#the first one has youre still my slave tonight

[starryhyuck]

pairing: challengers!johnjae x afab!reader

words: 3.5k+

summary: johnny suh and jeong jaehyun are determined to prove their worth to you in this year’s tennis competition. you all end up receiving more than you expected.

genre: smut

warnings: there is some mlm johnjae so please don’t read if you’re uncomfortable with that, double penetration, cunnilingus, oral sex, handjobs, talks of creampies, three way make out

thank you for 9.5k followers!!

“Your serve is fucking insane.”

You hum noncommittally, fingers tightening around your bottle to spray more water into your mouth. You wipe the sweat from your brow as Donghyuck continues to eye you with amazement.

“You do know that ball boys don’t usually get to talk to the players, right?” You comment, a little perturbed by how easy it is for the younger man to approach you.

His eyes continue to sparkle despite your demeaning remark. Unbeknownst to you, Donghyuck signed up to become the tennis team’s lackey just to be able to see you in action.

You were the crown jewel of the university’s tennis program, having been recruited from the early stages of your high school career. Much speculation occurred at your decision to go to college first instead of turning to a professional career. You insisted to your parents that your education was still important despite your only shining skill being the ability to hit a ball with a racket. You slaved away most of your hours on this court, practicing to become the next best tennis player South Korea has ever seen.

“I’m looking forward to your match on Saturday,” Donghyuck says, eagerly handing you another tennis ball when you outstretch your palm to him.

Your eyebrow quirks up at the mention. The Korea Open kicked off this weekend and the press was convinced you would gain another title under your belt. You normally don’t enjoy goading them on, but you have a good feeling about the tournament this year.

“Scatter, pea brain,” Suyeon hisses when she approaches you two, flicking Donghyuck’s ear. The boy grumbles before returning to his place near the wall. Once he’s out of earshot, Suyeon turns her attention back to you. She’s dressed in one of her tightest skirts, indicating she has plans set in motion for tonight. “Are you ready to go yet?”

You shake your head at her inquiry. “I’m not done. Go ahead without me.”

She whines pitifully, clutching your arm tightly. “I can’t! You know I get much more attention when I walk in with you.”

You sigh. Suyeon has been chattering nonstop to you about all of the players who have flown in for the games this week. Tonight was the first party hosted by your university to welcome them, and your roommate took that as a green light to snag one of the tennis players for herself.

“I still need to practice my backhand-“

“Do you want me to get on my knees and beg? Because I’ll do it.”

To prevent Suyeon from embarrassing herself even further, you hoist her arm and tug her away. She rejoices when you zip up your racket and bid your goodbyes to the remaining staff on the court. You do your best to ignore Donghyuck’s cheerful holler after you.

When you ask Suyeon if you can simply wear your practice gear, she throws you a disgusted look and quickly tugs you back to your shared dorm to change. You allow her to play dress up as she wants, wrapping your figure into a body hugging dress from the back of your closet. As soon as she deems you decent enough for the party, she hauls you over to the university’s lounge, where tonight’s events will be taking place.

Your first thought when you enter the party is that you would much rather be on the court. Just as Suyeon predicted, every eye turns to you when you step inside.

Whispers of tennis prodigy echo around the room and you try your best not to roll your eyes. Suyeon, on the other hand, basks in your popularity and bats her eyes towards the players that begin to approach the both of you. You decide to dodge the awkward conversation, excusing yourself to grab a refreshment.

It’s in the midst of downing a lemonade when you feel a presence linger behind you.

You turn to see none other than Johnny Suh and Jeong Jaehyun, the winners of last year’s doubles title. You heard that Jaehyun had enrolled into the same university as you while Johnny opted to go professional.

Despite the distance, the two seem closer than ever. And tonight, they stare at you like you’re their last meal.

“Hi,” you greet with an eyebrow raised.

Johnny speaks first, saying your name with a devilish grin. “We were wondering if we would see you here.”

He starts to introduce himself and Jaehyun, but you hold out a hand to stop him.

“I know who you are. I watched you two crush it at last year’s match,” you say, humming while you refill your glass. Jaehyun’s eyebrow ticks up at the revelation while Johnny’s smirk widens. “I’m guessing you’re both back to defend your title?”

“That, and to prove we’re just as good in the singles,” Johnny answers. You swallow a laugh at his unwavering confidence.

“I see you practice on the court sometimes,” Jaehyun says, diverting the topic of conversation back to you. “You’re incredible — I’ve never seen a backhand like yours.”

You smile at him, thanking him for the compliment. Jaehyun was definitely the more timid one of the pair, while you could tell Johnny led most of their conversations.

You feel like you’re in the lion’s den, with Johnny ready to pounce and Jaehyun waiting for permission to do the same.

Luckily, Suyeon rushes over and becomes your unknowing savior. Her hand wraps around your upper arm and she whines pitifully in your ear.

“SOS! SOS!”

“What is it?” You ask, eyes still remaining on the two men in front of you. Johnny’s fingers are slowly tightening around his glass and you wonder if he has the strength to break it. Jaehyun holds his a little more delicately, but you can see him clenching his fist behind his back.

You imagine one of them tangling their hands through your hair while the other wraps his around your neck.

“I don’t know anything about tennis,” Suyeon sighs, bringing you out from your lewd fantasy. “Come and help me, please?”

You smile at the two players, setting your glass down on a nearby table.

“Apologies, boys. Duty calls.”

You feel the weight of their stare follow you as you walk over to help Suyeon battle tennis talk.

You ponder if they’re desperate enough to stay behind for you.

—

You receive your answer later in the night.

As soon as Suyeon is all set for a lovely evening with a pretty player named Yuju, you start to make your way to the exit. You’ve had enough social interaction for one event, but two figures lingering by the door makes you second guess that decision.

Jaehyun adjusts his posture when he catches sight of you while Johnny leans casually against the wall, trying to make it seem as if he’s not affected by your appearance.

“You’re still here,” you hum, folding your arms across your chest. Both pairs of eyes quickly dart down to the swell of your breasts before moving upwards, acting like they weren’t just checking you out.

“Party’s too fun,” Johnny bites, sarcasm flooding his tone.

“I’m sure,” you chuckle dryly.

“Is your friend all good to go?” Jaehyun asks, and you can tell from the tone of his voice that he genuinely wants to know the answer.

You smile at him. “Yes, I was able to rescue her from the awful tennis small talk.”

Johnny kicks off from his position against the wall, approaching you with determination. Jaehyun eyes him carefully, and you realize from their body language that they have done this dance before. You think about how many other girls have fallen into their open trap.

“Well, maybe tennis talk isn’t all that bad. Especially in a quieter setting.”

Johnny reaches into his pocket, and pulls out his spare key set to one of the dorms the university is housing them in. He dangles them in front of your face, and you drink in his smug expression and Jaehyun’s anxious anticipation at your answer.

You tilt your head teasingly. “You don’t beat around the bush, do you?”

Johnny shrugs. “Nothing wrong with a few tennis players strategizing before the match, right?”

Against your better judgment, you follow the two back to their dorm. You ignore the way Johnny’s fingers brush against the back of your thigh as he walks behind you and how Jaehyun’s hand continuously knocks into yours, pinky fingers brushing by each other. They clearly have set motives for the night and you would be lying if you said your mouth isn’t foaming at the idea of taking them both at once.

Jaehyun unlocks the door for you both, and Johnny keeps a steady hand on your lower back as he guides you in. As you expected, the university set them up in a double room, with separate twin beds pressed against each wall.

Before you can comment on the size of the room, a hand snakes around your middle, pulling you against Johnny’s backside. His fingers brush your hair to the side, pressing kisses against your exposed neck. Jaehyun has fallen to his knees in front of you, pushing up the fabric of your dress so he can catch a glimpse of your panties.

You make no moves to stop either of them, hands intertwining with Johnny’s as he continues his assault on your throat. You faintly register that you’ll have to cover up his marks before your match tomorrow, but Jaehyun nipping you at your thighs brings you out of your thoughts.

“So you’ve done this before?” You confirm while Johnny’s hands harshly squeeze your hips.

“Maybe,” Johnny hums teasingly, drawing out the last syllable. “But no one as pretty as you.”

You scoff and roll your eyes at his cheesy retort. You look down to see Jaehyun staring up at you, eyes filled with unbridled lust. You stroke his cheek gently and giggle.

“Are you waiting for permission?”

Johnny chuckles from behind you. “He’s waiting for you to sit on his face, sweet girl.”

Your eyebrow quirks up in surprise. Multiple exclamation marks pop up in your head but you’re not one to hesitate if someone is willingly offering to provide you an orgasm, so you bunch up your dress to your waist and hover over Jaehyun’s mouth. Johnny helps you in the process, pulling your underwear to the side and guiding your hips until Jaehyun’s tongue brushes against your folds. You gasp at the feeling and Jaehyun wastes no time diving into you, eagerly eating your cunt like his life depends on it.

Johnny’s hands have wandered to the straps of your dress, pulling it down and fondling your breasts. His fingers roll over your nipples, hardened and peaked from the intense foreplay.

He whispers in your ear, playing the devil on your shoulder. “Feels good, doesn’t it? Jae loves it when it’s sloppy like this, loves to feel his mouth being used.” Your eyes roll to the back of your head, catching the implication in his tone that Johnny has been in your spot before. “He likes it better when you tug on his hair like this,” Johnny says as he guides your hand to Jaehyun’s head, allowing you to pull the strands. “It lets him know he’s doing a good job.”

Jaehyun’s lips swallow every drop of essence your pussy grants him. He seems to be thoroughly enjoying the experience, hands grabbing your ass and pulling you deeper onto him.

It’s not long before you’re completely riding Jaehyun’s face, desperately pushing yourself back and forth on his mouth in pursuit of your orgasm. You whimper when his tongue flicks over your clit, teasing the nub until you’re begging for him to make you cum.

“Please, please,” you whine, fingers tugging on his hair harshly. “Wanna cum, Jae, please.”

“Let the princess get what she wants,” Johnny says to Jaehyun. “Can’t have the tennis prodigy all wound up before her big match.”

Jaehyun follows Johnny’s orders, lips wrapping around your clit and sucking until your orgasm hits you. You cry and ride out your high until your thighs start shaking. Johnny’s arms hoist you up and before you know it, he’s throwing you onto one of the beds in your post-orgasm haze. You hear the clinking of belts and a hand wraps around your throat, squeezing gently.

“Sit up, pretty girl. Want to see my cock slide down your throat,” Jaehyun whispers to you. His mouth is still covered in the remnants of your orgasm, and he casually licks his lips to capture some of the taste.

Johnny slides in to your left as you sit up, feet dangling over the side of the twin bed. You pull your dress off, flinging it across the room. With Jaehyun on your right, you give him your attention first. Your hand trails down his stomach until you’re gently grasping his cock, pulling him from the confines of his briefs. Your mouth waters at the sight of him, long and pink with pre-cum gushing from the tip. You can’t believe he was this hard the entire time he ate you out.

Your head turns to Johnny, who is smirking down at you. His fingers are already wrapped around his base, pumping slowly while he watches you. He’s thicker than Jaehyun but equally as aroused. You replace his hand with yours, mimicking his previous motions.

You find a rhythm between the two, alternating between sucking one cock and stroking the other, and switching before one of them can complain about the lack of attention. Johnny’s hand possessively grips your hair while Jaehyun keeps a solid pinch at the nape of your neck, keeping you steady.

“What a nice picture this would make,” Johnny laughs sinisterly, observing as you lick him from his base to his tip. “Maybe we should commemorate this moment, Jae. They could put it up in the Hall of Fame.”

“What? Right over a plaque that says best cocksucker?” Jaehyun chuckles. “Add best pussy too while you’re at it. Never tasted a cunt so sweet.”

You ignore their degrading comments, too enraptured in taking their cocks down your throat as best as you can. Just the thought of having them both inside you is enough to make you clench your thighs, chasing friction as slick drips from your cunt.

“Hm, wonder what the little princess is thinking about,” Johnny murmurs. “Maybe what it would be like to take two cocks at once?”

You whimper around Jaehyun’s length, his tip hitting the back of your throat. Jaehyun clicks his tongue, giving two experimental thrusts that has you gagging.

“Selfish of her,” Jaehyun comments to Johnny. “Wants all the attention for herself, on and off the court.”

“Let’s not make her wait any longer then.”

You cough a little when Jaehyun pulls himself out of your mouth. Johnny tugs on your hair harshly until you’re facing him. He leans down to press his lips to yours, tongues fighting for dominance as he pushes you back down on the bed. You clutch the back of his neck, hungrily kissing him until you’re gasping for breath.

They adjust your body so Jaehyun lies underneath you, cock prodding at your waiting hole. Johnny hovers above you, spitting at your pussy and pushing two fingers into your waiting heat.

You mewl at the intrusion and Johnny grins. “Just as I predicted, Jae, still wet and ready for us.”

When he pulls his digits out, you release a croaky laugh.

“So which one of you plans on taking home the singles trophy tomorrow?”

You feel them eye each other at your question, both lining themselves up to sink into you.

“The best man will win,” Jaehyun mumbles in your ear, not sounding so confident in his answer.

You smile, sensing an open opportunity to encourage some harmless fun. You can already picture the two of them tomorrow — sweaty and desperate to prove themselves as the best. The thought of them being so competitive for the title causes more slick to gush from your pussy.

“How about this then — tonight, you both have to pull out. But tomorrow, whoever wins the title gets to cum deep inside me,” you drawl, watching as Johnny’s eyes cloud over and feeling Jaehyun’s hands tighten around your waist. “And I’ll wear your cum in my panties all day to show everyone who I belong to.”

The idea of them staking a claim on you drives them into a frenzy. You whine when they both push into your cunt, fighting for the tight space between their ridiculously large cocks. You collapse onto Jaehyun’s front, head falling against his shoulder.

“Slut,” Johnny growls at you. “That’s how it’s going to be, hm? Pretty princess wants cum dripping down her legs as she practices her backhand?”

Jaehyun groans in your ear. “Fuck, I want to see that so badly.”

Your mind is drawing a blank, heat filling your stomach as the both of them continue to press into you.

Jaehyun chuckles. “Maybe we didn’t think this through, John. Looks like her pussy can’t even fit the both of us.”

“Maybe you’re right, Jae.”

When they start to pull out, your head whips up with an unmatched fury.

“Don’t you fucking dare.”

“There she is,” Johnny smirks. “Princess wants us to break her pretty pussy, is that it?”

Your competitive nature flares up. “Trust me, I can take it.”

Johnny and Jaehyun exchange another round of looks and eyebrow raises. You feel utterly unprepared when Jaehyun plants his feet on the bed and Johnny situates his knees, his hands grabbing your thighs. They begin a furious pace, with Jaehyun roughly thrusting upwards and Johnny railing you until your head hits the wall.

You nearly scream, convinced that the neighboring dorms are going to file noise complaints by the end of the night.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you hiss at the feeling of two cocks driving into you.

You feel completely full as they stretch you out. Johnny’s hand comes down to your clit to try and ease some of the pain. You crumble when the pain ebbs into waves of pleasure, eyes rolling to the back of your head.

“There you go,” Jaehyun coos in your ear. “Just let us take care of you, baby.”

Two fingers slide into your mouth and you clutch Jaehyun’s wrist, gagging on his digits.

“Can’t wait to cum inside this tight cunt tomorrow,” Johnny grunts.

You hear Jaehyun scoff and give another harsh thrust, almost knocking you against the wall again. You blubber on his fingers but he doesn’t seem to mind the drool slipping down his wrist.

“What makes you think you’ll be the sure winner?” Jaehyun asks between throaty groans.

Johnny chuckles at the question. “Come on, Jae. You can’t be serious.”

“And if I was?”

Your orgasm hits you without warning and you cry, back arching and thighs shaking from the intense pleasure. You have to blink a few times before regaining your senses, and you’re surprised by what you find when you can finally see clearly.

Johnny’s lips are locked with Jaehyun’s, their tongues fighting for dominance in a messy kiss. They’re both still pounding into you albeit at a slower pace, suddenly enraptured by one another as Johnny’s hand moves from your clit to tangle into Jaehyun’s hair. The latter moans underneath you, removing his fingers from your mouth to lazily grab a handful of your breast as you remain sandwiched between them.

You didn’t think it was possible, but you grow more aroused at the sight. Filthy squelching sounds fill the room and your body starts to overheat from the constant stimulation.

Johnny’s eyes drift over to lock with yours, and he smirks into Jaehyun’s mouth at the sight of you. He pulls away from Jaehyun, who eagerly chases after him. Johnny cups your cheek and attaches his lips to yours, tugging Jaehyun along in the process. The three of you engage in one of the sloppiest make out sessions you’ve ever experienced, combined with a mixture of tongues and breathy gasps.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum,” Jaehyun suddenly mumbles.

Johnny nods. “Me too. Let’s paint her body, shall we?”

You whine when they pull out of you, furiously stroking their cocks until they find release. You’re mesmerized at the sight of them climaxing, grunting harshly and coloring your stomach with ropes and ropes of their cum.

You collapse into a pile of bones and you feel them start to lick your neck, earnestly tasting the sweat dripping down from your face. You giggle at their unique form of aftercare.

“It seems like-“ you hiss when Johnny squeezes your breast again before continuing. “It seems like you two used up all of your energy. Do you think either one of you still has a chance tomorrow?”

Jaehyun laughs. “Don’t worry about us, baby.”

“Because we’re planning on cumming inside of this sweet cunt for the whole world to see, whether you like it or not,” Johnny finishes.

You swallow at their predatory gazes, shock traveling up your spine when you realize their cocks are already half-hard again.

You’re in big trouble.

[cavillscurls]

hold me, heal me | aemond targaryen x f!reader

summary: he comes to you in the dark of night, seeking solace, when mistakes are made and lives are lost.

warnings/tags: MDNI. post S1E10, pre S2E1. dual pov. minor age gap; reader is 5 years older. angst. mentions of death, murder, and war. depictions of grief and panic. mentions of past sexual assault. misogyny and period-specific gender roles. hurt/comfort. mommy issues galore. sub!aemond, soft dom!reader. reader works in a brothel; the term “whore” is used in reference to her profession. intimacy. pet names. MD/LB undertones. cockwarming. unprotected p in v. a smidgen of dacryphilia. cream pie. pregnancy risk due to unsafe sex mentioned briefly. PLEASE NOTE: I wrote the majority of this before any S2 brothel scenes came out and did not change some of my own lore. The past trauma of this character has not been taken lightly nor do I negate it in this fic. He does, however, engage in different ways of coping than we see canonically. You are responsible for what you choose to read.

word count: 2.4k

masterlist

a/n: i’m aware the canon is leaning towards Aemond being a little off his hinges…but he’s fully remorseful in this because i said so. it’s my first time writing him so be nice or i’ll cry. you know who i’m thanking (@kiwisbell) per ush. an additional thank you to @joelsdagger for listening to me babble and sharing in my excitement. enjoy!

The knock he bestows on your door is always succinct, quiet. Tonight, it is dampened by the fall of rain and roaring thunder, which he combats with firmer, urgent strikes. 

The establishment is empty, apart from yourself. A quaint corner in the wall, no more than three or four lucky girls in service, all under your watch, your care. The owner, a man you have only ever met with a mask covering his countenance, prefers to keep a low profile amid such political turmoil. He’s eager, perhaps even reckless in granting you authority in his affairs. But you handle them, have always handled them, carefully. A woman of your position, your station, no fool to pass up a trace of power. 

You are roused from the chaise in the corner of the room at the abrupt sound, naked, dozing off under the low candlelight with a book in your lap. When the sound comes again, then thrice, you pull the silken robe off the back of the cushions and wrap it around yourself, bare feet a soft patter across the room. 

You open the door, slowly, carefully, no stranger to what lurks in the dark at these hours. Though the thing you find through the crack worries more than it frightens you. 

He’s not quite sure how he found himself here. How he willed his limbs, sore from dragon-back and pellets of rain, to land on your doorstep. The hood of his cloak is pulled over his forehead, blocking the rain from his eyes which cannot find the strength to look at you. He’s been here, this very spot, many times before. Always in a similar fashion to now, when the whole of King’s Landing is deep in slumber—but, despite his fatigue, sleep continues to evade him. He is, always has been, unlike his kin in the ways of sex. A whorehouse the last place he cared to find himself, averse to their nature, still slave to the experiences no child as young as he should have endured. 

