body of a gentleman’s club owner was found in the lake. Body being the key word, because he was missing a head.

Barry.

You call in sick for work for the next three days, and you spend most of those days puking and shaking in your bed.

When you return to work, you’re given a locker far away from the others, and the other dancers, your manager and the bartenders all avoid you like you have the plague.

Just as well. You like your own space anyway.

___

“Why are you working here?” Klaus asks, his hand gripping your ass. You feel him slide his finger under the band of your thong, and then there’s the sharp feeling of cash poking into your skin that you know all too well.

You’re not sure how to answer that. You wonder if you should be honest, spit in his face (metaphorically, of course), tell him this job is your only chance at making enough money to escape from this hell hole of a city he created. That the other jobs you’re qualified for won’t pay enough to even make your rent.

But you know better, and most of all, you know men. Klaus thinks he’s complimenting you, by hinting that you’re too good for a place like this. Too good to shake your ass, to show off your breasts, to let some of the worst men in the city put their hands on you.

You’re also smart enough to know that even though it’s been three months since Klaus started coming in, since you started dancing for him - it doesn’t mean you’re friends. Doesn’t mean he won’t snap your neck if you look at him wrong, or have one of his hybrids follow you home if he can’t even be bothered to kill you himself.

Klaus doesn’t want anyone leaving the city, in fear that he’ll lose control, you suspect. Regardless of the special shared looks between you two, the electric feeling when you touch, you know he wouldn’t take kindly to you admitting you’re stripping to save up cash to find a way out of his dominion, because even if it’ll be hard to leave with money, the journey without it would be so much worse.

You wonder what to reply with, because you can tell he’s waiting for a response, even as you bend down and flick your hair, the smell of your perfume strong since you’re already breaking a sweat.

It’s a stripper trick, perfume under your hair, on your hairline. You notice that when you smell good, you get more tips.

Men are so easy.

You settle for something vague to answer Klaus, not wanting to divulge too much for your own safety.

“I like to dance,” you say, watching the way Klaus watches your movements. “I was a ballerina.” His eyes are on your waist, your lower back when you bend over, the way his gaze travels down your leg to your shoes. You prop your foot, in your ridiculous heels, onto the space next to him, and he runs his hand from your knee to your ankle.

It’s sensual, the feeling of his slightly rough fingers against your soft skin. Under the lights, the body glitter you’re wearing makes it look like your skin is made of sparkles, and the admiration in his gaze makes you weak in the knees. You’re literally shaking, but Klaus steadies you with a hand around your ankle, playing with the anklet you’ve got on. “Nice feet for a dancer,” he teases, catching a glimpse of the polish on your toes.

In a move more intimate than anything he’s done in the three months you’ve been dancing for him, he leans in and presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh, right by your knee, his eyes never leaving yours.

You’re not breathing. You’re not moving. The music is blasting and it’s actually one of your favorite songs to dance to, but all you can think about is the fact that this creature - the one that’s the cause of nightmares for the people of this town, the name you used to associate with panic and anxiety, just pressed a soft kiss to your leg.

Klaus lets go of your ankle, gently drops your foot to the floor, and leans back in his seat. Legs spread, even his sitting stance powerful, confident.

Sexy.

You don’t know what to do. Luckily for you, Klaus tells you.

“Show me your best, tiny dancer,” he says, tipping his chin towards you. It’s a cheesy nickname, funny coming from someone like him, but your body heats at his use of it anyway.

“Let me see you move.”

___

“Am I the reason those girls are giving you nasty looks?” Klaus asks, and you pause whatever shimmy move you were doing while straddling his lap. It takes a second for you to understand what he’s really asking.

You follow his gaze to the stage, where there’s three other dancers standing by the edge of it, looking at you like you’re the devil himself.

Or, you realize, there’s a better chance that they’re glaring at the devil whose lap you’re straddling.

You shrug.

Because Klaus is right - he is the reason those girls are giving you nasty looks. You didn’t think he could possibly ruin anything else, but when he started coming to the club, you realized that you were so, so wrong. Because by thinking that, that you were untouchable from the drama Klaus created, you created more.

He has to know that. Hasn’t lived a thousand years by being stupid. Klaus must realize that by engaging in whatever thing you two have going on, it’s making your life at work worse, but you doubt he’d care anyway. You know it’s just a dance to him, something to kill the time when he’s not out destroying anything, but deep down -

You know it’s more. More of what, you’re not sure, but there’s something there that goes beyond just dancing. You’ve spent time with Klaus almost every night for the past four months. Keeping a thousand year old hybrid’s attention for that long has got to count for something, so you decide, fuck it.

Klaus has killed for you, and the thought gives you shivers. You can be a big girl and put yourself out there, because the honest truth?

Life really couldn’t get any worse.

“You are,” you reply, hands gripping his shoulders. He doesn’t feel like you thought he would, being a vampire and all. You imagined a hard body, made of stone, cold to the touch. Klaus feels strong and solid but warm, like a real man. The thought turns you on more than it should. You shouldn’t be getting turned on by Klaus at all.

This is a job. But never claimed to be the smartest.

“Nobody likes you,” you admit, and it just kind of comes out.

Quickly, you try to recover. “I just mean that, you know, when you came into town,” where the fuck are you supposed to go from here to save face? The last thing you want to do is upset him, make life even worse for yourself, but it still comes out. “They don’t like me because of you.”

You hold your breath, ready for Klaus to throw you off his lap. Snap your neck. Bite you with one of those deadly werewolf bites people keep popping up with around the town. There’s a waiting list, of people begging for some of Klaus’ magic, all healing blood.

Maybe you’re next.

But nothing violent ever comes. Instead, Klaus laughs.

Throws his head back, like you just told the joke of the century. You don’t need to look around the packed club to know that everyone is looking at you now, and your body heats up in embarrassment. So long, shivers of arousal.

Klaus stops laughing and looks at you, intense, and you realize it’s one of the first times you’ve made eye contact with him. Serious eye contact, beyond just looking at each other when your tits are on his face or when you thank him for the cash.

You look away first.

“You’re not like them,” Klaus says, but he says it almost like a question. You know he’s talking about the other dancers, and you agree - you feel different from them, always have. Have never quite fit in with the crowd, especially with other girls your age. You’ve always been a little standoffish - awkward your mother used to say.

You imagine what she’d have to say about you right now.

“I know,” you say back, eyes focused on the necklaces around Klaus’ neck. You’re too frozen, too nervous, to say anything else. To meet his gaze again. Something about what’s happening feels crazy intimate, which sounds insane because you shake your ass in his face most nights, but this simple conversation is breaking down walls of emotions you haven’t addressed for years.

“You’re not scared of me,” he continues, and you shake your head because he’s wrong.

“I am,” you reply.

Klaus is silent for a moment, studying your face, looking around the room for reasons you don’t understand. Then he lifts your chin, forces you to meet his eyes.

“If I get a room,” he asks, and at that, you feel your heart beating faster. It only took four months. “Can we talk?”

That’s the scariest thing he’s asked for since you’ve known him. Talk. You’re not sure you’d be a good conversationalist.

But you nod anyway, secretly wonder if he compelled you because you agreed so easily, or maybe it’s just because you’re curious. Wonder what this man could possibly want with you, what he could possibly want to say to you or hear from you.

You lead him to the private room and hold out your hand for the payment. Klaus sits down on the couch when you close the door, and he looks at you with an expression like he can’t believe you don’t trust that he’ll pay after the dance.

You know he’s good for the money, but it’s just club protocol. But something about his face, offended, makes you want to giggle.

So the legend that is Klaus Mikaleson gets his feelings hurt. Good to know.

“Jen wants it in the box before we dance,” you explain, referring to your other manager. Klaus clicks his tongue and takes his wallet out, hands over a stack of cash that you don’t even bother counting. Your mind is too caught up on the fact that the news reported another bank robbery in the neighboring town, and you wonder if that’s where the cash in your hand is from.

Wonder if Klaus is expanding his territory.

But those thoughts are all wiped away when Klaus speaks as you turn your back to him, place the money in a little box with a digital code so your manager can grab it when you’re done in the room. There’s a switch, and you turn the light on, signaling that the room is in use.

“Jen. Seems like Barry is no longer working here?” Klaus asks, his voice is dripping with humor, and even though you dont give a fuck about Barry, like, at all - it just reminds you who you’re sharing a room with. Makes you a little sick to your stomach, and you grip the counter you’re standing at to gain your composure, to take a deep breath.

Then you turn to face Klaus.

It’s now or never. It’s time to talk to him, because that’s what he seems to want. As you get closer to him, as the electricity between you grows stronger with each step, the way he looks at you, with warm eyes that don’t belong to monsters, you have to remind yourself of your mantra. He’s a bad man, he's a bad man, he’s a bad man.

But you sit beside him on the sofa anyway.

“Why did you do it?” You ask, referring to Barry, but you both know that you already know the answer. Klaus reaches out, more confident in the private room away from the crowds, you realize. But most men are. You suppose that there’s more similarities between a monster like Klaus and the average man, and that’s a terrifying thought - but one you’re not very surprised by.

Klaus grips your thigh and moves you closer to him and your breath hitches. His touch does things to you. Makes the tiny hairs on your arm stand up, makes arousal pool deep in your belly in a way it doesn’t, hasn’t, when any other man touches you.

“He grabbed you,” Klaus says calmly, like he’s telling you about his day, and not the reasons he beheaded the manager at your job. “Frankly, he’s annoying. Thought that before I saw him with you, but then I watched the way he looked at you, treated you,” he pauses, hand creeping up your thigh.

You wonder how far Klaus is going to go. With what he’s revealing by what he’s saying, and because of how close his hand is to the inside of your thigh, going higher and higher to your pussy that’s only covered by a thin layer of lace.

“But most importantly,” Klaus says, with a little shrug of his shoulders like he’s embarrassed to admit this part and is trying to play it off. “He tried to interrupt my time with you.”

You don’t know what to say to that, so you say nothing. You wish you cared more about Barry’s death, but you just don’t. It’s been a long time since you cared about anything, and maybe you’re just hardened from this fucked up world you’ve been living in, but it’s not like the world would miss someone like Barry.

“Why now?” You ask, wondering why now was finally the time Klaus pulled the trigger to get a room with you. “Why wait months to get a private room with me?” You really don’t want to sound insecure, but it’s been months of just wondering.

Wondering why Klaus comes to the club only to see you - wondering if you’re his first choice or just the only choice, wondering if he feels the chemistry between you two that’s so thick you could probably slice it with a knife.

Wonders if he thinks about you when he’s not around you - because you can’t stop thinking about him.

“I wanted you to be comfortable with me,” he answers honestly, and you actually laugh. It’s funny, that the terrifying force in this city wants you to be comfortable, but his plan worked. You are comfortable with him. Comfortable with someone who some people in this city view as the grim reaper himself.

“You caught my eye,” he continues, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. It’s a little ridiculous, that you’ve been almost naked in front of him every night, yet an arm around your shoulders makes you feel more vulnerable.

But maybe that’s because it’s also a step closer to snapping your neck.

“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in a thousand years, and I wanted to get closer to you,” he admits.

Nothing could have prepared you for that.

Not for what that confession means, not for what the arm around your shoulders feels like after the words leave his mouth. There’s something safe about it, something warm - because if the boogeyman is on your side, there’s no possible way you could be hurt by him.

“There’s something different about you,” he says, just stroking over the skin of your leg. He’s so much bigger than you, and you’re against his side, and you’re feeling a lot like prey being hunted by a predator. Except this predator has already got you, and you’ve spent so much time hiding and running and just trying to survive that being able to admit defeat actually feels good.

This predator is the strongest thing on earth. He could kill you right now if he wanted to, but instead he’s complimenting you.

How can you even begin to wrap your head around that information?

“I sense it, Y/N. What a beautiful name, by the way. I guess we have Barry to thank for one thing, telling me who you really are,” as he talks, you swear you’re shaking. You don’t know how to react in this moment, have spent so much time not reacting to anything for fear of feeling anything negative, that you’re not even sure if this is a negative or positive situation.

“What do you want from me?” You ask, because that’s obviously what this is. Klaus wants something from you, because he’s a man, isn’t he? A hybrid but a man, and they never just give, whether it’s a compliment or a dollar, without wanting something in return.

But Klaus shakes his head.

“I think I’m in a better position to be asking that question, love. I have a lot to give. What do you want from me?”

___

Klaus pays for a private room three nights a week, but he stops his other visits, doesn’t watch you do your regular set anymore.

At first, you were worried, wondered where he was, because you’re beyond playing dumb now.

You like him.

Where is the line between good and evil? Klaus is bad, in every way, but he’s never been bad to you. In fact, he’s treated you better than anyone has treated you in a long time. Maybe ever. You’ve never known harm at his hands.

It’s been a month of late night meetings. An hour together in the private rooms, three times a week, where you just…talk, mostly.

Klaus asked what he could do for you, and you told him the truth.

You want out of this town. You want out of this job. You want out of this life, struggling to pay bills, scared to walk alone in the city at night for fear of one of his uncontrollable hybrids coming to kill you.

Slowly, Klaus begins to understand who you are. Where you’re coming from, even if he does tense up when you mention that your end goal is to leave what he believes to be his paradise.

You tell him that your only goal in life was to be a professional dancer. That before he came into town, you were accepted into a performing arts school for ballet. How you were so excited, ready to leave this town behind because even before Klaus came, you wanted out.

Never got along with your parents, had been hurt at the hands of men that you thought loved you. It was time for you to live your life - until the borders around the city were guarded by Klaus’ hybrids, and any chance of leaving slowly slipped through your fingers.

Dancing was your out back then, and it’s turning out to be your out now.

“Where are your parents?” Klaus asked, and you were silent for a moment, looking down at your lap. He waited, patiently, for you to answer.

“One of your hybrids killed them,” you admit, not wanting to get into details.

Klaus brushes some hair away from your face, and with no sympathy in his voice, he softly says, “I’m sorry.”

You don’t say anything further.

You’re not sorry, but you’d never admit that to anyone. It’s hard to even admit it to yourself. They were horrible people, but they were still your parents. It’s better not to think about them at all.

You’ll never be able to forgive Klaus Mikaeslon for the horrors he’s created, the things he’s done, but you can’t deny the way you feel around him. Excited, whether that be from nerves or something better. It’s just nice to feel something at all.

So you talk during these private sessions, although he doesn’t share much. And when things get to be too much, too vulnerable and too open and too personal for the both of you, you turn on the music and dance for him.

Although, as the sessions go on, it’s not so much dancing as it is foreplay - or something like that.

You still haven’t kissed, but you’ve done almost everything else. Have rubbed yourself, to orgasm, against the roughness of his jeans. Practically humped his leg. Your panties are thin and it was easy to get there, especially with the way he gripped your hips, moved you back and forth like he was thrusting inside of you.

You still get shivers when you think about his voice while you got there, “That’s it,” he’d said, accent thick and voice so dominant it nearly snatched the whine right out of your mouth. “There you go. What a good girl. Make yourself cum like this. It’ll be the real thing before you know it, love.” Klaus has the filthiest mouth - what it can say, and what it can do.

You’re not even sure how it happens. Just that sex isn’t allowed in the back rooms so you do everything but. You don’t know how you go from talking to cumming on his leg, how you go from sharing mundane stuff about yourself to sitting on his face, but it just happens.

Like magnets. You can’t stay away.

He unclipped your bra once, while you were mid story, pulled you from the couch onto his lap and sucked your nipples into his mouth until you were begging him for something. More. Anything. Even if it was just to get him off, you needed to do it. Couldn’t just sit around desperate for him to touch you.

