#the lady with plungeing necklines

[mrscrocombe]

Started watching that film Burnt from 2015 and jfc I don't remember ever seeing a main character that unlikable

[tmblristhefuckingworst]

DUA LIPA

🫦👄💋

[astheturtlemoves]

Damn, you stop using Tumblr for a few days... so MANY bots to get rid of and tumblr Live has finally invaded my dash. Eurgh.

[vhagarys]

Issa Ānogar {My Blood}

pt. 1

targaryen!siblings x reader, brother!aemond x reader, brother!aegon x reader, sister!helaena x reader

summary: drunken words are sober thoughts. you confess your desire for your siblings and come to find such affections are more than reciprocated.

warnings: canon-typical incest, brother x sister, slight voyeurism, eventual smut, groping, horny reader!, sexual harassment, possessive!targ!siblings

MDNI

The queen dowager requested her children along with some of the Hightower’s closest allies to join in a banquet to celebrate their victory over team black.

Rows and rows of the finest meats and cheese, as well as decadent cakes and pastries were prepared. Servants floated around the room with goblets of wine and small delicacies.

Much to their displeasure, Aegon, Aemond, and Helaena arrived and greeted their mother.

Their mother excused herself from the small group of riverlords and kissed each of her children.

“You all are dressed nicely, where may i ask is your sister?” Alicent questioned.

Immediately, they turned to scan the room in search of you, their little sister usually always punctual with such events.

“Perhaps she’s still in her chambers dressing? she did ride on dragonback this morning,” Helaena offered.

Aegon scoffed, “I believe sister had the right idea in not attending such a mundane affair. I’ve no desire to sip wine with these leeches of the crown”.

Alicent gave her son a disapproving look. “Your presence is required at this ‘mundane affair” my king. I’m sure helping yourself to the refreshments won’t prove too burdensome.” With that, she began to venture back into the crowd to greet their guests.

Meanwhile, you had just returned from a visit with some friends of yours.

What started off as a quaint lunch in the garden, soon turned south as the wine began to flow. It was as if your glass would magically refill itself as soon as you emptied it.

Now, you were positively intoxicated. You were escorted back to your chambers, although proved quite the challenge as you made a point to run and hide from the guards.

Everyone in this blessed castle have sticks up their arse, you rolled your eyes.

After arriving to your chambers, your servants immediately approached you. “Princess Y/N, you’re supposed to be at the banquet your mother is hosting,” one of them clicked their tongue disapprovingly.

You turned to her and pulled her into an embrace and pulled away to gaze upon her face.

“You have the most lovely eyes i’ve ever seen,” you lightly squeezed her cheek.

“W-why thank you my lady. now which dress do you wish to wear tonight?” She went to grab a modest green gown. dull, drab, with its neckline reaching up over your collarbones.

“The queen dowager requests you wear this tonight princess, I believe you’ll look positively beautiful.”

Scanning over the dress, you shook your head in disapproval, marching towards your dresser.

“That will just not do. i am a woman grown and should be dressed as such,” your hazy mind drifted, and an idea soon popped into your head.

You always envied the dresses made for your older sister Helaena, crafted to show off her womanly figure and all her newly presented curves.

Stumbling towards the door, you offered no more than a quick, “one moment!” and dashed down the hall to your sisters chambers.

Rummaging through her closet, your eyes met the perfect dress for tonights affairs.

A rich, emerald gown with a plunging neckline, adorned with a thin belt around the waist area made of small golden coins. There were specks of gold on the sleeves and the back of the dress dipped down to your hips.

Clutching the dress in hand, you all but threw the dress in the air toward your servants.

“This will suffice”, you were giddy with the notion you’d finally a how off your womanly figure.

It was tiresome upkeeping the virtuous position of the youngest targaryen daughter. You’d grown tired of people treating you as if you were a fragile doll on the verge of cracking.

As a women of ten and 9, you wished for people to look at you with the desire and lust they did for other ladies of court.

Before your servants had time to properly fix your hair, you ducked under their busying hands and and out the door.

The copious amount of wine buzzed through your veins. Any thoughts of prudishness or doubt drowned with each sip.

With a small nod, the guards at the door opened the doors to the banquet, you could barely hide the satisfied grin etched on your face.

As you made your way into the hall, voices seized and heads swiveled to gaze at the culprit to arrive at such tardy hour.

Your newfound confidence allowed you to meet their gazes and grin at their stunned faces as you walk threw the crowds of lords and ladies.

At the sound of the door opening, your siblings turned to see you waltzing in, a bit clumsily to say the least.

The three of them were fixated on their dear sister, noting the stark contrast in her usual attire. They scanned over your exposed breasts and back, the dress leaving little to their imagination as it clung to every crevice of your body.

Aemond tried his best to remain composed as he watched you make your way around to all the lords in attendance, fluttering your eyelashes and reaching out to greet them.

“Well well, our sister sure knows how to make an entrance.” Aegon admired the way your breasts practically spilled out of your dress. He felt his pants tighten and reached down to adjust himself.

“I believe our sister borrowed one of my gowns this evening,” Helaena chuckled. She couldn’t help but admire you, she always held such a fondness for you that was beyond sisterly affection.

It was quite common for the pair of you to change in front of each other, sometimes even bathe together. She knew her eyes always lingered a bit too long on your bare form.

Sometimes she would fantasize of her mouth between your legs, indulging in the taste of your juicy cunt like a man starved.

The siblings were broken out of their train of thought when your voice broke through the conversations being made.

You climbed up to the top of the steps at the royals table and cleared your throat.

“A toast!” you declared with a shit eating grin. You turned to look at your brother, the king adorning his valyrian steel crown.

You bowed, knowing you gave him the perfect view of your breasts and smirked, “to my brother, king Aegon, for his bravery on the battlefield and for leading us to victory!”

Aegon shamelessly bit his lip and matched your smirk, “Anything for family dōna haedar (sweet sister).

You then turned to Aemond, excited at the prospect of making your older brother blush.

“To my brother Aemond, who fearlessly rode his dragon vhagar and defeated our enemies in the sky!”

You took a sip of your wine as Aemond shifted in his seat and cleared his throat, nodding at you quickly before looking down at his plate.

You then turned and stalked toward your elder sister, confusion evident on her face as you stood in front of her.

You stared into her eyes, “ to my dear sister Helaena, for protecting me from harm whilst the battle raged on. For keeping me company during the day and in the nights when i couldn’t sleep,” Helaena sat impeccably still as you bent down and kissed her on the cheek. A pink hue immediately consuming her face as she stared back at you.

Your mother and Otto exchanged a glance, baffled by your odd behavior.

You nearly tripped as you climbed up to stand on the table and face the crowd. “Let us drain our cups to celebrate our newfound freedom. Kostagon īlva ērinnon maghagon zūgagon isse lī qilōni nykeōragon gōvilagon īlva,” a few drops spilled down you chin as you drained the last of your wine. (May our victory bring fear in those who stand against us).

The crowd applaused and lifted their cups to meet your toast, your mother urging the guards to remove you from such a compromising predicament.

Suddenly, a presence behind scooped you up under your knees, making you yelp in suprise.

“How much have you drunk sister?” Aemond murmured in your ear as he brought you back to the royal table.

Aegon couldn’t contain his laugh at his sisters outburst.

You wound your arms tightly around Aemond’s neck as he attempted to set you down.

Finally, you conceded and plopped into your chair next to your king brother.

“Little sister, you are too far gone,” Aegon tucked a piece of your silver hair behind your ear.

Reveling in the attention, you giggled, “ Whatever do you mean, dear brother. i am just delighted with our families victory!” You proceeded to gulp down the goblet of wine in front of you and pop a lemon cake into your mouth.

“Perhaps you should retire for the night sister, until you’re clear of mind,” Helaena suggested. her hand absentmindedly reached out for yours.

You looked at her for a moment, before a mischievous smile grew on your face.

“Mandia, do you like my gown?” you asked, hoping she knew where you procured it from. (older sister)

Helaena lightly chuckled, “MY gown looks even better on you, you look beautiful.”

You turned to your king brother, “What do you think, lekia? does it look nice on me?” (brother) you had taken the time while speaking to Helaena to slightly pull down the bodice of your dress, leaving your cleavage even more on display.

“Ravishing, I’d be wise to command all the lords here to steer clear of you. Wouldn’t want my dear sister caught up in these men’s affections-” he shamelessly stared down at your breasts and pursed his lips. “could we, hm?”

You could just make out the darkening in your brothers eyes, and when you turned to Aemond you could see him wearing a similar expression.

“Oh brother, you needn’t worry about other suitors”, your eyes twinkled as the wine coursed through your veins.

You slowly leaned over to whisper in his ear, “Because i only want the three of you,” you boldly kissed the outside the kings ear.

Helaena and Aemond were frozen at their sisters revelation. you pouted, “You do not want me? I thought we were meant to have each other, body and soul?”

The words tumbled out of you mouth without a second thought, “It’s family tradition to claim each other, is it not? I’ve preserved my maidenhood just for you issa ānogar” (my blood)

You leaned in once more to daringly grip Aemond’s cock through his riding leathers. “I can feel your desire for me lekia, do you deny it?,” you pouted.

aemond promptly gripped your arm and yanked your hand away.

“Sister, there are prying eyes everywhere,” he hissed as he look at you disapprovingly.

The taste of rejection settled on your tongue. You couldn’t see the turmoil coursing through your siblings, all three so close to admitting their shared desires for you.

You huffed and pushed out your chair. “I suppose, then, i shall have to find a suitable lord to satisfy my needs. I’m sure any man here will delight in claiming my innocence, filling me with their seed. perhaps lord strong-“

Aemond forced you back into your chair and loomed over you, gripping your face just hard enough to silence you.

“Nyke dōrī knew īlva mandia istan mirrī līve,” he chuckled cruelly. (I never knew our baby sister was such a little whore).

His eyes traveled down to your exposed breasts and softly hummed.

Your eyes widened at the filthy words.

Knowing no one else at the table could understand them, Aegon added, “Skorkydoso bē nyke obūljagon ao toliot bisa qurdon se leghagon ao rūsīr issa nūmo, ao raqagon bona?” (how about i bend you over this table and fill you with my seed, would you like that?). Your small clothes began to dampen with arousal.

To onlookers, it simply appeared as your brothers doting on you, as Aegon lightly traced circles on the small of your back.

Helaena’s eyes began to cloud with lust as she saw her brothers words effect on you. You rubbed your legs together at your brothers depraved words.

“Please”, was all you could muster as you looked over at your sister. Here you were, doe eyes begging her siblings to defile, corrupt as they please.

Soon, she leaned over and whispered in your ear, “Gūrogon aōla se jikagon naejot aōha”. (excuse yourself and go to your chambers).

Your mind was hazy with desire for your siblings, fantasizing about this day for years. A part of you knew you would end up with them, as it was Targaryen tradition. The wanton lust you carried for each of them only the cherry on top.

Scanning the room, you spotted your mother and beelined over to her.

“Dear mother, i’m afraid i need to retire to my chambers. I feel i need to lie down” your mother caressed your face.

“Have you fallen ill, dear? Your cheeks are quite flushed.”

You could feel their gaze on you. Stumbling over your words, you chuckled nervously, “I-I think I outdid myself with the refreshments”.

Your mother clicker her tongue critically, “You certainly made a spectacle of yourself tonight. I hope you’ve learned from this.” you nodded.

With a final scan over your form, Alicent bid you good night and kissed your forehead.

Your mind swirled with the possibilities of what they would do to you. You felt slick running down your legs at the unspoken promise in your sisters words. Soon, i will have them.

The door was in your sights as a hand reached out to stop you in your tracks.

“I must say, princess you look absolutely divine this evening,” lord Bronn Lannister brought your hand to his lips and smiled at you.

You could smell the wine on his breath, just as he probably could with you. You took a slight step back and curtsied, “You are most kind, my lord. if you’ll excuse me-”

“And where could such a lovely lady be running off to, the party is far from over,” he yanked you back into his space. He twirled a lock of your hair between his fingers, pressing himself disgustingly close.

“If you are in need of entertaining, I’d be happy to oblige,” his eyes shamelessly raking over your form.

Bile began to rise at your throat. The panic at his bold behavior surged through you, and you tried to pull away to no avail.

“Let me go, you’re hurting me-”

“Quite the gentleman, lord lannister. you’ve certainly outdone yourself tonight. Do you have such little regard for your life that you’d dare touch the princess?” your brother Aemond yanked him back by his collar.

“I-”

A hand from behind slithered up to squeeze his shoulders. “I could have your hand chopped off for laying a hand on my sister. even better, i could have you hanged at this very party,” Aegon whispered behind him, delighting in watching lord lannisters skin crawl.

“Forgive me, my king. I-I meant no offense-“

“It’s not them you should be apologizing too,” your older sister pulled you into her embrace. You buried your face in your neck to calm yourself, overwhelmed with what had just transpired.

“Sister, he frightened me,” you whimpered into her neck, her hand reaching up to stroke at your hair.

Aegon and Aemond fumed at seeing their sister in such distress.

“sir criston!” Aegon roared, “Perhaps Lord Lannister needs a refresher in banquet etiquette. why don’t you escort him down to a cell,” he took one of the lannisters cheeks in his hand and smiled sinisterly. Then, he wound his arm back and struck him with such force his stumbled to the ground.

The crowd stilled as the scene unfolded. Lord lannister was then unceremoniously dragged through the doors and down towards the cells.

Aemond once again took you in his arms and walked out of the banquet hall. As you did earlier that night evening, you tightly wound your arms around his neck for fear of losing him.

The three of you silently walked back to your chambers, Aemond keeping you his arms as he sat you both on the bed.

After a few minutes of silence, you mustered, “K am sorry for my outburst and the events that followed. I admit i have had my share of wine tonight, i just wanted to-“

Aegon took your chin in his hand and stared deeply into your eyes, “Dear sister, you have no reason to apologize. I will have that cunts throat for putting his dirty hands on you.”

The idea of your brother executing lord lannister made a bolt of desire spark through you. Knowing your brother possessed such power and would wield it to protect you made you rub your thighs. Aemond felt every ounce of it.

A yawn soon broke the silence. Aemond began to lay you back on your bed until you softly whined, “Brother i cannot sleep in such a contraption, can you unlace the corset?”

He was surprisingly deft at weaving through the bindings of your dress. Soon, you were left in a small cream colored shift, leaving nothing to the imagination.

Helaena tried not to stare, although proved futile as you reached over to kiss her on the cheek. “Sister, you look very beautiful tonight as well. the gods have blessed me with such a ravishing sister ,” the last bit of wine in you spoke as you pulled the shift over your head, leaving you bare for your siblings.

Aegon shamelessly looked over your body. He saw the way your nipples perked from the breeze, He had to contain his groan.

Moving down past your perfectly sculpted birthing hips, he ogled at his sisters plump, juicy cunt. Oh, how easy it would be to spread your thighs have a taste.

Perhaps he’d indulge in your cunt whilst you slept the wine away. He knew he could bring you to peak on his tongue, even in sleep.

Knowing you were on the brink of sleep, Aemond refrained from lingering on your form too long. Already feeling the effect of seeing your naked body in his riding leathers, he reached for the blanket to cover you.

Your head hit the pillows. and as your mind was pulled closer to the realm of sleep, you muttered, “I do want you, all three of you. issa ānogar.” (my blood)

A subtle glance was exchanged between the three of them before Helaena kissed you sweetly on the forehead. “Sleep well little sister.”

The doors to your chambers closed behind them and Aegon chucked,” How am i to sleep when our sister practically begged for me to spear my cock inside her”.

“Hush,” Aemond hissed, knowing there were likely guards lurking about.

“We will speak of this on the morrow. perhaps it was only the wine talking, she seemed quite out her wits,” Helaena suggested with the slightest tone of disappointment.

“She wants it. She craves it,” Aegon made to walk back into your chambers. Aemond snorted and abruptly stopped him with a shove to the chest.

At the sound of steps drawing closer, the three of them separated to their respective chambers.

The ache between your legs only worsened as the night grew later. You were enraptured in the most depraved of dreams. Imagery of your brothers impaling you on their cocks and filling you to the brim with their seed, all while getting lost in the taste of your sister’s cunt swirled through your mind.

You would soon wake with an inescapable hunger that only they could satiate.

— PART 2

i hope you enjoyed! planning on doing a part two so comment if you’d like to be added to the tag list! ♥︎

- alice 𓆩𓆪

[c0eu4]

LN4 | Tits

Request: inspi ration (he said tits in the blurry part)

Summary: Lando meets Y/n at a club and she asks him to sign her tits. A few days later, Lando is looking for her and they become friends. So she surprises him by coming to see him in Las Vegas.

Warning: Lando signing tits? Lando jerking off himself, needy Lando but no smut

A/N: I'm so so so so so sorry but I accidentally published the story when it wasn't finished and I had to delete and redo everything and I don't have the request!!

part one - part two - part three

MASTERLIST requests are opens

His glass in his hand, he moves to the rhythm of the music. The lights of all colors blind him slightly and the music is so loud that he can't hear people talking around him. He takes the last sip of his drink, disappointed at having to move from the dancefloor to get a drink.