But that all changed when he met you. A woman five years his senior, with warm eyes and a sparkling smile, whose first encounter with the Prince came in a tavern. And while the rest of the men drank and fucked and drank some more, keen to end the night with their cocks stuffed in the women of their choosing, Aemond Targaryen found himself in the back rooms with his head in your lap, your nimble fingers gracing his locks of hair, humming and nodding along as he relayed in great detail the misfortunes of his life. 

And whilst the experience of seeking your solace is a familiar one, tonight feels ineffably different. Something looms, substantial and altering, an invisible hourglass signifying impending consequences. 

“My Prince.” You had not been expecting him this evening, and it translates through the airiness of your tone. 

There’s a terror in his eyes—eye, though you’ve come to ardently understand just the way of his brows—and you are quick to usher him inside, leaving no room for onlookers to watch a man unravel. This man in particular, royalty, with silver hair too recognizable, too imperiled to risk being seen. 

But he is seen by you. In some ways, only you. 

He stands there, just before the closed doorway, looking like nothing more than a lost little boy. His breath is audible, a staggering inhale through his nose followed by the shaky release of his lips that begin to tremble. 

“I’ve done something,” he finally rasps, in that sort of far-off voice, the one that’s given you unease time and time again. “Something unforgivable.” 

And the truth is, you know him. You know the whole of him, in his various roles, and in the shape of Prince Aemond Targaryen, an unforgivable deed, a cruel one even, is foreseeable. Perhaps that makes you an accomplice, an enabler in all his unsavory behaviors for the sole reason of never admonishing them. 

But in your own life, your own truth, you are reminded that it is simply not your place to critique. Your place, your role, is to serve. To provide a paying customer with their needs most neglected. And if you are to be entirely forthright, the needs of the Prince—a mere man, just another man when in your company—are unlike that of the others. So much so that your place, your role, somehow becomes innately you. 

You had gotten good at playing pretend, as the needs of most men often required. Leaning into the subservient nature, allowing them to take, and take, and take. Your arrangement with the Prince couldn’t be any more different. Here, with him, you give. You cultivate, you lead, and he is eager to receive. It’s the very truth that maintains your affections, making it far too easy, despite his wrongdoings and whatever they may be, for you to reach out and cradle his face within your palms. Press your chest up against his, and with it, a chaste kiss to the apple of his cheek, just below where the silken patch covers marred flesh. 

“Oh, my darling boy,” you coo, running a tender hand down his cheek. “Come.” 

He heeds your gentle command, as he always does, taking you by the extended hand and following you to the chaise. This part of the visit is routine, and you cannot help but display a bit of showmanship in the sultry way you undo the knot of your robe, letting it ripple over your shoulders and down to the floor like steady waves. His gaze follows over your bare figure, nothing but admiration. You step back until your calves hit the upholstery, never tearing your eyes off of him when you splay yourself across the cushions, propping your elbow up on the armrest. 

He stands in place, admiring, lips slightly parted and hands flexing in and out of fists at his sides, for some time. This too is a part of the routine: what pieces of himself he chooses to reveal to you when you’re together. You, always bare, free to his needs. He, given the choice, to be as concealed or as vulnerable as he wishes. Tonight is an extreme of the latter, as he eventually breaks from his silent trance, moving to strip himself of his damp cloak, his tunic, his trousers. You hold your breath when his fingers linger at the hem of his breaches, sighing a wistful sort of sound when they join the rest of his clothing. 

You await him, limbs spread and inviting, and the Prince shudders at the sight before him. A cacophony of thoughts, emotions, some he’s chosen are better off never to scrutinize. Because he does, in his own twisted way, feel safe with you.

Safer than he feels in his own home. Much safer than he’s ever felt alone. 

He crawls himself up between your legs, letting them engulf his torso, resting his cheek upon your bare chest—as is practice. He can hear your heartbeat beneath the flesh, drowning out the sound of thunder and screaming in his eardrums with its steady thump, thump, thump. He wraps his wingspan around your rib cage, cradling himself against your pillowy breasts that act as a comfort in his time of distress. It’s perhaps the very reason the Prince maintains you in his company—you quickly understood the type of nurturing he required, and you were, and remain, eager to provide. 

Wetness falls from his cheeks and coats your breasts, silent tears. He nuzzles into your skin and squeezes his eyes shut; despite his body's betrayal of him, trembling in your hold, he refuses to make a sound. He wishes to maintain a semblance of dignity, of manhood. Even if it is you who has seen him in all his shame, when he feels most worthless in the position he was born into. 

“I forgive you.” An eventual whisper after moments of wordlessly tucking silver locks behind his ear with your fingertips, swirling gentle shapes along his temple. “Whatever you’ve done, I forgive you.” 

And he aches at your sentiments; inside and out, his heart heavy in his chest and his cock straining between his legs, coming to life under the prospect of your enveloping heat. A vice well utilized in aiding him to forget, to let go. You wouldn’t forgive him, he thinks, if you knew the truth of his blunder. You’d despise him, a traitor to his kin. You’d refuse to service him, perhaps even refuse to see him again. It’s for that very reason that on this visit, selfishly, he does not indulge you in his strife. 

Instead, he takes. He takes what you have always freely given him, and for a while, he doesn’t feel a thing. He cries, and squeezes you, and mouths at the exposed skin of your breasts, but his brain is blank, his body numb. It is only when he goes scarily silent and still for a long while that you begin to worry. 

“Tell me what I must do to help,” you whisper against his earlobe, breaking the silent seal and watching his body tremble at the tickle of your breath. 

He’s quiet for another moment, and then: 

“Make me forget.”  

It isn’t often he asks for this, to take the extra step. You’re never bothered, quite liking the change of pace in his company. Gradual and serene, limited expectations placed on either party, and the opportunity to be something other than a body. But you cannot deny the flutter of excitement the proposition elicits in your belly now, a deep-seated ache searching for a remedy, eager to comply with his wishes. 

Your limbs move in unison, choreography, unwinding from one another until he’s seated upright on the chaise and your thighs straddle his lithe hips. His hands dig solid into the plush of your hips, and thrilling is the thought of what they may leave behind come morrow. You feel his breath on your face and hear the way it hitches when you reach between your bodies, carefully wrapping your fingers around his hardening cock. The tip kisses your entrance, and you hiss at the initial stretch of it as you descend the length of him. 

He’s long and slender, a comfortable fit, nestling up, up, up to that sweet spot inside of you that makes your body sing. And it feels good, so good to seek pleasure in the one who derives it from you. You stay like this, relishing in the fullness, the scent of him so close. Withered roses and iron. 

Your hands cascade his arms, up his solid shoulders, until you’re cradling his face, porcelain, between your palms. 

“May I look at you?” It is a question, as this is a boundary you dare not test. Who are you to upset the balance where he seeks asylum? 

You run your fingers carefully along the strap of his eyepatch, over the spot it disappears behind his ear. You’d seen it before, mostly in passing glances. When he’d wash up in the powder room, or on the rare occasions he slept beside you, just before you gave way to slumber. Crystalline sapphire, nearly as striking as the blue of his given eye that beholds you now. 

There’s admiration for the sight of you, fireplace flames reflecting off your perspired skin, and a glaze over your half-lidded eyes. You really are a sight to behold, and so, he trusts you with this. 

He nods once, and your nimble fingers sink under the band of the patch and delicately remove it from his face. 

It’s only when you see him, all of him, that you begin to move. The initial rhythmic grinds of your hips—so that you may adjust and he can experience your silken walls suffocating him—eventually turn to a gradual rise and fall. Your thighs slap down against his with each descent, an angelic little whine passing through your lips every time he reaches your cervix. 

Your lips are agape and your brows are pulled in focus, but your bright eyes remain firmly planted on him. The sudden urge to cry again surges through him, but he sinks his teeth painfully into his bottom lip to avoid it. Here lies an intimacy he is already unsteady with, and yet it is the prospect of losing it altogether that tears him asunder. 

He concentrates, first on the rise and fall of his breathing, of yours, of the pulsing of his blood through his veins. Then, the pliancy of your body, the way it wraps around him like a glove, sparks a sharp twisting in his gut from how tightly your cunt milks him. Made for him, made for you. How your sultry, collected countenance starts to falter the closer you are to release, dragging him down with you. His gaze falls briefly between your bodies to see the white ring of slick left around the base of his cock when you rise, the evidence of your arousal making his abdomen grow taut. 

“I won’t last,” he warns you, a broken excuse of a voice. 

You flash him your dazed eyes. “I don’t care.” And he’s groaning. 

He knows it’s a risk, one that he likely wouldn’t be around to face the consequences of. But he doesn’t care. He can’t. Not when you begin to increase your speed, squeezing him from tip to base in tantalizing strokes. Not when your nails dig into his shoulders, and your head is thrown back in ecstasy, heavy breasts on full display for him to bury his head into again. Not when you’re coming undone around him, crying out his name, his real name, and he’s all that he is in his simplest form. 

His thighs tremble and his vision goes dark from squeezing his eye shut, a glorious crescendo oozing into release. The sticky ropes of seed paint your insides right as they start to clench feverishly around him. Oversensitivity is mistaken for pain and pleasure, but there is a calmness in the way his body goes slack once you’ve slumped against him. Drained, in all senses, he welcomes your guiding touch that cradles his face into the crook of your neck. A state of rest he will preserve for what’s left of the evening. 

Tomorrow, he will wage war. Tomorrow he will front stone cold, pledge his loyalty and conduct his duty to his family. Forget the woes of the life he once imagined he deserved and bind himself to the reality of the one he’s been given. 

But tonight, he will rest. Rest under the comforting hands that could not be dealt by his kin. And perhaps, once morning comes, never to be dealt again. 

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[lovelettersfromluna]

yk how in one of your girls Ellie mentioned she got off to reader and was thinking abt her all day while she was gone… can u plz plz plz writing something about Ellie rubbing one out to reader OR OR writing one of Ellie’s solo vids since she said she did solo when Julia left.. I just love seeing Ellie pleasure herself I need it so bad..

an: I literally have a paper that I need to write that’s due TONIGHT but I’m doing this first because it’s more important 😌

Warnings: SMUT!! 18+, MDNI, solo!ellie, fingering, horny!Ellie, dirty talk, Ellie fantasizes about reader, this all takes place in the second chapter of my camgirl!Ellie series, Ellie has sensitive nipples bc I said so, pure smut with little plot, slight sugarmommy!Ellie if you squint??, lmk if I missed anything!

Ellie was bored out of her fucking mind.

She was always bored when you were at work, to be honest, but she usually had Julia to entertain her. She would usually text or call her, invite her over to get a quick video in, anything to fill up the time where the apartment was void of you.

That was out of the question now.

She tried everything. She tried making herself something to eat, which she ended up burning. She tried watching tv, but there was nothing on that she liked. She tried playing video games, which resulted in her screaming at some fucking incel half way across the world for being a fucking idiot. Hell, she even tried putting herself down for a nap like she was a child, which once again failed.

Ellie was getting antsy, wanting nothing more than to just be with you, be in your presence. And that's fine, because you and her are friends! It has nothing to do with the fact that ever since you had agreed to being her temporary partner, she couldn't seem to get you out of her mind.

That wasn't it at all...

She let out a gentle huff of annoyance, seemingly the hundredth one for the day, as she got up from the couch in the living room and made her way to her bedroom.

Ellie fell back into the soft comforter on her bed, a gentle sigh leaving her lips as she stared up at the ceiling for a moment before she turned over to grab her phone to check the time, which only made her groan out in frustration.

You wouldn't be home for another four hours.

This had to be some kind of cruel and unusual punishment, why were you still even working! Ellie had told you time and time again that she was making more than enough to support the both of you, and now you were even entitled to it! You were helping her bring it in! She hated how stubborn you were when it came to the topic.

She just wanted to take care of you...

You deserved to be spoiled. You spent so much of your time at the record store, slaving away to posers who usually belittled you for being a woman in the music business, wanted to get into your pants, or both, and she hated it, she always had.

She fantasized about never letting you lift a finger, always telling you that she would take care of it. Ellie never wanted you to worry your pretty little head about anything, regardless of if you agreed to make content with her or not.

Ellie would never say it out loud, but the idea of spoiling you made her weak in the fucking knees.

And she isn't entirely sure how it lead to her hand resting on her waist, toying with the sliver of skin thats peeking out between the hem of her t shirt and the waistband of her sweatpants, slender fingers slowly creeping beneath them as her hazy, lust filled eyes stare down at her own legs splayed out on her bed...

Although she is sure of how it happened, she knows that with thoughts of spoiling you, come other thoughts of you, because suddenly she's thinking of you settled between her legs, wide eyes staring up at her, eager to please, wet tongue lapping at her soaking wet core, pretty lips wrapped around her throbbing clit.

Or maybe she's thinking of something else, maybe she's thinking about you straddling her, bouncing on her cock, back arched as the sweet sound of your pretty moans fill up her room, paired with the noise of your skin slapping against her own. She can practically feel your soft, supple skin spilling out from under her large hands, she can't help but feel and squeeze whenever you're around.

And suddenly, Ellie isn't so bored after all.

Because her sweatpants are long gone, tugged off and throw somewhere in her room along with her soaked boxers. Her t shirt it pushed up, revealing her perky tits and pebbled nipples, the cold air in her room alone making them harden, making her hiss as her skilled fingers work on her soaked core.

She isn't laying down anymore, instead she's propped up a bit, her back resting against her pillows, eyebrows furrowed as her fingers work on her clit, abusing the poor sensitive numb as she rolls sharp circles into it. Ellie was never careful with herself, not like she was with you. She liked being rough when it came to her own weeping pussy, making it all red and sore, sopping wet and begging for more.

"A-ahh...f-fuck...just like that baby...mmhh...right there...dont fucking stop.." She groaned out, eyebrows furrowed, freckled cheeks flushed.

Ellie always prided herself on her filthy mouth. She could feel the way your pussy fluttered around her fingers or her tongue whenever she said something particularly dirty, so of course when thinking about you, her words didn't cease.

Her head fell back against her pillow when she pushed two fingers into her drooling pussy, a long, loud string of moans leaving her swollen lips as she called out for you, your name becoming her own personal chant as her eyes fluttered shut..

"Fuuuuckkk...that's it baby...f-fuck....fuckin' take it...thats it...thats my good girl" She shuttered out, struggling to form full sentences as she brought her eyes back down to the mess between her legs.

She tugged her bottom lip between her teeth, one of her hands coming up and ghosting over her hard nipple, making her whine softly before she pinched it, making her eyes wince as she thrusted her hips up to meet her fingers, wanting them to go deeper into her weeping core.

Ellie let the images of you run through her head. She imagined you on top of her, grinding your perfect pussy onto hers. She imagined you underneath her, your ass bouncing against her thrusts as she fucked her cock into you, drilling you from behind.

But what really did it? Was imagining that her fingers, were yours.

"M'gonna....you're gonna make me fucking cum...o-oh my god...yeah...yeah right there....fuckfuckfuckfuck!" Ellie called out, her back arching as she felt her orgasm right there on the edge, the feeling she was chasing after dangling right over her head, so close she could practically fucking taste it...

Practically taste you.

Ellie screamed out your name, her hair messy as she pressed her head further into the pillow, her orgasm washing over her so intensely, it was almost fucking painful.

She struggled to catch her breath, hazy eyes staring down at her hand as she slowly rubbed her clit, riding out her orgasm as soft little hums and moans left her lips, almost liking the overwhelming feeling of sensitivity that came after she orgasmed.

Ellie sighed softly, looking over at her phone and checking the time, seeing that she still had a little less than four hours until you got home.

A little less than four hours to do what she just did, over and over again.

[cosmicdahlias]

I Hate Everything About You

a ford x reader fic

MINORS DNI

You’re a student at the same college as Stanford. You hate his guts for being a successful arrogant bastard, but secretly have a crush on him.

warnings: slut-shaming, slapping, oral, rough sex, choking, breeding, drugs (weed)

this is my first stab at an enemies to lovers fic. i’ve always loved the trope, so this was a lot of fun. i also definitely didn’t include them smorkig weed because i’m like missing it and living vicariously through my writing or anything. 👀💦

You sat in your dorm finishing your homework. You were in your junior year at Backupsmore University with a major in theoretical physics, winter break was two weeks away. Tonight you were on edge, dreading a knock on the door. The reason? You had been assigned to write a research paper with Stanford fucking Pines.

Oh my god how you hated him. Success and praise flocked to him. You were the only feminine presenting person in your major, and thus had to fight tooth and nail to be seen as even half as good as your male classmates.

It drove you mad how professors just seemed to naturally love him, whereas they never showed you the time of day. And worst of all? He was arrogant and self-absorbed. He thought himself so much better than the other- in his words- “troglodytes” around him.

But what you hated the most was how attracted to him you were. How could you want to fuck someone so badly when you hated their guts? You always tried to repress your feelings, but some nights you still shamefully found yourself with your hand between your legs, thoughts running wild of Stanford using you like a sex toy.

You quietly seethed over your homework when you heard knocking at your door. You sighed heavily and pushed your chair back, savoring your last Stanford free moments.

You swung the door open and there stood the man that you despised more than everything.

“Stanford.” You said coldly.

“Y/n.” He responded, not even entertaining the idea of making eye contact with you, looking like he wanted to be anywhere else.

-

Barely an hour had passed before you two found yourselves locked in a heated argument. A simple disagreement over formatting had boiled over.

“Jesus christ, Stanford why do you have to make everything so fucking difficult?”

“I’M making things difficult? I’m not the one who’s been shooting daggers all night, barely responding to my questions because apparently talking to me is like pulling teeth. What the hell did I ever do to make you hate me this much?”

“Oh you really wanna know why I hate you? Maybe it has something to do with the fact that professors fawn over you for the most menial effort, meanwhile I’ve had to work myself to the bone, slaving away just to earn half the recognition you barely have to lift a finger for.” You spat.

“Well maybe if you kept your legs closed every now and then this wouldn’t be nearly as hard as you make it.”

Hot tears formed in your eyes, you quickly raised a hand and brought it down hard on his face. He stumbled back, his cheeks turning bright red and not from the slap. You looked down, a bulge clearly forming in his pants.

“Fuck, that’s hot.” You thought, quickly growing angrier that he had managed to turn you on like this.

“For fuck’s sake Stanford, are you serious?” You said through gritted teeth.

“I- well I- it’s not like I can help it. I’ve never been slapped before.”

You stared at each other for a moment, the sexual tension building.

“Look,” he pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation “it’s clear we both have some underlying feelings for each other, perhaps it would be for the best if we-“

“Whoa whoa whoa,” you said, cutting him off “maybe you do, but I certainly don’t.”

“Oh please, don’t lie to yourself. I catch you staring at me during lectures all the time, undressing me with your eyes, nothing anywhere like the malice you so pretended to demonstrate tonight. Admit it, you like me. Despite aaaaaall of your personal hangups about my successes, you genuinely have feelings for me.” He said, crossing his arms.

He let his words hang in the air, a smirk creasing his lips. God, he was such a dick.

“Now,” he continued “I was going to say I think it would be best if we just put this to bed, literally.”

“Stanford, no I-“ the blush on your cheeks betrayed you.

He chuckled, tilting your chin up. “I knew it, you want this.”

He pressed a firm kiss to your lips. He was right, you did want this. You’d be lying to yourself if you said you hadn’t imagined him between your thighs during class. You reached a hand down, fondling his cock over his pants.

“Mmm, fuck.” He groaned into your mouth.

You both began removing each other’s clothes desperately. He looked down at your naked body, his breath shaking. He took your breast in his hand, stroking your nipple with his thumb.

“Do you know the things those brutes in class say about you, about your body? When you walk into the room every man fucks you with their eyes, but you like it that way, don’t you?”

You took his thick cock in your hand and stroked it, he moaned and buried his head in the crook of your neck. He pulled himself away then pointed to the floor. You sank to your knees in front of him and wrapped your fingers around his cock again, pumping the near 8.5 inches in your hand. He tilted his head back, groaning and cursing.

“Put my cock in your mouth, baby.”

You went to slowly take his head in your mouth, but he seized a fistful of your hair and shoved the full length down your throat. You choked and gagged.