So he laid back on the couch, told you to climb up his body and settle on his face like the queen you were. “King of this city, you called me?” He teased, nuzzling the inside of your thigh with his face. The slight stubble on his skin rubbing against your innermost leg was delicious. “Guess my face is fit for a queen. Sit down, sweetheart. You deserve to feel good.”

He’s a thousand years old - how many women has he orally serviced? A lot, you imagine, because you’ve never felt anything quite like that. Nothing has ever felt so good, but he’s had a lot of practice.

The memory makes your pussy weep with want.

It’s still hard to wrap your head around the fact that someone who has the potential for so much hurt, touches you so softly. How someone who’s caused so much, can bring so much pleasure.

But it’s those extremes that make it so hot.

It’s so wrong, that you’re doing these things with Klaus Mikaelson. But it feels so right.

“What do you want from me?” You ask again tonight, sitting on his lap while he keeps your thighs open, plays with your pussy right there on his lap. It’s erotic almost, how gentle he’s being, like he’s just exploring you. There’s no build up, no ulterior notice as far as you know.

You’re just getting to know each other.

Klaus ignores your question completely, knuckle brushing over your clit, swollen with want. He ignores the gasp you let you.

“You know why we always meet here, don’t you?” He says instead of answering you. You furrow your brows, grip his shoulder, shake your head. Klaus answers.

“Because I don’t want anyone knowing who you are.” He means his hybrids. His army. His family.

His answer stings for a minute, for the rest of the night actually, even when Klaus makes you cum from his fingers and sucks them into his mouth to get the taste of you off of them. He tips you enough cash that your wallet literally can’t close.

But what did you expect? You’re a stripper, and he’s Klaus, and he probably does this with a bunch of girls, your insecure brain screams out.

Of course he wouldn’t introduce you to anyone important to him. What did you think this was?

He just enjoys your company because you let him touch you. That’s it.

But then you get home, to your shitty apartment, and you turn on the news. You count your cash on your bed, cold and hungry, too afraid to go out tonight and grab something to eat since you didn’t make it grocery shopping earlier these last few days.

But that’s when you realize what he meant.

Three men murdered, the news says, but you don’t hear the little details. You don’t really care, to be honest. All you hear is, Killed because of their involvement with Klaus Mikaelson, and now you get it. There’s been people rising up against him, wanting to take the city back. Which is a good thing, you know, but you’re stupidly happy about your realization.

Klaus was trying to keep you safe.

___

“No boyfriend tonight?”

A regular at the club, one whose name you don’t remember, grabs your arm as you get off the stage. Usually, there’s backup from the other girls or even a manager or security, but nobody likes you or trusts you enough to help you out.

Fuck them all.

You pull out of the man’s grasp and begin walking to the bar, hoping for a drink, but he won’t leave you alone. “I notice you’ve been hogging the private rooms. Nobody can get a dance from you,” he says, and once you’re at the bar, you sit at the barstool, resisting the urge to roll your eyes.

Klaus won’t admit it if you ask, not that you would, but you know he’s the reason you always get a private room whenever you want. He compels the managers, or whoever he needs to.

You wish you had that talent.

“I don’t have a boyfriend. I’m just busy,” you tell the man, flagging the bartender down, who looks like he plans on ignoring you, just like the rest of the dancers and everyone else.

The man scoffs. You try to remember his name. Martin, maybe? You meet a lot of men. And it’s not like this one is anyone special.

“You think you’re too good for me now,” he says, which means you must’ve met him or danced privately for him before. The thought makes you disgusted with yourself.

“Ever since you became the whore of that creature, you’re suddenly too good for the rest of us. Sorry we don’t have buckets of money to hand you like he does. It’s only because he’s stolen from us and our families. Does he pay to fuck you too? I’m sure I can afford that. Ever since you got with him, you’ve even been a shitty dancer,” and he keeps ranting.

You’ve had enough.

A lot of what he said is true, But that creature comment, the dancing comment? The fact that he’d even think he ever has a chance of fucking you?

Fuck no. You just react, and before you realize what you’re doing, you toss a drink in his face.

Which is when shit hits the fan. He charges at you, throws you off the chair, is about to yank you up by the hair when he’s suddenly on the ground.

You’re scared to open your eyes.

“Up you get, love,” you hear, in a voice that’s familiar. You’d know that accent anywhere - it’s been in your ear almost every night for half a year.

Klaus.

A bar full of people claiming to be better than him, claiming to be worried about you - and not a single one of them tried to help you when you were almost attacked just now.

But the villain in their lives, the monster that has them all losing sleep - he came to your rescue.

What does that say about the character of everyone else?

You don’t care about playing cool anymore. Klaus bends at the knees, looks at you with a worried expression, and offers his hand. You take it, and once you’re standing you throw yourself into his arms.

What a fool you are, hugging this beast of a man, but you don’t care. You were scared just now. More scared than you’ve ever been around Klaus.

“Why are you here so early?” You ask, pulling away just slightly to look at Klaus’ face. Everyone at the club is cowering in the far corners of the building, and you know why.

The fuck that tried to attack you is dead. You heard the snap. Klaus snapped his neck and he kicks him aside so you have more room to stand, like he’s nothing more than a piece of dirt under his shoe.

There’s something symbolic about that, you think. You’ve never had someone stand up for you like Klaus, and you wonder what your life would be like if you had someone standing up for you like this in your past when you needed it.

Klaus doesn’t answer. He’s looking at your arm, where there will no doubt be a bruise from where Martin grabbed you. He’s red in the face, looks so mad you’re worried he’s going to burn down the bar, but the thought doesn’t scare you.

No, it brings you peace. You’re done with this place. This club. The people here.

Fuck. Them. All.

“You should go home,” Klaus says, and you nod your head, but then he pulls away from you. Walks around the club, threatening every single person in the room.

“If someone lays a hand on this woman again - if someone so much as looks at her wrong on her way out of here, I will kill you and every person you love. I’ll kill you and every person you’ve ever met,” his voice is cold, and you know he’s serious.

A good girl would feel bad, that violence is being threatened by the people here. But maybe you’re not good. Maybe it just took someone like Klaus to get you to see that. People can have all sorts of layers, all sorts of labels - but nobody is truly bad or good.

People are people, and they do bad things. Some do good things. But all that really matters, you think, is what they do to you.

And Klaus Mikaelson, hybrid savage, has been nothing but good to you.

He walks back to you and tells you to collect your things, that he’ll figure out a way to get you home. You’re not worried about anyone finding out you’re with him, what that could mean for you.

No, all you’re thinking about is how you can show Klaus just how grateful you are that he saved you.

In more ways than just the way he saved you tonight.

___

“I hope you’re not mad,” Klaus says, following you into the back room. It’s empty, because nobody with half a mind would follow Klaus after his threat. 

The peace is marvelous, even though you’re shaken up by what just happened. 

You open your locker, grab your bag out of it and make sure you still have your cash from your earlier set. When Martin pushed you, (rest in hell, Martin), the cash you had on you completely fell out. You don’t doubt that some of the greedy girls you work with probably already scooped it up. 

Truly disgusting. You can’t wait to get out of here and never return. What you’re going to do, you’re not sure, but you’re a survivor. You’ll figure it out. 

You always have. 

“Mad?” You question Klaus, zipping up your bag when you confirm all your belongings are together. You face him, and his expression reads like he can’t believe you’re pretending to be confused. He just killed a man in front of you. 

Which was an exaggerated reaction, in any case. Klaus didn’t have to snap his neck. He could’ve just beat him up, or thrown him out of the club, now that you think about it. 

But you still don’t feel bad. Like Barry, the world won’t miss a guy like Martin. 

“I’m not mad at all,” you promise, because you’re not. You’ve changed, and that much is obvious. Whether it be from Klaus, from this town, from something else entirely - you don’t know. Maybe you’ve always just been bad, deep down, and that’s why things turned out the way they did. Maybe that’s what your parents saw in you all along, why they treated you the way they did. 

Why everyone in your life has always treated you poorly. 

When Klaus stays silent, you slam your locker. “Martin had it coming. Follow me?”

Klaus is speechless, but he obeys, which is crazy in itself. The man that can’t be tamed, following you down the hall to the private rooms. You both enter, and when the door closes and you lock it behind you, you toss your bag on the ground. 

“What are you doing?” Klaus questions, and for the first time since you’ve known him, he looks unsure. He hasn’t carefully crafted this moment, isn’t in control of it, and you wonder how that feels for someone like him. He’s spent the last few years, no, his whole life, trying to be in charge of every single situation. Making an entire city his prisoners, just so he can come out on top. 

The thought turns you on. You’re done pretending - because there’s nothing that gives you as big of a rush as having the big, bad hybrid wrapped around your little finger. It’s obvious now, that whatever little crush you have on Klaus, he reciprocates. And he helped you tonight, stood up for you, was on your side. 

Besides, death happens all the time in this city these days. So what if Martin is dead. He can join Barry in hell. No one has ever stood up for you before, and you’re going to ride the high, the feeling of someone caring about you, for as long as possible. 

“Thank you for protecting me tonight,” you tell Klaus, walking towards him. He’s already on the couch, and you waste no time plopping yourself down on one of his legs, your rightful seat on his lap. He wraps an arm around you, rests his hand on your hip. “Nobody’s ever done that for me before.”

Maybe it’s pathetic to admit, that no one has ever cared for you as much as Klaus has, when he’s really only paid to watch you dance and talk and cum. But it’s the truth, and you think you owe him that much for what he did for you tonight. 

What he’s been doing for you, since he arrived at the club. Whether he realizes it or not. 

“I don’t like hearing that,” he says, which is not the reply you expected. You look at him, feel his fingers stroking gently over the skin of your hip like he can’t not touch you. “I don’t like knowing you’ve never had anyone to protect you before.”

You’re not sure what to say to that, so you don’t say anything. Instead, you drop from his lap to your knees in front of him. You’re quick as you reach for his belt, unbuckle it, go to unzip his pants - but Klaus tries to stop you. 

“What are you doing?” He asks again, as if it’s not obvious. But you know what he means. This isn’t a normal reaction to what just happened, but what about this situation is normal? Klaus is immortal, part fucking wolf, and you’re a stripper who’s about to put his cock in your mouth.

“Thanking you, Klaus,” you say softly, a strange confidence overtaking you. Maybe that’s all you needed to feel better about yourself. To be more sure of yourself. Maybe all you needed was someone to show they cared, even just a smidge. Even just an inch.

“Y/N,” he warns, even as you take his hard cock in your hand. He’s already turned on, and you realize it’s from what just happened in the main room of the club. Klaus gets turned on from violence, from hurting other people - and apparently you get turned on that violence and hurting people gets him going. 

Klaus has a beautiful cock. It’s big, thick, the perfect size in comparison to his body. It’s veiny and pink, and you can’t help it, you lick your lips like you can’t wait to get a taste. 

You can’t. You’re desperate for it, have thought about his cock and what it’d feel like in your mouth since you met him, if you’re being honest with yourself. Have wondered what it’d be like to get intimate with someone as powerful as him. Wondered if it’d make you feel submissive to be in the presence of a man like Klaus, or if you’d feel more powerful by association. 

With his cock in your mouth, you realize you feel powerful. Making Klaus Mikaelson shudder, controlling his pleasure with your tongue and the suck of your lips - the power is intoxicating. 

But it’s fleeting, because just as soon as your power started, Klaus puts a hand in your hair. He guides you along the length of his cock, and you let him, eager to please him. Drool runs down your chin, and Klaus bucks his hips up and begins to talk dirty. 

“You’ve been thinking of this, haven’t you? Fuck,” he growls, and you moan against his length. It sends shudders through his body, you realize, because you feel his dick twitch in your mouth. “My little dancer. So eager to please me. Fuck, sweetheart. Your mouth was made for this.”

It’d be degrading if it wasn’t so hot. But everything Klaus is saying is true. There’s a certain allure to his darkness, and while you suck him off, or - while he uses your mouth - you begin to make the realization that the other dancers didn’t really hate Klaus. 

They were jealous of you. They probably wanted him, but just couldn’t work up the courage to go over to him like you did. Maybe you’re stronger than you realize, you think. 

Or maybe just more stupid. 

Suddenly, Klaus pulls you off of his cock. “Up, love,” he orders, and you do as he says, wiping the drool from your mouth with the back of your hand. When you’re standing, he rips your panties off first and then your bra, like an animal, smirks when he sees your naked body. 

Your bra and panties lay on the ground by your feet, and Klaus looks at them smugly before palming your breast. “Been waiting ages to do that,” he admits, presumably about ripping your clothes off of you. Then he switches his attention to your body, and he hums, something in his eyes that almost makes it look like he can’t believe this is real. 

“You’re glorious,” he murmurs, pinching one of your nipples. With the hand that’s not cupping your breast, he rubs it up and down your waist, feeling your skin - almost like he’s trying to make sure you’re real. That this moment is real. 

You know the feeling. 

“Every curve, every inch of your perfect skin,” Klaus stands then, pulling your body to his. In between you both, so close like this, you feel his hard cock poking you. It’s so erotic, so fucking hot, and you know if he were to feel between your legs that you’d be soaking. “You’re so beautiful, Y/N. Made to be admired.”

There’s a pause while he looks at your mouth, like he wants to kiss you, and you think it’s finally going to happen - all of this, yet you’ve never kissed yet. And you want it more than anything, maybe even more than you want his cock inside of you. 

But it doesn’t happen. Instead, Klaus pulls away, gently pushing you down onto the couch. “Hands and knees, sweetheart,” he says, as if that’s not obvious, but you obey anyway. 

Of course you do, and he knows you will too. 

You hear Klaus behind you, taking the rest of his clothes off. The sound of his belt hitting the floor, his shirt being shrugged off, shoes kicked off. But when he gets behind you, your back to his chest, his arms bracketing both sides of you, all you can focus on is the feel of his necklaces against your skin. They’re cold, and they make you arch your back. 

Klaus chuckles, his dick poking at your wet entrance. “Such a good girl, arching without instruction,” and then he pauses, pulls away a little. Maybe you look nervous, or maybe it’s something else entirely, but he asks tentatively, “You’re not a virgin, are you?”

Your body heats in embarrassment. Can he really see how little experience you have when it comes to sex? But you shake your head and softly say, “No.”

“Just a few men,” you clarify, and you feel Klaus press a kiss to your back. He lines his dick back up with your entrance, pushing in slowly. 

“I hope they die,” he says randomly, and it catches you so off guard that you forget to breathe when he pushes himself into you. It’s a stretch for sure, but only for a second. Because you’re so turned on, your body opens for him, and it feels so good that all you can do is whine. 

Klaus has turned you to putty in his hands, on his cock, and it’s the first time you can remember ever being able to let go of all the thoughts that have you spiraling on the daily. For the first time in a long time, you’re able to just focus on the present moment - which is, currently, squeezing Klaus’ dick with your tight little pussy. 

“Fuck,” you whimper. He’s got one arm on one side of you holding himself up, and the other gripping your shoulder, pulling you up against his body. The angle makes his dick hit such a good spot inside of you that your eyes almost roll back into your head. 

Forget the oral sex from someone with almost a thousand years of practice, you think, his dick is fucking magic.

“Klaus,” you moan, fingers gripping the arm of the couch. You dig your nails into the fabric, but then Klaus reaches forwards and smacks your hands away so you’re holding onto nothing. You’re worried you’re going to fly away in pleasure, only able to focus on the feeling of his cock going in and out of your tight, wet heat. It’s too much. It’s not enough. It’s -

“Focus on me,” Klaus orders, instructing you to keep your hands in front of you. You hold them together while he holds you both up, knees on the couch like you’re a pair of animals rutting against each other. It’s feral. “Focus on my cock inside of you, Y/N. I know you’ve been waiting for it. Tell me how it feels.”