He warns Max (Fewtrell) and heads towards the bar in the center of the club. He doesn't take the time to sit down and walk next to a young woman, leaning against the counter.

He signals to the bartender and asks him for another drink. As he waited for his drink, the young lady next to him patted his shoulder, ''Uhm excuse me?''

He turns around, giving her a charming smile. He can't help but let his eyes slide down to her plunging neckline, waking up her chest. ''I can help you?''

The young lady blushed slightly, ''Uhm are you Lando Norris?'' He chuckled, ''Himself'' Her eyes widen softly, ''May I ask you an autograph?''

Lando can't help but smile even more. He doesn't know why, but he's not annoyed when she asks him that. Normally, he accepts like anyone else, even if it annoys him to be disturbed.

''Of course, do you want me to sign something in particular?'' She thinks, asks the bartender for a piece of paper, who tells her he doesn't have any. Then suddenly, an idea crossed her mind.

''Can you sign my tits?'' Lando's eyes widened, his cheeks getting slightly red. He chuckled as he took the pen the bartender offered him.

She pulls down her dress a little, revealing her breasts even more. ''Should I sign both?'' He can't take his eyes off of her breasts. He feels like he's a growing teenager again, filled with uncontrollable hormones.

''Yeah please.'' He uncaps the pen, puts a hand on her shoulder for support and tries to write but can't. He sighed, dreading his questions. ''Can I touch it? It would be easier.''

She chuckled, her now hugely revealed breasts moving slightly along with her little laugh. She still wonders if he isn't trying to touch them on purpose. But hey, after all, it's not every day you catch Lando Norris's eyes.

''If you want that much.'' He can't help but laugh, his warm breath tickling her bare collarbone. ''What's your name?'' He placed his hands on her right breast, ''Y/n.'' he tried to stretch the skin to allow the pen to work better. He signs it and adds 'for y/n, with love' He reproduces the gesture on her other breast, not hesitating to let his fingers slide a little lower.

His signature is perfect. As in the photos. ''Thank you'' He winks at her and she chuckled softly, probably nervously. He takes his drink and goes back to see Max who's now a bit away from the dancefloor and talking with some people.

Lando approached them and immediately, Max whispered something in his ear, ''Mate you're hard.'' Lando's head turns red as one of his hands slowly goes in front of his bulge, hiding it.

_ _ _

A few days later, Y/n is still in Lando's mind. He can't stop thinking of her. He even tried to search her on Instagram but it wasn't conclusive. He still sees her reddened cheeks, her nervous smile, her pink lips and her breasts.. oh my god. Just thinking about it makes his pants feel tight.

He readjust himself in the bed, his hand slipping under his boxers. He couldn't help it, she was so beautiful...and good. He imagines his cock between her breasts accelerating the movements of his hand. And it doesn't take long before he's cumming in his pants, imagining Y/n touching and licking him.

What a dirty boy he can be. Seriously, jerking off while thinking about a fan's tits.

He gets up after catching his breath and clean the mess he makes. His phone buzzed and he looked at Max's message.

''Mate you're not gonna believe me''

His text was accompanied with a picture.. of y/n, drinking a coffee, alone.

''Isn't that the girl you're looking for?''

''Where is she?''

''The cafe we usually went to'' ''You want me to do something?''

Lando doesn't answer, already putting on his shoes and jacket. He went outside, walking pretty fast to his car. His mother would kill him if she knew how speedy he drives.

He enters that café, his eyes wandering all the people in. His gaze freezes on her. She was as beautiful as he remembered. Her long brown hair cascaded over her shoulders and her black turtleneck hid her collarbone, at the risk of disappointing Lando. Her laptop is open in front of her, next to two empty cafes.

He doesn't know what to do. Should he go see her? Or just observe her? He can also offer her a coffee and write his number on it, like in the movies.

He gathers his courage and orders two coffees. One for her and one for him. He decides to play it cool and sits across from her, putting the coffees on the table. She looks up from her computer and smiles nervously. ''Mister Norris. How can I help you?''

Her cheeks turn slightly red probably just like his. ''Maybe by giving me your number?'' He surprised himself with his overconfidence. She giggles, writes something in her notebook and gives the piece of paper to him.

Deep down, she knew that during that evening, something had happened between them. But she never thought he would look for her.

_ _ _

Since that day, they haven't stopped talking to each other.

Lando is an extrovert. Y/n is an introvert.

Lando likes to talk. Y/n likes to listen.

Lando doesn't know how to hide his feelings. Y/n doesn’t know how to show them.

They complete each other. They are made for each other. Their discussions are natural, Lando loves talking to her, even until late at night. And he knows she will always be there to listen to him. Meeting her was the best thing that could have happened to him.

Y/n feels bad to have to lie to him. She walks back into the airport, readjusting her sunglasses. She passes through the secure gate without any hassle and barely has time to land to wait for her plane that Oscar called her and she picked up the phone.

''What did you tell him?''

''That I can't come.''

''I heard him crying in his driver's room.''

Oscar had agreed to help her to make a surprise for Lando and come see him in Las Vegas. But knowing that Lando's cried for her makes her heart breaks.

''Aw I feel so bad.''

He chuckles.

''Don't worry, he'll be so happy. I'm sure he'll kiss you.'' Oscar always thought that one day or another, they would end up together. Not that it bothers Y/n, but Lando is her best friend and she's afraid of ruining their relationship.

''Stop saying silly things.'' Oscar laughed again, but more loudly this time.

''Yeah yeah.. ahhh.. we do like we say, huh?''

''Yep, I'm going to enter the plan in a few minutes, be sure to be there when I land.''

''No I should let you at the airport.''

''Funny but you'll have to support the upset of Lando during the whole week.''

''You win on this point.''

''I let you Ozzy, see you in LA.''

''Have a nice plane.''

She thanks him and hangs up. She gets on the plane and sits in her seat. During the twelve hours of flights, Y/n finds something to occupy herself by watching a trilogy, sleeping and reading.

Once arrived, all that remains is the most complicated part. She has to collect her suitcase, leave the airport and join Oscar without being recognized. She readjusts her sunglasses and the black mask that hides the lower part of her face. With her hood on her head, she walks with her head down and hurries to collect her suitcase.

She leaves the airport in less than thirty minutes and quickly finds Oscar's car. She puts her suitcase in the trunk and gets in the passenger seat.

''Hey, nobody saw you?'' He asked her as she took off her sunglasses, mask and hood. ''Hi, I don't think so.'' He doesn't wait any longer to start the car and drive straight to the hotel.

She preferred to surprise him by waiting for him in his hotel room rather than at the track.

''I got a copy of his room card.'' He gives her the card as she quickly puts on her makeup.

It doesn't take long for them to arrive at the hotel. He helps her with her things and they hurry to the hotel room. Due to traffic jams on the road, they lost time and Lando should arrive more soon than expected.

She places her things in a corner of the room and sits down on the bed that he didn't even take the time to make.

''Tell me if he kissed you.'' Said Oscar before leaving her alone. He didn't let her have the time to respond and she just scrolled on her phone to pass the time.

She looks in the mirror, checking that her outfit is okay. She made the effort to take a twelve-hour plane with a rather uncomfortable dress, even if she was wearing one of Lando's sweaters over it.

She readjusts her hair and receives a message from Oscar telling her that he ran into Lando in the hallway.

She sits on the edge of bed and stares at the front door. She hears a noise, then a 'beep' meaning the door is open.

Lando walks into the room, not even noticing her, too busy looking at his phone. He places his bag on the ground and finally looks up from his phone.

His eyes open wide and his mouth is parted, not knowing what to say.

''Happy birthday, Lando.'' She smiles at him getting up from the bed.

Lando doesn't know what's going through his head, but he walks towards her, places his hands on her cheeks and presses his lips to hers.

Shit. Oscar was right. But it doesn't stop her from kissing him back, moving her lips along with his. She wraps her arms around his waist to pull him even closer to her.

''What the hell are you doing here!?'' He finally breaks the kiss, still in shock.

''Don't you still know that I'm a very good liar?'' He kissed her cheeks, his hand slowing on her hips.

''Fuck I missed you so much.'' He kisses her neck, already nibbing on it.

''Wow wow wow Lan', slowly.'' He stops it and his lips go back to hers.

''I hate you.'' She arranges the strands of hair that fall in front of his eyes.

''No you don't.'' He kissed her again.

''Be my girlfriend.''

''Did I have the choice?''

''No.'' He doesn't give her time to respond as he kisses her again, addicted to her lips.

Lando will no longer need to imagine his cock between her breasts. He's already planning to experience it tonight.

[littlest-w01f]

Birthday

Rhysand x Reader

For @officialrhysandweek

Rhysand Week 2024 Masterlist

Day 1: Adolescence

Summary: Your first birthday while dating Rhysand

Cw: Tie as restraints, daddy kink, Cassian and Azriel were listening from outside Smut 18+ MDNI

You sat on his desk, swinging your legs, all dolled up for your 20th birthday surprise, excited for what Rhysand had planned, watching him dressed in a suit picking a tie. Rhysand approached you quietly, eyes dark as he saw you dressed in his colours, the dress he'd help his mother make, one she had gifted you by hand this morning.

"What are you doing?" you ask him curiously as he walks behind you to the edge of his desk, taking your hands in his, using the other to bind your hands behind your back with the tie he had chosen.

Your heart hammers as he winnows in front of you again, taking your chin in his hand he purred, "We're going to be fashionable late tonight, darling." To his surprise for you. He'd wanted to invite everyone for your birthday, but you had him cut the list short. Not wanting anything too grand.

As Rhysand held you captive with the silk tie wrapped around your wrists, his fingers lingered on her smooth skin, sending shivers down your spine. His piercing gaze raked over your form, admiring how the dress hugged your curves, the trim sparkling against your tan complexion. The neckline dipped low, revealing the gentle swell of your breasts.

Without warning, Rhysand leaned in, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. His tongue plunged into your mouth, exploring every inch as he pressed your body flush against his. One large hand slid down to palm your ass through the fabric of the dress, kneading possessively.

His touch was deliberate, igniting flames across your skin. Your heart pounded wildly in your chest, matching the rhythm of his strong heartbeat against yours. His free hand trailed up your thigh, and he broke the kiss only to trail hot kisses along your jawline, down to the sensitive spot beneath your earlobe. "You look absolutely stunning," he murmured, his voice thick with desire.

You hummed softly, legs locked around his waist. Feeling your legs wrap around his hips, Rhysand hoisted you further onto his desk with ease, your bound hands preventing you from steadying yourself. His hands roamed freely now, gripping your thighs firmly as he pulled away slightly to admire you sprawled out before him. His eyes darkened further, an unspoken promise of carnal pleasures yet to come.

"Tell me," he said, voice husky with lust, "What do you think I'm planning for your birthday?"

"A party maybe..." You breathe, lips kiss stung, "You could also be thinking about ruining this dress."

Rhysand chuckled deeply, the sound vibrating through his chest. "Oh, darling," he whispered, his breath warm against your flushed skin, "I plan to ruin much more than just this dress." With those words, he shifted his weight, positioning himself between your spread thighs. His hardened cock pressed insistently against the heat of your core, the thin barrier of fabric providing little protection.

His large hand slipped under your dress, finding the wet warmth of your cunt. He groaned approvingly, fingers teasing your slick folds over your lace. "Does my little Lady crave to be fucked on her birthday?"

"Yes, Rhys..." You breathe as Rhysand pulls the skirts of your gown to your waist, pulling at your lace.

Rhysand deftly untied the delicate lace, exposing your glistening cunt to his hungry gaze. He let out a low growl, fingers dipping into your wetness, thrusting in and out, circling your clit with expert pressure. "So responsive already," he praised, thumbing your sensitive clit. "I knew dressing you in my colors would bring out the wanton vixen inside."

He withdrew his hand, leaving you aching for more. With a swift motion, he tore open his trousers, freeing his massive erection. The head was already leaking precum, glistening in the dim light. "Beg for it, my sweet," Rhysand commanded, stroking his shaft, "Beg me to fill you up on your special day."

"Please," you whimpered, your body writhing underneath him. "Rhysand, please fuck me. I need you so badly." The plea fell from your lips like a prayer, each syllable punctuated by the scent of your arousal. Your inner walls clenched in anticipation, aching for the feeling of being filled by him.

Rhysand leaned in, kissing the column of your neck, "You have me... What do you need?"

"Your cock," You gasp, your hands struggling in their ties, "Please... Need your cock."

Without another word, Rhysand positioned himself at your entrance, the tip of his cock pressing against your cunt. He looked into your eyes, his own burning with raw desire. Then, with a powerful thrust, he buried himself inside you, filling you completely.

A guttural moan escaped your throat as he stretched you wide, your velvet walls gripping him tightly. Rhysand paused for a moment, savouring the exquisite sensation of your tight heat enveloping him. His hands gripped your hips, fingertips digging into your soft flesh as he began to move, slowly at first, then gradually increasing his pace. You whined with every thrust, trying to grind against him.

The obscene sounds of skin slapping against skin echoed through the room, mingling with your cries of ecstasy. Rhysand pistoned into you relentlessly, hitting depths that made stars burst behind your eyelids. Your breasts straining against the confines of your bodice.

"Fuck, you feel incredible," Rhysand grunted, sweat dripping down his brow. "This pretty little cunt was made for me."

The sensation of being stretched and claimed by Rhysand sent waves of pleasure crashing through your body. His cock throbbed inside you, hitting all the right spots as he began to move, setting a punishing pace. Each thrust drove deeper, pushing you towards the brink of bliss.

His hands gripped your hips tightly, anchoring you to him as he pistoned in and out of your dripping wet cunt. "Fuck, you're so tight," he grunted, sweat starting to bead on his forehead. "Look at you, taking my cock like such a good girl."

The sound of Rhysand's praise sent another wave of pleasure coursing through you. "You feel so good, daddy," You moaned, your voice laced with need. "I love when you fuck me like this."

Rhysand slowed his thrusting, a smirk on his lips, "What?"

"Please don't stop," You whine when he presses into you fully, blush on your cheeks when you realise what you had called him.

"Call me daddy again." Rhysand demanded.

Feeling the embarrassment radiating off you, Rhysand's smirk widened into a full-blown grin. He loved seeing you squirm, especially when it came to admitting how much you enjoyed his dominant side. He continued to pump into you, his cock throbbing inside your clenching walls.

"Daddy likes hearing you say it," He breathed out, taunting her punctuating each word with a deep thrust. "Say it again, sweetheart. Tell daddy how much you want his big cock inside you."

You could tell by the way Rhysand's grip tightened, his strokes grew more forceful. His hand stroked your clit at the same pace. Your cheeks burned with shame and excitement as you heard the demand fall from his lips. "I-I want your big cock, daddy," you stuttered through the pleasure his cock gave you, your eyes fluttering shut. "Please, fuck me with it harder. Make me cum on your cock, daddy." The words tumbled out, your pride forgotten amidst the waves of pleasure rolling through you, eyes rolling back.

Hearing your admission, Rhysand's thrusts grew even more erratic, his grip on your hips becoming bruising. "That's my girl," he groaned, leaning down to capture your nipple with his teeth. "Cum for Daddy. Show me how much you love being fucked by your future High Lord."

At Rhysand's words, your body tensed, the coil within you snapping. A powerful orgasm ripped through you, your cunt clamping down on Rhysand's cock as you came hard. Your release coated his shaft, mixing with your arousal to create a slick glide as he continued to pound into you. Rhysand didn't miss a single beat of his thrusts or stroking your clit, increasing it instead.

Through the haze of ecstasy, you felt Rhysand's cock twitch inside you, signalling his own impending release. "Fuck, I'm close," he gritted out, his thrusts becoming short and sharp. "Cum again baby, milk daddy's cock dry." With one final, brutal plunge, Rhysand buried himself to the hilt and erupted, flooding your spasming cunt with his seed.

As Rhysand's hot cum spilled into you, it triggered another round of orgasms, your cunt pulsing around his cock. The sensation was overwhelming, your entire body trembling as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over you. "R-Rhys!" you cried out, your voice breaking with the intensity of your climax.

Feeling your cunt fluttering around his cock, Rhysand groaned loudly, his own orgasm ripping through him. He held you steady, his hips jerking as he emptied himself inside you, marking you as his. "That's it, my beautiful little mate," he panted, still throbbing inside you.

After a moment, you both calmed down, still joined, Rhysand slowly pulled out, groaning watching your mixed cum spill out of you, "Beautiful."

You gasp, feeling your legs cramp slightly, "Oh- That's..."

With a wave of his hand, Rhysand cleans you and your dress, "Come, love, I't time for you party." He smirked, pulling you up, fixing any messed make-up with his magic.

You nod, taking his hand, wincing at your legs wobbling, Rhysand smiled watching you, "Did daddy fuck you too hard, pretty?" His words were clearly a taunt.

"It slipped." You blush as Rhysand walked you to the doors.

"I won't mind if it slips again," With that he opened the door, Azriel and Cassian stumbled backwards, clearly caught, surprised.