“You know I was thinking of being nice, but honestly I think you deserve to be brutally fucked after the way you’ve been acting. How does that sound, princess?”

You nodded with his cock buried in your mouth.

“Good, although honestly I was planning on doing it regardless.”

He gritted his teeth and resumed bucking furiously into your mouth. You to whimpered and gagged around him, tears streaming down your face.

“You’re my little slut now, you understand?”

You let out a muffled “Mhmf.”

“Look at you, letting me fuck your mouth like this. Do you let anyone else do this to you?”

He pulled out to let you answer. “No.”

He shoved his cock back in your mouth. “Let’s keep it that way. I’m not big on- mmf, sharing. I always figured the rumors of you being the campus whore weren’t true. You have too much self respect for that, but I bet you’re so dirty when you’re alone. Picturing me fucking you in every position, touching yourself and cumming with my name on your lips.”

He quickened pace, fucking your mouth rapidly in pure aggression. He growled and his hips stuttered, he was going to cum in your mouth if he kept going like this. He pulled you back by your hair and you took in a gasping breath. He didn’t give you a chance to breathe before picking you up and throwing you facedown on the bed.

He knelt behind you, slapping your ass hard a few times. “There, now I think we’re even.”

His hands pinned your wrists to the bed and he teased your entrance for barely even a second before slamming every inch inside you. You struggled to hold back a loud moan, trying to not let the whole floor know that you were getting absolutely wrecked.

He growled and moved his hands to your hips, fucking you so hard that it felt like his cock was going to split you in half.

“I have a confession to make, y/n.” He breathed between violent thrusts into you. “I saw you, two weeks ago, in the library. You didn’t see me, you leaned down to select a book off the lowest shelf and I could see your panties under your skirt. Pink with black lace. God I- I couldn’t resist, not after watching you eye me up in class. I found a quiet part of the library and stroked my cock to the thought of you.”

He picked up his pace, the slaps of his hips meeting your ass only aroused you more. “When our professor announced the assignment I knew I had to have you. I went and spoke to him after class and convinced him to pair you up with me. And now look at you, taking my cock like the whore you are, just like I knew you would.”

You gripped the sheets in your fingers as he pounded you into the mattress. Jesus fucking christ the idea of him getting worked up because of you was enough to fuel your masturbation fantasies for months. The thought of him stroking himself- in public no less- just because he saw your panties, good god you were going to savor that image in your mind forever.

He flipped you over on your back, kissing you deeply. His hands found your hips and pulled you onto his cock, resuming his aggressive rhythm.

“I love the feeling of fucking you from behind, but I need to see those eyes.”

He slid his hand to your throat, gripping it tightly. You choked out a weak moan and the corners of your vision started to turn to black static.

“God you’re gonna make me fucking cum. I want you to look in my eyes as I breed you, princess.”

He pounded faster and faster, savoring every moan and whimper that passed your lips. You dug your nails into his back causing his cock to twitch and throb, edging him closer by the second to cumming inside you.

“Look into my eyes, look into my eyes as I cum in you.” He demanded.

The sight of your doe eyes looking back at him was what did it. His brutally fast pace faltered and his breathing hitched and as he felt himself release deep in you, his hot cum coating your walls. He moaned your name loudly.

He panted, exhausted and collapsed beside you, trying to catch his breath. You were about to kiss him when he started making his way down your body.

“Stanford what are you-“

“Finishing the job, I’m not about to leave you unsatisfied like some kind of neanderthal would, I’m better than that.” He muttered.

You rolled your eyes, there he goes being arrogant as usual.

He took your clit in his mouth, you reached a hand down and buried it in his hair. He hummed against you, tongue lapping at your delicate nub.

“So desperate for me, aren’t you?” He teased.

“Nnnngh, Stanford.”

He looked up at you and chuckled. “Please, call me Ford.”

He slipped two fingers inside you, curling them against your g-spot. You arched your back instinctively and he held you in place by your hips.

“Getting close already are we?”

“Mmh, I can’t help it, you’re too good at this.”

“Surprisingly research goes a long way. It’s amazing what certain books can teach you.” He said with a devilish smile.

“You fucking nerd, I didn’t say you could stop.” You tightened your grip on his hair and pushed him against your clit, he let out a little “hmf”.

You rocked your hips against his tongue, feeling yourself tip over the edge.

“Ahh hah, oh Ford.”

Your orgasm shook you, hitting you hard. All you could do was focus on your breathing. Ford watched you intently, god you looked so perfect when you came.

He moved himself up on the bed, coming behind you and wrapping an arm around your waist, spooning you.

Goddammit, you really thought you were going to just bottle up your feelings for Ford until the day you died, but here you were in post coital bliss with him pressed against you.

-

The conflicting feelings of fucking the classmate you thought you despised moments ago started to weigh on you, you needed to take the edge off. You rolled out of Ford’s arms and off the bed, his eyes following you. You dug around in your bedside drawer pulling out a small baggie and a glass pipe.

You packed the bowl and flicked the lighter, taking in a long drag. You let out a cloud of smoke and sighed heavily before laying back down next to Ford, who was still watching you. You raised an eyebrow.

“What is it six fingers?”

“Nothing, I just-“

“Lemme guess, those anti drug psa’s really got to you as a kid.”

He looked away, embarrassed.

You rolled your eyes again. “Jesus, you really are a fucking nerd. Here.”

You handed the pipe to him, he took it in his hand, studying it for a second before flicking the lighter taking a deep inhale, you watched him hold his breath and couldn’t help but laugh.

“Dude, holding it doesn’t do anything, breathe.” You snorted.

He took gasping breath and let out a hacking cough, smoke coming out of his nose.

“That’s what they- ack- always do in the movies.” He wheezed.

“For the love of god, you really need to get out more.”

You passed the pipe back and forth for a good while, talking about random shit. By the end of it you were both sufficiently stoned.

You quickly learned that Ford was very affectionate when he was high, he pulled you close against him, nuzzling the back of your neck, peppering your skin with kisses. He traced the curves of your body with his fingers.

“You know, I was starting to think you genuinely hated me.” He murmured into your neck.

You let out a long sigh. “Ford don’t think I ever actually hated you, I envy you. Everything seems to come so easy to you, almost naturally. Your professors love you and- I don’t know- it was just hard not to feel a twinge of jealousy. Like this college wasn’t even my first choice, everywhere else rejected me and I still have to bust my ass just to be seen as being worth anyone’s time.”

Ford took a breath and exhaled deeply. “BMU wasn’t exactly what I had planned on either, I mean, remember what they said at orientation? This is no one’s first choice. My dream school was West Coast Tech, but things… fell through.”

He paused, you could tell there was weight to that last part, memories too painful to say aloud. You didn’t pry.

“Y/n, I want you to understand it hasn’t been easy for me either. I’ve had to work twice as hard just to make something of myself at a school with nonexistent educational standards.”

You felt a pang of guilt for ever assuming this was in any way easy for him. You turned to him, holding his face in your hands and kissing him deeply.

He broke away. “You know I was thinking we could grab coffee in the morning before heading to the library to work on our paper together. I- if you want, that is.” He looked away, nervous.

You smiled and kissed him again. “I’d like that.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You laid your head on his chest and he wrapped his arms around you, kissing your forehead. His breathing deepened as he began to fall asleep. You soon felt your eyelids grow heavy, following Ford into slumber.

[sempersirens]

iuvenalis

part one of strangers in the night

a joel miller au

main masterlist

author's note: welcome to part one of strangers in the night! this is going to be a six part anthology of joel x reader meeting throughout different lifetimes. expect a lot of angst, pining, and yearning. i'm so excited for each and every era i have planned. they will all be different kind of stories but will pretty much be heartbreaking across the board. thank you for reading and don't forget to follow my updates blog @sempersirenswrites as i don't have a taglist!

warnings etc (spoilers): [historical fantasy au] no outbreak (yet...), ancient rome, reader is a vestal virgin, implied misogyny/sexism/patriarchal society, angst, punishment for sexual transgression is being buried alive (not graphic), historically accurate, no smut, no use of y/n, this has not been beta read pls forgive any errors!

Rome, 216 BCE

The door creaks as it opens. 

You know this dance by now. You should’ve anticipated the wooden shrill beneath your toes alerting the entire household of your deviltry one final time.

The walls hold their breath as you descend to the floor below, the warmth from the hypocaust crawling up your shins.

Yet, all remains still. Not even the feral cats who roam the cobbled streets stir from their slumber. 

Tomorrow they will march you down this road; praetorian guards brushing your bare shoulders with no fear of corruption.

But dawn is yet to break and your palms yet to dampen with fear.

“Iuvenalis?” The muggy air clamps around your throat as you speak for the first time in days.

You know his footsteps as intimately as you know the beat of his chest. Months moving in darkness, knowing one another only under the veil of the night. You’d recognise the weight of his step if you were robbed of each and every sense.

“Mea columba.” 

You shut your eyes as his sweet, misplaced worry fills your ears.

“Iuvenalis.” You breathe his name, surrendering to his hands desperately finding their way from your waist to your cheeks.

“You are too trusting of these streets, mea columba.” My dove. You hadn’t seen him the first time he saw you. It had been the day of your inauguration; he says he mistook your hair for a dove in flight. Wild, white, and too soft for the wind tangled within it.

“These are streets I played in as a girl. They have treated me well.” 

“But, tomorrow-,”

“Tomorrow is a far-off thought, corculum. Be with me as I am now. That is all I ask.”

He nods. You know he disagrees, but tonight he swallows any indication of contention as he silently takes your hand in his and leads you toward the walls of the city.

You can see the Colosseum from here. You always hated the wretched thing. Slaves and beasts banished to Tartarus simply to divert the eyes of Rome far away from treaties signed in the stands.

You hated how as a daughter of Vesta, your presence was expected at each game. As a girl, your father had once caught you squeezing your eyes shut as two lean slaves delivered their final blows to one another's pink flesh.

“You think me naive to have taken up the post, do you not?”

His brows pierce into his forehead as he considers your question.

“I think your family cruel to sentence you to death from girlhood. I think the Gods merciless for requiring such sacrifice.”

"You are brave to speak of the Gods so recklessly." You scoff. Part of you feels guilty; he was devout when he found you. All soldiers must be; how could you believe in nothing as the enemy charges toward you?

It didn't take long for you to become his temple. You replaced his exaltation; the ripples of your thighs his temple; your stifled moans his prayer.

You had corrupted him just as much as he had you.

"Let them hear me. I would sooner accompany you to Elysium than press my head to the altar of these false prophets."

"You don't know what you speak, Iuvenalis."

His grip finds your arm, turning you to feel his breath against your forehead.

"You are dimidium animae meae, there is no punishment I would not endure to remain by your side in this life and the next."

"What a wretched soul you must have for that to be so."

His fingertips find your cheek before you even notice the tears falling.

"We could still flee. I would grow old in the slums of Carthage if it meant I could watch your hair turn grey."

"Traders would recognise a Vestal Virgin as far as Babylonia."

"Then we will go farther."

His beard scratches beneath your palm.

"I will not lament any longer, corculum. Tomorrow, you will walk beside me, and then I beg you turn and do not look back. I can't bear to think of you watching."

For the first time this night, a smile creeps across his cheeks.

"You forget the man with whom you speak. I will be at your side until they drag me from you."

The crowds in the street do not look at you as you walk.

Your mother wails somewhere behind you, but she is blocked by a procession of praetorian guards. She does not weep in sorrow, but in shame that her only daughter approaches the grave unchaste.

He is there, beside you. The guards that encircle you owed their lives to his leadership in a battle on foreign soil.

Your fingertips brush against one another as you walk. You are already ruined, you think, what more could they punish you with?

You think that if not for his presence, you would fall to your knees in the street. You would claw at your skin and the cobbles beneath you, leave scratches in the road and beg to be forgiven.

But he is there, and you will not leave the world as you came into it.

The priest waits at the end of the procession. Iuvenalis' fingers weave between your own, and he squeezes three times as the water is brought forth. Enough to last you a day; their hands are clean if they keep you alive for a little while.

A final prayer is read, and the crowds turn their backs. His hand squeezes tighter; you fear he will not release you.

"No," you mutter, loud enough for only him to hear.

The guards herd you both forth like cattle, the marble descent to your tomb the only viable path for you now.

But he is still here.

Your palms grow damp as the men flock closer.

"No!" You shake your head, searching the faces of the praetorian for an answer.

"It's okay, mea columba. It's going to be okay."

The realisation sinks into your skin like a tick; he never intended for you to enter your grave alone.

The light grows dim as you both are forced into the chamber, and silence rings out above you. Soon, everything goes dark.

You weep and beat into his chest, engulfed almost entirely by darkness. Slim arrows of light beat across his face, and he is here, smiling down at you.

"Why condemn yourself?" You choke between gulps of grief.

"You think I would wait to walk the fields of Elysium by your side? There is nothing for me on this plain of existence without you. Dimidium animae meae. You are half of my soul, I will follow you anywhere. Even into death."

Under the darkness you began, in the darkness, you would end.

[withleeknow]

wishful thinking. (07)

chapter seven: built to break

summary: the instruction was plain and simple: no strings attached. but you should’ve known from the beginning that it could never apply to you and him.

pairing: minho x f!reader rating: 18+ (minors dni) genres/warnings: friends to lovers, friends with benefits au, college au; fluff, angst, smut; the gorlies are fighting...?, not much for warnings in this chapter ig word count: 4.3k note: i finally got off my ass and wt is finally back lol. i had a last minute change of plans and thought "oh! you know what would be pretty neat? if we prolong the angst so everyone can be sad for longer!" <3 and this is how i announce that the next chapter is not wt8 but wt7.5 and it's written from his pov <3 merry christmas

as always, i’d appreciate any thoughts or comments you may have, and please drop a like and/or reblog if you enjoy reading ♡

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I’ll hold my breath as I wait for your answer I’ll leave it up to you Tell me whether it’s yes or no Baby, love me or leave me tonight

Love Me or Leave Me - Day6

The warning signs, they're there. You can see them before they materialize. You know your own tells.

Your metaphorical bags are packed, your shoes are already on. You're about to run again, leave a half empty house before it has the chance to become a home. No one has to tell you that you're a flight risk; you're well aware of it yourself.

Wednesday Min: got plans tonight? You: booked and busy with ze old canvas Min: tomorrow? You: same thing probably. sorry Min: u're working hard lately You: yeah this one is just driving me crazy and i need it to turn out decent Min: it'll be perfect. it's u

Thursday Min: running errands at the store Min: want me to bring u anything? that caramel popcorn u like?

Friday Min: don't work too hard. remember to eat

That was three days ago, the last time you'd heard from him after you left him on read. It wasn't a complete lie; this project is driving you kinda crazy and you do need it to end up a decent piece, but you weren't exactly holed up in your apartment to slave over your painting. And you suppose Minho didn't find it all that suspicious because you tend to do this sometimes - disappear for a couple of days and force yourself to focus whenever you had a project to finish, before you come back to everybody again. You've come back to him before; it stands to reason that you'll do it again.

It's been about two weeks since you'd seen him, though the memories of that evening are still fresh in your mind - the evening of the group dinner, when he'd kissed you goodnight and left for his parents' house the following day. True to his words, he did send you pictures of the cats - ones of Soonie wearing a matching hoodie with him, a few of Doongie and Dori napping at the foot of his bed. There was an accompanying text - The kids miss you - along with a frowning emoji, and it made you wonder if what he really meant was I miss you.

You wanted him to miss you, because you missed him too.

The photos brought a smile to your face despite the predicament you found yourself in. A smile that was short lived, a smile that was soon wiped off when you realized your heart shouldn't be swelling with that much affection for him. It shouldn't, but the truth was that it did and you don't know how to live with it.

Love isn't something you've ever learned to hold.

It's beautiful yet full of thorns, and your hands are too clumsy to ever keep it from slipping from your fingers.

You remember when you first met Minho. Freshman year, at some popular senior's house party.

It feels like forever ago when you were just an awkward freshman at orientation who didn't have a single clue on how to make friends. Jess was your first friend in college, and you'll always be grateful that you got along well enough that she adopted you into the group with the rest of the guys.

You didn't cross paths with Minho until you were already acquainted with everyone else. On the night of the party, you remember being enamored with him for those couple of hours, and it wasn't the side effect of too many solo cups of cheap beer. Who in their right mind wouldn't be infatuated with him? He was beautiful, absolutely alluring, and you would always tell him as much.

Back then, he had brown hair, slighter shorter than now but it was tinted with the most gorgeous shade of red. You didn't know much about Minho, only been told that he was pretty quiet and might be off-putting to new people. It was sort of true; that night, you were intimidated by the aura he exuded. Mysterious, couldn't be bothered, didn't seem to give a shit. He looked like a scary little thing, while you were the new kid who was only trying to observe everyone's dynamics, not wanting to overstep any unspoken boundary.

To this day, you're still not sure what really happened, how you two immediately clicked and he's been one of the most important parts of your life ever since.

Maybe it was just him. Maybe it's always been him.

Minho, the one who makes you smile when all you want to do is curl up and cry. The one who makes you laugh when you look for joy but the search comes up empty. The one who grounds you every time you lose your way. Your anchor, the safe harbor you can always return to. The light at the end of a long, long tunnel.

You don't know where you stand, don't know where it goes from here now that everything is changing. He told you so himself, that nothing changed for him, but how could he possibly know that everything is changing for you? And it infuriates you to no end because you don't even have anyone to talk about this with. You're the only person whose world is being turned upside down after all.

You can't tell your friends because they can't know about you and Minho. You can't tell Minho because what would you even say? That you think you're in love with him? That the implications of what it means are devastating to you?

For the first time, you regret everything. Kissing him that night, sleeping with him, becoming whatever this is with him. Letting down your guard and falling for him somewhere along the way and you didn't even stop to notice it. You regret all of the decisions you've made up until now, because they've only led you to the point of no return, the point of losing him. You made bad decision after bad decision after bad decision, until you couldn't anymore. All along, there's been no one else to blame but you.

Maybe it hasn't happened yet, but it's inevitable. You will lose him. You are going to lose him.

There's no other ending, no other alternative that you can imagine. You're going to leave because you're a coward and it's what you do best. You ruin things before they get a chance to hurt you. You leave because if you don't leave then you'll be left behind, and you'd rather not bear the brunt of it.

Now, when you think of Minho, the thought is always accompanied by a painful reminder - Nothing changed for him.

When you get to the cafe, Hyunjin and Seungmin are already seated in a corner booth, three drinks in front of them, one of which they'd ordered for you before you arrived.

You slide into the seat next to Hyunjin, smiling at him appreciatively for the drink. There's still over half an hour before you have to walk to your shared class, over half an hour before Seungmin parts ways with you two to do whatever or whoever it is that Seungmin does on his off days.

"I still think it's Nara," Hyunjin says, casually sipping his iced coffee.

"Nara from your Lit class last semester?"

"Yup."

"Why?"

"I saw them talking at a party once."

"Okay. And?"

"And what? That's it."

"That's... all the evidence you have to back up your claim?"

"Pretty much, yeah."

You wave your hands in front of them. "What are you bozos talking about?"

"He’s still trying to figure out who Minho is hooking up with," Seungmin is the one who answers you without missing a beat, then he turns back to Hyunjin. "Anyway, it can't be Nara. She's dating Jaehyun on the basketball team."

The friend next to you flails his arms like a petulant child, like he couldn't have possibly seen this coming, like he was so sure that he had finally solved the mystery. "Great. I'm back to square one again."

You straighten your back and reach for your drink, tentatively gulping down the beverage as if it'll hide the fact that you've gone stiff the second this topic is brought up. You feel bad about it, sure. These are your friends that you're lying to after all. They don't have to look anywhere far; the answer to the secret is right in front of them.

"We're still on about that?" you ask in the calmest, most nonchalant voice you can muster. You usually consider yourself a believable liar (which, to be honest, isn't really a flex at all), but whenever someone mentions this little arrangement between you and Minho that shouldn't be common knowledge for anyone else, you feel like you're been put under a spotlight for the whole world to scrutinize.

"Duh," Hyunjin says. "You know, I'm kinda surprised that you don't know. You two are like, attached at the hip sometimes."

You give him a thoughtless shrug, your hands fiddling with the sticker on the plastic cup as you avoid looking at either of your friends. "Maybe he just wants to keep private things private, y'know? You wouldn't like either if all of us is suddenly all up in your business. And besides, what if it's just casual?"