How can you even begin to describe the sensation? 

“Good, it’s,” but then he hits that spot again and you moan, losing track of all your words. Klaus pulls out and thrusts back in again, and in a move that surprises you so much you actually gasp, he smacks you on the ass. 

“That’s not a full sentence, doll. Try again.”

Bastard. Monster. Fucking ass. 

But you try again anyway. 

“It feels good, Klaus, so good. You’re so big and I’ve wanted this for so long and, and,” you can’t say anything else. All the build up that has led to this moment is causing you to break down, and when he moves his hand from your shoulder to the front of your body, past your tits and to your pussy, presses down on your clit when he cups your cunt in his hand, you lose it. 

You’re going to cum, and the pleasure is so overwhelming, you feel like you’re going to cry too. 

Klaus must notice this, or he feels the same, because his thrusts get sloppier and then he lets you go, so you’re back to being bent over on your knees, his solid body using you to make himself bust. “Touch yourself for me,” he orders, more out of breath than when he snapped someone’s neck, and you wonder if that’s because he’s working himself out - or if he’s holding back some of his strength. 

“God, these fucking shoes. I always wondered if you’d keep them on while you were getting fucked,” and just like that, Klaus’ stripper fantasy is revealed. You’re flattered. 

You reach a hand under your body and rub your clit, hand cramping, arm at an awkward angle, but it’s worth it. You feel so good, and it’s not just sexual. It’s everything. So much all at once. 

It’s Klaus, and with that thought in mind you cum, feeling your pussy pulse arouse his cock. 

He doesn’t cum at the same time as you, but he does let out a growl so deep you worry it’s a full moon. “Fucking hell, Y/N,” he moans, gripping your hips so tight they’ll leave bruises. “I could fuck you forever,” and you hope he does. But then his thrusts get faster, and you know he’s about to cum. 

Klaus buries his face in your hair, breathing you in, pressing kisses to the back of your shoulders and the back of your neck. “Tell me you won’t forget me when you’re gone,” he says, before letting out another moan. “Fuck, I’m cumming.”

It’s so sudden, both his release and his comment, that you don’t say anything at all. You just feel the heaviness of his body on your back, the way he fills you up with his cock and his seed, leaking out of you as he pulls out, and the feel of something rough cleaning you off a second later. 

He’s using your ripped up panties to wipe you off. 

You don’t plan on bringing up what he said as you get dressed. Maybe he said it in a moment of pleasure, but the truth is - you can’t get it off your mind. If he means what you think he means, that you’ll be leaving town soon, then why do you feel so disappointed at the thought of leaving him?

You put on a pair of pants and a sweatshirt from your bag, no longer a sexy vixen, and you know Klaus has never seen you like this. You hope it doesn’t change his view on you, but there’s literally nothing else you can wear. 

This was all you brought. 

“You never answered me,” Klaus says as you put on your shoes. You’re so happy to take the heels off, and your feet scream in relief when you slip on your boots. They’re flat, they’re comfortable, and you feel more like yourself than you did just a second ago. 

You’re not sure if that’s good or bad. There was something kind of nice about the armor that was your stripper outfit. You could pretend to be someone you’re not, almost like a mask, even if it sounds stupid because you were almost naked in the outfit. 

“How could I forget you, Klaus?” You say, but you mean it in more ways than just in regards to the connection you share. How could you ever forget the man that burst into town all those years ago, who disrupted and destroyed so much for so many people? 

But you think he means promise you’ll remember me as something more than a monster, and if that’s the case, you want to tell him that you will. 

Of course you will. 

“Where am I going?” You ask for clarification, because you know what he means - it’s something you’ve talked about before. You just never knew Klaus was really listening. 

You want him to say what you think he’s going to say. 

Klaus walks towards you, necklaces tangled around his neck. The buttons of his henley are lopsided and his jeans are wrinkled from when they were on the floor while he was fucking you. He looks utterly distressed, and you realize it’s because of the conversation you’re having. 

He doesn’t want you to leave, and that scares you as much as it warms your heart.  

When he reaches you, he grabs your hands in his. Whatever you two have - it’s complicated, and you can tell that it’s taking everything in Klaus to do the right thing right now. 

“You’re going to leave town. You’re going to that performing arts school you’ve put off for a few years,” he smirks at that, and then you realize he’s making a dark joke. Like you’ve had any choice in putting off school. 

“Klaus, I,” but you don’t know what to say. You should be screaming yes. Should be running out the door to go home and grab your money from the safe under your bed, should be offering to suck Klaus off again just to guarantee your freedom. This is what you’ve been wishing for and wanting forever. 

This is your golden ticket. 

Yet you find yourself saying, “I can’t.” 

Klaus looks at you like you’re crazy, and maybe you are. But you think you see a little relief in his eyes too. You don’t know what’s wrong with you, because it’s not like you can stay for Klaus. There’s no future with this. No future for this. For you both together. 

This is it. It’s the beginning and the end of something, and the thought fills you with so much emotion you don’t know what to do. You’re not sure what the emotion is, think that it could very well be love, but you’ve never known love. It’s a stranger. All you know is that you feel. 

You remind yourself that at the very least, Klaus Mikaelson is the reason you can feel again. 

“I hoped you’d say that,” Klaus laughs, and then he looks at you, and suddenly you blank out. 

You can hear it, it’s registering in your brain, but you’re not totally conscious of it. It’s almost like someone’s talking to you from another room, like you’re half asleep. All you hear is his voice, telling you, “You’re going to leave town. You’re going to that performing arts school you’ve put off.” He holds your hands so tight, you’re worried they’ll be bruised when he pulls away. 

He’s trying to compel you, you realize, in the back of your mind. He tells you he’s already got you registered, did research on your name and your background because he can do things like that, that there’s someone waiting at your apartment to take you across the city border, and your money is safe. You’ll be okay. 

Money won’t be an issue anymore. 

You go to do as he says, but just as you head to the door, he comes to you. Turns you around and grabs your head, looks you over and presses a kiss to your forehead. “Thank you, Y/N, for the dances,” he says. It’s a strange goodbye. “Remember me as someone good.”

You don’t tell him that his request is unnecessary. That there’s no reason to compel you to think of him like that. 

Because you’ll always remember him as someone good. 

Good to you.

___

9 Months Later

It’s the end of your first show, and you’re on top of the world. 

You’ve been practicing for months, and you’re proud of yourself for how far you’ve come. When you first arrived, you had a lot of practice to catch up on, as was expected. It was overwhelming at first, turning back into a ballerina, but your instructor told you that she can’t believe you took such a long break from dancing. 

She always compliments you, tells you that whatever practice you were doing at home kept you in shape. That you must’ve been born a talented dancer, if this is how you dance with a lapse in years of professional training. 

She’s sweet.

If only she knew. 

The show, recital, was a success. You’re leaving the auditorium, ready to shower back in your campus apartment and change your clothes to meet up with some friends. Your new life is so normal, so fun, it’s hard to believe what your past used to be. 

You never really think about it. You’re too busy to think about it most days, with all the dancing and new friends and normal life shit you’ve become adjusted to. You never thought you would get to this place, literally and figuratively, and you know you only have one person to thank. 

It’s hard sometimes, reasoning with yourself if your thoughts go back to Klaus Mikaelson. He was the cause of some of the worst years of your life, but he was also your savior. Where, how, do you come to terms with that? Where does blame start, and when does forgiveness begin? 

Is a good deed still a good deed if the only reason the deed was needed was because of something bad they did? 

Believe it or not, you’re not a philosophy major. Just inquisitive, with a lot more time to think now that you’re not in survival mode all the time. Maybe you just want an excuse to think about Klaus when he crosses your mind, but the truth is, long thoughts and morals aside -

It doesn’t matter what he did, because you forgive him. People do bad things all the time and never make it right, but Klaus - he did right by you.

That’s got to count for something.

You’re heading up the stairs that lead to your apartment when you…see him? 

Is it -

No, it couldn’t be. Why would he be here? 

Maybe it’s just wishful thinking. 

But it’s not. In front of your apartment door, holding a bouquet of red roses, is Klaus Mikaelson in the flesh. 

You wonder if you’re just experiencing psychosis from lack of sleep - it’s different from what you used to experience back then. Your lack of sleep now is from studying and hanging out with friends, late night dance practices. Not hunger and anxiety and insomnia.

“Y/N,” Klaus says, and it's weird. This is weird, but if he’s talking that means it’s real.

What is he doing here? 

And why does your heart speed up like it did back when you first saw him at the club? 

“What are you doing here?” You ask, but your tone isn’t mean. You’re happy to see him. There’s no explanation. It’s chemical - you just are.

You’ve avoided the news about your former city like the plague. It’s easy, in all honesty, because you still don’t have a phone. It doesn’t matter to you, because the past is the past. You don’t want to know, and you’re scared, that if you think about it too hard, the past might suck you back in.

You were given a golden ticket and you’d be stupid to look back. 

But, strangely enough, the part of your past you don’t mind thinking about is standing in front of you. He looks proud, and he smiles with something like shyness behind it. 

You feel silly, in stage makeup and another sweatshirt. You still can’t wrap your head around it, who Klaus is and what he’s done and what he’s done for you. Maybe you never will. 

He hands you the roses and you thank him. It’s silent, while he looks you over, and you him. Handsome as always, because he doesn’t age, looking far too expensive to be standing in this apartment complex. 

Money isn’t an issue anymore because someone anonymous (cough, Klaus) paid for the entirety of your tuition at once, and also gifted you enough cash that you deposited into an account that could feed you for years - but you’re frugal with your money. Could live somewhere nicer, but you just want to be careful. 

You never know what could happen. Good or bad. Best to stay safe. 

“I’ve never missed a performance, and I don’t intend to start now,” is all Klaus says, and that does something to you. 

He’s never missed a performance, you think. Never at the club, even when you thought he wasn’t there. Which is how he protected you that night, against Martin. Klaus has always been watching, protecting -

And if that’s the case, it makes sense that for your first public performance tonight, he was there. 

Nobody has ever been there for you like that. 

You’re so much different now. You’re not so insecure, not so nervous - you don’t worry so much. You can actually joke around, laugh a little bit, take things as they come instead of letting trauma run your life. 

So you’re not the shy, damaged girl you were back when you left Klaus at the club that night. Which gives you the confidence to say this. 

“You never kissed me,” you blurt out, and Klaus laughs. Steps closer to you, so close that you can smell his cologne. Woodsy, warm, maybe a little mint? Your body heats up at his closeness. 

“Maybe that’s for the best, love,” Klaus says, with a tinge of regret in his voice. You know he’s right, but you can’t help but slip down the trail of memory lane with him. Standing this close to him, stage makeup on again, his stupid necklaces on display. 

The only physical difference from back then are the clothes you’re wearing and where you are. But there’s so much else that’s different, it’s almost like Klaus is visiting from another world.

“What did you think of my dance?” It’s the same thing you used to ask him every night at the club. Nostalgia is a dirty liar, because there’s something that makes you miss that. 

Miss him. 

You have to look away. 

“You’re a goddess. Now. Then,” Klaus reaches out, pushes some of your hair behind your ear. “Always. But I have to say, the heels were a little hotter than the slippers.” You grin.

Sharing history with this monster. Smiling with this beast. Only Klaus doesn’t feel so much like those descriptions anymore. 

At least, he’s not the monster of your story. You know a handful of people that could fill that role. 

Klaus Mikaelson is your savior. 

“Good to see your compulsion is still working,” he says, and you wonder if he means to say it out loud. You quirk a brow, but it’s now or never. 

This is the moment you’ve been waiting for. 

“I’ve been taking vervain for years,” you admit shyly, opening the door to your apartment. His compulsion never worked on you. 

“Do you want to come inside?” 

[the-flaneur]

dearest darling flan would you ever consider writing for lewis 😔 i do not see nearly enough fics to justify js how attractive he is and it pains me

dont go insane (lh44)

pairing: lewis hamilton x driver!reader, platonic grid x reader

summary: when george invites some of the drivers over for a drunken presentation night, what better topic to present than your speciality? lewis' di-...outfits

warnings: suggestive mentions

wc: 1243

a/n: your wish is my command 😉 may have deviated a little bit, but dont worry i have many more fics lined up for this very attractive man

[masterlist] [request]

“ok ok everybody, thank you for joining us for the very first annual driver’s presentation night, hosted by yours truly, george russell. a connoisseur of powerpoint presentations, if i do say so myself,” george grinned.

the driver’s spare meeting room, which had been earlier crammed with spinning wheelie chairs and long white desks, had been replaced with the comfort of some old beanbags and blankets, as you, max, george, lando, oscar, charles, and alex settled in for a very long evening. as the last words left george's lips, a round of uncoordinated cheers erupted from the drunken audience. max let out an especially loud whoop before nearly faceplanting into a beanbag. 

"you're all welcome," he said with exaggerated politeness. "now then, without further ado, let's dive right into our first presentation of the evening!"

he gestured grandly towards you, nearly losing his balance in the process. "everyone, please welcome the one the only, the illustrious and femioone-feminonnena…blimey…” he cackled, tossing you the screen remote, “oh you know who it is…y/n! welcome yourself up to the stage,” 

"thank you, georgie poo. and hello everyone, i'm very very happy to be here tonight to present a special look back at the goat’s fashion choices. i would’ve rather regaled you with tales of his other…talents, but george made me promise to keep it pg, cause there are children here,” you giggled in front of all your friends, with a pointed look at lando and oscar, who seem to look mildly offended.

“obviously as the stunning wife of formula 1's golden boy himself," you continued, clicking onto the first slide, which showed you and lewis posed together for his recent dior collection, the boys hooting and hollering appreciatively, “i am the best and the only person able to give such a presentation, so make sure you’re listening,”

more applause and whistling followed as you clicked through to the first slide of lewis from the 2024 met gala, “of course, we gotta start off with a newfound lewis hamilton classic, the 2024 met gala. simple, classy, a great message and followed the theme, unlike so many others,” you rolled your eyes at the last bit, as the boys laughed.

“i can’t believe he disses my fashion sense, when his older met gala looks are questionable,” charles groans, swiping to show the group a photo pulled up on his phone. you sigh when you see lewis’ zig zag suit from 2019; definitely not camp enough for you or 2024 lewis.