"What were you two-" Rhysand pauses, knowing the answer to his own question.

But that didn't stop Cassian, "Oh, daddy-" He moaned in an obnoxious voice that made you want to melt into the floor.

Azriel hit Cassian upside the head, "Hey, Rhys isn't daddy... He's 27."

"Hey I can be daddy!" Rhysand hissed, and you just left the three of them standing in the halls, leaving Rhysand to defend how he could for sure be 'daddy' to go downstairs and be greeted by his lovely mother who greeted you with a kiss to your cheek.

{General Taglist - @nox-ceur @lilah-asteria @paleidiot @dee-writes-smut @adalia-jaycee @anarchiii @alwayshave-faith}

{Rhysand Taglist - @yeonalie}

[herbgerblin]

I'm still obsessed with Lady Godwin's build. I was doodling all three of the new taz gang and then I detoured and started drawing Godwin's other looks. I referenced Edwardian circus costumes for her prizefighter fit (I just now realized I forgot the axe :/)

ID: Three drawings of Lady Elizabeth Godwin, an elderly white woman in Edwardian attire. On the right, she has her original body, which is short and understated. The caption above her reads, "Lady Elizabeth Godwin 7 years before story begins (Pre-Frankenstein Reanimation)." She wears a large navy hat with plume feathers, a pale green dress, and gold and emerald jewelry. The middle drawing is of her on her current body, much taller and more curvaceous. Her skin is now pale blue and there is a beauty mark on her left breast. She wears the same hat, now secured with a wine-colored scarf wrapped around her head and neck. She wears a bold pink dress with a plunging neckline that wraps around her waist. On the right, she wears the hat without the scarf, revealing the staples and bolts connecting her head to her body. She is wearing a costume-like corset and bloomers set in gold, fuschia, and navy, as well as dark brown heeled boots. End ID.

[upsidedownwithsteve]

Steve Harrington x fem!reader [14K] PART ONE OF TWO old money steve, an infatuated waitress, no labels, a disaster waiting to happen. some smut, some jealousy and too many mentions of monaco. 18+

And, baby, for you I would fall from grace

He came into the dining room of the club one Saturday afternoon. Sunkissed, tall, broad, stubble on his jaw and a gold chain glinting from the collar of his white shirt. He had a navy sweater draped over his shoulders, expensive sunglasses in his shirt's front pocket, an unassuming looking leather strapped watch on his wrist - but you’d learned well before then how to tell the difference between new money and old money.   

And Steve Harrington was old, old money. 

The watch cost more than your car and a year's rent on your apartment. Fuck, it cost more than you’d probably ever make working behind the bar of Hawkins’ country club. It cost more than the short black dress you were made to wear, the one that cinched you in at the waist and flared out over your thighs. It shone more than the gold plated name badge that was pinned on your chest, making your plunging neckline even more obvious. It cost more than the black heels that were part of your uniform, more than the five dollar balm that made your lips glossy and peach coloured. 

But still, Steve Harrington and his old, old money noticed you. 

—————

The restaurant was full, the bar even busier, the smoking lounge that sat through the double doors stuffed with leather chairs, studded couches, velvet footstools and table lined with cigars in wooden boxes. The full place smelled like bourbon and smoke, expensive cologne, perfume that cost even more. 

The Lake House country club was Hawkins’ finest institute, an old Manor House that was built on the shore of Lovers Lake, across the water from where teens liked to lurk in their cars and between tree trunks. The Lake House was where the town's elite came to dine, to drink, to lounge and talk. There were brunches with champagne and whisky, afternoon tea with ladies who wore diamonds and pearls, dinners with wine from 1802 and business meetings on the golfing green. Money poured from the club and filled the cracks in the old bricks, men with their daddy’s money bringing in their daughters, their sons, their wives. And when the family drove home in their Bentley, girlfriend’s arrived in red bottomed shoes, perching on laps in the smoking lounge like it was their jobs. 

Maybe it was. You weren’t supposed to ask. 

Your job was to stay behind the bar, a huge mahogany thing that took up most of the back wall. Everything was dark wood and lined with green velvet, the bar stools suede and gold studded, the bottles of alcohol on the glass shelves nothing less than a month's paycheck each. Martini glasses glittered, whisky was in the air like car fumes and the lime you were cutting into wheels was making the cut on your finger pulse.  

He walked in then, into the busy room like he owned it. The Harringtons were certainly wealthy enough to do so, but Michael Harrington and his wife simply liked to dine at the club on Sundays, take up on the tennis courts midweek and finish the day at the spa with a massage each. 

Six hundred dollars a session to hire out the court, four hundred dollar scotch, three hundred dollar steaks (eighty dollars more for the potato dauphinoise), five hundred dollars for a couples massage. Oh, and a one hundred dollar tip for the fucker unfortunate enough to have to deal with them. 

In cash, of course. 

But their son? Steve Harrington moved out of Hawkins long before anyone could work out if he’d grow up to be as cold as his father. Away from small towns, rumour had it he went to New York, an apartment in Manhattan, a job on Wall Street where he started at the bottom and worked his way up on luck, expensive vodka and daddy’s money. But then again, others said he spent his summers in Europe, talks of Italian villas, vineyards in Tuscany, selling yachts to the elite in Cannes, spending his time trading money through casinos, long months in Monaco during the spring. 

Seeing him back in Hawkins was unusual, uncommon, a goddamn rarity - but there he was, letting himself drop into the barstool in front of you like a Greek god etched from marble so expensive that you could barely afford to look at it. He sat with a friend, another twenty something that looked more man than boy because of their tailored trousers, crisp shirts, linen and cashmere and gold on their wrists, round their necks, family rings on their hands. 

Steve Harrington didn’t click his fingers at you like other members of the club did when they demanded to be served, but he did rap two knuckles against the bar top, a gold band on his middle finger hitting the wood. He had his shirt sleeves rolled up, careful and cuffed just below his elbows, the top three buttons undone to show off tanned skin and a smattering of chest hair. More gold, a thin chain settling in the dip of his throat, stubble along his jaw that looked like it was there deliberately, not because he’d forgotten to shave. 

You held your breath when you approached. You’d never served the youngest Harrington before - fuck, you’d never seen him here - but you knew who he was and the reputation dripped from him. 

Old money, older estates, acres of land, shares in companies that were so ridiculously rich you didn’t know what they were for. Fast cars, scandals in Europe, yachts with his name on it.  

Stomach in knots, you straightened up, smoothed down then front of your dress and put on the same smile you used for all the club members. “Gentlemen,” you greeted, “what can I get you both?”

Steve looked at you but his friend didn’t, his back to you as he surveyed the room, mumbling comments about the lack of skirt that showed up this early in the afternoon. You recognised him, a regular in the later evenings, Jonathan Byers, a fiend for a good cigar, an even bigger fan of the girls that held the poker events on weekends. 

“Two Macallans,” Steve told you, already fishing out a money clip from his trouser pocket. The clip was gold, engraved with his initials: SMH. “Twenty year reserve, no ice.”

He really looked at you then, thumbing through one hundred dollar bills, eyes raking up and down your frame as you stood and listened diligently. Even when you turned to pull the bottle of scotch off the top shelf, you could feel him watching, one eyebrow quirked, full lips parted just a little, the top of his tongue peeking from between. Steve looked interested, intrigued. Maybe just a little less bored than before. 

You kept your head down, polishing the tumblers before you poured, a three finger amount of the dark amber liquid and the smell of fire and smoke filled your nose. You’d watched enough men sit around the bar and swirl their drinks under the nostrils, waffling about notes of chocolate and spice before they sipped. It all smelled the same, no matter what price was on the label, like car fuel and burning. Steve downed the drink in one when you handed it to him, like he wasn’t swallowing liquid fire that cost him more than you’d make in a week. 

You watched as his throat bobbed, his lips coming away from the rim of the glass a little glossy, how he licked over his bottom one to catch any alcohol that lingered. Then he grinned, all perfect teeth and charm before he passed you six hundred dollars in notes. 

You nodded your thanks and went to the cash register, smiling what you hoped was politely as you tried to hand him back his change. Ninety dollars, pressed neatly in a pile of twenties and tens. The boy waved you off, still paying a lot of attention to the bare skin along your neckline, gaze running up the column of your throat. His eyes found yours when he finally spoke and god, they were the same colour as the scotch he just shotted.  

“Keep the change, honey.” Steve smiled again, a smug thing that made you aware of how warm your cheeks were. Then he slid on a pair of sunglasses he took from his shirt pocket and pushed his hair back with a hand, nudging his friend to drink up before they both slid off the stools. “Just make sure it goes in your own pocket, okay?”

You gaped at him. The Lake House’s policy when it came to tips - no matter how generous - was for them to be placed in a jar in the back office, ready to be split between staff, however hard individuals had worked, or not worked, that shift. 

The money burnt your fingers. “Um, that’s very generous but I can’t—”

Steve lifted a navy sweater he’d draped on the back of his chair, crushing the soft fabric with one hand. He used the other to reach out, plucking the bills from your fingers so he could fold them all together. His gaze met yours when he leaned back over the bar, unblinking, knuckles grazing the bare skin above your chest when he tucked the money into the neckline of your dress. It stayed there, hidden and you had to snap your jaw shut when Steve grinned at you before he pulled away. 

He raised a finger to his lips, like you were sharing a secret and not a sackable offence and his friend snorted, like he’d seen it all before. Maybe he had. 

“See you next time, honey,” Steve drawled, fishing keys out of his pocket. The silver logo of BMW glinted in the low lighting. “Thanks for the drinks.”

That was the first time you met Steve Harrington. 

Just to touch your face

The next time, he was with a group of people in the smoking lounge, all of them loud, most of them dirty rich and he had a girl on his lap. A waifish thing, pretty and delicate with a ruby pendant that settled in the dip of her chest. She held a martini glass aloft, one that you had to refill and you cursed The Lake House and its rules as your heels taptaptapped across the marble tiles. The hem of your dress swished across your thighs, your hand held a gold tray and the fresh martini swirled in its glass atop it, a well practised movement that made sure none of it spilled. The olive inside tumbled around gin and vermouth. 

Inside of the lounge, smoke billowed. Cigars and cigarettes poised between fingertips, hanging from lips that couldn’t help but spill secrets about their dirty businesses, the people they slept with before, the people they’d bed tonight. Nobody moved out of your way as you squeezed past tables and between the low sofas, leather and velvet brushing the backs of your thighs until you were able to present Steve Harrington’s lap warmer with her new drink. 

She took it from your tray, replaced it with her empty glass and said nothing. It was her hand on Steve’s chest that caused him to look away from the men he was talking with, a hushed sounding discussion about money in Monaco, about the company and its takings for that summer. He frowned at the girl and her pawing until he caught sight of you, his lips lifting in a smile that seemed more dangerous than welcoming. 

You smiled back, polite to a fault, throat going dry when you watched Steve’s gaze drop to that bare expanse of skin above your neckline. It wasn’t obscene, it wasn’t even suggestive. In fact, there was barely any amount of cleavage on show at all per the clubs rules but Steve was fixated on a freckle below your collarbone and the feel of his eyes on you made you fidget. 

You tucked the tray under one arm and tried not to shuffle on the spot. “Can I get you anything, sir?”

There was something in Steve’s reaction to your question. Maybe it was the ‘sir,’ the way you tipped your head towards him when you said it, soft and gentle and pretty. He knew you had to call all the members of the club such niceties but Steve’s eyes flashed and his lips parted, the hand he had on the arm of the sofa curling around the leather a little tighter. 

“A Macallan,” he asked, just like the first time. “No—”

“No ice,” you finished for him, nodding. “I’ll bring that right over.”

You blew out a breath when you turned, heels clicking on the marble as you made your way back to the bar. The lights were dimmed throughout the club in the evening, wall sconces letting out a warm glow, the huge fireplace in the main lounge roaring, popping and cracking with wooden logs. The whole place smelled like pine, like cedar and smoke and expensive leather. Women laughed softly, hanging off their husbands arms, dripping in pearls, in jewels, in false pretences. You smiled nicely at passing club members as you poured Steve’s drink, hands a little shaky from you out down to missing your lunch break, not excitement.

Definitely not nerves. 

You placed the chilled glass back on the tray, amber liquid shining inside the crystal, and made your way to the smoking lounge. Steve was alone when you returned, his lap empty, the girl gone. Not just from his lap, but from the room entirely. You scanned the lounge, expecting to see her on her way back, maybe with a complaint about the drink you made her, just to make you feel small but no - she’d been removed. Your heart skipped, an awful stuttering feeling that you didn’t want to feel. Lowering the tray, you offered Steve his drink, gaze cast down as you felt his on you the entire time. Steve leaned up, too close, taking his drink and smiling at you. 

You were just about to leave when:

“Why don’t you join me?”

The rest of the room was as loud as it was before, music under voices, laughter mixed with a saxophone record, conversations in the smoke. But Steve’s voice rang out almost too clearly from amongst it all. Still, you blinked at him, lips parting in surprise. “Sorry?”

Steve nodded at the seat next to him as he sank back into the couch, an arm thrown over the back of it as he took a sip of his scotch. The watch on his wrist caught the low light as he ripped the glass against his lips, cheeks flushed from the log burner. 

He was dressed in what you assumed he’d deem a little more casual than the last time you saw him. A black silk shirt, short sleeved and with the top few buttons undone again. No visible label, no ostentatious brand name on the chest but you knew well enough by then to know that just meant it was even more expensive. Black trousers, tailored for him and a pair of black boots with a sharp toe. His hair was less styled, maybe from the way his lost friend had been running her fingers through it earlier. Strands of it fell into his eyes and you swallowed hard when you realised you were staring. 

“Take a seat,” Steve asked again, lips curling up in amusement at your flustered expression. 

You blinked at him before you remembered to stand back up straight, tucking the tray back under your arm and hoping that none of the club's managerial staff were lingering nearby. You’d already spent too long away from the bar. “I, um, I can’t. I’m sorry,” you pressed your lips together and tried not to look too regretful. “I'm working.”

Steve snorted, a sound that should’ve been more unattractive than it was but it only made you want to hear what he had to say. He took another pull of his drink, barely wincing when the burn of it trickled down his throat. You did the maths in your head, wondering how it felt to be swallowing seventy dollar sips. He raised his brows and shrugged, looking around theatrically.

“And?” The boy smiled, equal parts pretty and smug. 

You were a little flustered, both at how nice he looked when he smiled and how bold he was being. You opened and closed your lips before parting them again, another polite smile there. “I need to get back to the bar,” you explained. “I’ll get into tr—”

“Trouble?” Steve finished. He shook his head and grinned, a megawatt thing that made you understand that, yes, all the rumours were true. That the famed Harrington Charm was very much a thing. But fuck, his father didn’t smile at you like that. In fact, he didn’t smile at all. “Oh, honey. No one gets in trouble unless I say so. Worried Frederick is gonna fire you?”

Steve dropped the name of your manager like they were friends. They probably were. He looked at you expectantly over the rim of his glass as he took another sip, licking the liquid from his lips. You wondered if he tasted as expensive as his liquor choices. 

You nodded, shrugging, grasping for a reason to say no to this boy - this man. The line at the bar was growing, annoyed looking men clicking their fingers at a flustered looking new girl who was trying to pour champagne into a wine glass. Guilt gnawed at your stomach. 

“He won’t fire you,” Steve assured. He patted the leather next to him, gold ring glinting in the warm light. “C’mon. Sit. I want to talk to you.”

You couldn’t help yourself. 

“Do you always get what you want?” You said it quietly, watching Steve’s lips curl into a grin when he heard. 

Another smile, mega watt, just for you. He tipped his head back and laughed, a pretty sounding thing that made the muscles down his neck stand out, chin tilted up to the gold leafed ceiling. 

“Yeah,” he told you, eyes dancing, cheeks flushed from the fire, the lights, the scotch. “I do.” 

You shouldn’t have done it. You weren’t allowed. There were strict rules about staff mingling with club members - fuck, it was written in red ink on your contract. You were too used to some of the clientele pushing the limits, trying to soften your boundaries with wads of cash, talks of a private plane to some European city where their wife didn’t like to visit. Older men, rich men, business men, family men. All looking for someone young and easily led and agreeable to have fun with between meetings and luncheons, someone to light their cigar and top up their drink for them. They liked to look at you like something to eat up, to chew up, to spit out when they were done and Frederick inevitably hired someone new and younger and prettier. 

You’d seen it happen before. Girls sucked into the lifestyle they could never have, coming into work with new shoes, red bottomed heels with their uniform dress, a Chanel lipstick in their purse, a Porsche waiting outside for them after their shift finished and in the end, a scorned wife in the dining room ready to throw a drink over them. 

You’d seen it all.  

But Steve Harrington was looking at you with so much intrigue. A pretty smile behind his tiny glass of three hundred dollar scotch, messy hair, bright eyes, that black silk shirt that looked easy to slip your fingers into. He was younger, more subtle with it all but the easy confidence in which he spoke to you had you squeezing your thighs together and wondering if your chest would stop feeling as tight. 

It didn’t. 

You sat down. 