Hyunjin scoffs. "Please, I'm an open book. I tell you guys everything. I tell you every time I hook up with someone."

"Yeah, but you see, literally no one needs to know that," Seungmin says.

The taller one only scoffs, waving his hands around dismissively in Seungmin's direction before he turns to you. "If it was just casual, would he save her name as - oh my God, I forgot what her contact name is. Freaking bird person or something."

You make a face. "What?"

"Dude, seriously?" Seungmin rolls his eyes. "You forgot one word? Dove? What is the matter with you?"

Perhaps it's the half-hearted teasing judgment in Seungmin's voice that makes Hyunjin take offense and drop the topic. The conversation veers off course when they start bickering like children in the busy cafe. You suppose it works in your favor, but you can't focus. You drown it all out.

Your hand is still on the cup but the sticker has been left alone and forgotten, half peeled off, half still clinging to the plastic underneath the condensation.

The single word repeats itself in your mind, over and over and over again.

The entire time you're in class, you don't really focus on anything. You can't bring yourself to listen to whatever your professor is saying, not after what Hyunjin and Seungmin told you earlier. At some point, your friend has to nudge your shoulder to bring you back down to earth when usually, you're the one who has to remind Hyunjin to pay attention. Class ends soon enough though; time tends to fly by when your mind is lost elsewhere.

"What's wrong with you today?" he asks with his bag slung over his shoulder, slowing down his steps to match your speed as you walk out of the lecture hall together.

You scratch the back of your neck sheepishly. "Nothing's wrong. I was just tired."

"You wanna grab dinner with me and Felix?"

Any other day, you would've agreed in a heartbeat. But today, you want to be alone. Sometimes, you'd rather wallow in your own misery than settle for a temporary distraction.

You're still stuck on the conversation from earlier, on the small detail that Hyunjin and Seungmin had let slip in the cafe.

Dove.

His dove.

Maybe it doesn't mean anything. Perhaps it's only a nickname that he's assigned to you out of mere platonic fondness, but it makes you conscious about the dove on your own wrist nonetheless, the one that you feel compelled to hide from your friends underneath your long sleeve.

"No, it's okay," you tell Hyunjin. "I'll just go home and sleep it off."

"Okay. I can walk you for a bit," he says. "Just wait with me here. Minho's coming to give me back something he borrowed."

"Minho's coming?" you ask too quickly for it to sound casual. There's a panicked edge that you can hear in your own voice, though you don't think Hyunjin picks it up as he unlocks his phone and types something on the screen.

"Yeah, he was at the library. He's coming over right now, should only be a couple minutes. Then I'll walk back with you."

You shift on your feet uneasily, but you cover it up by rubbing your hands on your arms to pretend like you're just cold. There's no excuse that you could think of that would justify why you can't stand here with Hyunjin for just two more minutes, without giving it away the fact that you're avoiding Minho.

You take in a quiet breath, put on your best brave face. Casual, nonchalant. It's just Minho. Just Minho...

He comes up from behind, where you can't see him. A warm hand gently lands on your shoulder, and it takes everything not to shy away from his touch. It takes even more not to lean into his side.

You've missed it. You've missed him.

"Hey." He smiles at you while Hyunjin only gets a nod in acknowledgment.

"Hey." You return the smile, though you're sure you look a little rigid. You can tell there's an inkling of confusion in his eyes when he senses that your energy is off, but you're thankful he doesn't comment on it, at least not in front of Hyunjin anyway.

You don't notice the paper bag in his other hand until he hands it to your other friend with a simple Thanks, to which Hyunjin just nods along in a silent You're welcome.

"I was going to walk with Y/N for a bit and then meet Felix for food," he tells Minho. "You wanna get burgers with me and Lix?"

"No, thanks. I'm not hungry, I had a late lunch. I'll take the walk though."

You didn't plan on being alone with Minho today, even though you knew you had to talk to him eventually. You just thought you had a little more time, at least until you got your shit together and face him with a brave façade.

Minho's hand brushes yours the entire time you walk, and it's nothing if not confusing. It's unbearable, the way your fingers twitch with the urge to intertwine them with his.

It persists even after Hyunjin has waved you goodbye to you two and turned to head wherever he and Felix agreed to meet. You think Minho would hold your hand now that it's just you and him, but he doesn't. He lets your skin continue to brush, lets you suffer alone and wanting in your sunken disappointment.

It has very little to do with him and everything to do with you, the conflicting thoughts inside your head piling up one by one the more time you spend in his presence.

Dove, the brief display of jealousy at Yeonjun's party, the way he looks at you sometimes that you can't really decipher the meaning behind, how he kisses you so tenderly that it can't possibly be strictly platonic. You want these things to all mean something, and yet...

You want him to hold your hand, but you know you'd wave it off if he tries to reach for your fingers. You want him to stop you right then and there to kiss you breathless, just as he had that night two weeks ago, even though you're sure you'd only dodge his lips and push him away. You want to stay, you want to leave. You're terrified of things changing, but you wish that something, anything, would be different for him; that you aren't the only one who's spinning out of control. You love him, but you wish you didn't.

Eventually, Minho asks, "You okay?"

It's not until now that you realize this is the first time you've ever been this quiet around him. You purse your lips, glancing down briefly at your feet as you keep on treading the rest of the way home. "Yeah, all good. I'm just tired," you tell him, visibly unenthusiastic despite the smile you try to fake. "I just need to sleep it off."

"The project stressing you out?"

"I guess, yeah."

"And here I thought maybe you were avoiding me," he says, half a joke, half inquisitive. "Were you?"

"Was I what?"

"Were you avoiding me?"

You give him a weird look, one that's meant to be dismissive and call his question ridiculous even though you know you've been caught. And maybe it's the over-the-top glance that you throw his way and the way your pitch goes higher when you reply, "Why would I be avoiding you?" that makes him stop walking.

On the other side of the street, there's a couple of kids in high school uniforms, exchanging shy glances and sharing fond giggles.

Minho calls your name softly, and it's like you're just waiting for the ball to drop. You don't want to turn back and look at him, but what other option do you have? What else is there to do?

You can't decipher the expression on his face. He's still calm, but the air has turned serious, the silence of the mostly empty streets surrounding you only serves as the soundtrack of your impending heartbreak. The tender and innocent laughter fades away when young love moves further and further from where you stand. "What?" you ask with faux nonchalance as you look at him, another attempt at stalling. Biding your time even though a few more minutes aren't going to do any good for your case.

Anyone with half a braincell could tell that clearly it's not the truth, let alone someone who has learned to read you better than the back of his hand. He doesn't look like he believes you, though he doesn't push it, much to your surprise.

"Okay," he says after a moment of studying you, and this should be the part where you heave a sigh of relief because he's letting you off the hook for now, but your chest doesn't feel lighter at all. Your head is clouded with dread, with the anticipation that you're only delaying the inevitable.

You walk the rest of the way in awful silence, because you know that he knows something is wrong. You try your best to appear composed, but he sees right through you. You know he does.

You must look like a frightened animal, one that's about to take off running any second now.

When you reach your building, Minho is quick to keep you with him before you can make up a lame excuse and bolt.

"Hey," he starts, his voice so impossibly gentle that it hurts. "You know you can tell me anything, right?"

Heavier and heavier, it weighs you down until you feel like your chest is going to collapse. The nerves gnaw on you, clawing into you until you feel your heartbeat quicken, the overwhelming dread simmering low in your belly.

"I know," you say, but deep down, what you're really thinking is, Not this. This is the one thing I can't tell you.

"Is everything okay?"

It's the way that Minho's got his gaze set on you with those deep brown irises, the concern so apparent in them that it hurts you. It's the way he looks like he wants to reach out and touch you - a comforting hand on your shoulder or your back like you're so familiar with - but he has to hold himself back or you might slip away.

It's him, how he always puts you first, how he cares about you in ways that you've never been cared about before. He understands you, he sees you. It feels like it could be love if you let the lines blur just enough.

Is love supposed to hurt? Like this?

Maybe it's not that you don't know how to hold love. Maybe it's because you're not meant to hold it at all. Insignificant, unlovable.

And... it's the reminder that cuts through the dread like the sharpest knife.

You leave his question unanswered, because nothing is okay and you can't tell him any of it. You can't lie to him either, because it's the last thing that you want to do to him.

Instead, you ask, "We're good... right? We're okay?"

"What do you mean?"

You gesture between the two of you, though you're not sure what that's supposed to signify. "Just...," you trail off for a second, hesitant. "Nothing's changed, right?"

Minho doesn't answer right away. He looks at you for a moment, searching for something in your eyes that you can't tell if he's able to find.

He nods, seemingly wistful as he says, "Nothing's changed."

He seems unsure about it, at least more than he was just a few weeks ago when he told you the same thing in your apartment with his fingers wrapped around your wrist. The tug between his brows - though barely noticeable - tells you as much.

Is it because something is different now? Or does he only sound uncertain out of concern, because of you and how you're acting?

Then he continues, "For me, at least."

And there it is.

It's the confirmation this time around that turns you inside out so his simple words could cut into you.

You swallow thickly, put on a smile like you're pleased with his answer even though you're trying your hardest to stop yourself from shaking. Whatever energy you had left is instantly drained from you just because of a few words.

Your sentences get smashed together, tangled up like barbed wire and they only make you bleed when you try to pull them apart. All your nervous tics coming out to play despite your best efforts to keep them at bay. A frustrated hand running through your hair, gripping at the roots a little harshly. Your bottom lip pulled between your teeth and your eyes turning glassy for a split second before you blink the moisture away, because you can't let Minho see you like this. See you trying to keep your pathetic heart intact while he's none the wiser.

He's fine. And unlike you, he's going to be okay when this is over.

Unavoidable and inevitable, the end will come whether you like it or not. You're the only one who won't make it out unscathed, and it will only shatter you into more pieces the longer you drag this out.

Just rip the bandaid off. Salvage whatever you can. Stop digging the grave even deeper for yourself.

One second, then two, then three. You don't speak until you have enough faith that your voice is even enough to carry out a few sentences.

"Okay, uhm... I think I need some time for myself. We should..." But it isn't, and you crack halfway through. The sound is deafening to your own ears. "We should take a break. We should stop this."

Minho doesn't question if you mean the secret between the two of you, or your friendship entirely. Instead, he asks, "Why?"

"I told you." You clear your throat. "I need time for myself."

You can't tell what he's thinking, but the knife twists inside of you nonetheless.

He takes a step closer, you take a step back.

You watch as his face falls, and the same feeling mirrors itself within the confines of your ribcage. Your heart drops at the sight of his eyes, deep brown irises stained with a little confusion, then a little hurt though it lasts for only a few seconds. The slight slump of his shoulders, the absence of the familiar playfulness he always sports when he's with you.

He blinks.

"Time for yourself, or time away from me?"

You say nothing.

You don't address his question directly, and your reluctance to do so is a loud enough answer in and of itself. "Why does that matter? What's the difference?"

"It matters if I did something to upset you."

"You didn't."

"Okay. So?"

This is confusing, because he's not letting you rip the bandaid clean off and you don't know why. "Nothing's changed, right? If it didn't mean anything to you, why can't you just drop this?"

Minho is quiet for a beat. His eyes are searching again, but this time, you think he finds something.

Everything is still and you hate it - the silence of the streets, the scrutinizing orange glow of the streetlights as if they're watching the scene unfold, even the innocent cat that's sitting by itself on the balcony on one of the floors higher up. You hate all of it.

"I never said it didn't mean anything," he tells you.

It makes you a little angry for some reason, and there's enough red to cloud your vision because his words are contradicting and you're tired, you're so exhausted that you can't focus on what it is that he's really saying.

"So you lied to me?"

"I've never lied to you."

"I asked you before and you said nothing's changed. Now you're saying whatever this is didn't not mean anything. Make up your mind."

It gets redder when he keeps his eyes fixed on you, still so calm despite the frown that has returned to its place between his brows. Still so collected, while you're being pulled apart at the seams.

The ball doesn't drop the way you expect it to. It keeps falling so insufferably slowly, hanging over you like it's mocking you for being stupid, like it's milking every second of suspense to make you implode.

Until Minho speaks next and suddenly, it feels like the air has been sucked out of your lungs. His voice, still so soft and tender. His eyes, reading something in yours that you can't bear to admit out loud.

"You really don't see it, do you?"

all rights reserved © withleeknow. reposting, translating and/or modifying is not permitted by any means. [posted 24.06.2024]

[the-soliloquies-of-sadists]

#398

“Oh, stop fucking crying.  Nobody here gives a shit.  So you got beat up.  It was a fair fight, and you lost.  I haven’t seen a faggot lose a fist fight that bad in a long time.  That’s the second of two you lost.  You fucked up.  You are going to be sobbing when I want you to.  Now is not the time.  So stop that blubbering....

 “I don’t get you faggots.  You all answer and ad on one of those master/slave websites looking for fags willing to be gangbanged by a dozen or so sadistic redneck men like me.  The ad said you will be roughed up.  What did you expect?  You got roughed up.

“You thought that it was going to come from us.  Well, we ain’t done with you.  You are going to be the star tomorrow night.  Tonight is the plowing for the faggot who bested you in this last fight. 

“You are going to have a role in tonight’s festivities though.  I have to prepare you for it.  Come with me over here. 

“No. No. Stop your crying, you pussy.  I said come here.  If I would have known you were going to be a cry baby, I would have done this…

“…earlier.

“Well, a good ol’ fashioned punch to the gut took your breath away, didn’t it?  If you don’t want another, come with me into my shop. 

“…Being barefoot and naked back here can be dangerous.  So watch where you step.  Here, let’s go into my back room.  This is where I come when I want a private fuck.  I love fucking outdoors, and I love fucking in front of my buds, but sometimes I need to be here with all my toys.

“Yeah, I bet you have never seen so much equipment before.  A lot of it I made.  Some of my buds helped me out.  Don’t worry, we aren’t going to use everything.

“Hop up on this bench.  I know it’s narrow, but you are going to be secured on it.  Lean back and lift your legs up.  You’re not going to fall off; I got you.

“Here make yourself useful, put these wrist restraints on.  You need to be tied down when I fuck….

“These chains will keep your legs in position.  Yeah, it looks like a beast that they are attached to opposite walls….  Now for your arms….

“There, you are secure spread eagle.  Wiggle your arms and legs.  You can’t get out right?  Good.  Good.  You know what I love about this room and this contraption you are on is this.  This wall panel over here.  With a push of these two buttons, your arms are pulled back further above your head.  These buttons pull your legs wide, up and wide.  Tight hunh?...  There!  Any further and I would break you in two like a wishbone.  Try to move….  See!  You can’t move at all, not without dislocating something.

“Look at that!  Your cunt is out there for anyone to see.  The thing about that bench is that any fag I install on it, like I did you, has its cunt at my dick height.

“Oh yeah, I’m going to be fucking that cunt in a few minutes.  Although I would call it more like a rape.  Your tiny hard on might say you want it now, but you are going to have a different tune once I get started. 

“Here let me take my cock out and show you what I mean.  It’s not the longest dick that will be plowing your cunt this weekend, but it is one of the fattest.  Feel it’s weight on your cunt lips.  Heavy hunh?  Just think about how much you are going to be screaming out for hours as I pile drive into you without mercy.  It will make that fist fight you were in look like it was to good friends playing checkers.

“So let me tell you what’s happening and let’s see if I can kill your hard-on before I rape you. 

“You already know we like making faggots fight.  We like seeing how city fags like yourself deal with primal brutality.  The answer is not well.  You should see your black eye.  It’s gotten better since your first fight.  Don’t worry, there’s still time this weekend to get your other eye blacked out.

“Heh heh.  That got your dick to lose some of the hardon.  It also got me leaking.  Yeah, the guys like seeing all your bruises and cuts.  That’s why after I dump my load into your cunt, I will be removing all your hair.

“The depilatory cream I’ll put on your crotch area will burn like a motherfuck, so that’s why I’m fucking you now.  Yeah, all your hair, including your eyebrows will be gone by tonight’s festivities.

“You are going to be shown off to the guys tonight, right before we bang the fuck out of the fag that just beat the shit out of you this morning.  He really was motivated.  You didn’t even see that coming, did you?

“Me and Daryl wanted you to lose, so we told the other fag something about the remaining gang bangs.

“You look worried.  Fuck yeah. 

“As you probably figured out, we use a bracket system to pair you up.  The thing is that we don’t care who wins.  We are more interested in who is the ultimate loser.  The two winners from round one fought each other.  The winner got fucked by each of us.  He even got to cum at the end of the night.  He was dumped naked on the outskirts of Shreveport.  He’ll somehow figure out how to get back to Dallas.

“The runner up, got plowed by us, but we got to work him over as we fucked the hell out of him.  I even got my arm in his ass.  He was dumped naked in a nettle patch in the middle of woods outside of Knoxville.

“We design the weekend so that the guys can get more and more brutal on the fags as we work our way through the gang bangs.  We told that fag that beat you what the losing fag would have to endure, and he came out swinging.

“Was that fair to you?  We don’t care.  What he wasn’t told was what happens to the winner of you two.  Tonight, he’s going to be brought out to a wooden fuck bench.  He’ll only be secured to it with one thing, a nail through his cock head into the bench.  Most likely he will rip it out sometime tonight, but some fags we have done that to managed to keep their cocks intact.  We’ll see.

“He won’t be going back to Florida when he’s done, just like you aren’t ever returning to your life either.  Both of you have been sold.

“Ahh and here comes the tears.  You realized that you fucked up, didn’t you?  Hey you were begging us to abduct you and make you our sex slave.  You said you were a no limits slave.  Didn’t you?  What, you thought that meant something else?  Aww too bad for you.

“Your new owner saw all the correspondence, he’s seen your lack of fighting skills, and he’s ok with what we have in store for you. 

“Oh damn.  Your tears really have me leaking.  Here let me apply them to your cunt lips.  Normally, my leak is all the lube you will get.  But tears from fear adds saltiness. 

“Before we nail the other fag down, I’m going to bring you out to the other guys.  With your legs spread just like they are now, my bud David will come by and grab these balls.  He’s going to slice open your sack and relieve you of these useless things.  No more being a man for you.

“You new owner also wants us to sew up your foreskin, except for a tiny hole to piss out.

“There’s the full-out tears.  Fuck yeah….  “Right to the root it goes!  Barely dry fucks hurt, hunh?  You wanted to be roughed up and owned.  You got that.  Now enjoy the next few hours of fucking.  Or don’t.  I don’t care.”

[suguru-getos]

୨・┈﹕✦﹕ Kinktober Day 31﹕✦﹕┈・୧

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aizawa shouta x f!reader -> bdśm

a/n: happy buurfday 🙈🩶 erazerheaddo! i really don’t like him that much aka personally. but he’s fun to write nonetheless. <3 i hope ya’ll enjoy it & please heed the warnings mkay? have a lovely day & don’t forget to stay hydrated 😡

warnings: bd$m, dom!subDynamics, spanking(using a whip), buttplugVibrator, cl!t-spanking, edging, doggy!style, aftercare.

shouta has waited impatiently for you, ever since you had gone out with your friends. a sigh escaping his lips because somehow, it’s also his birthday. must you do this to him? its his special day, doesn’t feel as special anymore. why do you have to be so fucking busy on his special day — hey he’s all about tolerance and letting you do whatever you want, but this peeves him out a tad.

so when you ring the doorbell, he’s on the door within seconds. opening it for you and leaning back when you lean in to huggle him. “happy birthday, sho.” you coo, smiling softly but he raises a brow of annoyance. “thanks.” he scoffs, closing the door on your end and letting you come inside. the aura he has is enough to scream that he needs spoiling.

“what would you want as a birthday present?” you croon, watching his brow raise up at that prospect. maybe this would work just fine. shouta clears his throat, looming over you and bending over a little to whisper against the shell of your ear. “i want you to be my little slave tonight.” the way the warmth of his words say something so sinful has you cowering beneath him already. you gulp, contemplating — then again, it’s aizawa shouta. your husband, your confidante and your soulmate. he wouldn’t take things where you don’t like to. maybe this would also ease his mind from the looming loneliness you’ve subjected him to.

you nodded, biting back a smirk. “words, little one.” shouta daunts, tilting your chin up & forcing eye contact. “yes- yes sir.” you fumble a bit, it’s the scruffy voice he has that can get so authoritative which makes you feel small in the best of ways. and oh, shouta loves every bit of it.