“hey cut the man some slack,” alex laughs, seeing your pouting face, as you continue to click through the slides showcasing his various looks. the room continues to fill with laughter and playful jabs both at your commentary and the well-meaning yet snarky comments from the other drivers.

on the seventh slide, a photo of lewis in a see-through mesh top from the early 2021 season appeared on the screen, which definitely caught the drivers’ eyes. his chiseled features were highlighted with the bright backdrop, and the material of the shirt definitely emphasised his broad shoulders and toned physique. as well as the absolutely sinful tattoos criss-crossing his biceps, yummy…

"he looked absolutely dashing here, didn't he?" you purred, voice dripping with admiration. pausing the presentation, you let the image linger on the screen as you continued, "and trust me, he cleaned up even better in private that night..."

the room erupted in good-natured eye-rolls and chuckles at your suggestive remark. lando, never one to miss an opportunity, quipped, "well, we all knew lew was a total “stud”,"

oscar snorted, "yeah, until he decides to show up to the races in a black shirt and pants with hummingbirds on it," the others groaned in agreement, recalling lewis' infamous (amongst the drivers) outfit choice from several years prior. you laughed, unfazed by the teasing, "okay, okay, i get it. but this look right here? classic lewis - sophisticated, stylish, and undeniably sexy,” pointing once again to another showstopper lewis look.

you continued to advance the slideshow to the next image, another candid shot of you and lewis leaving a glamorous red-carpet event hand-in-hand. george leaned in to whisper something to alex, both of them grinning mischievously. 

george, still smitten with his own awaiting powerpoint prowess, decided to inject some competitiveness into the situation. "alright, let's not forget why we're really here, shall we? fashion, schmashion - who still really wants to hear more about y/n's insightful analysis of lewis's wardrobe choices?"

the room erupted in laughter, as you shot george a stern look, "hey now, my presentation is far more interesting than your mediocre slide designs, george!"

undeterred, george retorted, "oh yeah?” 

your face grew warm at the snide remark, but a spark of competitiveness ignited in your eyes. "oh, i think i can handle whatever you throw my way, george! don’t mess with the best," with a dramatic flourish, you clicked the remote to advance the slideshow featuring a collage of george's most...questionable outfits from past casual outings events. the drivers gasped in unison, their jaws dropping at the sight of george sporting everything from neon-colored blazers to patterned socks that clashed with his trousers. even the most tame of them were at least questionable to the discerning eye.

max let out a low whistle, while lando and oscar burst into uncontrollable laughter. with a sly grin, you continued, “i wouldn’t get ahead with the insult boys…george ain’t the only one who needs to pay for fashion crimes,”

"let's start with you, maxie," you sighed, pulling up one singular image on the presentation, the red bull racing suit, “unfortunately, your one fashion weakness is that you have no variety. did you know out of almost all the media pictures people get of you, it’s like a 1 in 500 to get one of you not in your suit, let alone anything fashionably interesting. you really need to convince pr to dress you in something else. how else am i supposed to critique you?" you humph.

max held up his hands in mock defense, laughing along with the others. "clearly, it was a stroke of genius."

as your merciless fashion critiques continued, the room descended into a fit of giggles and playful jabs. even george couldn't help but crack a smile, impressed by your preparations. lando shouted as you ripped his metaphorical fashion career away from him, "you know, if you're going to tear us apart like this, maybe we should just let you design our outfits from now on."

"oh, i think i've got enough on my plate with being mrs. hamilton already. besides, i have a feeling everyone might object to me dressing up the entire f1 grid in matching juicy couture tracksuits." the group erupted in laughter once more, and max raised his glass in a toast.

"to y/n, the only person in this room brave enough to call us out on our questionable fashion choices," max declared, his voice laced with humor and appreciation, "may her sharp tongue and keen eye for style forever keep us in check," the others echoed the toast, clinking their glasses together.

“but don’t worry i’ve saved an absolute treat for last,” you giggled, clicking towards the next slide, and the drivers, not for the first time tonight, were speechless.

there, plastered across the screen was a very…tasteful selection of lewis’ best pics. and the title: best clothes = no clothes.

being mrs hamilton was so much fun ;)

permanent f1 taglist (comment or msg me to join)

@charlesgirl16 @tallrock35 @sweate-r-weathe-r @unlikelystay @alex-wotton

@daisyfreecs @euphorihan @louloucs @oikarma @dying-inside-but-its-classy

@fadingcloudballoon @princessminjikwon @nina-or-anna-or-nora

© the-flanuer || do not copy, rewrite or translate any of my work on any platform.

[ronnierosest]

Zakkura "So he never initiates, never asks, and waits." - inspired by a fanfiction we're friends, right? (very adult) by totosheadset

[prentissluvr]

thinking about being soft and gentle and careful with sam. the way he doesn't realize at first why he feels so comfortable around you. then one day it hits him, the way you search for his permission almost any time you touch him, even if it's just to change his bandages. you'll ask with your eyes, wait for a little nod from him, before you take his hand in yours. you do this until you know he trusts you, until he initiates first. even then, you'll ask sometimes. and then, even when you're sure he'd like your lips on his, your keep your hands soft and so respectful and he adores you for it. he completely falls in love with you when he notices the way that you are so purposeful and loving and thoughtful with him. you've thought about and seen and taken into consideration all the times that sam has had his bodily autonomy ignored, and you make sure that you're completely safe for him, that you're never the person to hurt him like that. he loves you for it.

[arminzblackbimbo]

no more (baby i'ma do right)

part (੭̲᱖)

armin alert x blackfem!reader x connie springer

tw: mdni, poly relationship, oral (male r.), backshots, boy x boy moments, exhibition, missonary, taking turns, "bubba" as an endearment, spit, no plot just smut, sweat licking, three person kiss, lots of talking, begging, choking, a lil long again, whining and pouting, different perspectives, grinding, and praise

connie who watches while armin has you in a deep arch and gives you his all. his thumbs pressing into your back while he thrust deeply. his pelvis making hard contact with your soft ass. armin's consistent strokes being buried into you for the last 20 minutes, not letting up.

connie loves watching armin fuck you. he loves watching his hips swing into you. hearing those high pitched moans leave him, and seeing his skin have a slight red hue. the sight makes him start to buzz in his skin.

connie sits next to you in bed and rubs your back and whispers encouragement into your ear. while he watches you, he sees your body shake while the blonde strokes you deeply.

"you can do it baby, doesn't it feel good ?" connie encouraging you with his words. his breath against your ear adds to your senses. your drooling against the bed just nodding to answer connie's question.

your lips trembling together. "he's being t-t-too rough con' " your hands grip onto the sheets. armin keeps hitting so deeply inside you while you try and twist and turn in his hold. pushing into you so deeply you can feel him in your stomach.

"your ok baby, your ok " the words relax you just a little, enough for the burn in your stomach to take over. the electric like feeling make your toes curl and back arch in more, to relish in the pleasure.

your whine into the sheets feeling your legs start to tense up. the muscles shaking with how much you've clenched up. " connie-connie" you hands reach to grab him. pulling him close when you feel the clear liquid leave you and cover the silk sheets. you can feel your eyes cross to the back of your head while your moan into the night air

armin is behind you red in the face, mouth open letting out his whines and whimpers from your soft walls choking him. "bubba, i'm bout to cum" he speaks to connie, his face flush red as he looks connie in the eyes. armin know connie likes to swallow him. likes to capture the seed of him.

connie is so happy to swallow his cream he positions his chin on your butt, to catch armin in his mouth. sticking his tongue out when he watches armin pull out of you. your sticky fluids sticking to his girth. his mouth starting to a salivate, ready for the taste.

immediately starting to suckle on his tip when armin sticks it in his mouth. sucking softly to draw his orgasm from him. pushing more into his mouth to collect his semen and swallow. connie's mouth still sucking when he has nothing left to give him.

connie needs more, the taste frying his brain making his hunger grow. while he pushes more and more of armin into his mouth. loving how the girth stretches his mouth.

armin is gripping your waist while connie drains him. connie loves having the taste of you and armins essence at the same time. "ugh connie i-i- " armin is overwhelmed. he just had your walls hugging him. now connie is swallowing him, pushing him to the back of his throat.

you tiredly lay there while armin holds your hips, and listen to their exchange. from connie's spit as he moves up and down armin's length to armins loud moans and whines. you love listening to armin whines.

he made you feel so good and the liquid that left you has your eyes start too droop. all the physical intimacy making your body slump and breath to even out, armins hands holding you steady in a deep arch.

connie kissing the pink tip as it soften in his hands. "thank you baby, thank you so much for your cum" he swipes his tongue in armins slit to taste the last few droplets to quench his thirst. "mmm i love you, my pretty boy" connie rasps out. while he moves to the base of him and lick all of your juices off him.

looking up too see those tired baby blues, connies kisses his way up armins soft stomach. licking the droplets of sweat that rolls of him. the saltiness had him wanting more when he works his way up to his neck. licking and sucking all the hard work off him.

"i wanna kiss" armin pouts out. the tone making connie's length jump in his shorts. his body responding to his whines and begs.

connie trails his tongue up to his flushed face to collected all the sweat that sweeps from his pores. letting the taste hit his tongue "you always pouting bubba. use your manners"

"please gimme a kiss" he puckered his lips awaiting for those pillow soft lips. watching connie smile with those perfect teeth just shaking his head.

he chuckles a little, giving armins lips a teasing peck. watching when armin chases his lips when he pulls away "you and (୨୧) are so spoiled" pushing his lips to give him his wishes. swallowing his moans with his mouth.

swiping their tongues together, armin can taste his release on connie's tongue he loves how it's mixed with your juices. the taste making his eyes roll back. he moves his lips faster, wanting more, the sounds of their lips smacking almost making his soft length grow until connie's pulls away.

"you did so good baby, you gonna let me have her too ?" connie ask before he sees the blonde tiredly shake his head up and down. they share one last kiss before they part, letting spit web between their lips.

you jump when connie hits you hard on the soft skin of your butt. the smack ringing off you skin. making you open your eyes wide when your hear those words "wake up, baby" your body is tired. armin was so rough with you, your tender everywhere

you whine out into the sheets "bubba 'm tired" you can't even catch your breath with this two. you can feel connie replace where armin was holding your hips strong making your flinch.

"you not gonna let me get a taste baby" his hands that were holding you is now rubbing your hips. "hmm, come on baby you gotta talk to me" he wants to hear your pretty voice. hear you stagger out the answer he wants to hear so bad. he pushes you flat on your stomach and gently flips you over.

your heavily breathing on your back. seeing connies light eyes watch you intensely. waiting on a answer from you. you just pucker your lips looking at him with low eyes.

"what do you say baby ?" he just shakes his head that you and armin act just alike. expecting him to understand you from the pucker lips your showing him

"can i get a kiss please bubba ?" he presses his body on top of yours. heavily on your chest, and in between your legs that he wraps around his waist.

he leans into you laying those pink lips on you. you love to taste armin's cum on his tongue. his tongue laps at yours softly, making light sucking noises.

his hands gripping on your naked thighs letting the flesh spill between his fingers when his lips touch yours you can taste armin on his tongue loving how he taste with connie's spit.

he loves kissing both of you, likes how your lips are so soft and hold him securely. his hips are inbetween your legs, only covered with his boxers. his length pressed against your bare front through the thin cloth.

you steadily roll into him, feeling the pulse between your legs grow from the soft kisses. you can feel the arousal start to prickle your skin. you pull away, feeling overwhelmed "gimme it, i want it now please"

he grabs at your thighs tighter. you can see those straight white teeth smile at you. " you sure, i thought you was tired baby ?" he pecks you lips one more time. looking at your pretty face demand him to touch your shaking body

"no-no i want you please bubba" you grab onto him you legs wrapping around him like tighter. legs wrapping around and hands clutching him tightly.

he unhooks your limbs from around him. positioning your body into a new direction. your pliable due to your exhaustion, it allows him to easily slide your knees to touch your shoulders. folding your body in half. he likes having you like this. in half so he can easily see his favorite parts of you.

you can feel armin lay next to you catching his breath while you are just prepped for connie. you see his body sweaty and relaxed, panting watching connie hold your body still.

connie can see armin was pretty rough with you causing your folds to be swollen. your clit sticking into the air and you pulse from the aftershocks and air hitting the area, causing juices to spill out of you. you walls are squished tightly around nothing. just fluttering waiting for connie's attention

he watched the liquid leave your walls and cover your puckered hole. he groans out at the beauty of the sight. he becomes impatient stripping himself of all his clothes.

pressing those knees tighter against your shoulders. he can see those puffy lips. fat from the assault of armins hips. he rubs his thick length between those swollen puffy lips, letting them cushion him as he catches the leaky head on your swollen clit. letting your leftover cream coat him in a even sheen.

"i want this pussy so bad, but you ain't begged enough for this dick" he grinds into you deeper. his hips dragging until all of his thick length is covered in your wettness. "you gotta beg for it baby" those light eyes stinging into you.

"hmm please please bubba i need you" you go to grab on his naked arms that hold your legs going to pull him to where he closer to you. "please i need you so bad"

he watches you beg for him as he hears the slick noises from below you. it makes him harder in between your legs. " you want it that bad baby ?" he feels your hands grabbing him.

connie still rubs himself on you. grinding into you harder slotting himself to hit your clit harder. you shake your head up and down. "yes, yes please" your bottom lip start to shake again. your always spoiled with affection when you don't get immediate attention for your begging your first reaction is to pout and cry.

he goes to grab your face into one of his hands. "stop all that crying, you gonna get this dick. alright ?" he moves to lay those lips on you again. giving you light pecks on your pushed out lips. his hands puckering your lips up. "just wanted you to beg a lil" he whispers against your lips

you can feel your stomach tighten at his words and his hips rolling into you. he groans as you start to coat him even more, "you ready baby ?" he's holding back when he sees you in a dazed out look. seeing your pupils dilated and just a slight string of drool hanging out your pushed together lips

you can't respond because of his hands holding your face. simply shaking your head and he accepts your pleas, his stomach clenches when he pokes his thick length into you. your tight muscles popping when he slips slowly inside.

he can almost easily settle inside thanks to armins rough thrust earlier. your ribbed walls wrapped tightly around him. it causes him to relax into you laying his chest on top of yours "shit (୨୧) you trynna kill me" the tip of him spreading you out with a slight burn

moving your legs from of your shoulders, the front of your chest bare so that his chest is on top of yours. the stretch sending you into overdrive. as he works slowly into you.

connie has always had trouble fitting inside you. his width always giving him a hard time. the thickness making your walls stretch unnecessarily. the feeling in your stomach has your calling out to him. almost overwhelmed

he rest his forehead on yours letting his heart beat connect with yours through your chest. lips slightly touching yours. "come on, let me in baby" his eyes so close to yours the eye contact has you shivering. your name rolling of his lips, touching yours.

you connect your lips with his just savoring the feeling of him between your legs. pushing till he is half way inside of you. the light thrust he does to get deeper into you has you squirming.

armin can see your lips wetting connie's while he relaxes next to you. he come close to you rolling to his side to watch connie hips work against yours. the small thrust warming you up, for the movement of his hips

he moves closer to both of you. watching while your lips connect softly. his hunger for you both growing. he wants a kiss from you both. armin moves to touch your body as his drift towards you, his face mere centimeters away from both of yours

watching intensely as your lips connect. wanting the feeling he sees. going to give you a small peck on your cheek to alert you that he is there. spreading more kisses that are slightly wet with his saliva.

working his lips til they are almost next to yours that move with connie's. he pecks the corner of skin of your lips. armin whines so that y'all can notice him when he squeeze his face in between both of yours he is almost to his wishes.

you and connie move your head to allow armins soft lips to touch yours. his body so close its molding with the both of your moving bodies. the three pairs of lips trying to find a right pace so that they are all can find pleasure.

start to move your lips slow so that armin can catch up with how connie is trying to stuff his tongue instead both of your mouths. loud smacking being made and eager licks toward each other.

the tangles of wet muscles and low groan from connie are the sounds your hear. armin swollen lips working against you both. the feelings of both their mouths on yours as you feel connie inch deeper and deeper inside almost flush to each other.

different techniques working together to find pleasure. sloppy letting the saliva coat each others lips. dripping down to your chin, teeth clashing. connie hips start a shallow pace making your toes curl as you feel the pressure in your stomach.

you lips still when he hits a certain spot in you. moaning against them letting them get carried with their own kiss while you relax into the deep strokes connie gives you. clutching him tighter against you. "mmm connie, feels so good" you pull your face into his neck as he occupies armin with his sweet kisses.

your stomach knotting with the deep strokes you feel. letting those long nails grip his back. shivering into connie's body, you see connie's teeth pull armins lip as he leans away from him. panting softly at the stamina he is working himself up too.

skin to skin feeling how your goosebumps cover your body. connie moves closer to your ear. "i wanna see you kiss armin baby" licking the skin on you face to collect the sweat that coats your skin.

your lips are swollen from the assault of both of theirs. you whine for armins mouth, after unlatching your self from connie's neck. groaning when armin rushes to push his tongue down your thoart. rushing your lips to move faster against his

connie lets armin distract with those kisses while he pokes you deeper, rolling his hips. hitting that spot that has your toes curling. pelvis to pelvis grinding into you. watching those pretty eyes flutter. your swollen clit catching onto the front of his base.

you hands grabbing armin. legs wrapping around connie tightly keeping him from going anywhere. while your lips tangle with armins. you can feel connie's grunts vibrate through your chest.

you come up for air, gasping as you feel connie hitting that spot that has you whining. you feel connie strong hand come to hold on your neck applying pressure that has you squeaking out at each thrust

"ugh gimmie this pussy" he is so vulgar letting those dirty words leave his mouth. opposite of you and armin who are rather shy. he can't help the filthy things that leave his mouth when he plows deeper into you.

armin tiredly lays next to both of you turning to his side licking his swollen lips and watching connie's hip dig into yours. now he sees why connie loved it so much. he can see both of your faces morphe into those euphoria like features. watches while connie hand grips your neck as he uses your throat as an anchor to work into you

seeing the sweat dripping of his body when it connected with yours. seeing your nail dig into his back sure to draw blood. while he hears your voice coo out into his ear "it's too big bubba, too big c-c can't do it"

your still sensitive from armin roughness your walls tender clenching around him when he pushes his length rougher into you. letting his hand squeeze against your throat tighter. "you love this big dick, don't be like that baby" kissing along the side your neck beside his hand. "mmh don't you love this dick ?"