Steve grinned, victorious and he moved against the leather sofa so he was sitting back against the arm, turned to face you fully. He brought one foot up to rest on his other knee, hand curling around his leg, and from there you could see the tiny brand on his loafers, a little gold insignia. Yves Saint Laurent. You wanted to laugh. His shoes cost more than you made in three months. 

“What’s your name?” Steve asked. 

You wore the same gold plated pin that every other staff member wore. The Lake House engraved on it along with the logo, a stupidly elaborate key. Underneath, your name was printed in bold letters, but Steve wasn’t looking at it. He was watching your face, brows raised expectantly. He wanted to hear you speak. 

Pressing the tray to your lap, you lingered on the edge of the couch, eyes darting around for your boss, or worse, the girl this man was last seen with. Was it his girlfriend? Did he have a wife? You weren’t sure how old Steve was, but you didn’t see a ring on his wedding finger, not that that meant much in a place like The Lake House. Wedding bands frequented coat pockets more than fingers here. 

You swallowed and told him your name, your voice cracking with nerves that you tried to laugh at but that came out wobbly too. Your shyness made Steve grin a little wider, his wide hands curling around his ankle as he lounged back against the cushions and appraised you with a look that shouldn’t have been proper for public. 

He repeated your name back to you and it sounded so much sweeter on his lips. He said it slowly, a low murmur that made your tummy clench, like he was tasting it out, tasting it on his tongue. “That’s a pretty name,” he said. “I’m Steve Harr—”

You laughed, sharp and surprised. “I know who you are, Mr Harrington.”

If Steve was shocked by his news, he didn’t show it. It was your job to know the members, after all. Their names, their families, the work they were in. Their favourite table, their favourite drink, the time they liked to dine, their preferred slot for playing a round of golf. So instead he smiled and nodded before holding out a hand. 

You took it and he squeezed gently, shaking it politely as he said, “well then, please call me Steve.”

You nodded, wondering if that was allowed. None of this was allowed. Fuck, you glanced around again, eyes a little wide, wondering if Frederick was in his office, god forbid, watching you through the cameras. Steve must’ve noticed this, because he swallowed down the last of his scotch and set the empty glass on the table. You’d have to move it soon. 

“Relax.” His arm stretched out along the back of the sofa, tanned and corded with lithe muscles. His fingers tapped a beat on the leather, close to your shoulder. “Nothing bad is going to happen.”

You laughed, a shaky, ironic sounding thing. You forgot who you were talking to, just for a second, your heart pumping. “That’s easy for you to say.” You swore then, a pained noise, because Frederick was marching out of his office, three piece suit right across his shoulders and his pocket watch swinging.

He was coming over. 

You made a noise similar to a squeak, drinks tray clutched to your chest and you made to jump up but Steve’s hand stopped you. Warm and wide, it took up most of your knee and you blinked at it in surprise. He didn’t move it when you stared at him and he still didn’t move it when Frederick approached, red faced and nostrils flaring. 

“Mr Harrington, sir, it’s so good to see you back at The Lake House,” your manager began, his voice a well practised purr. There was a slight British tinge to his voice, one you knew was fake. “Please take my sincerest apologies for you being bothered. I’ll be asking my staff to join me in the office for a much required conversation about professional boundaries. Please excu—”

“Fred,” Steve greeted warmly, his smile much more forced than the one he’d been giving you. Frederick twitched. “Nice to see you.” Steve’s hand still covered your lower thigh and squeezed slightly, in what you thought was supposed to be reassuring but his thumb on the inside of your knee made you too warm. “No need for anything like that, actually.” Steve said your name, wrapped it around his tongue and licked over his lip like he was savouring it before he continued. “—was invited to sit with me.”

The clubhouse manager hardened, a flash of annoyance going over his features and his neck grew more red in anger. He smiled through it, a tight lipped thing that Steve grinned at and you had to duck your head, panic ripping through your body. You couldn’t lose this job. 

“How nice,” Frederick finally ground out. He clasped his hands in front of him and glared at you from the sides of his eyes before he smiled at Steve again. “I hope my staff is doing her utmost to keep you pleased, Mr Harrington. Do not hesitate to ask for anything.”

You hated the way he said it, like any club member could get anything they wanted from you, just because they had enough money to be here. It made you square off your shoulders and lift your head, emboldened. Steve was watching you, that look of intrigue on his face once more. He nodded at Frederick and then gestured to his empty glass. 

“Actually, Freddie, could you be a pal and fetch me another?” His tone was too polite, bordering on patronising. Frederick’s tight smile grew tighter, a thin line that stretched across his ruddy face until you feared it might split. “A Macallan, no ice. Anything for the lady?” Steve turned to you and winked, a subtle thing that let you know everything was under control. 

But you knew better than to rock the boat, better than that, you knew not to drink on the job. Especially from the club’s bar. The only thing you could afford from behind the mahogany counter was the one thing Steve always refused. Ice. 

“No, thank you,” you murmured. 

Your manager had no choice but to walk away, his back rigid, proverbial steam coming out from his ears. You watched him snap Steve’s order at a poor, unsuspecting barman who then brought it back over on another shiny tray. He raised his brows at you when Steve thanked him for it and you shrugged, not knowing what was going on either. 

When he left, Steve turned back to you, leaning back into the sofa. He looked more tanned that the last time you’d seen him. Maybe it was the dim lighting, the warm glow from the sconces along the walls, the amber coloured shade on the lamp beside him. Maybe he’d just been back to Italy. 

Monaco. France. Spain. 

He took a sip, eyes dancing over you and when he brought the drink back down to rest on his knee, he spoke. “Have you worked here long?”

It took you a second to realise he was speaking to you again, his voice lower and softer than it had been with your boss. You noticed Steve has a habit of direct eye contact, always looking right into your own eyes as he spoke. It was a little jarring, the confidence, that bold type of charm that must come with always getting what you want. 

“Uh, yeah,” you scrunched your nose, trying to remember months and years. “Three years now, or close enough.”

“I should’ve come back sooner,” Steve quipped back, his smile easy, his eyes roaming over you. His ring tapped against his glass of scotch and you didn’t know what to do. Was he flirting with you? “Do you live in town?”

“Couple miles out, smaller place near Sugar Creek.” You weren’t sure why you were telling him this. 

“Yeah, I know it,” Steve replied. “Makes sense, why I hadn’t seen you around before. Did you go to school ‘round here?”

You felt like you were being interviewed. A handsome, rich man asking the questions, sitting easy in his throne and you had an awful, awful urge to please him with your answers. To do good. To be praised. 

“I went to St. Mary’s High in Green Bay,” you swallowed, your tongue feeling too big for you mouth. Nerves bubbled in your stomach. “Then I was supposed to move to California— Berkeley.” You winced, remembering. 

Steve looked surprised, eyebrows raised, nodding. “What was your major?”

“Social law.”

Steve hummed. “Smart girl.” There it was. That praise. You tingled with it. “What happened?”

You heard the words he didn’t say, the unasked question. ‘Why aren’t you there? Why are you here? Wearing that silly little dress and heels that hurt your feet and that fake, fake smile that makes your cheeks hurt so much you want to scream into your pillow when you get home every night?’

You pondered over what to say. How truthful to be. How blunt, how ugly and honest. Shit, you could’ve said. Family, parents, money, bad luck, worse circumstances. Housing, a broken down car, an apartment that fell through at the last minute, a scholarship that didn’t happen, an aunt that got sick, a mom who didn’t like to let go. 

Instead you smiled politely and said: “life.” 

Steve gave you a wry smile in return, one that told you he could see through it all and he knew exactly what you wanted to say. Like he knew you weren’t allowed to and you were playing by the rules. Frederick was at the bar, staring at your back until you felt your bones crunch with the weight of it. 

Steve finished his drink, slid his glass onto the table and ran a hand through his hair. “It was nice to talk to you,” he said simply. He took your hand, not to shake it like last time, no. Instead he held it for a beat or two, and when he took his away, neatly folded bills were left between your fingers. They burned. 

“For the table service,” he said as a way of explaining. You didn’t know if he meant the drink or you. “I’ll see you next time, honey.”

And then he left. You watched him saunter through the bar, nodding and smiling at people who greeted him, taking his jacket from someone at the door and then he was gone. 

That was the second time you met Steve Harrington. 

If you walk away, I'd beg you on my knees to stay

A week later you were clocking into work with the intention of heading to the staff locker rooms, ready to wrestle yourself into that black dress the club called a uniform. It was early afternoon on a Wednesday and The Lake House was quiet, a few greying women you knew to be part of the book club were sat having tea by a window, a group of men leaving the gym, sweat barely there, but the towels over their shoulders had designer logos stitched in the corners. 

Frederick found you with your heels in your hand, a look of disgust on your face as you kicked off your sneakers. He wasn’t even supposed to be in the girls locker room, but he shook his head at you and took the stilettos from your hand. 

“No,” he looked irritated, as if you should’ve known better. “You’re on the green today.”

You screwed up your nose at him. You were never on the green and you told him as such. “The schedule has me in the bar all day.”

Frederick huffed as if such questions were an inconvenience to him. He ducked, rooting around in your locker as his shoulder bumped your knee and he came back with the uniform you hardly had to wear. A white tennis skirt, bordering on too short with pleats that made the men tip well, even as their wives glared. A forest green sweater to match, the same colour as the club logo, white sneakers that were brand new from never being used. 

“Special request,” your boss told you in lieu of a real explanation. “Get dressed, they’re waiting. Hurry.”

You gaped at him as he bundled the clothes into your arms. “Who’s waiting?” You called after him. “What hole?”

“Any of them,” Frederick yelled back as he walked out of the locker room and down the hall. His voice echoed back to you, a daunting thing. “He booked out the whole course.”

Driving the beer cart over the green was always a nerve wracking experience. The drinks rattled noisily and the breeze kept catching at your skirt, threatening to flip it up over your thighs as you tried to manoeuvre the buggy around the man made dunes and valleys. You weren’t sure where you were driving to, or who you were going to meet, but you kept an eye out at each hole for someone, anyone. 

It could only really be one of two people, you guessed. Mr Donaldson was harmless enough, but he had a decade or three on your own age. Divorced and the owner of a film company in Atlanta, the man liked to frequent the clubhouse during the summers he spent back in Hawkins, pretending he was visiting his young daughter when he really preferred to lounge at the bar during your shift, trying to convince you that you just needed to see his condo in Georgia. 

The only other person you could think of that would request you and you alone, was someone you haven't seen since the week before. You’d looked for him, watched the cars coming into the lot to be dropped off for the valet’s to park but you hadn’t seen any BMW’s. Steve didn’t visit the bar, didn’t spend any afternoons in the smoking lounge - you didn’t even see him with Jonathan Byers at the poker night on Tuesday. 

You thought he might’ve left town again. Back to whatever European city he’d decided on for the week, for the month. Maybe he’d gone back to New York, maybe he had meetings. Maybe he had a girlfriend, one for each country. 

Mr Donaldson was the harmless option. Annoying, sure. But bearable. Safe. Mr Harrington… he wasn’t harmless at all. You knew which one you wanted to see. 

Sure enough, you turned the corner to hole eight to see a group of young men talking and laughing around their own golf cart. You saw some familiar faces, all known for being young, handsome and rich. 

Billy Hargrove of Hargrove’s Vintage Motors. Crude, sharp witted, too flirtatious, he was the next in line to take over his father’s company and fortune, selling refurbished vehicles for prices that made your eyes water. 

Jonathan Byers was there too, a young mogul who was up and coming in the art world. Once a critic, his photography had shot to fame after some black and white nudes of his then girlfriend were ‘leaked’ to the paper he once worked for. His family paid it all off as some sort of art nouveau exhibition, a look into scandal and sex in 30mm film. He lost his girlfriend but landed a gallery in the downtown neighbourhood of San Francisco. 

Eddie Munson, someone you actually knew from high school. A decent guy, there because he worked for it, illegally, sure - but didn’t they all? One way or another? Selling weed and who knows what else to the majority of the population of Hawkins made for a popular man, but Eddie brought in bank when he started selling to the elite, the rich kids of Hawkins High who preferred powder at their parties. He got into The Lake House with cold, hard cash instead of his family name and he stayed in the background of it, usually.

A few other men lingered, clutching at clubs and practising their swings, Wall Street leeches that were stuck at the bottom of the totem pole but still decided they had enough money in their daddies bank to be able to click their fingers at you and smack your ass as their Rolex’s jingled.  

Amongst them all, in black slacks and a white polo, was Steve Harrington. Sunglasses over his eyes, leather golfing gloves on his hands, he was smirking at something Eddie said before his head snapped to you. In fact, everyone was staring at you. 

You tried to keep your head high and your expression neutral, turning off the engine to the golf cart and doing your best to swing your legs out without flashing anything you weren’t supposed to. You kept your hands on your skirt, smoothing it down, hoping that you could get through this shift without any embar—

A long whistle, salacious and eager, coming from Billy Hargrove. A few of the boy’s laughed and Billy grinned, sharklike, letting his eyes crawl from your toes to your tits. “Damn, Harrington. You paid for one of the good ones, huh? C’mere, Sugar, daddy needs a drink—”

You were frozen, standing awkwardly by the back of the buggy where the drinks were kept in a cooler, a thousand dollar pick ‘n’ mix of whisky, scotch and gin for the men to choose from. There wasn’t any Bud Light at The Lake House, not even on the green. 

But Billy didn’t get much further into his catcalls, stopped by a hand on his elbow that tugged him away from you and the other men. The snickering stopped, a heavy silence falling over the group as Steve took Billy aside with nothing more than a touch to his arm. You watched as Steve slid his sunglasses off, his hard gaze on the other boy as he whispered something too low for you to hear. But Billy listened, albeit with a glare in his eyes, but he nodded, sharp and just once. His jaw flexed. 

You didn’t know what was happening. You didn’t know what to do. You found Eddie’s gaze, saw his soft smile, knowing. He winked at you, twirling a club in his hand as he waited for the game to continue. And it did, once Steve seemingly dismissed Hargrove. The other men started talking again, easy and light like nothing had happened, requesting different drinks from you that you pulled out of the cooler, ice making your hands wet and numb. 

And all the while Steve lingered at the back of them, sitting in the driver's side of the other golf cart, waiting with his eyes on you. He didn’t approach once Jonathan left with his glass of Glenfiddich, in fact, he didn’t make out like he wanted a drink at all. So you stood by the cart like you were supposed to and watched the men take turns at swinging a stick at a ball, yelling profanities when they missed, yelling more profanities when they didn’t. 

You couldn’t help let your gaze wander to Steve, the picture of luxury as he leaned back in the leather seat, one leg out of the cart and stretched across neatly clipped grass. He was lighting a cigarette, held between his lips as he lowered his gaze to his cupped hands, gold zippo flickering with an amber flame. He looked up as he blew out the smoke, eyes finding yours, grinning when you startled. 

Steve took another drag and asked, “you not comin’ to say hi?”

Three years of ingrained obedience made your feet move forward, doing as you were told at the words of another rich man. You felt unsure, walking across the green empty handed, but Steve hadn’t asked for a drink, so you stopped just shy of where his leg was stretched out of the cart. If you moved any closer, you would’ve been between his spread knees. You clasped your hands in front of you, pressed against your little, white skirt. It lifted a little with the breeze, a sharper wind than the day before that told the town fall was coming. 

Steve watched the hem catch and fall back against your thighs, brown eyes tracking the movement to see what little new skin he could watch but apart from that, he didn’t make any of the lewd comments his friend had. 

“Mr Harrington,” you said as a greeting. “Good afternoon, can I get you anything to drink?” You were polite to a fault, well trained, good mannered, an expert in making yourself small and only seen when spoken to. 

Steve ignored your question. He inhaled his cigarette again, cheeks hollowing out, lips pursing, jaw sharpening. He smiled at you as he blew smoke out of the side of his mouth, the wind taking it away from your face. “I told you to call me Steve,” he said and his voice was quiet, a low thing that made your face heat up. You tried to apologise, but he kept talking. “How are you?”

You blinked, surprised at his question. You didn’t think you’d ever been asked that while at work. “Uh, I’m fine, thank you. How’re you?”

Steve nodded and flicked ash onto the grass, letting it sink into the course. “I’m great, thank you. Better now you’re here.” He grinned when you fidgeted, lips parting, hands unsure what to do. You twisted your fingers together a little tighter. “You okay being out here?” Steve let the cigarette balance between his lips and you watched it move as he spoke around it. “I can let you go back inside, if you’d like.”

Normally such words would be used as a trick, a trap, a warning. A subtle threat from an unhappy customer that would ensure you did as they wanted, even if it meant staying later than you were being paid for, adding extra time to their spa passes, even if it risked your own employment. But Steve looked and sounded genuine, his eyes watching you as you worked up the courage to tell him the truth.  

“It’s okay,” you finally said, voice betraying how shy you felt. You sounded confident, in control. You felt nothing of the sort, especially when the boy grinned again, wider this time and god, he looked like he owned the world and everything in it. 