“go upstairs to the bedroom, strip naked & kneel. wait for me patiently.” he commands, and you’re off immediately. when you’re taking off your clothes, anticipation bites your stomach. thinking about all the things he can do to you.

he comes in upstairs, shirtless with his scars and abs on display. a little smirk plastered on his face at seeing you knelt down so eagerly to please him. it’s written all over your face you wanna be good for him. “hmm, look up and say you want to submit to me. that you’re nothing but my property to use as i see fit.” shouta’s grim yet sinful reminder has you aching. you nodded, repeating the same words with flushed cheeks. “good girl.” he balms any anxieties that might’ve arisen.

“on the bed, ass up.” he hums, smirking with a little leather whip in his hand. it’s the kind of the pom-pom. lots of leather strips attached to the handle. shouta wouldn’t use a bull-whip on you just because of the impact might causing skin breakage. he is particularly against seeing blood. that makes him think it’s too far and shouldn’t be done. a personal preference.

the strands of the whip caress your naked skin, your spine, your neck, your inner thighs. he chuckles when he tries to shove the handle into your sopping wet cunt and watching you squeal. it was before you could expect, the whip cracked right on the curve of your ass. a scary intensity but still palpable, a shrill whine echoed through the walls of the bedroom, before another one came right at the same spot.

“who’s going to fucking count?” shouta scoffed, acting a little unhappy. “two- t’was two sir.” you whimpered, waiting for another one land right on the other ass cheek with an intensity which was higher than the first two.

“three!” you squealed out, and that makes shouta massage the spot just a little. “hmm, let’s make this a little more fun. yeah?” he thinks out aloud, “of course, fun for me. you’re just here to please me.” he reminds, walking away and bringing some items from the bedside drawer. you want to peek and see what it is, but you know you’d be punished for being too eager.

shouta walked in back to you, spreading your ass cheeks apart and squeezing some of the lube onto your rim, spreading it with his index finger and smirking at how your asshole puckers up for more. “nasty little thing.” he taunts, shoving a metallic butt plug vibrator inside you. the fullness has you gasping, along with the dull vibrations & the shape spreading your walls and contracting at the rim. it was uncomfortable, it was amazing, it was exhilarating.

shouta spanked your splayed out pussy, while you jerk forward in delight. “we begin again, from the beginning. don’t miss a single fucking count or we start again. you’ll get ten.” shouta tells you beforehand what to prepare for, so you know how much you’re truly in for.

the next three whips crack on your ass immediately, giving you little time to adjust especially how hard your ass is contracting. “agh- fuck, three! sir.” you manage to mewl out between gasps. part of you wants to break the counting, just to piss him off a little, the other part of you wanted to please him.

another one landed right on the middle of your ass, distracting you from your thoughts and making you scream out. “OUCH FOUR!” you cried out, “aww, maybe you’d have trouble sitting down tomorrow baby.” shouta cooed, while your vibrating ass was causing a problem. you felt so deliciously close to the edge without any stimulation on your clit.

“sir, don’t think can- handle this, gonna cum.” you remind him, not wanting to tip off the edge without his permission. “oh? is it?” shouta raised a brow, spanking your clit just once as you jumped your thighs together at the impact. “you can’t cum anywhere but my cock. hold it.” the words had so much bite & intensity you whimpered at the stance; just nodding along.

“words.” shouta spanked your ass again. “AGH- five, sir- yes.” you struggled, the pleasure overwhelming along with the pain on your rear. your skin was definitely bruised and a little swollen, but not too bad. shouta knew exactly what to give you to leave you dancing at the edge of pain and pleasure.

“six!” you cry out, tears brimming at the edge of your eyes at this hit, a weak sniffle escaping you. oh you were so bloody gone, shoved into subspace so wonderfully without feeling anything negative. “thank you, sir.” you hum, and shouta smirks. “aww, you’re turning more good? what’s that for? want me to stop spanking?” he chuckled, leaning in and kissing the spot where he’d just hit.

“SEVEN!” the next hit landed right where the previous one was. you screamed this time, wiggling your ass in air at the sting. “please please please sir, i’m so close.” you cry out.

shouta spanked your ass thrice, medium intensity but still firm, while you slumped forward, “t-ten.” by now you were sniffling in pure bliss. “cum.” shouta commanded, holding your waist and shoving it right at the leaky tip of his thick cock.

you screamed at the feeling, you felt so wonderfully stretched out. feeling shouta balls deep, along with the butt plug that stretched you out so good. immediately cumming pathetically on his cock & massaging his ridges and veins. “aw, good girl, good little girl. just like that.” shouta stayed still, letting you adjust to him & tip off the edge completely. you gushed all around him, panting heavily at the mess you’ve created.

he started thrusting into you, deep strokes without much break. the speed picking up to borderline rail you into the mattress. all you could manage was to break out broken whines and moans. it felt so good, it felt so good- so good. his balls slapping your clit, his cock kissing your cervix deliciously at every snap of his pelvis on your hips. the bruises of your sensitive ass toyed with every little thrust which felt like a spanking on it’s own.

“s-sir- so- close again.” you mewled out, while shouta’s thrusts also got sloppier, twitching inside you. “good, cum at the same time as me. let me fill you up.” he groans, “going to stuff you so full of my cum like my little cum jar you are. gonna give me babies, yeah baby? going to give me babies?” he almost crooned at the thought of it, slipping his seed inside you & painting your walls full of him while you spasmed around. brutalised orgasm ripping through your sanity as you opened your mouth in a silent scream. “shit- shit- shit.” you cried out, every single clamp of your pussy around his cock was borderline hurting.

“atta girl, good girl.” he smiled, pulling himself out and watching his cum gush out of you. the butt plug came out after, and your ass looked so cute a little puckered up. “so cute.” he hums, while you laid down shoved into little space/sub space for your dom. shuddering and spasming at the orgasm after effects. “oh little one your legs are shaking.” he smiles, noticing how your body vibrates in exhaustion.

“was that too rough?” he asks gently, kissing over your spine and turning you on your back.

you shake your head no, biting your lip. “next time add clamps too.”

shouta chuckled, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear with a nod. “of course kitten. you did so well for me though, took me like a little champ i’m so amazed by how strong you are. how wonderful you are.” he whispered soft nothings into the shell of your ear, rubbing your pelvis soothingly, rubbing your ass soothingly. “let me put some numbing cream onto that cute bottom.” he cooes, wiping your tears and kissing your forehead deeply. you were still sniffling and sobbing a bit. but that was to be expected — he’s wrecked your mind and body both to submission after all.

“i love you babygirl.” he cooed, kissing all over your tear-drenched face. “mm, i love you too, happy birthday sho.”

“thank you kitty.” he smiled tenderly.

[sserpente]

Blood on a Silver Platter

Synopsis: You are a human slave forced to serve your master the night he hosts a dinner party for some special guests. Only when you meet Astarion, you realise that the reason you were bought was not for your services... but for your blood.

A/N: Whoops. Oh dear, what is this sassy vampire doing on my blog? Seriously, I started playing Baldur's Gate 3 two nights ago but I've been obsessed with Astarion even before that. If you follow me on that fancy picture app, you'll know I've met Neil before and I can't emphasise enough how much of a sweetheart he is. He truly has a hand for these sassy characters, haha! Have fun reading!

Words: 1749 Warnings: blood, feeding, slave!Reader

Astrid didn’t like new girls. They were shy, terrified, angry, and stubborn and they knew nothing about how this place was run, where the dishes, the cutlery, and the crystal wine glasses were. But how would you? You had a right to be terrified. You had a right to be angry. How else would you feel, sold and enslaved like cattle or a piece of furniture?

Ezekiel, your new master, had made it very clear to you from the very beginning that you were easily replaceable if you did not obey. Human slaves did not sell for much in these parts, for they lacked strength, agility… and longevity compared to other species. You could not argue with that—and that made you even more furious.

He was hosting a dinner party tonight, a group of travellers if you’d heard correctly. Of course, none of you were supposed to ask questions. You were merely there to serve and make them comfortable. You sighed. You had been on your feet all day, preparing the feast and preparing the table.

By the time Ezekiel received his guests, Astrid was screaming the place down in the kitchens. She was not a slave—your master paid for her services and left her in charge of the girls he bought to do the dirty work for them. You hated them both.

Right after the main course was served and the guests began to eat, Astrid handed you a jug of red elven wine. Her ice-cold eyes bore into yours. “Ezekiel asked for you specifically to serve the wine before the main course. Do not speak unless you’re spoken to. Refill the wine, keep your head down, and leave, is that understood?”

“Yes.” You gnashed your teeth, biting back a snarky remark when she pushed you through the doorway and you almost spilled the expensive alcohol on the stone tiles to your feet.

It was the first time you got to lay your eyes on Ezekiel’s mysterious guests. None of them were human, not at first glance.

There was one with green skin, another with red skin and horns protruding from their forehead… a tiefling… one of them, however, stood out to you the most; he was sitting at the head of the table. His short blonde hair was wild, complimenting those sharp ears, the pale skin, and his eyes… red pupils.

You quickly looked down when you realised your master noticed your rude staring, refilling their wine glasses as instructed by Astrid. The blonde man’s gaze bore into you the closer you got to him, intrigue apparent on his face.

“Well then, my honoured guests. Dinner is served. Enjoy your meal. That goes for you too, Astarion. I hope she is to your satisfaction. I got her from the slave market only three days ago.” Ezekiel leaned over to another slave girl. “Take that jug from her.”

Astarion. You did not fail to notice that his plate was the only one that was still empty. But you realised a moment too late what exactly your master’s words entailed. The slave girl you handed the jug to was only slightly older than you but you didn’t even know her name. All you knew was that the both of you dreaded what Ezekiel had in store for you, for as soon as your hands were empty, Astarion grabbed your wrist and pulled you toward him.

“Why, hello, darling.”

Losing your balance, you stumbled, landing on his lap. He was quick to snake his arm around your waist to keep you from escaping. He buried his free hand in your hair and tugged on it hard enough to force you to reveal your neck to him.

Your eyes widened when you caught a glimpse of his fangs right before he sank them deep into your throat, breaking the skin. You flinched, the burning sensation quickly turning into a pulling pain that had you shaking on his lap, and then… the panic kicked in and dug its claws deep into your guts.

Pushing your palms flat against his chest, you attempted to push yourself off of him, your survival instinct getting the better of you. You winced when the pain intensified and Astarion pressed you even closer against him as he drank from you. His lips on your neck sent shivers down your spine and the more you fought, the more he seemed to be enjoying himself.

It felt like an eternity and as your body grew weaker, your determination to drive a stake through his heart grew with each passing second.

Finally, Astarion released you. He licked his lips, red with your blood, an almost lascivious noise escaping him. When he let go, you slid off of him with the last of your remaining strength, almost toppling to the floor in the process.

“Hmm… thank you, darling,” you heard him say. “You taste absolutely delightful.”

You did not turn around to see the smug expression that would match his tone on his face. Instead, you hurried back to the kitchens with trembling limbs, processing what had just happened. Your mind was near empty. As if along with your blood, he’d sucked every other thought from you as well. You swallowed thickly.

He bit you. He drank your blood. He almost killed you. He used you like a living blood bag. Was this why Ezekiel had bought you?

“Where is the new girl? I asked her to do one simple job, for the love of the gods!”

“Astrid, I’m not sure she…” It was the girl who had taken the wine jug from you who spoke up. She knew that something bad would happen, she must have. You had seen it in her eyes when your gazes had crossed.

“I’m here now,” you croaked out. Your throat was dry. You didn’t want to go back out there. Didn’t want to help serve dessert, didn’t want to face him again after what he’d just done to you with everyone watching as if it didn’t concern them, eating their fucking stag steak for dinner.

“A-Astrid… would… w-would you mind s-serving dessert, p-please?” you chirped.

“And what do you dream of at night?” She came barging in from the pantry, arms akimbo and practically fuming. You swallowed thickly, clenching your fists in a weak attempt to control your shaking. It was with great satisfaction that you noticed her face fall when you turned around, revealing the small trickles of blood running down the fresh bite mark on your neck.

Her eyes widened. You were quite certain you had never seen her stutter before.

“Go… you can… g-go wash up. I’ll take care of the desserts.”

“Thank you.” You nodded, rushing past the other slave girls, all of them staring at you with widened eyes, and barged into the small washing room adjacent to the kitchens. A dirty kitchen towel would have to do to wash the blood off of you.

With trembling fingers, you rubbed at your sensitive skin until almost all evidence of his assault was gone before leaning over to wash your face. You used the cleanest-looking part of the kitchen towel to pat yourself dry before you took a deep breath and opened your eyes again—facing Astarion in the mirror right behind you. The gasp that escaped your lips echoed through the almost empty room. Instinctively, you stepped back, only to realise a fraction of a second too late that you would bump straight into his chest.

The vampire grabbed your arms and flipped you around fast so you’d face him, a smirk playing on his lips.

“Hello there,” he purred. “No need to be so frightened, dear.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. It was the amusement in his voice that had you seethe, anger pushing your fear out of the way for just a moment. “Of course not. Why would I be? You only just bit me and drank my blood like I’m some sort of snack.”

“Oh but are a snack,” he retorted, chuckling. “And you were quite a delicious one too.”

You stared at him. “What do you want?”

“I want you to come see me tonight.”

Frowning, you processed his words. He couldn’t possibly mean…

Astarion laughed. “You are looking so frightened again. I promise I will make it worth your while.”

“And if I don’t want to?” you whispered. You were a slave—your question was entirely redundant. It wasn’t like you had a choice. Ezekiel had practically delivered you to Astarion on a silver platter.

“Well, Ezekiel expects me to kill you tonight.”

You felt your heart plummet.

“I understand it he only bought a human slave for the occasion. To satiate my hunger and for my… entertainment tonight. Surely, he is aware how feeble mortal lives are, it is almost a waste to invest in human slaves.” You gnashed your teeth. “But there is an alternative,” he continued.

“What alternative?” you snapped.

“I could use a travelling companion. A… loyal blood slave, so to speak, and I must say I did not expect human blood to taste so delightful.”

Your frown deepened. A blood slave… to a vampire, following him like an obedient and lost puppy… you would rather die than give up your body like that. But was it truly worse than serving your current master knowing he had killed former slaves for dropping plates before? Knowing that the sole reason he had purchased you was to please one of his guests?

One thing was certain—you did not want to die and at least… he was quite handsome, was he not?

“What do you say, dearest?” Astarion’s brushed his knuckles against your cheek. He took a step forward, pressing you against the doorframe and trapping you between the solid wood and his strong body.

You sucked in a deep breath when he bent your head to the side, revealing the bite mark he had left on you. You prepared for another rush of sharp pain tearing through your neck, squeezing your eyes shut in response.

Instead, you felt his tongue dart out to taste you with a start, licking over the wound.

“There… all healed. For now,” he added with a sly smirk. You frowned, your hand flying up to feel your neck. He was right. The two little holes where his fangs had punctuated your skin were gone. And yet… his sly smirk was a silent promise that this was only the beginning of your time together.

A/N: Check out my blog for more Imagines and my original novel(s)! ♥

[dark-frosted-heart]

Choose Your True Love - Azel Radwan (part 1/4)

This is the from the 4th anniversary event

As usual, can’t guarantee 100% accuracy on this. 

I somehow wound up becoming Tanzanite’s God’s slave. Today, I made my way to the desert, full of energy.

I’ve recently grown used to God’s harsh way of  treating people that worked for him— 

Azel: You’re late.

Emma: ?!

The moment I returned, Prince Azel, who had been waiting for me, hugged me with an arm.

Making me drop my package.

Emma: Wha…what do you think you’re doing?!

Azel: Huh?

Emma: Don’t “huh?” me! Let go!

(He never usually does something like this, and he’s not one to wait for me!)

Although he’s a living god, he has the appearance of an adult male.

I could feel his surprisingly toned body through his clothes and quickly pushed him away.

Emma: Is this some new form of harassment?!

Azel: What’re you talking about? You harass me like this every day, so I thought I’d get back at you.

Emma: I don’t ever recall harassing you.

Azel: A lack of self-awareness isn’t a good look.

Emma: You’re the bad one here, Prince Azel. Anyway, please don’t hug me out of the blue!

(Something feels off)

(It’s like he’s the usual Azel, but not)

Emma: More importantly, I have the thing you wanted me to get.

I went to pick up the package I dropped to hide my agitation, but before I could, Prince Azel had picked it up.

Azel: Thanks. Wait, when did I ask for something this heavy?

Emma: Huh? But I bought exactly what you wrote down, didn’t I? I even double-checked to make sure because I’d have to run to the city and back if I got it wrong.

When handed the paper to a puzzled Prince Azel, what followed was a loud silence.

Azel: Curious.

Emma: What is it?

Azel: This and that. By the way, aren’t you forgetting to say you love something or someone today? …Not that I'm expecting you to or anything.

Emma: Love? What do you mean?

Azel: …I see now. This is a dream. Just a dream.

Emma: Dream?

Azel: This conversation.

(That’s a pretty scary face he’s making…)

Emma: I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I should get back to the city. It’s getting dark and I’m scared of making my way through the desert by myself at night.

Azel: Stay here for the night.

Emma: …

Azel: Why do you look so surprised?

Emma: By any chance, are you feeling unwell?

(Only some of the rooms in the temple have been restored, and there’s no guest rooms)

(I’ve heard that if you wanted to stay overnight, then your only choice was to use Prince Azel’s room…)

Even if that wasn’t the case, Prince Azel preferred being alone.

He was the sort of malicious god that would kick you out the moment you were finished with your business, regardless of the weather.

I had a feeling that something was off, but perhaps this situation’s much more serious that I expected.

Emma: Should I call a doctor?

Azel: Don’t look at me like that, I’m fine.

Emma: Then that really was some new form of harassment—

Azel: Right, the new form of harassment.

(He’s doubling down!)

Azel: Are you serious? Your head’s as empty as ever.

Emma: I’m sorry. I’m glad you’re back to your usual self, Prince Azel.

(I never thought there’d be a day where I’d find comfort in that coldness)

Emma: I’m heading back then. Good night, Prince Azel.

Azel: …

Prince Azel had a sour look, but said nothing.

Something still didn’t sit right with me, but I paid it no mind and left the temple.

--

Tonight, the moon was so beautiful that I just wanted to stop and look up at the sky.

Ruffian: Miss, it’s dangerous walking alone in the desert at night. We’ll escort you back to the city. Come.

(When I stopped…)

The moonlight shined on what looked like a caravan.

At first, he looked like any ordinary merchant, but—

~~ Flashback ~~

Azel (polite): Should a caravan approach you in the middle of the night, it would be best to ignore them. Those men are bandits who prey on tourists by pretending to be friendly. You look like an easy target, so do be mindful about giving your money to anyone but me.

~~ End flashback ~~

(If what Prince Azel said was true, then this is bad)

I felt my heart shrink as I found myself surrounded by multiple men.

Emma: Thank you for your concern. However, I’m used to taking this path. Now if you’ll excuse me.

I wanted to run, but my paths were blocked.

Ruffian: No need to be so on guard, miss. Don’t you know there’s bandits around these parts? Look, see that figure over there? They got their eye on you.

(They’re probably with these guys)

(They lie about me being targeted by bandits, and as soon as they escort me back to the city, they’ll demand money—)

(Just the thought of it makes me shudder. I should probably head back to the temple for now)

(But they’d catch me immediately if they chased me)

(Ugh…please save me, God)

I sent out an honest prayer and started backing away from the men.

Luckily, they didn’t try to go after me.

Their previous bravado faded and their eyes were so wide, it looked as if they might pop out of their heads.

(Is there something wrong?)

I noticed the moment my back hit something.

Azel (polite): We have 1, 2…3, 4 fearless men here…Tonight will be a fun night, won’t it?

[c0mbatchameleon]

hi anna my love would you mind telling us what the possession au is about 🥺🤲🏼💗

LUNEEE ABSOLUTELY ABSOFRUITLY I CAN.