"yes yes i love it !" he moves his hand away backing away from your chest. giving himself room to get a taste. seeing your chest bounce and glow from the sweat your body is producing. hooking his hands under your back to arch you up. he lowers his head to attach himself to you. sucking softly and getting the sweet sweat that comes with it.

you moan feeling him flick his tongue, loving the sensation of every feeling your release come early. feeling that static start to spread throughout your body, his hips working in a steady rhythm, helping you towards that feeling.

armin comes along too, your breast making his mouth water he can't resist himself. he working his mouth on the fat of you breast sucking along the flesh. suctioning his lips so that color of the skin underneath changes due the pressure. armin working hard to cover your chest with hickes

you feel the electricity through your body the frizzy feeling in you toes making you start to shake everywhere. your waist shaking connie holding you harder, legs flaring and shaking as armin helps to hold them down while connie hips still roll into you.

"armin imma cum, i'm cumming bubba, ugh" you say armins name grabbing with him with grabby hands. even though connie is the one that's hitting your cervix with accuracy. your eyes starting to roll, with those body tremors and tightness. you hear the wetness before you feel it.

hear it spray connie stomach with he continues his assault going harder to prolong your juices spraying out. "mmm" as you can say, feeling the relief. mouth open as even more start to splash out. also the cream coming out of you is in abundance coating his thickness sliding easily out of you.

you can still feel them sucking on you the hickies armin making spreading to your neck telling you praises as you start to calm down and you start to breathe heavily when you vision becomes clearer. "you did so good sweetheart, so good" armin saying through his light voice.

connie lets your chest go, groaning while he tries to move gently but your so soft inside he start to feel an early arivval. start to feel his calf's lock up with the way he is tensing.

laying back on top you skin to skin working his hips gently to feel the locking in his thighs, but what send him over the edge is when armin places his lip in the one spot that cause him to go feral. making connie grip his chest closer to yours. while you start to drool and feel like your in a cloudy space

"mm i'm cummin, " he groans picking up his pace when it shake his whole body. let the ropes of cum hit your cervix grinding to make sure you get every drop. while he shudders on top you. the feelings becoming to much for him. both breathing heavily

armin kissing you both on the cheek and saying he running a bath. cleaning all the messes while your both relax.

connie kissing into cheek, whispering to you trying to bring you back. trying to get you talk to him, you only whine back eyes closed while body remains still. but when armin comes and says the bath is ready trying to separate you two.

you instantly tighten your legs around he has to slowly pop out of you working your legs off of him when armin scoops you up too carry you to the bath

you lay on armin chest when you lay in the bath while connie is behind you starting to wash your legs and armins. your feel the sleep take you away trusting them to clean you up and tuck you in for bed.

part (੭̲᱖)

[carnal-lnstinct]

🎲 and Broly

Don't know if I'm too late haha

2/3 - Prompt

A kiss to the back of the neck.

Warning: M/18+. MINORS DNI. explicit language

Broly thinks to himself, pushing his nose into the crest of your head and taking in your blissful scent. ‘Are you really just for me?’ He lets out a slow, deep breath and closes his eyes with the tenderest nuzzle in your hair as his hands find your curves, comforted by how real you are and the feelings that come with you being with him. That’s when your weight shifted, succumbing to the support of his large hands. You abruptly tensed as he brought you closer, his eyes reopening at the sensation.

Your breath shook as it left your lips, your head sinking and stopped only by the wall against your forehead. ‘Are you…mine?’ His lips move to plant a kiss against your scalp. Doing so, his arms moved further around you, peck after peck with an appreciative moan down the nape of your neck. The way it relaxed you, Broly moved a hand to cup the front of your neck to keep your skin close to his mouth. He didn’t want to lose the contact to fatigue, he needed his lips on your skin, close the way your ass sat plush against the base of his abs.

Even if it made your legs tremble and your feet restless trying to hold yourself in place, even when the choked whimpers started to become frequent, turning into a mantra of breathless swears.

Your body warred with itself, exhaustion vs ecstasy. Feeling the tremulous way you contracted around him, still tight and suckling from your last climax, your body just didn’t seem to want to let him go. And he didn’t want to let you go. The little breaks in between like this helped, but it just never seemed to be enough for either of you. From the way you feel him twitch against your insides and drench down your legs to the way his large tongue tasted the skin on your neck when his lips weren't enough and his strength effortlessly kept you in place, it would be a waste to leave such a blissful state.

[just-french-me-up]

If you'd still like Dreamling kiss prompts, how about 7 or 17?

@martybaker asked : Hello, your fics are so lovely! May I humbly request ‘A kiss to shut them up’ if you’re still taking prompts? 👉👈 @anonymous asked : Thoughts on dreamling 7 or 17 (to shut them up or to distract - maybe even both at once?) for the kiss prompts?

We're shutting him up, yall! This is a Retired!Dream one, in which Dream struggles with the human body and human condition, and can't see how he can measure up to his old self in Hob's eyes. Angsty you say? Deceivingly horny I raise you! I kept this sorta M rated but... hey if there's more to come *winkwink* who knows?

The human body was a curious thing. It required constant attention, fluids, fuel, maintenance, care. And yet it was so... limiting. Morpheus could still remember how it felt, to think of a place and feel the ground shift under his feet without ever having to move. There had been no hunger then. No thirst. No itching, for his skin had never had the notion that it could be too dry.

If he had ever felt those things, it had been because he had chosen to.

Now the world imposed itself to him, there wasn't much of a choice.

Urges baffled him the most. The dryness coating his mouth on a particularly hot day, his mind conjuring up images of cold, condensation-weeping bottles. The drowsiness taking hold of him after dinner, weighing on his eyelids. The burning, devouring heat flaring in his abdomen as Hob would step out of the shower, a towel lazily tied around his hips, the line of hair trailing down his navel guiding Morpheus' gaze downwards.

It was a strange thing, to be overcome by such sensations. An infuriating thing, really. He ought to be able to resist them. He had been able to resist them, once, to ignore them, dismiss them into nothing if he so chose. How vexing it was, to be a creature of wants and needs, when your existence had been nothing but careful control.

He would not tell Hob, but he could not help but feel... lesser. How clever could his mind be, now that he only had access to his own? How good could his hands be, he who had been able to breathe life into dream clay, fashion lands and castles with a single thought? How pleasing could his touch be, now that he was barred from his lover's unconscious? How could he compare to who and what he had been, once?

They had not made love ever since his encounter with the Kindly Ones. Hob had never pushed, reading Morpheus far better than Morpheus ever could, now. There had been times, here and there, when Morpheus had thought they would, with lingering kisses growing deeper, embraces in bed tighter, but something had held him back. Some bitter gnawing feeling at the pit of his stomach. Yet another thing he could not seem to control.

Yet he wanted. Desperately, frustratingly so. The most mundane things would strike him as the most erotic sights he could fathom. Hob drinking his coffee in the morning, his Adam's apple bobbing as he'd swallow. Hob reading the day's papers, his gaze intent, focused. Hob reaching up to grab this or that from a cupboard, his shirt riding up and showing his navel, while his tired pajama bottoms hung from his hips, revealing the slight dips there, a hint of hair...

Morpheus' body would betray him often, subjecting him to fantasies and erections that, much like the rest, he held little control over. Unlike food, lust was a hunger he never seemed to satisfy. It only grew.

If Hob had ever caught him staring, he never said anything. Instead, he was highly skilled at noticing when Morpheus' mind would start spinning on itself, feeding the loop of existential dread looming over him. He had taken to giving Morpheus tasks, then, something to focus on. Although it would not quite clear the storm, it muffled it somewhat.

Perhaps he'd sensed another one of Morpheus' spirals that night, when his voice rose from the bedroom.

"Oh, bollocks! Love? Might need a hand here."

As he stepped inside the bedroom, Morpheus found Hob standing by the mirror, struggling with his button-up. He flashed a quick contrite smile at him, emphatically tugging at the fabric.

"Can't manage to button those buggers off," he explained.

"Allow me."

The human condition was one thing, but buttons he could handle. Morpheus' touch was methodical, surgical almost, as he focused on the task at hand, yet three buttons later, he could not help but feel his focus slip. He could feel Hob's warmth under his fingertips. His heartbeat. As he breathed in, Hob's scent filled his lungs, distracting him further. By the time he was done with the shirt, his mind had gone elsewhere.

Hob wore an undershirt, a thin, almost see-through thing. It required barely any effort to see his chest in spite of the fabric. Morpheus' eyes trailed down, heat flushing his cheeks. Mindlessly, his thumb traced the line of hair down Hob's abdomen, his mouth filled with want. He could feel hot breath against his lips. Humans were not meant to withstand such hunger.

They were kissing before Morpheus could articulate another thought, Hob's mouth warm and soft against his, the coarse brush of his stubble adding fuel to the fire overtaking him. No doubt Hob had meant for this to be tender, but Morpheus was famished, taking, and taking, and taking all that was offered until his lungs might explode. He found himself gasping against Hob, nose to nose, forehead to forehead.

"Hey," Hob whispered, gentle to a fault. "It's okay. There's no rush."

Morpheus swallowed hard, feverishly catching his breath. Hob's palm was invitingly cool against his cheek.

"I will keep," he continued. "We don't have to―"

"I want to," Morpheus rasped, weeks of frustration pushing the words out of him. "I want you. I just―"

"Just what?"

The patience in his voice was the lifeline Morpheus held onto as he sighed, embarrassment flooding through him.

"This form, it feels... finite. Flawed. Lacking."

Fallible, he did not say. He watched as Hob's eyes grew round, ridicule joining embarrassment.

"Duck―"

"I am not as I once was," he continued, overcome with the need to justify himself. "I am no longer suited to anticipate your every want. I can not satisfy you to the degree I once could. Everything I have to offer is bound to disappoint in comparison."

Hob's stare felt heavy, too heavy for Morpheus to hold, but as he looked away, Hob took his chin between his fingers, directing his gaze back to him.

"Love, I―. Sex is not about making some kind of... of ranking."

"Your unconscious would rank it, regardless."

"Fuck my unconscious. It's my conscious self who wants you, magic dick or not."

The corners of Hob's mouth twitched at his own joke, but seriousness soon took over.

"I love you," he said, prompting Morpheus to look away again. "I love you. I would love you Endless, I would love you human, I would love you if you were a tentacled monster and hell, you've been that before if you'd recall!"

Morpheus fought back the smile creeping up on his lips.

"I never cared how we'd fuck. Well, I did, but― I did because it was you. I wanted to be with you. I still do."

Hob sighed, and they stood in silence for a moment, looking at each other.

"At least now we know that mind of yours is well and truly yours and not a Dream of the Endless exclusive."

"An unfortunate discovery."

Hob's hand settled on Morpheus' waist, his thumb brushing the fabric of his shirt.

"I do want you," he said. "Whenever you're ready. If ever. But I don't want you holding back because you've convinced yourself I may not enjoy it well enough, according to some cosmic standard you've set for yourself."

Morpheus nodded slowly, his own thumb back to tracing the happy trail on Hob's stomach.

"I have always found you pleasing enough, after all," he dared, shooting a tentative look at Hob. "As human as you are."

Hob made a face, pulling him closer by the waist.

"Your compliments need work, duck. But I do think there's a silver lining to this whole human condition you are overlooking."

"Is that so?"

Hob smirked at him, fully conscious of how devilishly handsome that made him. He had had, after all, centuries to hone those skills. How long would it take him?

"You no longer have access to my unconscious, right?"

"I do not."

"Which means you can no longer anticipate my every want, as you said."

Now that was rubbing salt into the wound.

"Yes," he conceded with a frown.

"Well imagine how arousing it is, my love," Hob said, his eyes darker by the second, "to be able to surprise you."

A warm shiver went down Morpheus' spine, sending his pulse into a frantic race. He swallowed thickly, holding Hob's gaze.

"How arousing?"

"Very. Cock-achingly, one might say."

Morpheus glanced down, finding Hob's trousers tight, his hard cock pressing against the fabric, making his knees weak. The human body truly was weak in the most delicious way.

"I could dare you to surprise me," he teased back, his breathing loud in his ears.

"You could."

Gods, that mouth of his, Morpheus was quite certain he could be undone from that tone alone. But still.

"But should you find me displeasing, you ought to―"

The rest of his words were swallowed into a kiss, unheard and discarded, replaced by tender sighs and wanting hands, and after a while, Morpheus found he'd forgotten what they even were, his mind blissfully blank save for pleasure.

The human body was a curious thing. A highly pleasing thing, at times.

Send me a kissing prompt?

[lauraneedstochill]

The object of my desires

summary: You overhear Aemond making a snarky remark about the way you dress. You decide to teach him a lesson. warnings: friends to lovers (both are idiots), a dash of angst, a lot of teasing, things get very heated (NSFW), with a sprinkle of softness. words: ~6500 (it was supposed to be shorter but they started making out...) author’s note: the idea first popped into my head months ago when I saw this post. also, for the longest time I’ve been thinking that “you are the bane of my existence” monologue is a perfect fit for Aemond — and yet I haven’t seen a single fic* using that quote?! so I finally decided to give it a try.

If anyone asked you to describe your relationship with Aemond, you would’ve said that the two of you were almost friendly. The almost part was the trickiest one to explain because, even though both of you acted very content with the way of things, you still couldn’t help but think that you wanted something more, no matter how much you’ve tried to deny it.

You got to know him through Helaena who you befriended when you were ten and six. A year older than you, she was the weird girl no one wanted to talk to and you approached her out of curiosity but soon learned that she had a cheerful nature and quite a nimble mind. She loved your sharp sense of humor and energetic wit and the two of you became close, your contrasting personalities complimenting each other very well.

Your introduction to her brothers was brief and for a couple of months, you didn’t interact with either of them. She’s been married to Aegon for four years back then and even though he immediately didn’t strike you as a faithful husband — always a cup away from being wasted and shamelessly gazing at every maid’s legs — he mostly looked harmless. Aemond, however, was the exact opposite — guarded and collected, he kept his distance from everyone, making it clear that it was his choice. You could only get a good look at the prince when you were passing the training yard, and a couple of times you found your gaze lingering on him — on the lean body and tense muscles, on the way he moved the sword with ease. In those moments you felt the danger radiating off him, yet it never scared you away. But you knew better than to fawn over the prince who seemingly paid you no mind.