“Excellent.” Steve flicked the stub of his cigarette away and pushed his sunglasses back onto the bridge of his nose. He tilted his head at the empty seat beside him and said: “jump in.”

You stuttered over an excuse, an explanation, eyes a little wide as you looked back over to the rest of the group, the drinks cart you were supposed to man all day. “I— I can’t? I’ve to stay with the cart all day, if I leave it I’ll get into—”

Steve cut you off with a tsk and a shake of his head. His voice turned to liquid gold as he spoke, rich and sweet and awfully condescending. It made you drip. “What did I tell you last time, huh, honey? No one’s gonna tell you off unless it’s me. Now c’mon, you don’t wanna spend some time with me?”

You could’ve stayed. You were sure Steve wouldn’t have been mad. You should’ve stayed. You were breaking rules. All of them. But Steve was grinning at you from the front seat of the golf cart, tanned arms flexed as his leather gloves gripped the wheel and all of his friends played pretend, like they couldn’t hear what was going on behind them as they took another swing. 

You should’ve stayed. Maybe went back into the clubhouse, took off your sweater and skirt and played nice behind the bar in your usual attire, serving clients old enough to be your grandfather as they slipped fifty dollar bills into your hand just so you’d lean over for them again. 

You got in the cart. 

Steve positively beamed, a hot smirk that stretched across his pretty face and you barely heard the whistles and yowls of his friends as he sped away as fast as the buggy would allow. He went off course, cruising alongside the green and heading towards the path between the woods that took you to lovers lake. 

“Feeling bad today, Berkeley?” The nickname caused your heart to jump, confirmation that he’d been listening the last time you both spoke, that he’d remembered. 

But still guilt and worry gnawed at your chest and you looked around at the empty course, half expecting to see Frederick chasing after you both in the drinks cart you’d abandoned so carelessly. What did it matter, really? The price of everything in the cart was included in whatever it had cost for Steve to book out the entire fucking course for the day. A stolen scotch or two didn’t matter. Not really. 

You didn’t know how to reply, so you didn’t say anything at all, just sitting by Steve’s side like a baby deer caught in headlights, like a good little girl that wanted to know if it really was true, if Steve really could keep you out of the trouble he was leading you into. The boy must’ve seen your bleak expression ‘cause he laughed, pushing back the hair that the wind blew across his forehead. 

“Honey, it’s fine,” Steve glanced over at you as he turned down the dirt path to the lake. You could see his eyes shining at you through his shades, amusement making them glitter. “I promise.”

So you nodded and tried to smile, doing your best to relax into the seat and when the cart bumped over a fallen branch that Steve didn’t bother to avoid, the jostle of it made your thigh bump into his. He grasped at your knee as an apology of sort, murmuring something you couldn’t hear over the wind, but his palm engulfed your bare knee once more and fuck, fuck, you couldn’t think of anything else. His gold ring looked pretty against your skin, his tanned hand complimenting the dough of your thigh nicely and you tried to remember how to talk. 

“Is there something you needed my help with at the lake, Mr Harrington?” You didn’t think Steve needed any help on how to work speed boats or jet skis, but still, you weren’t sure what else to say. 

Steve laughed again, a pretty sound that made your toes curl and he slowed the cart to a stop at a shaded area along the shore, far enough away from the sandy embankment that the men on the lake in their fishing boats wouldn’t be able to see you. “C’mon now, I thought you were a smart thing,” Steve pouted at you as he turned off the cart's engine. His hand left your leg and you mourned the loss of it, heart jumping again when his hand curled around the back of your seat instead. “What did I tell you to call me?”

Your chest warmed like you were back in middle school, getting scolded by a teacher who you didn’t want to disappoint. It bloomed across your neck and face, only getting hotter as the entire sensation of it made you squeeze your clasped hands between your thighs. Steve’s gaze dropped to your lap, a quick glance down that made the corners of his lips curve up. 

“Steve,” you said quietly, sounding shy, reserved. Your body was giving away too much, you couldn’t let your voice join in. 

Steve nodded and the hand that was resting against your seat moved a little, brushing against your sweater until he could rub a thumb against your shoulder blade. “See, she’s a smart girl after all, isn’t she?”

You could only nod. What the fuck was going on? Hidden by the trees, on the edge of the water that was across from where you usually spent weekday afternoons. You could see The Lake House from here, could practically feel Frederick’s gaze out of the bay windows, boring a hole into the middle of your forehead as you sat with one of the most affluent clients on the rolodex. Steve Harrington had his arm around your back, his eyes on your bare thighs, his other hand ghosting along the hem of your skirt. He pulled at it, bringing it down the mere centimetre it had ridden up, knuckles skimming your too hot skin. 

He didn’t look away from it when he asked you: “And if you are a clever, little thing, d’you know why I brought you here?”

If it had been dark, if it had been closer to night, if the grounds had been empty and the lake was still, maybe you would’ve felt more scared than you were. If it had been anyone else, maybe you would have been sitting there in the shadow of the trees and cursing yourself out for being so stupid. Going with this boy - this man - letting him take you off alone and away from prying eyes, letting him touch your leg and get too close. It was stupid, wasn’t it? Despite what Steve said, this wasn’t smart, was it?

But you found that you didn’t care. You really didn’t fucking care. Not one bit. 

You shrugged, cheeks warm, too wary to say anything out of turn, too cautious to say anything too bold for fear of losing your job. Or worse, being rejected. 

Steve pouted. “No?” He tutted and sighed, a dramatic sounding thing and he let his hand fell back onto your leg, higher this time. You held your breath as he skimmed his palm upupup until his fingertips disappeared under the hem of your skirt that he’d just pulled down for you. “Well, I wanted to personally invite you the poker game with me tomorrow night. You know the one, don’t you? It’s in the lounge, nine o’clock.”

You tried to steady your breathing, exhaling sharply from your nose as Steve’s fingers wandered, never going higher, going slow and soft enough that you could slap his hand away if you wanted to. You didn’t. “I’m working that shift,” you whispered. 

His eyes met yours, his grin blinding. “Good, you’ll be there then.”

“Working,” you reminded him, the last syllable of the word hitching in your mouth as his fingers passed over your leg once more. You felt the cool metal of his gold band on the inside of your thigh. “I’ll be there to work.”

Steve nodded, like he understood, like he wasn’t planning to monopolise every minute of your shift, wondering how long he could keep you by his side at the poker table before you got too worried and scrambled back to the bar. “Of course.” He pulled back a little, his nose too close to brushing yours as you couldn’t help but lean in too, head tilted up to his like you did it all the time. “And then after that,” he took his hand from your thigh and you tried not to cry about it, ‘cause he used the back of his hand to push your hair away from your face instead. “You could come back to mine?”

 Oh, fuck. You couldn’t help the smile that fluttered across your face, the giddy, shy laugh that followed. You were flustered and it showed, and as much as it made Steve smile back, it made him hard as a fucking rock. 

“Shit, uh, god, sorry,” you shook your head, as if to clear it. You felt fuzzy, hazy, under Steve’s spell as he kept smiling at you, clearly entertained by your flushed face, your dazed expression. “I’m really not supposed to do that.”

You didn’t say no, Steve noted. You didn’t say that you didn’t want to. In fact, from the way your eyes dropped to his lips over and over again, Steve was pretty sure he could seal this deal with you faster than his last visit meeting with that winery in Sorrento. 

That wasn’t to say you were easy, no. Just real fucking cute. He had a forty percent share in that vineyard and soon enough, he’d have you too. 

“What?” He played dumb, all syrupy sweet smiles and his voice all soft. He traced a circle around your knee. “You can’t see me out of work? Surely Fredrick isn’t that much of a tyrant, honey.”

You squirmed under his gaze, the one that made you feel like he was undressing you. You were too warm and his innocent fingertips on your knee were making you wanna drag his hand back up your thigh and underneath the hem of your skirt. “We’re not supposed to involve ourselves with club members.” Your words felt dull in your mouth, heavy and cotton like. 

Pointless. 

Steve pouted, lips pursing like he was trying to get you to kiss him. He tutted; his warm, wide palm curling around your thigh again. He squeezed gently and your mouth fell open, panting, an invitation. “What if I want to be involved with you, hm? What then, honey?”

You let your head fall back a little, lips wet and parted, eyes closing briefly, because Steve let his fingers slide up a little further, the tips of his middle and pointer finger brushing, just fucking barely, across the cotton of your underwear. You knew you were wet and you knew that he did too. How could he not? The damp fabric dragged across his digits and you saw the realisation in his eyes, that flash of heat, that curl of his lips that made his smile a smirk. 

“Remember what I told you?” He let his lips fall into ‘o’ at your small noise, an almost whine that sounded blissed out. God, he could have fun with you. “Do you? C’mon smart girl, what do I always get?”

You blinked at him, sucking in a breath as you fought the urge to grind down on his hand. Steve took his fingers away, the damp tips of them trailing back down the inside of your thigh as he waited for an answer. 

“You told me,” you took another breath, looking around quickly, burning at the sight of the boats on the lake, the blurry people across the water by the clubhouse, sitting outside for afternoon tea. “You told me you always get what you want.” 

That was the third time you met Steve Harrington. 

Don't blame me, love made me crazy

The night after, you’d spent too long getting ready for your shift. Too long in the shower, letting the steam fill the tiny room, honey and peach scented body wash running in rivers down your bare skin, your razor chasing after it as you did your best to make every crevice of your body silky smooth. 

You told yourself you weren’t going home with Steve Harrington. You told yourself you couldn’t, that you weren’t allowed to. 

But you took the time to layer mascara on your lashes, fixing any smudges before finishing your makeup with a layer of gloss on your lips, tinted a rosy pink and drawing more attention to them than you’d usually want. Black dress, clubhouse mandated stockings and heels, freshly polished. You left for work with your heart in the back of your throat. 

The Lake House was quieter than usual on poker nights, mostly because each guest had to buy their way in. All players had to place a ten thousand dollar deal in with the croupier, pockets emptied and jackets checked at the door. It made the smoking lounge feel bigger, men seated around a large poker table, the dealer in the middle, chips stacked high and cigar smoke lingering in the air. It smelled like tobacco, leather, expensive cologne and money, and god, the tips were good. 

There were familiar faces around the table, Billy, Jonathan, Mr Donaldson, a few other men from the club that liked to order expensive drinks and call you things like ‘sweet cheeks’ and ‘sugar.’ The room was dimly lit, a soft amber glow that was kept in the room with closed drapes, velvet lined chairs, and bar staff that were trained not to speak unless spoken to. Everything was hushed and whispered, men talking money over glasses of liquor, cigars in one hand, their dealt hand in the other. 

Then there was Steve, coming into the room a little late with another suit on, sharp and with a matching black shirt underneath, looking like he didn’t give a shit. He didn’t look at you as he took his seat, smirking at something Jonathan said and sliding a wad of stacked bills towards the dealer. He got his chips, he got his cards and the game began. 

It took a whole twenty minutes before he raised his hand, a two finger salute that let you know he wanted a drink. You beat the other waitress to it, slipping in front of the new start - Vickie something - and your heels clicked as you made your way over to Steve. You already had a drink on your tray, poured the minute you saw his hand go up, his eyes still on his hand. 

A Macallan, no ice. 

You placed the tumbler on the table in front of him, knees bending slightly to make sure it didn’t spill. Without warning, Steve’s hand snuck along the back of your thigh as you placed your tray under your arm, ready to walk away. Fingertips traced over the crease of your knee, ghosting over your stocking. You watched his gaze flicker to the drink he didn’t have to ask for, a slight curve to the corners of his lips as he smiled his approval. He leaned back, head tipped up to you so you had to bend down slightly to meet him. His hand was slipping up the back of your thigh the whole time, hidden from the rest of the room, from the other players, your boss in the corner. 

You bent at the waist, feeling your skirt rise up, feeling Steve’s hand do the same. His thumb ran along the crease below your ass, over the sliver of bare skin between your underwear and stockings. 

“Smart girl,” he whispered in the shell of your ear, making you burn. His voice was low and a little rough from hardly talking, only communicating with nods to the croupier, dead face glances at his opponents. His chips were stacked high for his efforts. “You look pretty. How ‘bout you just stay beside me, yeah?”

You weren’t supposed to. But you did. You watched as your boss frowned, as Vickie looked surprised. Beside Steve, Jonathan snickered quietly and across the table, Billy narrowed his eyes. 

“Breakin’ some rules?” He mouthed to Steve. 

Steve ignored him.

The night came to an end close to one o’clock, once the bar was almost dry and Steve had most of the money. He accepted the passive remarks about his poker face, his ability to lie through his damn teeth, how he didn’t need all that money anyways. Then there were the handshakes and slaps on the back, good natured talks and invites to lunches, chats about business opportunities and stocks. And all the while you tidied, putting away empty bottles of thousand dollar whisky, pouring hundred dollar glasses of Malbec down the drain. Cigar ash on the table, white powder tipped dollar notes that everyone pretended to not notice. Heavy tips on the table top, damp from spilled drinks, pushed into your apron pocket while the men around you tried to get a peek up your skirt. 

And then Steve was leaning over the bar top and still ignoring Billy. He was watching you clean, eyes tracking the way your hands slid the cloth over the mahogany, and while your cheeks warmed at his attention, you let him. You were off the clock, your shift over. Bar closed. 

Home time. Maybe. 

“—you even listenin’ to me, Harrington?” Billy sounded annoyed, words twisting on his tongue, whisky making them come out a little slower than he wanted them to. 

“No.” Steve’s reply was short and bored sounding. 

“I said, you fucker, that I need a ride. S’posed to be on a goddamn flight at five o’clock and this fuckin’ tequila is makin’ me piss like a fuckin’ racehor—”

Steve didn’t take his eyes off of you as he took his wallet from inside of his suit jacket pocket. Using two fingers, he offered Billy a fifty, holding the bill in front of the other man’s face. “Take a cab.”

Billy looked offended at the suggestion. Disgusted, actually. “A cab? What do I look like to you, huh? Huh? A fuckin’ peasant?”

Steve just shrugged and slapped the bill on the counter anyway. “I’m having company,” he told him. Then he drained the rest of the one drink he’d ordered from you all night and met your gaze straight on. “You ready?”

Not, ‘would you like to join me?’ Not, ‘would you like to come back to mine?’ No. Just a simple question. ‘Are you ready to go?’

You nodded. Yes, you were ready. 

Billy laughed, a sharp and mean thing as he looked between you and Steve. Then his gaze turned salacious, drunk and lazy as he took in your short dress, your shiny lips. He nudged Steve and nodded towards you. “You not sharing this time, Harrington?” He tutted. “What a shame.”

You didn’t know what to say. If you’d been at a bar in town, standing on either side of it, you’d have listened to the twitch in your hand and lifted it, letting your palm meet Billy Hargrove’s right cheek, regardless of how much money was in his wallet. But Frederick was by the door talking to Mr Donaldson about summers in the Bahamas and you couldn’t do shit. 

So you turned your back, polished another wine glass and slid it back onto its shelf. 

“You know,” you heard Steve murmur. His voice was low, controlled. Dangerous sounding. “You keep letting your mouth run like that, and I’ll make sure you don’t have a reason to get that five am flight. One call and there won’t be no fucking meeting in L.A, do you understand?”

You didn’t hear Billy’s reply. In fact, you weren’t sure there was one. Instead, Steve walked to the side of the bar and brushed some invisible lint off of his jacket as he waited for you to untie your apron. You hesitated, watching as Fredrick disappeared into his office and then, and only then, did you step out from behind the bar to join Steve, letting him place his hand on the small of your back and guide you out of the clubhouse. 

He made it too easy to break the biggest rule in the book. 

—————

Steve drove you to a townhouse on the edge of town, the opposite direction from your own home. He took you there in his BMW, a shiny maroon car that looked brand new, with leather seats and shiny detailing on the dash. He didn’t touch you in the car, he just opened the door for you to get in and get out, only offering a hand that you took as you stood on his driveway. 

His house was lit up by lights on either side of the huge garage, another by the double doors. Three floors, a water feature in the front yard, a security system at the entrance. Steve pressed some buttons before something buzzed and clicked, and he opened the door with no grand flourish, extending an arm for you to enter first. 

Everything was sleek and polished, not quite the bachelor pad you expected, but luxurious all the same. Wooden floors and a large fireplace in the living room, the leather and suede of the clubhouse swapped out for a huge sectional, covered in cushions and throws. There was art on the walls, scenes of Greek tragedies, half naked women with dreamy looks on their faces, full curves and thick thighs. A shiny kitchen that looked barely used, bottles of scotch and whisky and gin on a golden bar cart in the corner, a full wall of books surrounding the biggest television you’d seen. The house smelled like Steve, like his cologne, like new leather and oak. 

His footsteps echoed across the room as he strolled into the kitchen, an open plan thing that let you watch him from where you stood by the front door. Steve held up a bottle of wine. Red, a label you recognised from work, something that Frederick charged far too much money for. In your opinion. 

“Drink?” Steve asked. 

You nodded, stepping into the room a little more. There were a few lamps on, a warm flow from each that cast shadows over the floor, up the walls. The curtains were closed, heavy drapes that kept out the night, kept in the secrets. Like you. 