Ok so the tldr here is James is a demon that possesses reg. This all came from a drunk 3am note in my phone about the “intimacy of literally inhabiting the same body, to become a singular noun; my thoughts are yours now, you don’t even know where you end and I begin, your soul would feel so empty without me here to fill in all the gaps” etc etc. Right ok. Long ramblings below, be warned.

So picture regulus, our resident high-strung control freak who has lived as a puppet on a string at the whims of his family ever since he was a teenager and they began staging him to join / eventually take over their major capitalist conglomerate empire or whatever. Iffy on the details still but there’s a lot of politics involved. Think like the richest of the rich in the world and they want to keep their family on the top—regulus is their vessel to do so.

And the thing is, he goes above and beyond. He gave up on trying to escape the life he’s been (to him) imprisoned in a long time ago, and his (perceived) lack of control and agency has only driven him to climb higher, hungry for even more disgusting amounts of wealth and power, fuck everyone else, he wants to be at the fucking top, and maybe then he’ll be free. He’s terrible and he’s miserable and he’s everything they wanted him to be, he feels like a slave to time and to the life that was carved out for him, and it manifests in him exerting extreme amounts of control over the one thing he can have some semblance of control over, which is his own body.

(slight tw for disordered / obsessive eating / body habits?)

Picture him scheduling his days down to the minute. He wakes up at 5:30am everyday after getting the exact amount of sleep to complete five rem cycles, he has a strict workout regimen every day perfectly planned out for the week, meals all the same mapped out down to the calorie. You’d think he’s in the army. His skincare routine puts patrick bateman to shame. He jerks off once a week cuz he thinks it has health benefits or keeps him sharp or something (if you’ve watched The End of the Fucking World I’m pretty sure this is where my brain subconsciously picked this from) and it’s mechanical and he’s dead in the eyes and he knows it will take him exactly 5 minutes and 8 seconds to come.

And then. Suddenly. He’s having weird dreams about some man he doesn’t know and they’re making him feel things when he has specifically trained his body to NOT feel things and what’s happening to him? And then dreams become daydreams. And then he’s losing time. HES LOSING TIME. Which is literally his worst nightmare. It’s making him fuckinf spiral, his routines are being thrown off, the small semblance of control is slipping, so he’s already at his wits fucking end when a goddamn voice in his head starts talking to him. Like that’ll do it.

But then the voice, the man, the figure from his dreams, James, is telling him to relax. Telling him you’re so wound up. I can feel it, you know? How tired you are. It’s okay baby, let me take the reins for the day. You just have to sit back up in that head of yours—of ours—and let it all turn to static for a bit. Don’t worry. I’ll give you your body back tonight. Don’t you trust me? Wouldn’t it feel good to just.. let go for a bit?

And eventually regulus discovers that it DOES feel good. He fucking loves it. He gives up control willingly for the first time, he lets James do it all for him, to move him around like a puppet in the most literal sense but it’s different from his family, from everyone else. It’s freeing.

and it’s like this weird corruption-anticorruption thing because yes james is influencing him and planting thoughts in his head and literally taking over his body at points but it’s all to make him do…kinda good things? “Fuck the company, don’t show up today, let’s go to the coast like you used to as a kid,” “don’t pick up the phone, I know you’ve never declined your mother’s call before, but just try. Don’t you feel powerful?” Until eventually reg is sabotaging the company, his family, he’s basically suicide-bombing the stock market, he’s giving all his money away, etc etc. he’s more free than he’s ever felt in his life and to the outside world he looks absolutely insane and, shit, maybe he is, but it feels fucking amazing.

I just love the thought of James’ more mundane influence on him too. He’s craving hot Cheetos for the first time in his life and absolutely appalled and confused and James is like “shit my bad I was thinking abt them.” James has him smoke weed for the first time (the scene I have planned for this……) and he has to take over to roll the joint for him. Why the fuck is reg enjoying abba music? But also—why the fuck is a demon enjoying abba music?

I’ve rambled way too much so I’ll reign it in there. Lots of details subject to change, but this is basically all I’m thinking abt these days.

[hiddenfemme]

HONEY

Pairing: King Steve Harrington x Female Reader (no use of y/n)

NSFW 18+: language, oral, fingering

A/N: I was planning on making this a short series, so depending on interest, this may turn into more. This is the first fic I’ve ever posted so I wanted to keep it short and sweet. This is not proof read, sorry if there are any mistakes :)

You never meant for any of it happen. Well, definitely not the first time, or the second or maybe even the fifth time. But at some point you suppose you stopped caring about being a good friend because you’d be the worst if it meant Steve “The King” Harrington kept working your clit the way he was doing now.

“Steve m’gunna cum soon.”

“Yeah? You gonna let me taste it honey?” Steve lets out a groan, lapping at your folds like he has all the time in the world. “Shit, I love this filthy little pussy.”

“Stevie.”

“Everyone thinks you’re so innocent honey. But you’ve got your best friends boyfriends tongue in your cunt everyday. What would they think if they found out you’re just a giant slut for me.”

Fuck. Fuck.

You wanted everyone to know how you spent your free period. And your weekends and sometimes your Thursday mornings if Nancy had tutoring lessons before school. You wanted them all to realize that even when Steve had his big hands wrapped around Nancys waist, his face close to hers, saying those pretty words that make her blush pink, he was really just a slave to you.

On his knees daily, begging to worship you, pleading to taste you, crying while he stuffs you full with his cum.

Steve Harrington was yours. Nancy Wheeler could go to hell.

You could barley get your words out. Stomach bound tight and ready to explode.

“What was that honey? You know I hate it when you don’t speak up.” He looks up at you, bottom half of his face glistening with your slick, fingers prodding your aching hole.

“I want them to see.” You lean your head back against the tile of the locker room wall.

“See what?” He has two thick fingers stretching you out, hitting that sweet spongy spot over and over.

“Want them to see you fuck me out. Please Stevie, want them…” You mewl in between pumps. “to know I’m yours.”

“Shit.” His fingers move faster while he stands up to meet his face with yours. You can smell yourself on him and you love it. Oh my god you love it. Yours ears burn hot and your legs start to shake.

He kisses along your jaw, grabbing your throat tight with his free hand, moaning your name so pretty as you palm him over his pants. “No one can know it’s me filling this pussy. You’re not a good girl, you’re not like Nancy.”

His words tear your chest in two but they’re coated in sugar and you’re about to cum.

“But you’re still mine, right honey?”

But you’re still mine.

Still mine.

Right honey?

You’re completely and utterly gone. Seeing white while coming undone. Losing your balance and being held up by Steve’s body, mouth clamped shut by his palm. The noises being muffled nothing short of pathetic but you don’t care. You can’t care, not while he’s praising you and telling you just how sweet you’ve been for him the last 10 minutes.

You’re practically in tears, chest heaving and cunt still dripping when he straightens you out.

“I’ll see you after school yeah? Nancy said you’re going back to hers and asked if you could catch a ride. Don’t be late, you know she hates waiting.” He pulls your skirt back down your hips and squeezes your ass.

“Said you’ll be gone before dinner though. You’re coming to mine when you leave, yeah?” He’s got your chin between his fingers. Head dipped low to look you in your eyes.

You’re dumb. So dumb, so horny and so stupid for Steve Harrington.

You nod. “Yes.”

He didn’t have time to give you his cock this morning but tonight he would and when he was balls deep in you he never remembered her name and he always asked you to stay.

“I’ll pick you up 3 blocks from her place. Clean yourself up. You let me make such a mess of you honey.”

[octuscle]

Business trip (Day three)

It was a night of wild dreams. Liam fucked me harder than I'd ever been fucked before. At least when I was sober. I still don't know what happened the day before yesterday on Tuesday night or Wednesday morning. Liam got up at 05:00 and drove to the wholesale market. Apparently he had planned for me to spend the night at his place. My suit from the day before hung neatly in his room. Next to it was my laptop bag. Was all this shit with the kitchen slave and submissive boot servant a crazy dream? It didn't matter at all. I have a whole lost day at the office to make up for. I shower, get ready and head to the client. The door is locked. My phone rings. It's Liam. "Good morning, Mack! Did you sleep well?" I ask, what the fuck, I have to get to work. "But not like this, Mack. There's a long hair clipper in the bathroom. And a wet razor. The door won't unlock until you're shiny bald." I want to protest for a second. I think about calling the police. But I reply, "Sure thing, boss!" And go into the bathroom. Half an hour later, I look at myself in the mirror. Everything as usual, right down to my eyebrows. I run my hand over my head, which is as smooth as a baby's bottom. Shit, I've soaked my underpants with precum again. I get a message from Liam. "Good boi!" And the door lock buzzes open.

When I set up my laptop at the customer's, I find a packet of tobacco, cigarette filters and cigarette paper in my laptop bag. And a Zippo. I am a professional. I don't get distracted when I'm working. I love my job. But I can't wait for my lunch break. Normally I would have sat down in a café somewhere and had lunch. Now I grab a sandwich from the supermarket and sit on a park bench. And practise rolling cigarettes. I watch tutorials on YouTube. The first results are pathetic. But the fifth cigarette I roll and smoke before I get back to my desk is already quite respectable. I take two more cigarette breaks in the afternoon. Shit, why didn't I start smoking earlier?

When I arrive at the hotel in the evening, my room card no longer works. Damn, of course, I actually wanted to leave on Thursday. I go down to reception. The lady is very friendly, but explains that housekeeping had to pack up my things this morning because the room was occupied again. Unfortunately, I couldn't be reached on my cell phone. I ask her to call me again. She says it goes straight to voicemail. I look at my cell phone in amazement. Liam sends a message. "I've forgotten. You have a new number. I have your old SIM card." Shit, this has gone too far!

I ask the lady at reception if she has another room. She is sorry. There's a fair in town at the weekend. They are already overbooked and have a waiting list. Message from Liam: "Sorry, mate! I have a visitor today. But you can sleep in the back room of the snack bar tonight." I ask if I can pack my suitcase somewhere quiet and make a few phone calls. The lady says that one of the small meeting rooms is free. She even helps me with my suitcase, the two plastic bags and my laptop bag. I sit down at the meeting table and start by emptying my suitcase and plastic bag. My things are all there. And I'm used to packing my suitcase. Everything is neatly stowed away after a few minutes. But there were still a few things in the plastic bags that I hadn't noticed yesterday morning. Two monstrous dildos. Three jockstraps that were no longer fresh. A fat silver chain. And a hip bag. In addition to condoms, it also contained poppers, tobacco, cigarette paper and small plastic bags with dried flowers…. I put the chain on. It feels cool and chavvy. I check my mailbox remotely. Fortunately, hardly any calls, nothing important, most of them sent me an e-mail afterwards anyway. I change the voicemail text to say that I can't be reached by phone at the moment for technical reasons and to ask for an e-mail. Okay, whatever Liam is up to, at least he can't do me any more harm. And now maybe I should take him up on his kind offer of the back room. But first I really need a fag. I'm standing outside the hotel with my belongings, rolling a cigarette pretty routinely, when the next message from Liam arrives. "Mack, the place is full. Your shift starts in an hour."

The room behind the snack bar is a bit of a hole. But I have a locker where I can hang my stuff. There's a cot that's even already made up. And my things are on it. White jeans, white fine-rib undershirt, jockstrap, long soccer socks. All old and worn. But clean. Plus high rubber boots and yesterday's heavy rubber apron. The long rubber gloves. No hairnet. You look in the mirror and rub your bald head, which is no longer quite so smooth. Hehehe, you really don't need a hairnet anymore. You really look like a chav with that chain. The jockstrap absorbs the first drop of precum. It'll have more to swallow in the course of the evening.

The snack bar is indeed packed. Many guests are hooting and clapping when I come into the dining room at around 8:30 pm to clear the dirty dishes. More than one person slaps my ass or grabs my crotch under my apron. An astonishing number of the guests are wearing leather jeans. Most are wearing T-shirts or tank tops, some are bare-chested. No wonder, it's warm outside and hot in here. I quickly work up a sweat. I have to take off my undershirt and necklace, I just get too warm. But at least I'm getting on well with the dishwasher now and I've got the scullery pretty well under control.

"Hey Mack," I hear Liam yell. "The toilet's blocked. Clean it up!" Damn, dishwasher was already an imposition. But toilet cleaner is a step up. The toilet is a disaster. The floor is a puddle of piss and the urinal is completely filthy. But the toilet bowl takes the cake. Hey, where can you shit all over it? It stinks like hell. But somehow… It turns you on. You know where the bucket and cleaning cloth are by now. I start by mopping the floor so I can kneel down to clean the toilet. And then i stick my arm deep into the toilet to clear the blockage. I'm covered in shit. Without thinking, I wipe the sweat from my forehead with my forearm. Behind me, there is howling. Four or five guys are standing in the doorway wanking. I don't want to wipe that shit away too. So I let them cum in my open face. More and more guys join them. I kneel in a growing mess. Full of cum. Pissed all over. Smeared with shit. Meanwhile, dirty dishes are piling up again in the dining room. Liam shouts at me that I'm not employed as a urinal but as a dishwasher and toilet cleaner. Little by little, the dining room empties. Around 11:30 pm, the last guest has left. With Liam in his arms. It takes me until 02:00 a.m. to get everything cleaned up and me, too, to be clean.

I roll my first cigarette in hours. I stand outside the snack bar. And wank at the thought of the hot evening.

[lucky-clover-gazette]

prince's gambit highlights & annotations

chapter 21 & final notes

warning: VERY LONG

indented text is from the book. some quotes have commentary, some do not. some comments are serious, and some are definitely not. most of them will only make sense to people who have read the series. and, like, there are spoilers. so please read the books first if you're interested!

also: part of the reason i'm doing such a close reading is to study cs pacat's style, especially in terms of how she does romance and erotica. there are "craft notes" that might seem weird, like i'm being redundant or restating something rather than analyzing, but those are more things that i want to remember/take away from the writing!

i'm going to tag these longer posts with "sam reads capri" in case anyone wants to read them all at once.

this is a google doc i wrote with overall content warnings for the captive prince series. it's not perfect, but i do think it's important to include.

He had been taken from his suite to a smaller cell and laid out on stone, his body covered by fine linen. Nineteen, thought Damen, and quiet.

the ‘and quiet’ is especially heartbreaking

When a servant had made to enter, Damen had bodily stopped him. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No one goes in.’ He had put a two-man guard on the door with those same orders, and cleared out the section—as he had done once before, at the tower. When he had been certain that Laurent had sufficient privacy, he had left to learn all he could about Charcy.

lamen hr complaint #3: preventing other people (servants) from doing their jobs.

also, i like how this again builds on what we’ve seen in previous chapters. damen knows laurent needs time alone to process and think, and he fights to give him that. and then he tries to do some helpful thinking of his own.

‘I’m not Aimeric.’

you tell him damen

‘You ever wonder what it would feel like to find out you’d spread for your brother’s killer?’ Jord looked around the small room. He looked at the place where Aimeric lay. ‘I think it would feel like this.’ Unbidden, remembered words rose up inside him. I don’t care. You’re still my slave tonight. Damen pressed his eyes closed. ‘I wasn’t Damianos last night. I was just—’

it’s all coming together!! all the things i’ve been analyzing!!

also jord seriously laurent is doing this emotional damage to himself, damen’s just along for the ride

‘Just a man?’ said Jord. ‘You think Aimeric thought that? That there were two of him? Because there weren’t. There was only ever one, and look what happened to him.’

but… i think he was conflicted, and felt split. hence the “i’m sorry jord” and killing himself. and “what happened to him” implies a passivity that is patently false. aimeric was more like damen and laurent, psychologically, than jord. who is—sorry jord—honestly just too simple to be dealing with these ridiculous people

He had put those soldiers on the door to bar the way to those men seeking Laurent out for some trivial matter, or for any matter, because when Laurent wanted to be alone, no one should suffer the consequences of interrupting him. The taller soldier addressed him. ‘Commander, no one has entered in your absence.’ Damen’s eyes passed over the doors again. ‘Good,’ he said. And he pushed the doors open.

i LOVE this moment. the subtle humor of it—“when he wants to be alone, nobody should suffer his wrath” to “i’m going in,” because damen knows he can handle laurent’s bitching and that he shouldn’t be alone for too long

...even the table was replenished, with platters of fruit and pitchers of water and of wine...

guy whose job it is to communicate with the fort’s kitchen: yeah uh, can i get a ‘sorry you were disowned, usurped, gifted a severed human head, and then like five minutes later you discovered a suicide’ fruit basket for the prince

‘Come to say goodbye?’ said Laurent.

no you fucking idiot. let yourself be loved.

‘I’m sorry. I know what Nicaise meant to you.’ ‘He was my uncle’s whore,’ said Laurent. ‘He was more than that. You thought of him as—’ ‘A brother?’ said Laurent. ‘But I do not have terribly good luck with those. I hope you are not here for a mawkish display of sentiment. I will throw you out.’

laurent is trying so hard to take back control from this person who so recently saw him in such an intimate context. refusing to believe that he could continue to show damen vulnerability, and it would make him stronger

‘Then you’ll kill them like you killed Nicaise,’ said Damen. ‘By dragging them into this endless, childish bid of yours for your uncle’s attention that you call a fight.’ ‘Get out,’ said Laurent. He had gone white. ‘Is the truth hard to hear?’ ‘I said get out.’ ‘Or do you claim you’re marching to Charcy for some other reason?’

damen calling him on his bullshit! yes!! i love the tenderness between them here, in the pain and the compassion. tenderness is both. they can’t love each other without hurting each other (because lies), they can’t hurt each other without loving each other. there is some twisted romance in understanding someone and being understood so thoroughly that you have the keys to loving and hurting each other in ways no one else can. it’s a very compelling and intimate dynamic, although i am glad that they eventually figure out how to love each other without causing each other pain.

‘You need to beat him at his own game? You want him to see you do it? At the expense of your position and the lives of your men? Are you that desperate for his attention?’ He let his eyes rake up and down Laurent’s form. ‘Well, you have it. Congratulations. You must have loved it that he was obsessed enough with you that he killed his own boy to get at you. You win.’ Laurent took a step back, an almost-swaying motion of a man in the grip of nausea. He stared at Damen, his face hollowed. ‘You don’t know anything,’ Laurent said then, in a cold, terrible voice. ‘You don’t know anything about me. Or my uncle. You’re so blind. You can’t see what’s—right in front of you.’

okay damen you’re completely off-base with that one, but at least your worst-case selection on the dialogue tree has shocked laurent into being more angry at you than at the regent. which, if that was the point… well-played, but also Watch Out

Laurent’s sudden laugh was low and mocking. ‘You want me? You’re my slave?’ He felt himself flush. ‘That’s not going to work.’

and just as expected (?) laurent turns his wrath on a new target. performing cruelty, like he always does when he’s been justifiably called out

‘You want to hear the truth about my uncle? I’ll tell you,’ said Laurent, a new light in his eyes. ‘I’ll tell you what you couldn’t stop. What you were too blind to see. You were in chains while Kastor was cutting down your royal family. Kastor and my uncle.’ He heard it, and he knew not to engage. He knew, and a part of him was aching at what Laurent was doing, even as he heard himself say, ‘What does your uncle have to do with—’

so damen is subjecting himself to this on purpose. they are so messy. but it’s going to work

‘You didn’t guess it was Kastor? You poor dumb brute. Kastor killed the King, then took the city with my uncle’s troops. And all my uncle had to do was to sit back and watch it happen.’ He thought of his father, in a sick bed ringed with physicians, his eyes and cheeks hollowed out, and the room thick with the smell of tallow and of death. He remembered his sense of powerlessness, watching his father slip away, and Kastor, so solicitous, kneeling by his father’s side. ‘Did you know about this?’ ‘Know?’ said Laurent. ‘Everyone knows. I was glad. I just wish I could have seen it happen. I wish I could have seen Damianos when Kastor’s hire-swords came for him. I would have laughed in his face. His father got exactly what he deserved, to die like the animal he was, and there was nothing any of them could do to stop it happening. Then again,’ said Laurent, ‘maybe if Theomedes had kept his cock in his wife instead of sticking it in his mistress—’ That was the last thing he said, because Damen hit him. He drove his fist into Laurent’s jaw with all the force of his weight behind it. Knuckles impacted on flesh and bone and Laurent’s head snapped sideways even as he hit the table behind him hard, sending its contents scattering. Metallic platters crashed against tile, a mess of spilt wine and strewn food. Laurent clutched the table with the arm that he’d flung out instinctively to stop his fall.

a couple things to note here:

goddamn laurent. dude.

but at least he remembered to keep up the lie in his uncontrolled spite-filled monologue

veretian heterophobia/anti-bastardry on full display

not the fruit plate…

my ex wife still misses me, but her aim is getting better

Damen was breathing hard, his hands clenched into fists. How dare you talk that way about my father. The words were on his lips. His mind pulsed and throbbed.

hey damen, remember a few chapters ago when you were thinking about how you didn’t want to be like your father? not that kind of king? interesting

Laurent pushed himself up and gave Damen a look glittering with triumph, even as he dragged the back of his right hand across his mouth, where his lips were smeared with blood.

he’s insane. amazing character. 10/10

The doors behind him opened, and Damen knew without turning around that the sound had summoned the soldiers into the room. He didn’t take his eyes off Laurent. ‘Arrest me,’ said Damen. ‘I have raised hands to the Prince.’ The soldiers hesitated. It was the just response to his actions but he was—or had been—their Captain. He had to say again, ‘Do it.’ The darker-haired soldier stepped forward and Damen felt the grip take him. Laurent set his jaw. ‘No,’ said Laurent. And then, ‘It was provoked.’ Another hesitation. It was clear that the two soldiers did not know what to make of what they had walked into. The air of violence was heavy in the room, where their Prince stood in front of a ruined table, with blood welling from his lip. ‘I said let him go.’ It was a direct order from their Prince, and this time it was obeyed.