A significant change came on the evening of Aegon’s ten and ninth birthday which Helaena begged you to come to — you weren’t fond of big events but couldn’t say no to her. For the most part, the feast was tolerable as you’ve spent it by her side, making glib remarks about the guests, much to your friend’s amusement. But when the celebration died down and all the nobles began to disperse, Aegon, drunk out of his mind, decided to make advances toward his wife whom he ignored for the duration of the evening. His approach was harsh and unexpected, and the look on Helaena’s face shuttered your heart. 

“Your grace, your manners escape you,” you tried warning him, shielding your friend but Aegon was too wasted to notice your fiery gaze. In his inebriated state, he probably mistook you for a maid as he grabbed your arm in an effort to shove you aside. Next thing you know, your fist connected with his nose — and then Aegon was lying on the floor, eyes wide and blood gushing down his face as you stood next to him, fuming. Before he could think of an answer, Aemond appeared out of nowhere — just in time to drag his brother away, while the drunkard was hurling insults at you in a frenzy. Only when they left, it dawned on you what you just did. 

You expected for the king’s guard to come for your head in the morrow, but instead, a few surprising things happened. First, you learned that the boys didn’t rat you out, making it look like they were the ones who got into a fight. Aegon did apologize to Helaena and from that day, his temper softened as he never dared to repeat his mistake. But, most importantly, Aemond took a sudden interest in you.

Overall, his behavior stayed the same, but you regularly caught him looking in your direction, and every time you saw each other, he made sure to acknowledge your presence. He never initiated the conversation first, only sometimes curtly voicing his opinion, yet you noticed him paying attention to your chattering with Helaena — and you could swear that a few times he suppressed a laugh at your jokes.

The mystery veil that the prince was surrounded with sparked your curiosity, and you wanted to crack down his guard, to get a chance to know him. The opportunity presented itself one day when Helaena and you came to watch Aemond train. You saw him and Criston arguing as the prince was late to his studies but Cole refused to let Aemond leave until he wins the last bout. Whether he wasn’t in the right mood or had something distracting him, Aemond kept losing, and his teacher only pushed him further, relentless in his attempts.

“Ser Criston, you’re putting yourself in harm’s way,” you chimed in, making the man turn to you with a chuckle, while Aemond gave you a tired look.

“May it be that the finest swordsman of the realm is simply avoiding his responsibilities?” you suggested with a light grin.

“Mayhaps he is in need of some encouragement,” Cole teased. 

“Well, I would’ve volunteered to share the burden of learning with him,” you remark. “If only he could win this one bout,” you added, keeping eye contact with the prince.

It took Aemond about two minutes to knock his opponent to the ground which made Helaena gasp in surprise while you were trying to hide a smile. Without a word, Aemond came to you, and the two of you went to the library. On your way there, he kept silent, but you were not intimidated at all. When you walked into the room, Aemond hesitated as if giving you a chance to change your mind. But you boldly turned to him:

“If you mean to scare me with the prospect of studying, I should warn you that I’ve read more books than you can count,” you informed the prince.

It was the first time when you saw him smiling — widely and shamelessly, looking very smug.

“You are full of surprises, my lady,” he grinned. “Do you mean to challenge me?”

It turned out that Aemond liked challenges, and you enjoyed being one. Since that day, you got into the habit of joining him in the library and the prince would accompany you in his free time more often than not. You would dare him to read faster, to fight harder, to engage in conversations — or sometimes to simply have fun. Whenever you had a reason to disagree with him, he was always respectful and found himself entertained by your way of thinking, which made your discussions and even arguments span for hours.

As years went by, you kept playfully bantering back and forth, and Helaena told you that you were the only one allowed to act like that around her brother. You couldn’t understand what his motives were but it was hard to deny that his company was pleasant. Aemond grew up into quite an eligible bachelor and his attention did flatter you, even though he never crossed the line. Sometimes you even dared to entertain the thought that maybe — just maybe — Aemond had a soft spot for you.

Until one day things took a turn. Helaena’s twentieth birthday was meant to be just another celebration that you would’ve skipped if it wasn’t for her. The only way for you to pass the time was dancing which you’ve actually come to love in recent years, enjoying the rhythm of the music that helped to lighten your mood. Your dear friend mostly preferred to sit back so you were often compelled to find yourself a company that would be bearable, at the very least. That evening, you got acquainted with Jacaerys Velaryon, the boy being younger than you but almost a foot taller. He approached you with a small smile on the pretext of knowing Helaena, and you soon learned that he was a good dancer. But the best thing about Jace was that he spend most of his time talking about his betrothed, Baela, who he was absolutely smitten with. The girl sadly couldn’t be present as she had to stay with her dad, who recently sailed home, and the dark-haired boy couldn’t keep his mouth shut. All the time while dancing he was either gushing about her or asking your advice, which you found adorable and gladly chatted with him.

Throughout the feast, you felt Aemond looking at you, probably more than usual. You knew that he wasn’t fond of dancing and even though his gaze on you felt rather good, deep down you wished that he was the one you were spending time with. After a couple of hours, however, you saw his usual spot empty, and the prince was nowhere to be found. For some reason, you got a very bad feeling and, after leaving Jace to take a break, you went to Helaena. She informed you that Aemond left not so long ago, adding that it looked like her brother was upset about something.

That’s how you ended up roaming through the castle halls, giving in to the unsettling feeling churning in your stomach. Passing by one of the chambers, you suddenly hear voices and realize that it's Aemond talking to his brother. You don’t mean to eavesdrop and were about to turn around — but then Aegon mentions your name.

“You are foolish to wait for so long. You could’ve at least asked Y/N for a dance,” his remark is followed by gulping sounds. Is he ever without a cup? You hold back a giggle — which quickly disappears when you hear Aemond’s answer.

“I prefer not to waste my time on such futile activities,” and his voice is unexpectedly grim.

“You may want to reconsider when the lady has every man’s attention. Even the Strong boy was pretty much drooling,” he chuckles, and his words make your brows furrow as you are certain he has no ground to suggest that. You’re a moment away from drowning in doubts, but the younger prince brings you back to reality.

“I suppose it’s hard not to, with the way she’s been dressing lately,” Aemond deadpans.

He says it with a flat tone — yet it feels like a punch that knocks all of the air out of your lungs. There’s a brief pause — and Aegon sounds almost sober when he asks, with a hint of surprise in his voice.

“And what about her dresses?”

“I found them to be... rather bawdy. Although I’m not impressed in the slightest,” Aemond forces out.

Your heart sinks at his words, cheeks heating up. You wait for him to say anything else, to give an explanation, at least one reason for his accusations but there is none. Aegon laughs — and you feel sick to your stomach, realizing that you cannot bear listening to their conversation any longer.

You walk away as quietly as possible, with cotton feet and your hands shaking. You rush past the hall and out of the castle, tears pricking in your eyes. Only once you are all alone, embraced by the silence of the night, you take a deep breath of air. Aemond’s words are ringing in your ears, loud and clear. You look down at your dress in disbelief: the neckline is basically non-existent, your arms are fully covered, and it barely shows any skin at all. And yet he thinks this is inappropriate? 

Your cheeks are wet and burning yet you feel anger bubbling in your chest. You never thought Aemond could be cruel — and yet it’s him, out of all people, who let those vile words slip out of his mouth like they meant nothing. Like you meant nothing to him. For years, you heard people calling him cold-hearted and arrogant but you were naive to believe that the prince made an exception for you. Out of all the mistakes you’ve made so far, this one might’ve been the most painful one.

Your outrage spreads like a wildfire as you think back to every interaction you’ve had with Aemond, his every glance and every word that fooled you into thinking that he cared. Was he secretly criticizing you the whole time? How many other jokes did he make behind your back? Who even gave him the right to judge whether your dresses are acceptable or not? As if he is any different from all the other men whose brains turn into mush when they get a glimpse of a female body.

You stop dead in your tracks when an idea suddenly forms in your head. It’s very uncharacteristic of you — at first, you hesitantly brush it off, thinking that it’s not wise to make any emotional decisions. And yet the idea keeps nagging at you for the remainder of the night and for a few hours you ponder if you should take such a brazen approach. But then his unkind remark pops back in your memory — over and over and over.

By the time the morning comes, you make up your mind.

He says he isn’t impressed in the slightest? There is only one way to find out for sure. On the very next day, you take Helaena for a walk in the garden, well aware that her brothers will accompany you as Aegon doesn’t have anything else to do and Aemond prefers to take a stroll after his training. Your dress is close-fitted yet modest, not an inch shorter than necessary. It is not about the dress but what’s underneath it — and the object in question clinks lightly with your every step. You show it to Helaena right away and she finds it delightful, the jingling only making her smile. Then her siblings come to join you, you curtsy but barely spare Aemond a glance. You don’t ask a single question about his day, instead taking interest in Aegon. The older prince gives you a suspicious side-eye but welcomes the chatting. It doesn’t take long before he notices the sound, too.

“Am I the only one who can hear the clinking? I am almost certain that it’s not just in my head,” he debates.

“Oh, it’s Y/N’s doing,” Helaena beams unsuspectingly.

“Apologies, my prince, it’s my aunt’s gift that caught your ear,” you slow down and take a few seconds to make sure you’ve got everyone’s attention.

And then, with one gentle motion, you pull up your dress — ever so slightly, just enough to show your ankle and the thin bracelet wrapped around it. The jewelry is made out of gold and it instantly catches the sunlight, casting warm sparkles on your skin. It’s decorated with tiny coins which make a jingling sound as you slowly turn your leg from side to side.

“I thought it was rather pretty. Don’t you think?” you only look at Aegon.

“Umm yes,” he gulps. “Rather pretty it is,” the prince mumbles, and then his gaze shifts to someone else. You don’t need to turn your head to know who he’s looking at. Instead, you continue with your walk without a care in the world.

“I should ask my aunt to bring you a similar one, my dear,” you suggest to Helaena and she eagerly agrees.

You have a few other gifts for Aemond, too. Next time you opt for a different bracelet — with no coins and no jingling, a simple golden chain. But your dress is a tad bit shorter and the jewelry catches everyone’s eye with ease as it looks like a ray of light curled around your ankle. You deliberately walk through the training yard, arm-in-arm with Helaena. You give Ser Christon the brightest smile, and he politely nods in your direction.

“Good morrow, ladies.”

“How’s your training coming along, Ser Criston?” you ask, and it feels strange to talk to him instead of Aemond. You bitterly remind yourself that you apparently overstated the value of those conversations.

“I’m afraid, we are hardly progressing. Mayhaps you will keep us company? I fear, we are in need of some cheerful words,” Cole shoots a glance at the prince who stands by, his eye fixed on you.

“Aren’t we all, Ser Criston,” you tilt your head at him. “But it seems like my pursuit of lessening your burden did nothing good,” and before he can ask anything else, you walk away, ignoring Aemond completely.

Helaena senses that something is off, giving you a worried look.

“Is there anything troubling you?”

“Not when I’m with you, my friend,” you reassure her and force your smile to look as believable as possible.

Partially, it is true as her company always brings you joy and you don’t want to sour her mood by recalling Aemond’s words that wounded your pride. You refuse to admit that he also grazed your heart. In a week, you accept Helaena’s invitation to join them for breakfast and you decide to up your game. It’s the perfect time of year for sleeveless dresses but the one you pick also has a daring addition: two thin cuts under your armpits. They are barely visible but when you put your arms up, it’s easy to distinguish the contour of your ribcage and the softness of your skin peeking through. You sit by Helaena’s side, easily keeping up with the conversation and not glancing at Aemond once. After the food is taken away and everyone starts wandering around the room, you get up to fix your hair, standing not too far away from the dining table as you raise your hands and run your fingers into your hairdo.

“May I offer assistance?” Aegon leans on the wall next to you, his mouth curling into a smile.

You roll your eyes and are about to shush him when he quietly adds:

“I know what you are doing,” you turn your gaze to him, and he winks at you. “From the look on my brother’s face, I can tell you that it’s working.”

You fight the urge to look at Aemond.

“I’m afraid I can’t share your concerns,” you are fiddling with hairpins absentmindedly.

Aegon shoots a glance over your shoulder and then back at you.

“He seems pretty bothered to me. Also pissed, but that may be my doing.”

“Look at you, my little helper,” you ramble as the cool air sneaks into the cuts of your dress, and you slightly quaver.

“Well, if you are ever in need of a helping hand...”

“I will not hesitate to stick this pin into your eye,” you cut him off.

“No need!” Aegon throws up his hands, cackling. “I’d like to keep them both. So I can have a better look at my brother’s reaction when you do... whatever you plan on doing,” the shit-eating grin on his face tells you that he is enjoying this.

But when you turn around and suddenly make eye contact with Aemond, your own enjoyment fades. You notice his frown and the probability of you being the reason for it doesn’t bring any satisfaction. You let Helaena lead you away, feeling his gaze on your back as you walk out. You do not yield to your emotions, continuing with your plan, as days turn into weeks, and then a month goes by without you as much as sharing a word with Aemond. Truth be told, you want nothing more than to stay away from him at all costs but you will not give him the satisfaction. He said he didn’t like the way you dress — and you make sure he sees every single dress you are in. You stay within the bounds of decency as you definitely have no intention to disgrace yourself, and none of your dresses are borderline scandalous, contrary to what any prince may think. You deign to let him see the curve of your neck with your hair up high, the bending of your shoulders and the sunkissed skin of your arms, the arc of your knees and mere glimpses of the upper part of your legs. You leave the rest to his imagination — granted, he has a good one considering how much time he spends reading.

During the second month, his patience starts running out.

In the years you’ve known Helaena, you learned all the ins and outs of the castle, so you manage to avoid Aemond at first, vanishing from his sight when needed. But, as time passes, you notice that he is tempted to talk to you, and escaping that possibility becomes harder with each day. One morning, when you walk into the yard, Aemond abruptly stops his training upon seeing you, and the two of you just stare at each other for a second, both startled and holding your breath. You are saved by Ser Criston, who calls for the prince, distracting him, giving you a chance to leave, and you all but run away.

After that day, you temporarily cease your visits to the castle, deciding to take a break and make up weak excuses to Helaena. Only now that you were apart, you realize how much you miss Aemond’s physical presence. His sudden, fleeting touches — to help you out of a carriage or to steady you after a fit of laughter, your hands brushing when you share books, his fingers sometimes lightly grazing your waist for the reason you are yet to know. You haven't talked to him for days, let alone felt him in your close proximity, and yet he's constantly on your mind. Somewhere in the midst of it all, you wake up at night realizing you yearn for him terribly. You wish you could go back to that damn evening of the feast, to confront him right away, to maybe get some clarification. But now too much time has passed and you’re too wrapped up in... whatever you plan on doing, so your ego insists that giving up isn’t an option.

When you receive the invitation for Aegon’s name day, you are ready to decline, but then begrudgingly decide to give it one last chance. You practice the look of indifference, the nonchalant tone, the proud gait, and you pull out your best dress. It’s green and the color is so bright, it dazzles the eyes, the material light and flowing — and yet, when you put it on, it feels incomplete. As you look in the mirror, the vivid tone of the fabric suddenly reminds you of something else. It’s a secret you once heard, a hushed conversation between the maids, one of which walked in on the prince when he wasn’t wearing his eyepatch. You only ponder for a minute and then reach for the jewelry piece that definitely will be��hard not to notice. The castle is crowded, and you are one of the last guests to arrive. Bracing yourself, you pause at the door for a second. Ser Harrold, who stands there, lets out a surprised hum. “Should I take that as a sign of your disapproval?” you jest, watching his reaction.