Steve appeared at your side, passing you a glass filled with a little ruby coloured wine. He grinned at your quiet thanks and offered his own for a toast. The glasses clinked and you took a sip, dark cherries and bitter chocolate swirling your senses, or at least, you were sure they would’ve if you hadn’t decided to gulp it down. Steve laughed softly and took your empty glass, setting it on the coffee table with his own. There was a stack of big books in the middle of it, something about American architecture and cars of the sixties, a candle that had never been lit and a cigar box with his initials engraved on the lid. 

“Here, sit,” Steve suggested and you sank into the sofa with him. The boy immediately lounged back into the cushions, arms stretched out over the back of it as he appraised you, head tilted to his side. “You don’t do this often, huh?”

You turned to him, puzzled, your hands sliding nervously up and down your bare legs. Your dress suddenly felt shorter than ever and with the way Steve was looking at you - hungry, predatory, bold - you weren’t sure if you wanted to tug the hem down to your knees or take the full thing off and drop it at his feet. 

“Do what?”

Steve gestured to himself, to the huge living room you felt a little bit lost in. He smirked, “go home with guys you barely know.”

You swallowed thickly, wondering if it would seem rude if you reached out and stole the rest of his wine. If you’d feel braver and bolder if you were to gulp down more Malbec, if the price tag on the bottle would feel better on your tongue. “Not usually,” you said. You left out the part about how you’d be fired on the spot if your boss found out who you were going home with. 

Steve smiled, eyes shining at you like he thought you were cute. He patted the space on the couch beside him. It felt like a million miles away from you. “Come over here,” he said softly. You noticed how he didn’t ask, or suggest. It was an order, as gentle as it was. “I won’t bite.”

You scoffed a little, enjoying the irony of his words despite how he’d looked at you all night, like he wanted to sink his teeth into you, like he wanted to just eat you up. “You won’t?” You asked him, doubtful, even as you slid closer, your thigh brushing his. 

Steve dropped his hand to your knee, fingertips barely brushing your skin as she skimmed up and down, up and down. Each pass got him closer to the hem of your dress and you thought back to yesterday, in that stupid golf cart by the edge of the lake. How easy you made it for him, head thrown back, chest heaving, legs spread. You wanted that again, the feeling of his teasing fingers brushing up against the front of your underwear, lace this time, and already damp. 

Steve flashed a grin, all teeth, more bite than a smile and you resisted the urge to clamp your thighs together, trapping his hand between. You’d never been this hot for a guy, never been this easy to fold. You felt delicate with Steve, ready to crumple, ready to fold. 

“Not on the first date, no,” he assured you. 

Your brows rose into your hairline. “This is a date?”

Steve flattened his palm against your thigh and squeezed, leaning into you, nose brushing your cheek until you ripped your head for him and it skimmed the line of your jaw. Your breathing changed too quickly, stuttering to a hitch until it picked up, your eyes closing as you felt Steve’s lips brush against you in the briefest of touches. It wasn’t even a kiss. 

“What did you think it was?” Steve whispered, his words hot against your neck. You could smell his cologne, rich and peppery, could feel the slight stubble on his jaw scrape against your throat and you were desperate now, you needed him to kiss you. “What did you think I invited you here for, honey?”

His hand was higher now, fingers under the hem of your dress and you wanted to fall into him, you wanted to crawl into his lap and spread your legs, get properly dirty for him and pull your dress up around your hips and show him how you liked to be touched. Although, you had a feeling he wouldn’t need much help. “I, I don’t know—” you interrupted yourself with a gasp, Steve’s fingertips running along the lace edge of your underwear, teasing the crease of your thigh. “A one night stand, maybe.”

The boy laughed, a soft noise that was buried in the crook of your neck and he finally, finally, put his mouth on you. He kissed sweetly at the spot under your ear, grinned against it when you squirmed at the feel of him and then dragged his parted lips down the column of your neck. You felt the tip of his tongue, a tiny touch, teasing, warm and wet. 

“Just one night?” Steve tutted, letting his fingers slip underneath the edge  of your underwear. You were an elastic band now, pulled too right, fraught with unspent energy, ready to snap at the tension. “What if I wanted to keep you, hm?” His fingers ghosted over your folds, already slick and wet for him. If he was affected by it, he didn’t show it. He pulled at you gently, spreading you for him, a single digit touching your needy clit as he kept you open. It was filthy. “You’re too pretty for one night, aren’t you?”

You didn’t know what you were agreeing to, but you nodded anyway. You were sure you already looked wrecked, head slack and leaning against Steve’s shoulder, his lips now dotting over your hairline. Legs open, underwear pushed up and to the side by Steve’s hand, his one finger sliding up and down the seam of your cunt. The rubber band was getting tighter. 

Steve hummed, a deep, warm noise that rumbled in his chest. “Look at me, honey,” he ordered and you did as were told, eyes heavy and haze unfocused as you turned your head to face him. He was so close, the only evidence he was as turned on as you were, were his blown out pupils, his heavy eyelids. “There she is, oh sweetheart, you’re gone, huh?” he cooed. 

You thought he might kiss you then, you thought he might kiss you, finally. But he nuzzled his nose against yours - a surprisingly sweet thing - before he murmured, “take your clothes off for me.”

It was embarrassing, the way your lips parted and your cheeks went hot. You wondered if Steve felt it, the warmth that exploded from your skin at his words, the way your empty cunt clenched around nothing at his words. He gave you clit one more passing nudge before he moved his hands from you completely and sank back into the couch. One arm over the back of it, legs crossed, the other hand brought to his mouth so he could rub the finger he’d dipped along your pussy against his bottom lip. 

It was obscene. 

He nodded to the space between the sofa and the coffee table and licked his lips. “C’mon, honey, strip.”

You should’ve pulled down your dress and thrown what was left of his wine in his face before you slammed the door on your way out. This man, this rich boy with his big house and shiny car, was ordering you around like you were still at the clubhouse. Like he could flash his members only card and get what he wanted. He hadn’t even kissed you. He didn’t know your last name, and shit, the only reason you knew his, was because him and his family were at the top of the client list at the place you worked. 

You could lose your job over this. Worse, you could get your heart broken. 

Steve must’ve sensed your hesitation because he reached back over to brush your hair from your eyes, where it had fallen in a mess when you hid your face in the dip of his shoulder as he tapped at your clit again and again and again. He pouted, tsked in a way that sounded sympathetic. “Oh honey, are you shy?” Condescension dripped from him, words liquid gold, sticky sweet and trapping you. He ran the back of his knuckles down your cheek, his thumb dragging over your bottom lip. It was as close to a kiss as you would get. “It’s okay, hm? Am I not playing nice? Am I being rude?”

You didn’t know what to say. You were being sucked in by this man’s charm, his caramel coated words, the way his brown eyes turned soft as he took your hand and led you to stand up in the middle of his living room. “I’m sorry, honey,” Steve whispered. “How awful of me. Lemme try again, huh?” He kissed your cheek, a soft, lingering thing before he left you standing, sitting back in front of you once more. 

Steve pushed back his hair and let his eyes appraise you before he rolled his shirt sleeves up and leant back into the cushions. A king on his throne. And the entertainment for tonight? 

You. 

“Take your clothes off for me, honey,” he tried again, his voice softer this time, lower, dirtier. And then he smiled at you and added: “please.”

With shaking hands and a held breath that made your chest burn, you pulled the material down your shoulders, reaching around your back to tug at the zip. And when it fell open, exposing your skin to the warm air, it was too easy to let the entire dress fall down over your hips. It pooled at your feet and you stepped out of it, heels still on, legs covered in the sheer black stockings that the clubhouse made mandatory for poker nights. 

Steve’s lips made a little ‘o’ shape, an appreciative thing that made you pulse with need. You saw then how his dress trousers were tented at the front, an impressive bulge that twitched when you smoothed your hands over your upper thighs, a nervous reaction to being so exposed. 

“Oh,” Steve exhaled as he let his eyes rake over you. Soft skin between black lace, thigh highs pulled taught against your curves, tits pressed up in a bra you’d chosen as you thought him. You hoped he wouldn’t embarrass you, you hoped he wouldn’t ask you to do something like spin for him, show off for him. Because you would’ve. “Aren’t you a pretty fucking picture.”

He didn’t need to talk after that. He just lifted his chin towards your chest and you were pulling off your bra for him. You hated how the control of it all made you wetter, the space between your legs fucking throbbing as you waited for your next instruction. “Unless you want those ripped,” Steve was gazing at your underwear, eyes seeking out every dip and line he could make our in the wet lace. “I’d take them off too.” He didn’t let them hit the floor with the rest of your clothes, instead, extending one hand and crooking his fingers. 

A silent, ‘give them to me.’ 

And you did, watching as he slipped them into his trouser pockets, keeping his eyes on you, trailing them over your thighs that were slick with how wet he’d got you. He’d hardly touched you, you scolded yourself, not even a kiss. It was embarrassing, mortifying. It was the hottest thing that had happened to you. 

“Keep those on,” Steve murmured, talking about your heels and stockings. “And come sit back down for me, honey, yeah?” 

The fabric of the couch felt soft under your bare skin and you hesitated before you let yourself relax into it. There surely would be a wet spot underneath you, evidence of how turned on you were, but Steve didn’t seem to mind. 

“That’s it,” he encouraged softly. “Get comfy, hm? Such an agreeable, little thing aren’t you?” Steve was sliding off the couch as he spoke, one palm pressed to his crotch as if to stave off some of his own need. He knelt in front of you, mouth parting in a sigh as he dropped to eye level with your cunt. “Think you can spread those legs for me? Let me see you, honey, there’s a girl—”

He cut himself off with a low groan as you brought your feet up, heels on the edge of the couch as you spread your knees, sticky thighs parting. He could see all of you, fuck, he could probably smell you. The low light made every part of you glisten, the heavy rise and fall of your chest cast in an amber glow.  

“Oh she’s real fuckin’ pretty, isn’t she?” Steve asked you, eyes tearing away from your pussy to look up at you. “Spread ‘em wider for me, baby, can you do that?” Another moan from the boy as you let your knees fall apart, almost touching the couch. Steve smoothed his hands up your tights, bracketing your cunt before he did the same as before and pulled your folds even further apart. “Look at that,” he whispered. 

You couldn’t. You let your head fall back onto the cushion, eyes squeezed shut as you let your own hands fall onto your knees. You dug in your nails, crescent moon marks on your skin as your tried to keep a grip on reality. You were almost certain you’d come with just one touch. 

“Want my mouth?” Steve asked you and his voice was back to that sugar sweet drip, it was thick with an affection, like he was being so nice for taking care of you. You already wanted to thank him. “Want my tongue?”

His thumbs rubbed up and down your folds, keeping them spread apart, a dirty massage that made your clit pulse with each tiny movement. You nodded, letting out a uneven breath and Steve tutted. 

“You gotta look at me then, c’mon, Berkeley.” He nipped at your thigh, teeth biting at the skin and it made you cry out. “Look at me and tell me you want me to eat you out.”

Dirty, filthy, obscene, sinful. 

You were under no illusion that giving Steve an order made you the one in charge. He played you like a puppet, a boneless girl that wanted nothing more than to come all over this rich strangers sofa. You had a one track mind, no shame left, not when Steve was pressing his mouth over you folds, not licking into you, not yet. Just kissing. You wanted to cry. 

“Eat me out,” you begged, eyes glassy as you tried to lift your hips but Steve pulled away. He grinned at you, waiting. “Eat me out, please, Steve. Fuck, want your mouth yeah, please?”

“Where?” He asked, dragging it out. His voice was unholy. “Where do you want my mouth?” His thumbs were still moving, up and down and up and down. “Tell me.”

“My pussy, Jesus Christ,” you whined. You couldn’t ever remember being this pent up. “Please.”

“Oh,” Steve cooed, “she’s so polite.” And then he gave you no other warning, dipping his head so he could lick a stripe through your folds, the hot, wet contact of his tongue making you cry out. 

You were unraveling too fast. His thumbs had you taught for him, every part of you feeling his tongue, his lips. Steve groaned into you, a happy, pleased hum that told you whatever game this was, he’d won. He kept his tongue flat, slow, broad strokes of it going from your entrance to your clit until you were curling over him and clutching his hair, doing your best to not suffocate him. But Steve moaned louder and moved his hands to your hips, sliding down until they cupped under your ass and he encouraged you to grind against his face. Tongue still out, kept flat for you to rock yourself on. It was pornographic.  

Then Steve was mumbling into you, voice a rasp. “Good girl, honey, that’s it. Keep going, make yourself come on my tongue, yeah?”

So you did, obedient as ever, letting out a gasping cry as your legs shook, cunt still clenching around nothing ‘cause Steve had broken you with just his mouth. It was dirty hot, the way he dragged himself from your sensitive slit, tongue running over your folds even as you whined, licking over the crease of your thighs to get everything you’d spilled for him. You watched as he appeared between your knees, hair tousled, lips and chin shining in the low light, his cheeks flushed. It was ironic, how he looked more boyish after he made you come, expensive black shirt creased from where your legs had pressed against him, his own gaze a little fucked out. 

Logic would suggest that perhaps you’d get a kiss then, something soft and sweet to soothe you down before he fucked you senseless, before you got to wrap your own fingers or lips around him. Steve looked big, if the solid press of him against his trousers was anything to go by. Thick and still rock hard, an easy eight inches trapped taught against his thigh, just as impressive as his wealth and status. Your mouth watered. 

He kissed the inside of your knee instead, his heavy lidded gaze on yours before he offered you his hands to help you sit up and then said, “I better get you home.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Home,” Steve repeated. He passed you back your bra, your dress. Not your underwear though, no. They were still in his pocket. “I gotta be at the airport in—” he checked his watch, the picture of blasé. “—an hour.”

You pulled on your dress, a little speechless. This boy had just made you come harder than you’d ever managed yourself and now he was busying himself with lighting a cigarette he pulled from the packet in his pocket. Your eyes wandered, he was still hard. 

“What about,” you licked your lips, suddenly shy. You nodded towards his crotch, the absolute monster he packed in his slacks. “What about you?”

Steve grinned, bending down to peck your cheek as you wriggled into your uniform, trying to pull yourself back together. “I’ll live,” he told you, blowing out smoke as he spoke. “We’ll call it an IOU, huh? But my plane leaves soon, honey. I’ll cash that favour when I’m back.”

“When?” You blurted out. It sounded like something a girlfriend would demand to know and you cringed, but Steve kept smirking. He helped you slip on your heels, cigarette hanging from his lips that definitely tasted like you. 

“Unsure,” he told you casually, “there’s things I need to wrap up in Monaco before I can go to Tuscany for a few weeks. There’s problems at the vineyard and there’s a new plot I want to look at in Alassio too.”

All you heard was money money money. So you nodded and gave him a small smile, legs still a little wobbly from his touch, his mouth, his tongue. And when Steve dropped you off at the door of your too small apartment, he took your chin between his finger and thumb and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your jaw, just below your ear. 

The kiss goodnight to your lips didn’t come. You felt confused, a little stilted. But you got out the BMW and waved goodbye, wondering what you were supposed to do at three in the morning after Steve Harrington had tumbled your world upside down. 

PART TWO

[sehaedazokla]

he that dares

part two

premise: Cregan Stark's arrival in King's Landing has brought a new type of chaos to the capital. Lady Tyrell is determined to use the Northern lord to her advantage, but the task might not be as straightforward as it seems. 

tags: slowburn, tension, angst, comfort, eventual smut, court politics

word count: 8k

previous part | next part

Cregan Stark finds himself with much waiting to be done. Waiting for different ravens to be sent, and then for the replies to return. Waiting for the arrival of lords whom had been summoned to King’s Landing, and for the answer of whether or not the war will continue. He seeks justice to be distributed to all those whom it should fall upon: whether they had been allies of Rhaenyra or Aegon, all parties who acted dishonorably within the conflict ought to face their rightful punishment. But what the Lord of Winterfell does not find himself waiting upon is the Lady Tyrell.

The very morning after their conversation in the gardens, Cregan pushes open the door of what had once been the small council’s meeting chambers. It has been turned into a temporary headquarters for the Northern lords who are holding court, and for the additional powers at play. While the other lords file out, discussing in hushed and heavy whispers amongst themselves about the political matters that weighed their minds, Cregan pauses.

He is the last to leave the room, pulling the heavy wooden door behind him, and his eyes drift to the girl lingering in the corner of the hall. She curtsies to a pair of lords who look up to see her, and the two men pause their conversation briefly as their eyes rest upon her, hastily bowing in return. But when her eyes meet Cregan’s, they remind him more of a hawk’s than a girl’s. As if they have landed on a mouse she intends to hunt for supper.

But just as it had been the day before, Cregan wonders if he imagined it. As she walks up to him, the expression on her face is nothing short of saccharine. She folds her hands delicately across the front of her gown – today she wears a shade of blue similar to the sky on the clearest day, with white lace at her collar and around her sleeves. There is gold silk embroidered about her waist in twisting florals, with small pink rosettes weaved in between. The dress is reminiscent of others Cregan has seen her wear, but perhaps he thinks so because of its signature plunging neckline.