LAMEN HR COMPLAINT #4. UNNAMED SOLDIERS. i don’t even know how to label this one. but it definitely justifies a complaint. one of my favorite lamen hr complaints in the entire series

‘No,’ he said. ‘You can’t go to Charcy. I need to convince you of that.’ Laurent’s laugh was a strange, breathless sound. ‘Didn’t you hear anything that I just said to you?’ ‘Yes,’ said Damen. ‘You tried to hurt me, and you have. I wish you would see that what you have just done to me is what your uncle is doing to you.’ He saw Laurent receive that like a man at the very ends of his endurance being given another hit. ‘Why,’ said Laurent, ‘do you—do you always—’ He stopped himself. The rise and fall of his chest was shallow.

laurent at his weakest and most vulnerable makes my heart ACHE

‘I can’t.’ It was a raw admission. ‘I can’t think.’ The words were torn out of him. Wide-eyed in the silence, Laurent said them again in a different voice, his blue eyes dark with the exposure of the truth. ‘I can’t think.’ ‘I know,’ said Damen. He said it softly. There was more than one admission in Laurent’s words. He knew that too.

this made me tear up the first time i read it. laurent’s reaction here comes scarily close to some personal stuff for me, except i didn’t have anyone to say “i know” and comfort me. i’m glad laurent isn’t alone. it’s a little self-indulgent to imagine that someone could be loved like this in real life, but at least it happens on the page. and it took a real person to write it happening on the page—it didn’t just show up there on its own. that matters, and it’s part of why i find gratification in engaging intellectually and emotionally with fiction.

‘Don’t go,’ said Laurent, quietly. ‘I’m just clearing my head. I already told my escort I wouldn’t need them until morning,’ said Damen. And there was another awful silence, as Damen realised what Laurent was asking him. ‘No. I don’t mean—forever—just—’ Laurent broke off. ‘Three days.’ Laurent said it as though producing from the depths the answer to a painstakingly weighed question. ‘I can do this alone. I know I can. It’s only that right now I can’t seem to . . . think, and I can’t . . . trust anyone else to stand up to me when I’m . . . like this. If you could give me three days, I—’ He forcibly cut himself off. ‘I’ll stay,’ said Damen. ‘You know I’ll stay for as long as you—’ ‘Don’t,’ said Laurent. ‘Don’t lie to me. Not you.’ ‘I’ll stay,’ said Damen. ‘Three days. After that, I ride south.’

laurent not wanting damen to promise anything more than three days is so painful to read, but it also rings true. laurent knows he couldn’t stand to see that promise broken (“not you”), and he also knows that he can’t keep his lie from damen forever. laurent probably even thinks, despite everything between them, that damen might not even want him after he figures it out. but he needs him here now, in order to survive this and clear his head. so three more days.

damen agreeing to ride south in three days is a mercy, and i think also probably a lie. but he knows it’s what laurent wants and needs to hear, and that laurent is incredibly vulnerable at the moment. damen gives him what he (laurent) thinks he needs (damen leaving), while also giving him what he actually needs (damen staying), for three days at least.

Laurent nodded. After a moment, Damen came back to rest against the table beside Laurent. He watched Laurent find his way back to himself. Eventually, Laurent began to talk, the words precise and quite steady. ‘You’re right. I killed Nicaise when I left it half done. I should have either stayed away from him, or broken his faith in my uncle. I didn’t plan it out, I left it to chance. I wasn’t thinking. I wasn’t thinking about him like that. I just . . . I just liked him.’ Underneath the cold, analytical words, there was also something bewildered.

really good depiction of someone coming back from a panic attack/breakdown. again, it hits. the “coming back to himself,” the way he slides back into steady precise assessment of the situation… yeah

It was awful. ‘I should never have—said that. Nicaise made a choice. He spoke up for you because you were his friend, and that is not something you should regret.’

oh this whole thing kind of foreshadows how laurent sacrifices himself for damen in book 3, huh? he does the exact opposite of what damen is telling him here, except instead of nicaise making a choice it's damen. damen makes the choice to care about laurent, over and over again, and laurent can’t regret that FOR him. laurent shouldn’t feel like he needs to free damen of his burden of caring, or protect damen from the consequences of his own attachment. but laurent is going to try to do exactly that, in book 3, especially with his “failure” of nicaise in mind. and he’s kind of doing it now, too, by insisting that damen can’t stay with him after charcy.

laurent shows love by caring for others in the ways he knows how to care for himself. it’s a silly parallel to make, but it’s like how he brought damen a towel after the sex scene, even though damen didn’t have the urge to be clean that laurent so pressingly experienced. laurent knows how to suffer alone and how to strategically use his abilities to survive. he channels this experience to serve the people and causes he loves, even if the gesture is misunderstood or it's done at his own expense.

back to book 3: damen attacks the regent in laurent's honor. laurent submits himself to the regent's retaliation in his place. not only because he loves damen and wants to protect him, but also because he blames himself for getting damen into the situation at all. because he allowed himself to be loved by damen, damen was in danger. laurent regrets that on damen's behalf and tries to suffer the consequences instead. something he hadn't thought to do, or been able to do, for nicaise.

laurent does have a bleeding heart—so much so, that he can’t possibly wear it on his sleeve. he believes that he can't help anyone, can't maintain precious stability, if he has made himself vulnerable to love and harm alike. what he does best is survive, use others, and allow himself to be used. his hypervigilance ensures that this is all under his own careful control, even when it appears otherwise. because when laurent loses control, he gets hurt and hurts others. see the regent taking advantage of him after auguste's death for an example of the former, and aimeric's suicide for an example of the latter.

laurent has a private and complicated code of ethics and honor, based on compassion for the disempowered and a thirst for justice. his apparent ruthless pragmatism is part performance, part necessary adaptation, and part realistic means of reaching those idealistic ends. as a disempowered victim of repeated injustices, he is sensitive in a way a person with different experiences might not be. sometimes that means he lashes out, like with aimeric. but in his best moments, it means that he fights and cares with unmatched fierceness. and with someone like damen at his side, and an eventual peaceful life in which he can reflect, laurent can grow to harness that passion without hurting others or himself in the process.

(my note-taking drifted away from text analysis here, and turned into a more personal meditation on real life and fiction. honestly i'd recommend revisiting the original quote to remember what the hell i'm even talking about. please skip to the next quote if you're not interested.)

i don't know if people like damen really exist, or if people like damen even should exist. after all, he puts up with a lot, way more than would be considered healthy or safe by modern standards or even canon standards. maybe damen's existence as a character is purely wish fulfillment for people who relate to laurent. it's probably unreasonable to expect to be loved by someone so patient and devoted. the reality is, while the kernels of what make this ship resonant and desirable may be found in a real relationship, no real relationship will be quite as resonant or desirable as an intentionally-written work of fiction.

the following sentiment is the most personal i intend to get in these notes. it's not super related to the book and it isn't necessarily relevant to anyone but me. but it does create a smoother transition to the next paragraph, so i'll keep it in.

i haven’t had the privilege of experiencing romantic love that hasn’t hurt. and while love and hurt come hand-in-hand, i have historically been offered very little comfort or consideration by people i have trusted with the most vulnerable parts of myself. which means that i am very well-practiced in caring for myself, alone.

i don't know if damens are real, and i don't want to count on it. i'll care for me instead, because i believe that i'm worth caring for.

i think that firm belief, that i am worth caring for, has a lot to do with the way i interact with stories. that's the reason why i find analyzing resonant fiction like capri so personally gratifying. even though the characters aren't real, the fact that their stories have been told at all makes me feel less alone. because someone had to care enough about it, about them, to bother to write it all down. real stories have this effect too, if resonant—history or poetry or memoir, the same principle still applies.

through analyzing the stories that i care so deeply about, i am tricked into believing that i owe myself the same compassion and consideration that i show the people within them. because if i relate to a character, and i want them to be happy and loved, then that must mean that i want me to be happy and loved too. and beyond projection, i get to learn things about people who aren't like me at all, and countless worlds outside my own. in that respect, thinking about stories helps me strengthen my own moral code and widen my perspective. and honestly, more than anything else, it just feels good to do something with it all.

... which is why i am doing this, for free, for hours, for fun.

‘He spoke up for me because he didn’t think my uncle would hurt him. None of them do. They think he loves them. It has the outward semblance of love. At first. But it isn’t love. It’s . . . fetish. It doesn’t outlast adolescence. The boys themselves are disposable.’

something something, akielion slavery. keeping people in a permanent state of arrested development, stripping them of their ability to advocate for themselves like adults, making them into interchangeable objects who unconditionally love their position and trust their masters. but it isn’t love, nor is it fetish—it’s grooming, and it's evil. just like the regent, with every single one of his victims.

laurent knows damn well that it's far worse than just fetish. he knows it for the slaves and for the regent's young victims. but he can't verbalize it here, because that would mean admitting (privately, implied) that evil has been done to himself as well.

i don’t think laurent views himself as innocent in the same way he viewed nicaise, or the other victims, or the akielion slaves. his desire for justice is not on his own behalf, and it never really has been. in various instances, it’s been about justice for auguste, damen, jord, and nicaise… but never for laurent himself. to laurent, it’s evil when the regent hurts all of the other boys—but when it was him, it was only fetish. and laurent understands that to the regent, with any of his victims, it is only fetish. not love or evil. even though the regent's boys believe it's love, even though laurent can rationally recognize that it's evil, it doesn't matter when the regent is still in power. and on a personal level, regarding his own experiences with his uncle, some part of laurent is still groomed into thinking he specifically deserves abuse.

Damen knew better than to reach out, or to try to touch him.

i love seeing moments like these. comfort isn't one-size-fits-all.

He watched Laurent’s face, the flickering of some internal truth behind the careful lack of all expression. ‘He was on my side,’ said Laurent. ‘But in the end, the only person on his side was him.’

don’t make the same mistake, laurent, assuming that damen isn’t on your side. oh fuck he can’t hear me.

‘You liked him.’ ‘My uncle cultivated the worst in him. He still had good instincts sometimes. When children are moulded that young, it takes time to undo. I thought . . .’ Softly, ‘You thought you could help him.’

see previous analysis re: laurent, grooming, regent, etc.

It was with a shock that he felt the touch of Laurent’s fingers against the back of his wrist. He thought it a gesture of comfort, a caress, and then he realised that Laurent was shifting the fabric of his sleeve, sliding it back slightly to reveal the gold underneath, until the wrist-cuff he had asked the blacksmith to leave on was exposed between them. ‘Sentiment?’ said Laurent. ‘Something like that.’ Their eyes met and he could feel each beat of his heart. A few seconds of silence, a space that lengthened, until Laurent spoke. ‘You should give me the other.’ Damen flushed slowly, heat spreading from his chest over his skin, his heartbeats intrusive. He tried to answer in a normal voice. ‘I can’t imagine you’d wear it.’ ‘To keep. I wouldn’t wear it,’ said Laurent, ‘though I don’t believe your imagination is having any difficulty with the idea.’

foreshadowing this in book 3, except it happens in the most petty insane way possible

Damen let out a soft, unsteady breath of laughter, because he was right. For a while they sat together in comfortable silence. Laurent had mostly returned to himself, his posture more casual, his weight leaned back on his arms, watching Damen as he sometimes did. But he was a new version of himself, stripped back, youthful, a little quieter, and Damen realised he was seeing Laurent with his defences lowered—one or two of them, anyway. There was an untried, fragile feeling to the experience.

<3

‘I should not have told you in the manner I did about Kastor.’ The words were quiet. Red wine was seeping into the tiles of the floor. He heard himself ask it. ‘Did you mean what you said? That you were glad.’ ‘Yes,’ said Laurent. ‘They killed my family.’

i love that he doesn’t lie here. because yeah.

The truth was so close in this room that it seemed for a moment that he would say it, say his own name to Laurent, and the closeness of it seemed to press down on him, because they had both lost family.

honestly cannot tell if it would have made things better or worse for him to tell the truth now. guess we'll never know

Because throw Laurent together with Damianos, and either one would kill the other, or, if Damen kept his identity concealed and they somehow managed to form an alliance . . . if he helped Laurent instead of hurting him, and Laurent, out of the deep-buried sense of fairness that existed within him, helped him in turn . . . if the foundation of trust was built between them so that they might become friends, or more than friends . . . if Laurent ever decided to make use of his bed slave . . . He thought about the Regent’s suggestions to him, sly, subtle. Laurent could benefit from a steadying influence, someone close to him with his best interests at heart. A man with sound judgement, who could help guide him without being swayed. And the constant, pervasive insinuation: Have you taken my nephew? My uncle knows that when I lose control, I make mistakes. It would have given him a perverse kind of pleasure to send Aimeric to work against me, Laurent had said. How much greater the twisted pleasure to be gleaned from this?

regent thought he was being clever but he actually just preordered his own defeat

‘I’ve listened to everything that you said to me,’ Laurent was saying. ‘I’m not going to rush off to Charcy with an army. But I still want to fight. Not because my uncle threw down a challenge, but on my own terms, because this is my country. I know that together we can find a way to use Charcy to my advantage. Together we can do what we cannot do apart.’

“together we can do what we can’t do apart” THAT’S WHAT I’VE BEEN SAYING

also warning, i forget the details of laurent’s whole charcy plan. so there’s probably context where i’m missing it. but i’m still looking out for double meanings etc

(note from post-reading sam: yeah you're about to see me realizing and processing things in real time, just hang in there i figure it out eventually)

‘My uncle plans everything,’ said Laurent, as though reading Damen’s thoughts. ‘He plans for victory and he plans for defeat. It was you who never quite fit . . . You’ve always been outside of his schemes. For everything that my uncle and Kastor planned,’ said Laurent, as Damen felt himself grow cold, ‘they had no idea what they did when they gifted me with you.’

i love that he says this, knowing who damen is. it just makes me happy. i think laurent is already Scheming at this point, and probably weighing the ways he can blindside damen or screw him over. “together we can do things…” doesn’t necessarily mean that they can make it happen as a team. damen is a useful piece to play strategically, though, and that way of regarding him means laurent conveniently doesn’t have to think about the intimate night they just shared or the two people who just died tragically who both parallel his own experiences

In a fort full of activity, he knew himself a game piece, and was only beginning to be able to glimpse the scope of the board.

truer than you think. although UGH i wish i could remember the exact sequence, i’m not sure if laurent is scheming to screw him over yet. i kinda forget how we arrive at “hello lover” because laurent knows damen is who he is, but i don’t think he’s being dishonest with his feelings. maybe it’s just that, once the reality is undeniable, laurent feels regret and shame about loving his brother’s killer, and massively course-corrects in the opposite direction by being cruel. maybe he doesn’t want to appear weak or compromised for having engaged with the akielion prince in the way he did, so he has to pretend that it wasn’t real. also he gets tortured, which probably doesn’t help. and the plot has to keep plotting and the conflict has to keep conflicting.

did laurent see charcy coming prior to nicaise? again, i forget. but i’m keeping an eye out for it now. i think his plans are all being made last-second, but i could be wrong.

(post-reading sam again: i was wrong.)

Jord was right. He had owed Laurent the truth, and he hadn’t given it to him. And now he knew what the consequences of that choice might be. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to regret what they had done: last night had been bright in a way that resisted tarnishing. It had been right. His heart beat with the feeling that the other truth must somehow change to make it right, and he knew that it wouldn’t.

yeah ngl damen i get why you didn’t say it but if i was laurent i’d be pissed. like i wonder if laurent was waiting the whole time for damen to just Say It, and the fact that he didn’t made damen lose the moral arbitration he didn’t even know he was subject to. THAT would explain laurent’s attitude at charcy. this was a test and damen failed. and while they both should just fucking talk to each other and laurent is insane for keeping this bit going for so long, i do understand why he’d feel disappointed and betrayed by damen’s lack of honesty, especially given the other ways damen has proven himself loyal and true. so it’s easier for laurent to use him and screw him over, in a way, because he can tell himself that damen’s just been using and screwing him too.

He imagined himself nineteen again, knowing then what he knew now, and he wondered if he would have let that long-ago battle fall to the Veretians—let Auguste live. If he would have ignored his father’s call to arms altogether, and instead found his way to the Veretian tents and sought out Auguste to find some common ground. Laurent would have been thirteen but in Damen’s mind’s eye he would have found him a little older, sixteen or seventeen, old enough that Damen’s nineteen-year-old self could have begun, with all the exuberance of youth, to court him.

damen: i think i’ve changed enough as a person that if i went back in time, i’d make a different ethical choice about the life or death of another person. and that’s cool and all, but ALSO i’d get to court laurent !!!!! :D

And if he couldn’t give Laurent the truth, he could use everything else he had to give Laurent a definitive victory in the south.

i mean you still could. you very much still could. you can have a kingdom AND this, you just have to communicate with laurent. but go and do the other thing i guess.

to be fair, damen doesn’t know that laurent knows. i’m being too harsh. if laurent truly didn’t know, this would make a lot more sense. the truth would make him far too upset to fight with a clear mind, and damen understands that laurent is more likely to screw up when he loses his mind. damen wants laurent to be safe and to win, so he withholds the truth that could destroy him. to a first-time reader, it makes total sense, and it keeps the tension going. i think that’s partially why i didn’t anticipate the twist—so much of the tension hinges on something being true (laurent doesn’t know), so it made the most sense to me that something with this much attention placed on it MUST be true. but it’s perhaps even more interesting and compelling to know on a re-read that it’s not true, that laurent does know, because it gives me a lot of things to re-contextualize.

the only downside is that it’s also just incredibly frustrating, now that i’m not on board emotionally with damen and the lie that creates the tension here. that doesn’t mean the writing is bad, but the feeling i get reading it is VERY different from how i felt the first time around. oh my god is that how laurent has felt this whole time. like he’s taking part in his own love story but he can’t fully actively buy into it or participate, because he knows something that jeopardizes the love story so dramatically that he can’t call it a love story at all. oh my god.

like, damen is in a romance story. there are politics and drama and adventure, but that is main genre of his narrative. he always tends to focus on romantic aspects of a situation. and the first time we read the series, we only perceive their love story from damen’s pov. we can’t even begin to guess what’s going on with laurent, because we think he’s clueless about this big lie, and so we kind of just make do with his dialogue and damen’s observations.

but laurent isn’t just the love interest in damen’s narrative. in laurent's narrative, he is the main character of a fucking psychological thriller, and has been this whole time. king’s rising is where damen (and the reader) finally get a sense of the genre/reality laurent has been living in thus far, because the truth comes out and laurent can now make it damen’s problem. but it's always been happening, in laurent's head.