“I wouldn’t dare to judge,'” he gives you a polite smile. “But I’m afraid all the men present are at risk of losing reason.”

His comment makes you chuckle and you step a bit closer, letting him take a better look.

“I thought it would match the occasion. Isn’t it beautiful?”

Ser Harrold, gods bless him, keeps his eyes on your face. “As always, it is, lady Y/N.”

It gives you enough confidence to walk in, appearing in all your glory.

The dress is a perfect fit, with a slit down your right side and an open back. The front neckline isn't deep but in the middle of it there’s a thin silver chain with a big, glittering sapphire — and the gem lays perfectly between your breasts. It’s only natural that everyone’s gaze is immediately drawn to the blue spark, all the men in the room gazing at it, voluntarily and not. But the effect their attention has is nothing compared to the wave of heat that warms your body when you feel a very particular gaze finally landing on you. You look right at him — and you catch him gawking, his lips slightly parted as he stares at the sapphire, too, almost in a trance. His hand is gripping a cup of wine with such force, you can see the whitening of his knuckles. When Aemond sharply glances up, your eyes lock for a second, and you look away first. So much for him not being impressed.

Out of the corner of your eye, you notice Jace waving at you to come sit with him, and you do not hesitate, letting the one-eyed prince out of sight.

You feel like his eye doesn’t leave you for a second.

You are barely able to sit still while dining and let out a sigh of relief when it’s time for dancing. You rush away from the table, thinking it will provide you with a distraction, and you will be glad for any partner if only he can move his legs and keep his mouth shut. You go to the end of the line, lost in your thoughts, and when you finally come to a stop and look to the other side — you see Aemond standing in front of you.

The tall prince with his hands clasped behind his back, wearing all black, stares at you in a way that makes the crowd around you disappear.

When the dance starts, you step toward each other, and he speaks up first. 

“I couldn’t help but notice your absence. I find myself wondering what is the reason behind it,” his hand briefly touches yours, your bodies following the music.

“Your question is confusing, my prince. As I was merely doing you a favor,” you swap partners but Aemond only looks at you.

“Your leaving hardly favors me,” the prince says when you’re in his arms again. You feel a flicker of anger rising inside but keep your voice down.

“I was actually counting on you being relieved,” you snort, not looking at him. “Since, as it turned out, you were so displeased with my bawdy dresses,” with these words, you step away from him once more.

A minute later you come back to his side but don’t let him say a thing. 

“I’ve always thought bawdy was just another word for a whore. So I suppose I should be glad that you at least had some decency to not stoop so low,” when your eyes meet, you think you’ve never seen him so hurt.

Before he can come up with an answer, you are out of his reach. Then you circle back to Aemond again, and this time your tone comes out hasher.

“I also wonder if you would be so brave to say all that to my face. But it seems that your bravery falters when confronted with the need to speak plainly.”

The rhythm of the music works in your favor, because whenever Aemond tries opening his mouth, you’re swooped away from him, and it gives you time to tighten your self-control. You think you should resent him for his silly words, for his heavy gaze, for him knowing how to dance even though he never once did that with you in all these years.

But you have no resentment for him. All of a sudden you realize what you are actually feeling.

And then the dance comes to an end.

You only curtsy out of politeness, averting your gaze.

“I will not vex you anymore, my prince.”

“Wait, I should —,” he tries to take your hand but you swerve away from him.

“I already promised the next dance to someone else,” you lie. “You are finally free of my company.”

At that very second, when you glance at him before leaving, he looks absolutely heartbroken. Or maybe you just imagined it in an attempt to ease your own pain. Your feet carry you to the library on their own accord, and you’re too distraught to notice until you are already inside, in the dusty silence of the endless shelves. You take a hold of the nearest one, trying to catch your breath. You barely get a minute of solitude before you hear footsteps approaching. And it’s kind of pathetic how easy it is for you to guess who it is. “Your tendency to run away from me is quite unnerving,” Aemond walks in with rapid strides, his voice laced with emotion you can’t read. 

His words, however, trigger your reaction in no time. 

“Maybe it is because I do not want to be in the company of someone who hurt me,” you turn to him, and he’s already only a couple of feet away. The dim lighting illuminates his silver hair, the outline of his broad shoulders, his eye is boring into you. He looks so beautiful in his frustration, your chest tightens at the sight.

“I would’ve apologized right away if only you let me speak,” the prince retorts.

“Did something hold you back from apologizing sooner? Or were you too preoccupied with being outraged by my clothing choices?” your heart skips a bit at the intensity of his stare but you refuse to break the eye contact.

“I never said I was outraged.” 

“You weren’t thrilled, either, you made that very clear.”

“You know nothing of my motives because you refuse to listen to me!” he raises his voice and it startles you. But he doesn’t sound angry.

Aemond is standing at arm’s length — and you can clearly see that his face expresses no signs of annoyance or hatred. Instead, he looks at you with longing.

The air in the room feels heavy.

You run your tongue over your lips to moisten them, and Aemond’s eye darts to your mouth.

“We can agree on one thing,” he drawls, his eye locking with yours again as he moves closer. You take a step back — and feel pressed against one of the shelves.

He speaks with his tone low:

“...You vex me to no end.”

With another step, Aemond towers over you, and when you look up, your faces are only inches apart, and his flaming gaze envelops you.

“You are the bane of my existence,” Aemond breathes out. “And the object of all my desires,” his voice breaks, and you feel him inhaling sharply.

His words are akin to a match that lights up a fire deep in you, the muscles of your stomach tightening involuntarily. With one finger he tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear, and you can’t help but lean into his touch, your breathing shuddering.

“I’m haunted by your image everywhere I go,” he rasps, his nose brushing yours. “Night and day, I dream of you,” his index finger moves under your chin, close to the pulsating point on your neck. You feel the heat spilling into the pit of your belly, and you want nothing more than for Aemond to kiss you.

“I was raised to act with honor, but that honor is hanging by a thread every minute I spend in your presence,” he whispers vehemently, his words hot against your mouth. 

You are dizzy, breathless — and craving him. Everything else is forgotten, erased, nonexistent. It’s just you two.

“You are all I can think about,” you confess with a strangled voice, looking at Aemond through your lashes — and it sets him off.

His lips capture yours in an instant, claiming and burning with need. He pulls you closer, his hands on your back, and yours go up his shoulders to lock behind his neck. Aemond kisses you deeply, hungrily, sweeping his tongue over your lower lip and then sliding it in, intertwining with yours. One of his palms moves lower, outlining the curve of your hip, glides over your leg — and into the slit of your dress. He grabs your thigh, his thumb landing on the inner side of it, and he starts slowly massaging small circles on it. Him touching your bare skin elicits a moan from you and in the heat of the moment, as your mind goes blank and you can only focus on the pleasuring sensation, you spread your legs, and his finger slips higher — to the place where you want him the most.

He breaks the kiss in surprise, and you wait for it to dawn on him. To realize that you are, in fact, completely naked under the dress. You can feel arousal pooling between your legs, your body prickling with anticipation.

“I was under the impression that you owe me an apology,” you unabashedly murmur, looking him straight in the eye. 

You don’t know if it’s a challenge or a plea — at this point, you do not care. Apparently, neither does Aemond, as he takes no time hoisting your leg up to his waist for better access, firmly holding it in place. Your respite barely lasts a few seconds before you feel his other hand cupping your sex, rubbing his fingers through your folds. You shut your eyes, gasping for air, as he unhurriedly smears your wetness — and then his finger dips into your core, the sensation making you shiver.

“Aemond,” you sign, your body trembling with desire.

Trying to inhale, you get a whiff of aroma, a mix of leather and salty ocean breeze — and all at once, you are surrounded by him. His scent, his warmth, his scorching touches, the taste that’s left on your lips. He leaks into your every cell.

Aemond nuzzles into the crook of your neck, leaving wet kisses there, his finger picking up the pace.

“I’ve missed you,” he avows. “So fucking much,” he lightly nibbles the skin above your collarbone. “Missed hearing you say my name. Say it again.”

He doesn’t need to ask twice — and the interweaving of letters rolls off your tongue with each breath:

“Aemond”

“Aemond”

“Aemond.”

His name fills your mouth, leaving no space for air, your throat tight and breathing rapid. Aemond’s lips move down to your shoulder.

“Oh, the things I want to do to you,” he haltingly rambles, and the implication makes you clench around him, dragging a low groan from the prince.

He leaves a trail of kisses following the silver chain down to your breasts. The gem feels cold in contrast to your skin, and even though your head is clouded with lust, it triggers a memory. You move one of your shaking hands to his face, guiding it up to look at you again.

“I want to see the real thing,” you whisper, gazing at his eyepatch. “Let me. Please, let me.”

His hand between your legs doesn’t stop its movement but the one on your thigh trembles. You are too caught up in the moment to think straight, and before he can answer, your fingers roughly remove the leather patch.

The sapphire glows like a beacon, the cold blue of it is dazzling and piercing through your blurred vision. The tones and shadows are interlacing, cyan melting into azure and dark blue, and it’s mesmerizing. Seeing him like this, stripped of his restrain and his disguise, is the most intimate, precious thing in the world.

“Gods, you are divine,” you moan, panting.

You catch a flash of emotion in his eye — before you can take another breath, his lips are on yours again. This kiss is steady and fervent, and while his mouth melts into yours, Aemond adds a second finger. It slides in with ease, and he builds up the speed that makes you swallow air. He’s terrifyingly good with his fingers, with his every move, precise and fast. 

“Aemond,” you whimper in his mouth, but his lips keep chasing yours, and you can only follow, letting him take your breath away again and again. You lose track of time, lose yourself in his arms. His face is always close to yours, he breathes in every moan you make and keeps his gaze on you, watching you squirm, your cheeks flushed and lips quivering.

You helplessly whisper his name, and it comes out as a prayer, the coil in your stomach ready to snap. Aemond gives you a breathless smile.

“You do not need to beg me, ever,” he says in a husky voice. “I will give you anything you want,” with these words, he presses a thumb on your pearl, resuming the well-known circling motion, making you choke on air.

It takes merely a few seconds for you to come undone, the wave of pleasure blinding and crushing over you. His lips are at the corner of your mouth, ready to cover it should you make any loud sound, but you drop your head back, mouth falling slack in a silent cry.

His fingers slow the pace until you let out a quiet whine, and he removes them, carefully lowering your leg. You feel fuzzy-headed, trying to catch your breath, a few beads of sweat rolling along your hairline. One of his hands gently falls on your back, rubbing soothing patterns on your skin.

“I truly am sorry,” Aemond admits.

You chuckle lightly. “I think you already made it up to me.”

Despite the hint of humor, there’s an anxious feeling stirring in your abdomen, and you are afraid to open your eyes to meet his. You don’t know what’s to come and you dread the emptiness that will follow if he leaves.

Aemond tenderly cups your face with his hand:

“Mayhaps my intentions were not clear enough. I do plan to properly court you,” your eyes snap open at his words.

There’s a brief pause before he adds. “But I still need to apologize for my behavior because you deserved none of it. I was unfair with my judgment as I let jealousy get the best of me,” he sounds genuinely remorseful.

You glance at him in confusion, the gears turning in your head for a moment, and then you realize.

"You were jealous of Jace?!"

Aemond looks down at the floor, and there’s something endearing in his evident embarrassment. With your thumb and index finger you caress the jut of his jaw and make him look at you again.

“Aemond, I can barely consider him a friend. And the boy can only think about Baela, he speaks of her as if she is the light of his life.”

“I know that feeling," Aemond doesn’t hide his smile anymore when he’s with you. He brings your hand to his lips, and the sincerity of his words tugs at your heart. He leaves kisses on your knuckles, and you’re overwhelmed with happiness spreading in your chest.

“Do you get that feeling every time we argue? Or when I challenge you?” you inquire with a giggle.

His laugh vibrates against your skin. When Aemond meets your gaze, there are no doubts and reservations left, no room for denial.

“My biggest challenge was not to fall in love with you. I failed miserably,” he puts both of his hands on your waist, drawing you closer. “But I will humble myself before you because I cannot stand the thought of us being apart ever again,” Aemond presses his forehead against yours.

“I don’t plan on it,” you trace his scar with your finger, giving him goosebumps. “But you do know there still will be days when we vex each other to no end?” your voice is barely audible.

He moves his mouth to yours and, before bringing your lips together, he whispers:

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

And neither would you.

the author doesn’t know how to shut up: — the dress is from “Atonement” (although I imagined her neckline a bit differently); — I haven’t written smut in a very long time so... I hope it was okay? any thoughts and comments will be very appreciated because I’m nervous about this 🥺 (not gonna lie, this was kinda self-indulgent so I hope that at least some of you will enjoy it, too!)

* I know there is an amazing fic called “bane of my existence, object of my desire” by @ jasonsmirrorball — I love it to pieces and highly recommend it! 💕 💚 my masterlist English is not my first language, so feel free to message me if you spot any major mistakes!

[andro-beaurepaire]

He could not recall a time when someone had handled him with such deliberate care. The tenderness, unexpected and unlooked for, left a breathless ache in his throat.

To his horror, he realized that he was weeping.

“Tenzing,” Laurence, and with shaking fingers, raised a hand to Tharkay's face. Tharkay drew in a sharp breath and pressed his cheek more firmly against Laurence's palm. Tharkay's eyes were closed, the skin beneath Laurence's palm turning wet. “Always. My hands for you always, Tenzing. “

- Illustrations for @verdet-cadet 's masterpiece My Hands to Hold You Fast ♥ If you haven't read that story yet, please, please go give it a try, and give it all the love it deserves !!

[tiny-crescent]

pas de trois – chapter 5. coda act III of III

chapter five ! 🖐️ this chapter took a good minute to get right, but I'm glad I waited. the finale of yellow box is important and deserves special care. 😤

nearing the end of the story now. :') it's a little sad since I don't want to say goodbye, but planning, writing, and editing it has been a really fulfilling process! I'm proud to have stuck through it till the end. ♥

[gallapiech]

The Menagerie

its not about horses.

[coloursflyaway]

Won’t Fear Love (6/6)

Pairing: Edwin Payne/Charles Rowland

Rating: T

Word Count: 1.900

Read on AO3

„We should go a date“, Charles says on a perfectly bland Tuesday, looking up at Edwin from whatever he is doing at the moment.

If Edwin wasn’t dead already, he would suspect that Charles is trying to kill him.

or:

Five times Charles takes Edwin on a date to figure out if he could fall in love with him, and one time when he has an answer.

tagging all the lovely people who wanted to give this fic a read: @itsablueberrycow @piristephes @assignedpeanutallergyatbirth @mylu @oneweirdbean @lifeinvirtualreality

It’s the second Wednesday of the month again, for the eighth time since they have started this experiment, if Edwin’s tally is correct. Which, of course, it is.

The last two weeks have been filled with a new case, one that is turning out to be much harder than expected, and so Charles and he are sprawled on the sofa, books in their hands, while Crystal is out to find someone whose mind might provide them with some kind of insight. So far, Charles has not declared any plans for the night, but then again, he seems to enjoy surprising Edwin, seems to enjoy keeping him in the dark for as long as possible.

Just the month before, he had taken Edwin to a botanical garden so they could enjoy the mild weather, the flowers and the gentle quiet there; they had been holding hands, Charles had woven a crown from daisies and dandelions for him and later kissed Edwin beneath a vine-covered arch, another time just before they had left the gardens to walk back to the agency.