“A moment of your time, Lord Stark?” Lady Tyrell’s voice floats in the air between them as clear and bright as a morning bell as she approaches. Birds can be heard chirping from a nearby open window. The sun has only just settled in the sky, hanging lazily after its absence the day before due to the storm that had washed in overnight.

Cregan is in a rather poor mood after the lack of developments from the morning meeting, but offers her a dip of his head. He stands before her, chin downturned to look her in the eyes, his own eyes narrowing a moment.

“Of course, my lady.” His tone is gruff yet not altogether unfriendly. It has that detached Northern politeness that she has come to associate with him. There is the ghost of tension about his shoulders, but she cannot discern whether it is from the conversation Cregan had just taken part in, or if he simply lived his entire life like there were rocks upon him.

“It is the court, my lord,” Lady Tyrell begins, sighing quite deeply in a breath that uses her entire upper body. She clasps her hands together tighter, shaking her head gingerly. A few of her loose curls bounce at the movement, and Cregan’s eyes drift to the sides of her face as they do. She takes a step forward softly, clearing intending Cregan to begin walking alongside her.

Cregan has been starving for the last hour. He wants to return to his chambers to break his fast with sausage and poached eggs and whatever else could be found.

He follows her.

The castle is alive and bustling at the early hour, maids rushing about with baskets of fresh linen and pages scurrying off with errands from their lords. A few of them cast their eyes to Lady Tyrell, who smiles at them sweetly. Most return the look with soft smiles of their own. Cregan wonders how many of them she knows personally.

“As I was saying, the state of the court has been weighing heavily upon my thoughts,” She continues, a look of concern once again settling upon her features. Her skirts rustle softly as she walks, and her heels click on the cold stone floor of the hall. Daylight streams in through the open courtyard that they walk past. “You see, the lords and ladies grow restless. What with their being confined to the capital.”

The girl presents the matter of concern slowly, tenderly. As if she wishes to plead her case yet not offend. She gazes up at Cregan after she speaks, meeting his stern look with a flutter of her wispy lashes. Her lips seem to form the perfect subtle pout as she finishes her sentence, and her eyebrows have knitted together to express gentle worry.

Cregan’s jaw tenses the tiniest bit as he hears her words. He is not ignorant enough to think that the nobles enjoy being forced to remain at King’s Landing, but there is not that he can do to remedy it until it is decided whether or not the war will continue, and justice is dispensed.

“Until the investigations and trials are concluded, no one can be permitted to leave.” There is a sense of stoic absoluteness to his tone, as if the matter being up for debate is not even a fathomable thought. His eyes narrow as he peers into hers, searching for a hint of annoyance or frustration. Cregan finds only a gentle amiableness that he believes better suits a deer than a girl.

“A prudent choice, my lord,” Lady Tyrell acquiesces with a dip of her head, her eyes falling to the floor in front of her demurely. Her hands are still folded over top of her lower stomach as the two make their way through the castle. “It is only…discontent often takes root in the gardens of boredom.”

Her eyebrows raise as the words float between them, remaining higher as she casts her gaze still to the stone floor beneath them. To make her words seem like a sad yet true observation. Cregan’s eyebrows draw lower, twitching a bit at her resigned wisdom.

The Lord of Winterfell stops, the last of his heavy steps echoing in the hall. The girl turns around after a moment, facing him. When her eyes lift to meet his, they hold that same softness she has been offering him since she arrived. They observe each other for a moment, before Cregan opens his lips to speak. Warning is dense in his tone as his gaze darkens, the serious look on his face becoming impossibly sterner.

“You take issue with the way I hold this court, then?” It is a quiet phrase yet so heavy when wrapped in his thick Northern pronunciation. Cregan does not need this girl commenting upon the way he has taken and managed the court since arriving; he has more important matters to worry about than a few discontent lords and ladies who whisper scathing things behind open fans and palms.

With the grace of a dancer, she takes the sides of her skirts in between her forefingers and thumbs and draws them upward. Her chin lowers gently, her gaze dropping so Cregan can only see her lashes. She lowers herself into a curtsy, her center of balance remaining perfectly overtop her left leg as her right one slides outward elegantly. Her back is as straight and tight as a drawn bow. 

“I would never presume to, Lord Stark,” Mellifluous and humble, the words drip from her lips as drops of honey from a hive. “I would only suggest, as someone who believes in your cause, that there might be a better alternative that would keep them amused and lift some of the weight from your shoulders.” 

As Lady Tyrell draws herself upright, Cregan feels a dry swallow in his throat at the slow, sensual motion. She does not miss it. Her humble expression melts into a candied smile.

“Of course, should my lord not wish to hear it, I will hardly take offense.” The girl tells him with a sheepish, almost embarrassed cadence, her head tilting down as her shoulders lower. She releases her skirts, the embroidered fabrics flowing down to the floor in waves of silks and satins.

Cregan looks to the side for a moment, his eyes falling to the open courtyard next to the hall. When he turns his head back to face her, his eyes downcast as he finds the words, the softest sound of breath can be heard before he speaks and raises his gaze.

“You have spent much time here at court, Lady Tyrell. You understand it much better than I. I will not be too prideful to hear your counsel.” Cregan retains the gruff quality of his speech, but there is a note of wary respect in the words. He lowers his chin to look at her directly, his head moving slightly as he speaks.

She does her best to not glow with the amusement of such a small yet important victory. Instead, she lowers her gaze again, nodding elegantly. 

“I am honored by your ear, my lord.” There is a pleased rhythm to her words. She does, however, make the mistake of looking up again to note the way the sunlight from the open courtyard next to the grey hall has filtered in just enough that the edges of Cregan’s red hair have caught the light and appear as gold as the embroidery on her dress. It additionally falls upon his broad shoulders and his left arm, which her eyes do, regrettably, land upon for a heartbeat.

One of the maids hurries by, giving both Cregan and Lady Tyrell a rushed curtsy. As the maid’s steps echo down the hall, she gestures for Cregan to continue to walk with her. They maintain a distance of expected propriety between them as they continue, making it rather hard to communicate in a softer tone.

“You have a great many problems that have fallen into your lap, Lord Stark,” She points out with a languid gesture of her arm, her hand hanging elegantly before them for a brief moment. “Least important of all the boredom of the nobles. And yet,” A deep breath is taken from her chest. “It is still an issue, no matter how miniscule.” Her head moves with each fragment of her words, indicating how seriously she takes the problem.

Cregan’s strides beside her are long and heavy, but slower than they had been the day before, in the garden. As if he had noticed that she had been taking larger steps to try and match him. 

Lady Tyrell’s hair bounces enticingly with each phrase and movement, the loose curls and waves that had escaped being swept up into the pinned arrangement that adorned the top of her head free to move about as they pleased. Cregan’s eyes have once again begun wandering. 

“But you are quite fortunate in that it is rather easy to provide them with entertainment.” Her reassurance is offered quite gently, with a sage nod. “Why, anything as simple as a feast serves the purpose quite well. Give them an opportunity to bring out their finest silks and jewels, with the promise of wine and meats and what they crave most: gossip.” 

They turn a corner, Cregan nearly running into a squire who is unable to see due to the amount of armor he is carrying in his arms. He wonders with a flash of irritation just how many people are employed in the castle; there is no shortage of servants running about even at this early hour of the day.

At Lady Tyrell’s words, a dry look wrenches its way onto Cregan’s face while he considers her proposal. The last thing he wants to do at this moment is to oversee the planning of any sort of event, nor did he have the time to spare for it. With a heavy sigh, his brows draw closer.

“I haven’t the time to spare for organizing a feast, my lady.” His words are curt, but he does attempt to soften them, not wanting to offend her.

Lady Tyrell is not offended by him. She simply thinks him rather foolish. There is not a hint of this on her face as she quickly gazes up at him with shock, her loose curls flying as she shakes her head with quick worry.

“Oh, no, my lord, that was not the implication at all,” The correction comes with a soft, apologetic smile and lift of her shoulders, causing her collarbone to catch the light from a nearby window. She holds his gaze steadily. “It was an offer of my services. I have seen many a feast organized here; I could have it arranged by nightfall this very evening.”

When they reach the large main staircase of the castle, they come to another pause. Cregan looks down at her with thinly veiled disbelief as she blinks up at him.

“You would do that?” He cannot help the suspicion sneaking into the corners of his voice. She is volunteering her time to assist Cregan with an issue that did not truly concern her, no matter how worriedly she had acted when she’d raised the matter to his attention. Yet he could not discern any malicious intent, save for her using this an as opportunity to vie for his favor. This, she seems to want greatly, yet Cregan still does not know to what end.

“If it should be of assistance to you, it would be my honor.” Lady Tyrell speaks with gracious acceptance, delicate and poised as she stands before him. Closer, this time, than she had been when they’d stopped before. Cregan can smell the lingering of rose water and some other floral oils. He considers her words, thoughts rolling over them like marbles in a hand.

“Do as you wish, Lady Tyrell. If you can ease the daggers in their eyes, I will be all the more grateful for it.” Cregan’s sigh is weary with exhaustion, and the pressures that only seemed to be added each and every day that is spent at King’s Landing. 

A sparkle glimmers in her eyes.

“I will see to it at once then.” She bids him farewell with a soft smile, and the scent of her perfume drifts over to him as her hair and skirts fan out in a delicate cloud with her turn when she hurries off. His eyes close briefly as he inhales it.

It is with great haste that Lady Tyrell begins her planning for the feast that evening. She gathers all her handmaidens and maids to assist with various messages she needs sent to those who are to be involved in the preparations, as well as to contact other staff to invite all of the lords and ladies who ought to be there. The information mill that is comprised of servants proves quite useful in this instance, and while she would usually take it upon herself to handwrite every invitation, the girl wishes her involvement in this endeavor to be kept quiet yet not secret for now. 

House Tyrell had not spent too much gold during the war, which resulted in her having quite a large resource pool to dip into to convince florists and musicians to cancel their previously scheduled arrangements for that evening and offer their presence in The Queen's Ballroom. Although smaller in size than the two large halls, the room need only host the nobles currently being restricted to the castle. She prefers it, anyhow; the way the candlelight catches against the large mirrors that comprise the walls of the room provides a magical quality to the ambience of any gathering. It makes the overseeing of the decoration a much more manageable task, which would reflect positively on her in the end.

She begins with a visit to the Kitchen Keep, discussing with the chefs and pâtissiers as to what dishes could be made and served on such short notice. They whisper in low, worried tones amongst each other, deep frowns and nods as they page through thick tomes of recipes. Lady Tyrell waits with her hands folded in front of her and a pleasant smile on her face, willing her eye not to twitch at the irritation of having to stand so long in the kitchens when there are other matters to be attending to.

The kitchen staff propose a few different options to her, and after providing a gentle suggestion of her own and more gold to run to the markets with, a menu is agreed upon for the night. When the kitchen door swings closed behind her, she pinches the bridge of her nose and lets out a sharp sigh that she has been holding back for some time.

Her next stop is to ensure that the correct dinnerware is being brought out to the ballroom – her head whips around with an unladylike speed as she watches in horror as a maid begins bringing the plateware with the green decorative motifs down the hall. As Lady Tyrell rushes back down the hall to catch the girl, another brief flash of frustration at the foolishness of the choice flits through her mind but there is nothing but sweet concern in her eyes as she recommends gingerly that the plates of a more well-associated color are brought out. 

The maid gasps and nods quickly, as Lady Tyrell squeezes her arm comfortingly and rushes off to find the florists. This she would have to stay and observe during the entirety of the arrangements. Her mother would be beside herself if a daughter of House Tyrell allowed for flowers of improper meaning to be presented at an event she hosted. Even if her mother will not be present that night, the girl smiles with exasperated fondness as her mother’s words ring bright and clear in her head, no different than if the woman was standing right in front of her. 

She guides the florists about the hall, nodding with a pleased glint in her eyes as the flowers stream in through the doors in the arms of boys and girls. Her decision has come together nicely; the apple blossoms, honeysuckles, and white lilies form a delicate and demure profession of innocent devotion and pure intent. Still, she must have her fun.

As a page rushes by with a bouquet of flowers in his arms, she plucks a single snapdragon and inhales the scent gently with softly closed eyes. They would be placed throughout the hall scarcely, likely not to be noticed by too many of the guests. 

It is a lovely flower, brought into the ballroom in colors that reflected those around it. Their heavy association with the concept of truth often leads many to interpret their presence as a promise of honesty. 

Those from House Tyrell recognize the bundles of fragile petals as a warning of deceit.

Her eyes open as she runs the stem between her fingers delicately, gazing down it at fondly. Lady Tyrell presses it to her chest as she leaves the ballroom, her shoes echoing amongst the voices of those finishing up the floral and plateware arrangements. There is still much to be done.

Despite the chaos that stems from such late preparations, the Lady Tyrell manages to both finish the arrangements and ready herself for the feast that evening. The Lord of Winterfell had not been expecting much when she had offered to organize an event that night, but the opulence on display within the hall is nothing short of wonderous. Decadent, but not obnoxiously so, and a clear testament to an effective and practiced hostess despite her young age.

As she glides into the Queen’s Ballroom, Cregan’s eyes land upon her.

She has entered the room slightly later than most of the guests, leading to the turning of many a head as the doors are opened for her. The blue gown she had been wearing that morning has been discarded in favor of a dress of baby pink, with a neckline reminiscent of a heart that plunges low as the two curves meet in the center. There is her signature golden embroidery at the top of the bodice, as well as up the side of the puffs at the top of her sleeves and down her corset. Stitched roses and vines snake down her arms, overtop of fabric of that same pastel color. There are more layers beneath the gown, fanning out in an elegant circle about her when she walks.

Cregan hears the whispers and sighs from some of his men around him as they shake their heads at her beauty, but he can scarcely judge them in good faith when finds his eyes are drawn to her and cannot be torn away. He has never noticed so much about a gown before; he takes note of the thorn detailing amongst the vines at the cuffs, of the pearls stitched into the bottom of the skirt that brushes against the floor, of the way the fabric creases at her elbows when she curtsies to one of the ladies she greets. 

So little of her figure can be seen and yet Cregan is left with a slow inhaling of breath and the flicker of the low candlelight dancing in his half-lidded eyes, his tongue briefly wetting his drying lips.

Lady Tyrell does her utmost to not look too self-pleased as she surveys the room. It is a beautiful, elegant scene. The musicians play string instruments in bright yet slow melodies from the gallery above the ballroom, and the expansive trestle tables have been covered in delicate fabrics. Upon their surfaces rest heaps and piles of meats, fruits, and pies. Their scents waft deliciously though the air, and vases overflowing with flowers are nestled in between the mountains of food. The warm candlelight from the candelabras reflects in the mirrors of the walls in the dreamy way that she loves so.

She makes her way about the room, making polite conversation with various lords and ladies. Asking after their children, husbands, wives, and siblings. The nobles light up and rest a hand on her shoulder gently when she recalls little details they had mentioned when last they spoke, of various illnesses or injuries or marriages or pregnancies.

Many of the guests have already sat down, reaching for thick cuts of meat and having their cups filled with the finest Arbor reds as hearty, half-drunken laughter echoes through the hall. She turns her head the slightest bit, intending to scan the room for the Lord of Winterfell, but discovers his eyes are already on her when she spots him.

His gaze is intense and does not waver when she catches him staring. He is leaning forward in his chair, his heavy brows low, his jaw tight, his mouth pressed together in a thin line. Lady Tyrell feels the remainder of the room dim for a moment, the voices and laughter and candlelight fading slightly in her senses.

She does her best to not show any surprise on her face: she has been seeking to capture his attention after all. It is only that she did not realize how heavily that attention would be placed upon her. It makes her eyes narrow a moment, her nature to challenge such a forceful look. 

Her hand closes into a ginger fist, the pressure of her fingertips in the soft skin of her palm drawing her mind back to civility. She blinks, her eyes soft and wide again, and she offers Cregan a smile before she turns back to greet others. 

One such conversation with one of the Northern lords leads Lady Tyrell to the head of the table, nearer to where Cregan is sat. He watches with an unreadable expression as the lord pulls out her chair, and she thanks him sweetly with the utmost grace and gratitude. Wine is immediately poured into her cup, and the golden goblet is raised to her lips as the lord speaks animatedly in regards to their conversation topic, to which she leans over to whisper something that sets the lord off with a hearty laugh.

The man leans over to Cregan, eyes drooping slightly with the effects of drink, and Cregan lends his ear a moment, watching the Lady Tyrell raise the glass to her rosy lips yet again.

“Here my lord,” The Northern man speaks to Cregan with a deep nod, swaying slightly in his ornate wooden chair. “Lady Tyrell was just telling me of this incident with the –“ His eyebrows knit together with confusion as he loses his train of thought. He gazes down into his goblet, as if to find the answer floating about in his burgundy liquid. When the glass fails to produce the response to his pondering, he turns his head to her.

“The boar, my lord.” Lady Tyrell supplies gently, raising her glass a little, swishing the contents around with a languid motion of her wrist.