There had been a silence, until Laurent had said, ‘You were right. I haven’t been thinking about it like this.’ ‘Like what?’ said Damen. ‘Like war,’ said Laurent.

it's the game he likes. not war

Now they faced one another on the dais and words rose to Damen’s lips, personal words. But what he said was, ‘Are you sure you want to leave your enemy in charge of your fort?’

do they ever say “i love you” on the page? i seem to recall an absence of that—which i don’t exactly mind in their case, because it’s pretty obvious they love each other by the end, and so much is left between the lines with them anyway. but i do wonder if damen had the urge to say some variation of the sentiment here, before chickening out and going for a snarky comment instead

They gazed at one another. It was a public goodbye, in full view of the men. Laurent extended his hand. He did it not, as a prince might, for Damen to kneel and kiss, but as a friend. There was acknowledgement in the gesture, and as Damen took his hand, in front of the men, Laurent held his gaze. Laurent said, ‘Take care of my fort, Commander.’ In public, there was nothing he could say. He felt his grip tighten slightly. He thought of stepping forward, of taking Laurent’s head in his hands. And then he thought of what he was, and all he now knew. And he forced himself to release his grip.

foreshadowing book 3. they can’t interact with each other with the same ease, intimacy, and privacy that they had as “master” and “slave” when they’re both recognized as capable leaders in the public eye.

(they fail miserably at this, though, especially in early-to-mid book 3 after the reveal. like they really just put themselves in a lose-lose situation: they “can’t” be in love or trust each other, but they are also so obsessed with each other that what they end up doing in the public eye is ten times weirder and less convenient for everyone else than if they just made up and were in love as well as commanding an army.)

Laurent was nodding to his attendant, mounting his horse. Damen said, ‘A lot depends on timing. We have a rendezvous in two days. I—Don’t be late.’ ‘Trust me,’ said Laurent with a single bright glance, straightening his horse out with the tug of a rein in the moment before the order was called, and he and his men moved out.

okay, so here’s what’s actually going on with the war shit, because i’m determined to keep track of it this time instead of just focusing on the emotions.

laurent is riding out to fortaine, which is the fort that guion runs, and the likely source of the regent’s promised troops at nearby charcy. this is a good plan because laurent taking fortaine fucks up the regent’s plan AND it gives laurent access to the resources necessary to continue fighting.

damen, meanwhile, will literally hold down the fort here in ravenel. laurent trusts him to do this. laurent has taken most of the soldiers, leaving damen with not many men if there was to be a surprise attack here.

they have an important rendezvous set in two days’ time, although i’m unsure where exactly they’ve agreed to meet. i’m going to assume fortaine or charcy, not back here in ravenel. i think since damen says “don’t be late,” the intention is for them both to show up at charcy with their men—for damen to leave ravenel in 1.5 days after preparing the fighters as best as he can—and fight the regent’s forces with their combined army. so it makes sense that damen would say "don't be late," because if he showed up alone with his men, they'd probably get slaughtered.

SO. this is what i remember actually happening:

laurent does not, in fact, show up for the rendezvous in two days, leaving damen to handle charcy alone

instead, laurent takes fortaine and just kind of chills there. damen eventually shows up after winning charcy, leading to the "hello lover" scene

laurent explains the situation to damen as if he (laurent) intentionally stood him up, as retribution for the truth damen has been keeping from him this whole time

BUT laurent is leaving out that he ended up being kidnapped and tortured by guion before killing a man with a chair and just barely managing to take the fort. or something. and govart is there too.

so my question is, does laurent at this exact moment already mean to stand damen up? or is the "hello lover" thing a way for him to cover up the fact that he got captured and tortured and almost lost everything? both things are probably true, which would kind of prove damen's point from the end of this book: laurent makes riskier choices without his input, and there are certain risks laurent shouldn't take because his life and safety matter. but mr "probably" laurent doesn't value his own life and safety very much, especially not if there's a possibility of winning the game. if laurent doesn't allow damen to look out for him, laurent is going to endanger himself.

my guess is that it's both: laurent fully intends to stand damen up at this point, but doesn't anticipate the consequence of his own manipulative bullshit. blindsiding damen will result in laurent's torture, capture, and near-death. despite technically winning the insane mind game against the damianos in his head, laurent will still need to save face with the damen in his tent. because he knows damen was right, and he hates it.

definitely revisiting this note when i read the "hello, lover" scene to see how i did ;)

addition to the note from sam reading two pages ahead: at some point laurent has also gotten akielions involved because he knows their presence will force damen to out himself as damianos. like he’s showing his hand in a way that screws damen over but also doesn’t necessarily get him killed, and most absurdly, STILL KEEPS THE LIE THAT LAURENT DOESN’T KNOW HE’S DAMIANOS GOING, making damen even more guilty and paranoid, and a first-time reader even more compelled by the tension. it happens as the cliffhanger for this book and before charcy, so the events at charcy stay open-ended to a first-time reader.

i hope we find out eventually if laurent planned all of this after they fucked, or if it had already been set in motion before and he just committed to the bit he’d already started. would the fucking have made a difference? probably not. laurent and damen are a cat and a mouse, but laurent thinks they’re a figurative cat and mouse in a psychological thriller who intentionally torment each other, and damen thinks they’re a cat and mouse in a disney movie who fall in love despite their differences. the rare moments where they step into each other’s genres are so rewarding and impactful because they’re so rare. if it happened more often, and during every pivotal moment like this one, it wouldn’t be nearly as powerful when they finally figure out their shit. “a kingdom or this” is an interesting tagline because of the “or.” if it was “and” from the beginning of the story, there wouldn’t be a story to tell. certainly not one as well-written and unique as this. pacat really is a master of writerly restraint, and i could learn a lot from her approach to story construction.

Because it was not possible, no matter what was said, to completely trust Laurent, the morning was a thin skein of tension, drawn tight.

lmao

‘Akielons are marching on us,’ he expected the runner to say, and he did, but then he said, ‘I’m to give this to the fort Commander,’ and he was urgently pressing something into Damen’s hand. Damen stared at it. Behind him, the Akielon army was approaching. In his hand was a hard loop of metal set with a carved gemstone, the etching a starburst. He was looking at Laurent’s signet ring.

oh my god he’s such a BITCH. this has been in motion since the start, and he hasn’t stopped it even though they fell in love. laurent i’m obsessed with your mind. get help.

He remembered the night Laurent had addressed him in Akielon for the first time, remembered long nights speaking in Akielon, Laurent shoring up his vocabulary, improving his fluency, and his choice of subject matter—border geography, treaties, troop movements. He said it as it opened up inside him, ‘They are our reinforcements.’

right logical path, technically right conclusion, but you are missing the additional reveal here so bad 😭 it’s okay buddy i missed it too the first time 😭

The truth was marching towards him.

LMAOOOOOOOOOOO great line. great line for people who Get It and people who don’t. the truth = damianos, yeah, but also the truth = laurent knew. but damen only means the first truth, and the cliffhanger works so well because the reader might not know the second truth either. which i think is the ideal initial experience!

The Regent had been right, people were saying: Laurent had been in league with Akielos all along. It was a strange kind of madness to realise that this, in fact, was true.

context: the regent and laurent were both in league with akielos, just different pieces of it. regent teamed up with kastor, and laurent made contact with nikandros. it makes sense, since delpha is so close to acquitart/vere (i don’t know if i spelled that right) and they share relations with vaskians

this does make nikandros' burning hatred of laurent in book 3 like exponentially funnier though

He could feel the tension of the Akielon forces too, knew they were expecting treachery. The first sword drawn, the first arrow loosed, would unleash a killing force.

so what exactly did laurent say to convince them to come? i get that he meant for them to get here and be jumpscared by their dead prince, but what was the fake reason? just like a vague call for help/solidarity? do the akielons think it’s a trap, or did they come here to attack? it must be the first thing, if the signet is being presented. god this makes my head hurt but i am determined to explore every little nook and cranny of laurent’s insane political rube goldberg machine it’s like enrichment to me

also, holy fucking shit. if laurent always knew this was going to happen, because he set it into motion a while ago, then his comments about having one more night with damen hit so much harder. not only did he know he was going to lose damen, but he also knew that he had arranged things so that damen wouldn’t even have a choice in staying. he was always going to be exposed as a prince, and returned to his former station, and separated from laurent, no matter what. laurent had initially assumed, for good reason, that damen wouldn’t ever want to stay. but throughout this book that assumption has been challenged, over and over again. but laurent couldn’t just take back the messenger by the time they were getting really close. laurent failsafed this shit from the start, so that even if he started to spiral into cognitive dissonance, reality would inevitably arrive to snap him out of it.

laurent has put himself in a hell of his own design, and unlike previous laurent purgatories, this one wasn't on purpose. the intention had been to free himself of his brother’s killer, who his uncle placed in his life as a means of tormenting him. but instead, laurent’s gambit ends up ensuring that the only living person who truly loves him has no choice but to leave.

truly putting the “L” in laurent.

final notes

damen likes blondes mentions: 6 -> 8

laurent leans: 9 -> 11

lamen hr complaints: 4

(i started an ointment joke tally in like chapter one but it never came up again so it doesn't count)

character elements to watch out for (from book 1):

laurent perspective context (knowing what i know, what sense can i make?)

laurent & nicaise

laurent coping mechanisms (pretending, delusion)

damen coping mechanisms (avoidance, distraction)

damen reconsidering the ethics of akielos

mutual moral arbitration

new for book 2:

laurent intimacy depiction

damen's relationship with his father's legacy

damen comparing his current self to himself before vere

laurent and damen are living in two entirely different genres

series themes (from book 1): 

niceness vs. goodness

submission vs. respect - “there is no honour in obedience”

suffering alone vs. fighting together

pain and humor

honor and integrity

sex, power, innocence, violence

trauma, desire, consent

new for book 2:

a kingdom or this

multifaceted tenderness

[wannaeatramyeon]

Gun Park x Reader: this is our place (we make the rules)

Chapter 6 - Probably should read ch1 first

Gun has a new neighbour. Index: Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Epilogue

Gun likes spicy food, as long as the heat isn’t overpowering.

Also hates cilantro. Detests it, loathes it. Which he told you to your face after you forgot about his first note and he handed the container back, food untouched.

Enjoys in particular any stews you prepare. Also thinks your tteokbokki is just right after adjusting the garlic.

All, apart from the cilantro incident, you have learnt from the tone of his little notes. 

If notes could even have a tone.

.

.

Gun is not surprised you read his messages.

He is, however, surprised that you take his comments on board. He knows what he is good at and is under no illusion that he has a perfect palate. Far from it.

Nevertheless, you adjust dishes to his taste until most of the meals and food there is little he can feedback.

This gesture he finds oddly touching.

.

.

He greets you with less reluctance. Exchanges more words.

When the doorbell chimes unexpectedly, Gun no longer fumes at having his time interrupted.

In his doorway, you with your container in hand, you both linger a little longer.

.

.

In the convenience store at the top of your street, while you’re on a snack run one night, you bump into your neighbour.

Gun cuts an imposing figure, tall and polished, in a tailored coat and with impeccable hair as he inspects the drinks in the fridge. He gives you a glance as you slink up next to him and point out a can.

“That one has just come out. It’s pretty good.”

“Hmm.” He’s not sure about it but grabs it anyway on your recommendation.

“Have a nice night, Gun!” you give him a wave, taking your bag of treats.

“You too.” 

And he’s surprised to find he actually means it.

.

.

You, a slave to your cravings, bump into him a few more times.

Sometimes just purchasing his cigarettes. Most of the time considering what to buy.

"I like this one," you tell him.

"This is my favourite."

"I never buy this one, I always finish the whole bag."

Gun takes your recommendation each time.

He is never disappointed.

.

.

Today you and Gun walk side by side and approach the building together.

You recognised him when you were both a street away and shouted his name; Gun stopping then patiently waiting for you.

Falling into step together, anecdotes from your day spills out. A way to decompress and vent before you settle in for the night. Gun half-listens, giving brief nods now and then when you pause for a beat too long or a little hum of agreement as you look for a reaction.

“I was thinking fried chicken tonight?” you shake your grocery bag at him as you unlock your front door.

“Fried chicken?” Gun mirrors your action in front of his own.

“Yeah. For us.” You give him a frown as if he’s being purposefully obtuse. “Give me an hour or two!” you call out, leaving Gun standing there alone.

Us? Gun has never had an ‘us’. Not in this sense.

“This one,” you nod at the plate in your left hand, “is just dry herb seasoning. You know, the one I mixed with the rice the other week that you liked. And this,” nodding at your right, “is spicy garlic.” 

You pause, squinting at him, “Before you say anything, it’s balanced. I tasted it so it’s how you should like it.”

Gun takes the plates without a word as you wipe your hands on your apron.

“I haven’t had any yet, I wanted to give it to you fresh,” You brush your fringe back, happy to get out the kitchen, and tuck your hair behind your ears, “ My containers would make it soggy-”

Gun watches your hand movement but some errant strands still hang loose around your face. He wants to correct it for you.

“Fried chicken is best with beer,” he comments, silencing his buzzing brain and brushing aside that thought, “We can share.”

There’s no meaning to this, Gun thinks to himself as you scamper home to grab your own portion before joining him.

It’s just two neighbours sharing chicken and beer. Something that normal people do, sharing a meal.

But when has Gun even cared about being normal.

.

.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Gun places the plates on the table and notices you hovering and hunched in a corner.

“Can I have this?” In your outstretched hands, gripped with gentle fingers is the dying plant, the joke of a gift from Goo.

“Go ahead.”

“I can nurse it back to health and return it!”

“I don’t care. You can let it die.”

“Gun!”

.

.

As he watches you eat that evening with poor etiquette and shocking table manners, now and then giving affectionate glances to the plant by your side; laughing loudly and matching him drink for drink- 

Gun is more curious about you than ever. He finds you captivating.

.

.

“It’s an impressive feat how you manage to make so much noise,” comes Gun’s drawl.

He watches you move what must be a very heavy package with the worst form he has ever seen. Lifting with your back, spine curved, staggering a few paces forward until you stop, take a break, then repeat it all over again.

You’re cluttering up the shared communal hallway, and frankly spoiling his peaceful afternoon with all your banging out here.

The walls are supposed to be soundproof. But even the meticulous engineers of Gangnam’s most expensive apartment block didn’t account for a menace such as you.  

“Furniture arrived,” wiping the sheen from your brow and catching your breath. “Flatpack… courier only delivered to here.”

“It’s been months.”

“I would have done it sooner if I haven’t been busy cooking and feeding someone,” you snap. Then completely changing tact, face saccharine and sweet, batting your eyelashes, “Please help?”

This absolutely does not work on Gun.

He helps you anyway.

Well. 

That extends to moving your boxes into the spot you desire, lifting them as if they weighed nothing and then laying them down wherever your finger points to.

He does very little else to help, instead watching you struggle with the instructions, his toolbox sat next to you, and choosing to survey your home.

It’s surprisingly empty. 

Not in the way that his own is purposefully that way. More like someone not yet making a space their own, not really sure if they’re here to stay.

The only cluttered area is the kitchen. Well-used with utensils and spices and ingredients arranged for function rather than style. Where you prepare your meals for him.

Something catches Gun’s attention and he moves closer.

The plant. 

Not in the best sunspot, but instead somewhere a little more shaded.

Already livelier. A little less droopy. 

His fingers run along a long thin leaf.

No longer frail and fragile. He can feel the strength returning.

“Gun junior is getting better!”

Human Gun turns and catches your bright grin. Not smug, just genuinely happy with your green thumb.

He gets the strange urge to tuck your hair behind your ears again.

[sapphic-woes]

When You Met Her pt. 2

A/N: Thank you guys sm for the encouragement, I was real nervous posting the first chapter so I'm so happy it was well received! Every tag was dear to my heart <3 Anyways, onto Sevika's pov. MINORS DNI

Word Count: 1k. AO3 Link

___________

Sevika doesn't know what to do with you.

The–her omega is sound asleep. You look almost peaceful. No fear contorting your face. No horrible shaking. Viktor cleaned you up and treated what he could, but even he was shocked by your condition.

Seven years.

Sevika wants to gag. Most omegas trapped as illegal sex slaves lasted a year. Two if they were lucky. The x-rays done on you make her see red, broken bones and fractures all poorly healed. Bruises cover your body from head to toe. Even asleep, the bitter smell of fear clings to your body as if it were permanent, and Sevika can feel her blood boil. 

She wants to rip every alpha who ever touched you to shreds. You were her mate, her fated person, and yet you were tortured for so long, and only now was Sevika able to save you.

Is it too late? Viktor said they'd gotten you high on shimmer. From the marks, they'd drugged you with the heat inducer countless times. It was no wonder you didn't smell sweet to Sevika despite being on the drug, probably used to its effects by now. Luckily shimmer wasn't addictive, but it fucked with an omega's heat cycle badly. The longer the use, the harder it was to get back to a natural pattern.

However, what had really affected Sevika was when Viktor said you were her bond. 

Mates were made through either bonds or claims. Claims were more common, and could happen between any of the designations. However, bonds were extremely rare, and only occurred through alphas and omegas. They were intense and primal, driven by instinct more than anything. Sevika had only met one bonded couple in her life, and that was Caitlyn's parents.

"Damn. You stink." Vi's mocking tone has Sevika rolling her eyes. Her right hand soldier saunters into the room, hair wet after scrubbing all the scents of the brothel off her body. Sevika knew exactly why Vi was so quick to shower–Caitlyn was the type to get possessive when the smell of another alpha was on Vi–whether it was from an operation or not. 

Too many times Vi went home soaked in pheromones only to call in "sick" the next day. Now, Sevika finally understood what drove Caitlyn to react like that, and they were only a claimed couple. When the level-headed leader inhaled the thick scent of various alphas stuck to your body…

It made her jaw lock, to put it lightly.

This bond would be her undoing. Sevika was usually more in control of her emotions. She had to be in her line of work–specializing in uncovering the illegal exploitation of omegas. It was a job with sleepless nights and little results, but tonight had been better. 

Shutting down that infamous underground brothel was definitely the highlight of her unit's last month. But when she'd sensed a sliver of your scent under all that fear and found you? When she'd seen what they'd done to you?

"Can you blame me?" Sevika mutters, and the smirk on Vi's face falls.

"No. Looking over her file…she's a worse case than most. Dunno how she's even alive." The beta shrugs, cracking her knuckles, "if it was Caitlyn, I'd be seeing red."

"She'd be seeing red." Sevika snorts.

"Same thing." Vi shoots her a pointed glare. "Look, I'm just saying that with the condition she was in and the fact that she's your bond?  It's a miracle you only beat that alpha up. I was expecting you to go on a rampage." Sevika shakes her head.

"I would have if you hadn't stopped me. If she wasn't–if she didn't react like I'd hurt her–" Sevika finds her throat choking up, and Vi places a hand on her shoulder for comfort. Her calming scent helps to cool the alpha down, though Sevika is still on edge. 

"...It'll be a while before she can recognize that your anger isn't dangerous for her. You know how bad the abuse can get." Sevika's lips press into a thin line. She nods once, then twice. Then she nods with a hand pinching the bridge of her nose and her other at her hip, restlessly pacing.

"I know. But fuck. I'm not meant for this part. Rehabilitation is what your girl is good at. What Vander and Mel can do easy. But me? I find them, I bring them back here. End of story. I don't help them heal. I don't stay." Vi sighs.

"Sev. She's already scenting you." The alpha groans.

"I can see that. Shit–believe me, I noticed that. It felt so right, and I was proud knowing my scent helped her calm down, let alone sleep."  Vi raises an eyebrow.

"So what's the issue again? Most omegas in her position would do anything to get away from an unfamiliar alpha. You have, like, a headstart dude." At Sevika's exasperated stare, Vi snorts.

"It's not like you don't have us to help guide you. Plus Sev…" the beta looks up with a small smile, reassuring her team leader.

"You aren't going to hurt her. Not with that attitude. So try a little bit, okay? She needs you." Sevika swallows. She's certain the sound is loud enough to echo in the room. She isn't the gentle type. She's a dominant alpha in every sense of the term. Her aggression, strength, and stature make her a damn near unbeatable opponent. Adding the natural desire to control she has, there's little Sevika can't do.

But this?

You're frail. So small under the blankets of the hospital bed, tiny breaths making her check over and over again that you're even alive. How can she come near you? Let alone be your mate? 

"I…I'm gonna report to Vander." Refusing to answer Vi, Sevika walks out of the room. She ignores the beta's loud, obnoxious sigh, head pounding with the stress of the night's events.