Now, he is laying on the sofa with his head in Edwin’s lap, which makes Edwin’s own reading slightly more difficult as there is nowhere to rest his book but on Charles’ forehead (which he had tried, but Charles did not appreciate) but is also more than worth it. It’s nice to be this close, to weave his fingers into the curls of Charles’ hair and make him hum happily, to look down from time to time and watch Charles’ eyelashes flutter, his forehead furrow in concentration.

It’s domestic in a way that is painfully familiar and delightfully new at the same time.

“Hey, Edwin”, Charles says eventually, and when Edwin looks down, Charles is already watching him, the book set aside and resting on his chest. “I know it’s Wednesday and I do have a little something planned, but would you mind if we just spent this one at home?”

His eyes are wide and soft and dark, and Edwin knows he could say no, and ask to go anyway and Charles would take him to… well, wherever he was planning on going. Not that Edwin ever would, not when Charles is not feeling like going on a date. Especially, since the reason for these dates is for Charles to find out if he wants this.

Edwin is about to smile, tell him that of course, they can stay in, but then there’s a flash, a thought so bright and sudden wrecking through his brain that it stops Edwin dead in his tracks. Because that was the deal they had, wasn’t it? That they would go on dates and Charles would figure out if Edwin could be someone he’d want as more as a friend.

And if Charles doesn’t want to take him on a date tonight, then…

Suddenly, Edwin feels his metaphorical heart speed up; if he still had a breath, it would be shaky, coming in gasps, because his whole existence zeroes in on this, on Charles looking up at him, on Charles asking to stay at the agency tonight.

He puts down his book, sits up straighter, and the change in posture must have been noticeable because Charles quirks an eyebrow, even if he doesn’t move; Edwin isn’t sure if he is grateful for it or wishes it was different.

“Charles”, he starts, unsure how to phrase it when part of him wants to abandon rhyme and reason and beg Charles not to break his heart. “Please correct me if I am misunderstanding the situation, but are you trying to say that you are ready to make a decision regarding… us?”

He puts it as delicately as he possibly can, tries to keep any kind of hope, of desperation, of bone-chilling, all-encompassing fear from seeping into his voice, but he isn’t sure how, or even if he succeeds. Especially since Charles doesn’t react at all at first, then scrunches up his nose, forehead furrowing. “What?”

Since there is no universe in which Charles would ever treat him unkindly on purpose, or make this harder than necessary, the confusion must be genuine, which makes it easier, makes it harder still. And, a treacherous part of Edwin’s mind whispers, what does it say about their situation that Charles seems to have forgotten about it entirely?

“Us, Charles”, Edwin repeats after a moment and even to himself, his voice sounds off, too composed to be anything but a facade. And it is, because Edwin isn’t even certain how he is formulating words, sentences, when every spectral molecule of his body seems to be frozen in hope, in terror. “When we started this… experiment of a sort, it was very clear that we would go on dates so you would be able to make a decision about our romantic future, or lack thereof. So, since you are proposing that we do not go on a date tonight, I was wondering if you were indicating that you were ready to make said decision.”

It sounds stilted, it sounds forced, but Edwin cannot make himself stop talking until he is finished, because if there is a chance that this is what Charles has planned, then he has to get it over with as quickly as possible, no matter the consequences.

His hands are shaking and Charles must see it, so Edwin folds them and presses them against his chest, while he watches Charles sit up slowly, eyebrows still drawn together like he is trying to find the last piece for a puzzle he wasn’t expecting to solve.

He’s beautiful in a way that makes Edwin wish he had a heart that could beat for him, a breath that Charles could take away; he’s anything Edwin could ever want and although ever since they started this, Edwin has been doing his best to keep his hopes in check, he suddenly realises with startling clarity that he has colossally failed in that regard. There is still nothing that could ever keep him out of Charles’ life, but it would take decades to piece his heart back together, should Charles decide he would prefer them to be friends.

Because he had a taste of it now, of holding Charles’s hand when they are walking through the city, of cuddling close to him at night and kissing him in the morning, when the early sunlight is making his skin glow golden. And even if for Charles this was a trial run that was found lacking, it had never felt like that for Edwin.

“Just so I can get this straight”, Charles starts very slowly, like he isn’t certain what to say, or how to say it, “Are you under the impression that I haven’t made that decision yet?”

He sounds like he cannot believe he is saying it, and Edwin cannot do anything but nod helplessly, the weight of the rest of his existence making it impossible to speak.

It takes a moment, but then Charles laughs, incredulous and yet sweet, and even if it doesn’t clear up anything, it washes away at least some of the tension. Because Charles wouldn’t laugh at him, not before breaking his heart.

“Edwin, we’ve been cuddling until a few moments ago”, Charles tells him and his voice is so gentle, so fond that Edwin wants to sway closer, wants to spend the rest of time surrounded by its timbre. “We’ve been holding hands for months now. I kissed you this morning when we were watching the sunrise. Twice.”

He smiles at the last part, like it is a memory worth reliving and that is enough to stun Edwin into talking, to kickstart the heart he doesn’t have into beating once more. “I thought you were trying it out. To see if you liked it”, he explains, and slowly, ever so slowly, hope is spreading through his body, pumped through astral veins from his chest to the tips of his fingers, the soles of his feet.

“For the first twenty minutes of it, maybe. Not for several months”, Charles replies and he is smiling, the curve of his lips seeping into every word. “Crystal even introduced you as my boyfriend last week.”

“I thought she was teasing me!”, Edwin shoots back, but there is no heat to his words, there couldn’t be, when Charles is looking at him like he doesn’t want to look away again.

The words startle a laugh out of Charles, who then reaches out to pull Edwin’s hands from where they have been resting against his chest, holds them tightly between his own. And suddenly Edwin’s skin feels like its thawing, like Charles’ touch is breathing air back into his lungs, is making bringing his heart back to life.

“Edwin, listen to me”, he says and there is nothing Edwin would rather do. “I made my decision months ago. I thought you knew.”

Months ago, he says, and Edwin thinks about snuggling up to Charles when they were both doing research in long, dark nights, about tangling their fingers together between their bodies while following Crystal down one of London’s long, winding streets, about Charles kissing him last night, crowding him against the door and only stopping when Edwin’s head was spinning.

It feels impossible, it feels real at the same time, and Charles is watching him with such tenderness that Edwin cannot even ask if he means it. Because Charles would never lie to him, not about something like this.

“Can you just say it?”, he asks instead, sounding breathless and overwhelmed and happy even to his own ears. “So I can believe it. Just once.”

Charles’ fingers tighten around his, and maybe that is an answer in itself, but then Charles says, “I’ll say it as often as you want to hear it.”

And he leans in, close enough that Edwin almost closes the distance and kisses him instead, stops himself just because he knows he needs to hear it, that he will have time to kiss Charles later.

“You, Edwin Payne”, Charles starts, and raises their joined hands to press his lips to Edwin’s knuckles, “are the love of my life in every possible way. And there is nothing I want more than to spend the rest of my existence at your side.”

He smiles and his eyes are so full of love, of affection, that Edwin feels like he is drowning in it, unable, unwilling to resurface. There are tears stinging in his eyes, but Edwin blinks them away, because he needs to see, needs to commit Charles’ face to memory like it is right now, his curls mussed from Edwin’s fingers, his eyes glittering in the dim light of the office.

“I love you, too”, he whispers into the sliver of space between them, hopes to fill it with everything else he wants to, will, say. “More than anything.”

Charles’ eyes light up as he leans in, makes them shine so brightly they’re almost blinding, and just before their lips brush, he whispers, “I know.” And kisses Edwin soft and sure and overwhelming, one hand letting go of Edwin’s so it can reach up and cradle his jaw instead, holding him steady, holding him close.

Edwin kisses back, and there is a moment where he thinks, please.

Only to realise, as Charles kisses his love onto his lips, that there is nothing more he could ask for.

[threshasketch]

Matt with Near's toy dinosaur from my fanfic In Charge. The dinosaur represents Matt's and Near's friendship.

[twinleafsystem]

"hey man whats going on in this" yeah.

[zeroducks-2]

This is quite random sorry but has Dick ever acknowledge (or as close to it) that a lot of things that Bruce did to him are abusive? (this is for a fic I’m trying to write)

Yes and no!

Dick knows Bruce is an assholes and WILL yell at him to stop being an asshole, or at least he used to. Dick would call him out on his BS and wouldn't let him get away with a lot of things, but this was once upon a time, before they rebooted everything and erased decades of character development. The closest he gets to that post reboot is after Forever Evil - everyone thinks Dick is dead, and Bruce wants people to keep thinking that, hence he forces Dick to join Spiral and become Agent 37.

Dick is, as you can imagine, not thrilled. He yells and fights and Bruce beats the everloving shit out of him in a very upsetting sequence, where Dick is half naked and Bruce is wearing most of his gear while he keeps hitting him to the point of leaving him bleeding on the floor of the Batcave.

Dick begs and tries to appeal to everything he can including the "things can never be the same between us after this", to which Bruce essentially replies that it's a sacrifice he's willing to make. Ha. I say that this is especially upsetting because Dick went through a horribly traumatic experience during the events of Forever Evil, in which among other things he was tortured by Thomas Wayne Jr AKA Owlman, who wanted to turn Dick into his own sidekick after losing his Talon. The way Bruce beats and humiliates Dick is drawn in a way which creates a clear parallel between Thomas and Bruce's actions towards Dick, in a way that suggests they're "not that different after all", but this narratively goes nowhere and I don't get why they fuck they even came up with that. But anyway.

All of this gets forgotten soon enough. Despite his own warnings Dick forgives Bruce after a very short time, pines for home and tries to communicate with Bruce in any way he can because he "misses his dad", which to be honest made my guts churn and my bile rise after Bruce nearly beat him comatose. Essentially the story forgets Bruce did all of that and so does Dick, but for the brief time Dick was allowed to be aware of it and angry about it, he was indeed aware that he was being abused even if he never used the word abuse.

This is the case for lots of stories in which similar instances happen, as I mentioned before especially pre-reboot. Dick does call Bruce out on his bullshit - especially if Bruce is being an abusive asshole to someone else, since Dick is way more prone to defend other people than he is to defend himself, like here

or here

But despite being obviously aware that there are issues in the way Bruce does things, to put it mildly, he never uses the word "abuse" (which is sort of a prohibited word for DC standards, kind of like "rape". They're way more likely to say non consensual than rape because it's a less upsetting word apparently).

There is an instance of this post reboot, and it's during a conversation Dick has with Tim. I believe it happens in the Pride comics of 2022, but I don't have the panels on hand at the moment. Basically Tim asks for advice on how to please Bruce, being the man demanding and prone to bad moods, and Dick flat out replies "I spent a very big part of my life trying to please him, and I left when I realized it was impossible" which to me is so interesting since it's the textbook reaction of a former Golden Child who fell from grace and became a Scapegoat (please note that tumblr's definition of Golden Child is completely arbitrary; golden child doesn't mean "good kid", it means a child who the parent holds to the highest standards, on which there are the biggest expectations and the strongest pressure regarding everything the child does. Sometimes a parent lives vicariously through them and perceives them as an extension of themselves, but not necessarily. If you watched Encanto, Isabella is the Golden Child of the family).

Something similar happens during Nightwing's run from the 90s.

Dick lives in Bludhaven and at this point he's gone essentially no-contact with Bruce. Tim, being the new Golden Child, is trying to reel Dick back into the toxic dynamic because he genuinely thinks it's going to be good for both Dick and Bruce.

I'm pointing this out not to fault Tim in any way, he's just a kid what does he know, but to show you that indeed yes, Dick is aware that he's been abused otherwise he wouldn't have left, he wouldn't be on a no talking basis with his parental figure, and he wouldn't reply to Tim that he spent so much time of his life deluding himself into thinking that Batman actually needed him. Of course this also goes nowhere and their relationship isn't allowed to grow or heal (things are just conveniently forgotten after a while), but as I mentioned, Dick knows what's up.

That being said, I believe it's also worth noting that many many times Bruce abuses the fuck out of Dick and Dick doesn't really acknowledge it, just takes it. Sometimes he doesn't have the spoons to fight back, sometimes he thinks he deserves it, sometimes he just doesn't know how to react because Bruce strikes like an unprovoked viper (this happens especially when Dick was still a kid but already a Titan). A very good example of this is what happens after Jason's death.

Bruce doesn't tell Dick that Jason died. When Alfred offers to let him know, Bruce says "I will handle it", and he doesn't. Then there's Jason's funeral and Bruce doesn't tell Dick about it, again Alfred offers to inform him, Bruce says he will handle it. He doesn't.

Eventually Dick finds out for collateral reasons and has an emotional breakdown in front of the other Titans, which are powerless to help him. For reference, this is how he reacts when he has definitive proof that the boy is undoubtedly gone, if there was any doubt that Dick did care about Jason.

So Dick goes to the grave with Kory but then decided to confront Bruce alone, and Bruce, in the abusive feat of the century, blames Dick for not having showed up to Jason's funeral, despite having refused to 1: tell him about Jason's death AT ALL, and 2: refused TWICE when Alfred very gently suggested to inform Dick.

Dick of course argues that he didn't know anything, and so Bruce reacts by gaslighting him, telling him they he never cared about Jason and in fact he was angry that Bruce adopted Jason and not him. Which is not true, Dick just wanted to know WHY Bruce adopted Jason and hot him. Oh and also punches him in the face when Dick tries to argue that Jason was an untrained kid. Please note that when all of this happens, Dick is hurt and can barely stand on his feet, having one of his legs in a cast.

Cherry on top, Bruce explicitly saying that he never should have had a partner and never will again, essentially "our partnership up to this point meant nothing".

In this instance Dick is too neck-deep in his own self guilt to see that he's been through a sequence of extremely abusive behavior, and never really faults Bruce for that, using the easy-coming rationalization that Bruce was in pain, suffering for Jason's death, couldn't see reason etc etc (quick PSA: someone suffering isn't entitled to abuse and gaslight anyone. And even if we really want to enable Bruce cut Bruce some slack because he was grieving, it doesn't make his behavior any less abusive. Regardless of the reasons why, the way he acts here is very damaging towards Dick who in turn did nothing to deserve it, and is grieving Jason too).

See, the problem with Dick and Bruce is the sysyphean nature of comicbooks. Dick is doomed to be the original Golden Child who falls from grace, becomes the Scapegoat, but ultimately can never be completely free of the clutches of the relationship he has and had with Bruce, for better or worse. And since he can't ever truly get out and can't ever completely be independent, the abuse end up getting downplayed. If Dick never truly gets away from Bruce it's because it's not that bad, isn't it? Nay, it's because Dick cant. He is quite literally not allowed to, same as Bruce is not allowed to truly grow from his mistakes and learn to treat his former partner, sort-of-child and dear friend with the respect and love he actually feels for him, because despite all of this and because this is fiction, Bruce does love Dick more than it can be put into words and would set the world on fire for him. But, alas, he also is doomed to keep treating Dick like shit and never really learn from his mistakes.

So again, the answer to your question is yes and no. Dick is aware of how much of a difficult person Bruce is. He's aware of the domineering aspects of his personality. But he will ultimately brush it off in the name of the good that there is and there was between them, and he will keep answering Batman's call every time, because he's not allowed to ever truly grow apart from him. It doesn't matter how much he gets angry and how much Bruce hurts him, they're indissolubly tied in this dynamic and unless there is a huge shift in the way DC execs handle things, I don't see how this dynamic can change in the foreseeable future. Sadly enough, because I'd really like to see something new.

[satkru]

fem!sugu who has big boobs but doesn’t like showing them off cs of how much attention she gets off of them and fem!sato who has small boobs and is trying her best to make them grow/seem bigger for attention (putting tissues in her bras, wearing push-up bras, searching up ways to grow your boobs)