“Yes, the boar!” The lord repeats with great enthusiasm, looking to Cregan as he laughs once more. The girl’s gaze settles upon Cregan, and there is a sparkle of knowing in her eyes as the other man drones on. “We shall have to hunt in the King’s Wood ourselves if the events are as amusing as she says…”

Cregan lets the rest of what the man is talking about fade out to a distant murmur, as well as much of the additional conversation in the bustling ballroom. The musicians have switched to a slower piece that floats elegantly throughout the room, and the laughter has grown loud. One can spot ladies cooling their flushed faces with their fans, and swaying lords eyeing the serving girls who rush to refill their quickly draining cups. The candlelight seems to have grown warmer and lower, flickering delicately throughout the ambient room. The wine has been flowing for quite some time, and the effects are evident in abundance.

But when he steals a glimpse of Lady Tyrell’s glass, he pauses as small flecks of golden light swim in the red liquor. Despite having witnessed her lift the goblet to her mouth a few times, the wine is no lower than when she had sat down. 

She has turned to participate in yet another animated conversation with a Northern lord seated to her right, and Cregan cannot help but observe the ease at which she slides from one topic to the next, even with his bannermen. He thought her to be skilled at engaging with Southerners, but her charms do not seem to be hindered by differences in homeland. A soft exhale of breath leaves his mouth as he returns to eating the food on his plate. The edges of the plates are decorated with tiny red flowers.

Later in the evening, the high sound of a fork tapping a metal glass can be heard echoing tinnily throughout the hall. One of the lords stands up from his seat, red-cheeked and grinning, to offer a toast to the Lord of Winterfell for his kind hospitality and planning of the event. Cregan pauses as many sets of eyes find their way to him, and he realizes there is an expectation that he say something in kind.

He rises, dropping his heavy shoulders and lifting his glass. It is a duty he is used to completing at the head of the hall in Winterfell, and it feels odd to do so in this foreign ballroom, with these strange faces staring back at him. Many of whom dislike him, or at least the way he is demanding they remain in King’s Landing until justice has been carried out. They watch like vultures, the easy and amiable air from earlier all but gone as they remember the presence of the Northern lord. But fortunately, Cregan need not keep the attention on himself for long.

“Your kind words are appreciated, my lord,” Cregan begins, his voice low and gruff. His eyes flicker to Lady Tyrell for a moment, perhaps to give her a second of warning with which she can prepare herself. But when their eyes meet, she is already gazing up at him as if she knows what he is going to say. Her hand resting gently on her goblet of wine, ready to lift it. He should not be surprised. “But in truth, I cannot take any credit. It was only thanks to the efforts of Lady Tyrell that this came to be.”

As the pairs of beady eyes drift over to Lady Tyrell, she rises up with a poised posture. Her chin is lowered, her eyes wide and almost shy as she holds the stem of her golden goblet between her fingers. The pairs of eyes that had beheld Cregan so coldly, soften. Here is one of their own, someone they know and can truthfully give gratitude to. She gives a soft dip of her head, the golden jewelry at her collarbones shining when it draws the glint of firelight.

“It is the least I can do, and hardly enough still,” The words ring out softly through the ballroom with the bright clarity of one used to speaking to a crowd. A girlish smile splashes to her lips and brings rosy color to her cheeks as she lifts her glass with her right hand, her left hand resting gently overtop the lacing of her corset. “So here is to you, for gracing my little party with your presence. It is with your laughter that these halls feel like home again, and I am ever so grateful to you for it.”

The hall erupts with whistles and clapping and cheers. Sounds of glasses clashing together in hearty toasts and the bringing out of the dessert at that very moment makes the scene bright and jovial, so much so that an outsider who had no knowledge of what had occurred in the recent past could not guess that the capital had just been plagued with a bloody succession war.

And in the center of it all, akin to the sun in the sky and glowing as such, is the Lady Tyrell. Cregan can bring no glass to his mouth as he watches her, coy and sweet as she once again raises her cup. He knows she is not drinking from it. But her face has the softest glow as she stands above the rest of the nobles seated at the long trestle tables, many of whom are still gazing towards her fondly, murmuring their approvals for the young lady and her gift to them this night. The candlelight dances across her figure, illuminating the lace of her gown, the expanse of her skin above her neckline, the pearls that hang from her ears. 

She shines like she is made to. Dazzling as any star in the heavens, radiant as any fire in the night.

If she were any other woman, Cregan might approach her when the moment presented itself, asking her to meet him as he had that time in the gardens. To walk with her, to learn more about her, to know her. To see if her heart is as lovely as her appearance. But he knows well that this would be more difficult than it seemed: perhaps even impossible. Even as she lowers herself back into her chair, smoothing down her skirts as she settles herself to dine on some of the pastries that have been piled onto the table with whipped creams and fresh fruits, he does not believe he is seeing anything of truth.

Lady Tyrell excuses herself as many of the other nobles begin to trickle out the thick oak doors, off to their beds or to some form of intoxicated debauchery. She wishes to avoid the strong yet firm grasp of a few of the elder ladies, who take her hands into their aging ones and remind her poignantly of the eligibility of their bachelor sons. Now that she is not betrothed, she has felt the hungry eyes of nobles as those of carrion birds circling overhead. Eyeing her body and her title and her family’s gold. It makes her blood hot with irritation and her nerves fraught and spiked. 

There are only so many excuses she can offer as she tries to slip out of the conversation topic with an apologetic smile.

And as the night grows to an end, so does her ever-thinning patience. One more ask upon whether or not her mother has read their proposals sent by raven, and she might simply hurl her still-full glass at the wall to cause a scene and be done with it. To the end of being shipped off to live as a Septa, but she doubts she would be graced with that. No, she is too young and too eligible; even in the face of abhorrent behavior she imagines excuses will be made by ambitious lords and ladies to still have her married to their sons.

The reminder fills her throat with a bitter acid that stings. She pushes it from her mind. The show is still ongoing, and there is one last act she must perform in to consider this day a success. And she takes pride in her thoughtful scripting. 

As she begins to walk towards the doors, she hears the scraping of a wooden chair on the cold stone floor as another starts to leave as well. She folds her hands in front of her lower corset, her arms straight and her palms gripping each other only the slightest bit too tightly. The tilting of her chin down allows for the hiding of the small, wry smile that has wrenched its way onto her lips at the sound of heavy footsteps behind her.

Her hand raises gingerly as she catches her handmaiden following her out of the corner of her eye, signaling for her to wait. The girl, Adelin, takes note of the gesture and nods delicately, giving her lady room with which to carry out her schemes. Instead, she slips out the side of the room to prepare Lady Tyrell’s bath for that evening.

The music has faded to a lazily played waltz, bidding farewell to the guests. The tables are covered with the crumbs and other remnants of the feast, and the flowers have sank lower into their vases. She walks gracefully out of the ballroom, leaving the rest of the nobles who remain to the questionable indulgences that are promised by lingering about.

The halls of the Red Keep are lined with the warm glow of torches, and yet they are never overly bright. She passes stone pillars and wooden doors and knights guarding different rooms before she hears the clearing of a throat behind her. 

So he has given them ample space to speak in private, yet he did not choose to follow her to her chambers.

While she would not have allowed him inside, she had been curious as to where he would initiate the conversation. She wishes it to feel like it is on his terms, after all.

Lady Tyrell turns quickly, the baby pink skirt of her gown billowing out around her as she does. She brings a hand to her chest in a rush, fingers pressed to the exposed skin between her collarbone and the neckline of her dress. A quiet inhale of breath hurries past her lips and she lets her eyebrows raise.

“Oh – Lord Stark.” The words have a quality of breathiness to them, as if she had been startled by the noise behind her but is relieved to see it is only him. She gives him a smile, her hand lowering to her side. It smooths over her breasts before it drops to rest elegantly. Her brows furrow slightly, with good-natured expectation, as she waits for him to speak.

Cregan does not know entirely why he followed her. He wishes to speak with her, but upon which manner? To thank her for the effort she had imbued into the feast that evening? To ask if she truly enjoys speaking with his bannermen, or if she hates the Northern presence in the capital as others do?

His stance is solid and heavy, his wideset shoulders lowered as he casts his gaze to the torch nearest to him on the wall, and then down to the grey floor beneath his dark boots. The stern expression on his face does not waver, as he searches with noble patience for the words he wants to say.

She takes the time free of his piercing eyes to observe him with a neutral expression, roaming over the way a few strands of red hair fall across his face when he tilts his chin down. It looks soft, despite the rugged nature of the rest of his figure, even more so as his hair is tinged with orange and gold in the torchlight.

Cregan has felt an indisputable pull towards her since the moment they first saw each other when he had arrived at the Red Keep. But the more he saw of her, the more unsettled he became. Is he so foolish as to lust after a woman whose character is so inclined towards deception and manipulation? It is as if he is a lad, with an inclination to being blinded at the sight of doe-like eyes and soft lips. 

But no, even as he stands there in front of her, her beauty clear as can be, Cregan knows he is not that susceptible to womanly charms. It is that flash of something in her eyes that he has seen that continues to draw him back. The frustration of want in the face of illusion; of yearning for knowledge that is kept purposefully yet barely out of his reach.

He pushes down the flames of frustration deep into his chest and looks up at Lady Tyrell with a serious yet neutral gaze. 

“What game do you play at, Lady Tyrell?”  There is a rumbling quality to his voice, yet it is not unpleasant on her ears. And despite the forward nature of the question, it is not asked roughly, nor brashly. It is posed with a stern politeness, reminding her once again that he has, the few times they have spoken, acted the perfect gentlemen if she could overlook his Northern tendencies. 

She finds herself pleased. It is rare she is met head on, and still with his maintaining all the expectations of civil discussion. Yet, she will not give Cregan Stark what he desires. “I beg your pardon, my lord?”

Her lashes flutter with gentle confusion when she tilts her head gingerly, as if trying to discern what he is referring to. Cregan beholds her visage, his own features still serious as he studies her.

“If you wish something of me, tell it to me plainly,” Cregan’s frustration is not altogether dispersed, simply pressed down. The low tone of his voice echoes deeply between them. His eyes narrow a fraction. “There is no need to put on any sort of act.”

Lady Tyrell blinks at him again, before she casts her gaze downwards. She reaches up to move a strand of hair from her face daintily, her nails brushing against the skin of her forehead. The sigh that leaves her parted lips is reserved and almost ashamed. When she meets his eyes again, Cregan sees the sweet shine of apologetic embarrassment.

“…I had no intention to be dishonest with you, my lord,” Lady Tyrell lowers her voice to a gentler tone. She draws closer towards him, lessening the distance between them as if she is letting him in on a secret. Her steps are gentle, heels clicking on the floor, the sound muffled beneath the heavy skirts of her gown. Cregan feels himself stiffen as she stops in front of him.

She is close, but not overly so. He can smell warm scents of vanilla and amber drifting up from her soft skin. Cregan holds her gaze steadily but his eyes narrow further, his head drawing back subtlety, involuntarily. It is not the reaction he would normally have to a beautiful woman, but one of wary confusion of her intention.

“And yet I am met with your dishonesty each time I speak with you.” It is not an accusation but an observation, one he offers to her with the expectation of her explaining herself.

It pains her to be this near to a man she does not know, with no one else in sight. She steadies her mind, reminding herself of the unique opportunity that has been presented to her in the form of the Lord of Winterfell. Her mother’s wishes flash before her eyes in the form of a parchment scroll and dried black ink. 

Her lips part before she speaks, a rose opening in the flickering torchlight. The storms of his eyes lower to them, a heavy breath in his lungs. There is a shift in the air, a heavier, charged atmosphere in the empty hall. For all of her acting, all of her schemes: she knows there is no falsehood in the way she reacts to him. It is a maddening truth, one that Lord Stark seems to be wrestling with through equal frustration.

Perhaps it brings her comfort to know that he does not wish for this want either.

“I hope you will not condemn a lady for what she does in the face of interest.” Her eyelashes lower over her eyes, and she swallows softly, her lips rolling over each other. Hands are brought together nervously, pressing together in front of her, her thumbs rubbing apprehensively on her palms. An almost imperceptible inhaling of breath sends Cregan’s stomach twisting into a pulsing knot he wishes to undo. 

It is almost inconceivable to him, how deeply she excels at this.

Still, Cregan has come here with the intention of figuring her out at least partially, and if he has to do so through a twisting forest of more lies and manipulation, so be it.

“Is that what this is?” Cregan asks lowly, eyes heavy and lidded when they fall across her face. Across her demurely lowered eyes and cheeks flushed with faux embarrassment and pink lips. The tug in his chest is low and getting lower, his blood hot. “Interest?”

A thick breath of a question. He steps towards her slowly, trying to gauge her reaction. Her eyes dart up as he brings their bodies closer, the heat from his own nearly perceptible now. The wideness of his shoulders and his imposing height are not lost on her then. If one were to stumble upon Cregan from behind him in the hall, his figure would completely conceal her own. 

Cregan catches it then, while his eyes are searching hers. An emotion, raw and pulsing. Lady Tyrell’s lashes flutter as her eyes quickly flick up and down his face, and her breath catches rather violently in her chest. Sharp enough that Cregan can hear it and see the way her ribcage stutters with the force of it. Her eyebrows twitch, raising and then lowering at the intrusion to her space.

And there, for the first time, the Lord of Winterfell thinks to himself that there is truth in front of him.

Her shoulders pull back, like she means to draw away from him. The left one raises slightly as she angles her torso to at least retreat with her right side, her arms coming together in front of the bodice upon her chest. Cregan looks down in the space between them to see the way the nail of her right thumb has pressed so deeply into her pointer finger that the skin is turning a ghostly white.

“Forgive me, my lord,” Her eyebrows raise upwards as she tries to wrestle with her sweet tone, but it is less sure than it had been before. The smile upon her lips is not as pronounced as is typical of her, but rather tight. “I did not mean to offend, I only…”

Her lips open once more after she trails off, but no sound escapes them. It brings Cregan pause.

“You desire me, that is what you are telling me?” Cregan feels the need to lower his voice, to take some of the gruff edge from it. He does not understand why.

It takes all that Lady Tyrell has to not jerk back. She takes a slow breath, eyes still not able to meet Cregan’s directly as she settles to stare at the dark fabric of his clothing. It takes her a heartbeat to pull the words out. “I only wished to express my favoring of you.”

It is a quiet phrase, and it does not seem to want to come out of her mouth. Like she had reached into her throat and pulled it out reluctantly with her fingers. Finally, her eyes slowly gaze up to meet his again.

“If you do not want it, I will take no offense, Lord Stark.” There is a silence that falls between them, in which Cregan should very well tell her that he wants no part in her scheming and manipulating and court games. But he finds his throat rather dry and instead says nothing. 

Taking this as the end to their exchange, Lady Tyrell presents him a curtsy that is not as precise as her last had been, and takes her leave from his presence. 

She knows that her steps are slightly too fast, echoing in rapid succession of each other as her shoes click down the halls. The fabric of her dress has been gripped in her hands so that she can move with greater ease, her knuckles almost white. 

Cregan stares after her for a moment, left with far too much to think upon. He had seen a fragment of something genuine, although he could not discern its nature, and he imagines she is leading him slowly towards the thing that she wants. And if she is feigning desire, aside from whatever instinctive and primal tension that drips from their every exchange, then Cregan feels with almost certainty that it is marriage she seeks. To be the Lady of Winterfell and secure an alliance between the Reach and the North. 

Ambitious, he can acknowledge that. He turns, retreating back down the hall towards his own chambers. Yet something unnamable tugs at the back of his mind.

As soon as her door closes behind her, Lady Tyrell lets out a strangled gasp, the sound clawing its way up her throat viciously. Her hands bring themselves to push down on her chest, but to her frustration, she finds them trembling. Shaking, her fingers pale, and she balls them into fists before ripping them forcefully through her hair, yanking out some pearls as she does so. They clatter to the floor and roll about beneath her feet.

The pacing that she begins is with the intention of calming her racing heart, and she bites at her lip deeply as she strides back and forth before the fireplace, opening and closing her hands. 

It had been some time since she had needed to charm a man like that alone. It was necessary, she knows this, as she wants his favor and now does not have the added hindrance of her honor and betrothal as a shield. She can no longer murmur reminders of her royal intended when a man draws too close to her space.

It is a shield she misses dearly, guilty at the thought of missing her late betrothed’s imposing shadow more than the boy himself.

And this is a dangerous game. She knows its nature well, which is why she does not like to play it. She has seen many women do it, and the consequences of when it goes awry. Cregan Stark is a stranger to her. 

A stranger of great importance, a stranger she is attracted to, but a stranger nonetheless. Her eyes remain downcast to the fire, lost in the warm depths. There is no light in her eyes.

[prickly-paprikash]

One of my favorite things about Denis Villeneuve's style is how utterly masterful he is at subtle storytelling. Using the visuals to tell a tale that, even when you don't figure it out explicitly, one feels it immediately.

In Dune Part 1, my favorite form of this is at the very beginning when the Herald of the Change arrives to formalize the transition of Arrakis' ownership from the Harkonnens to the Atreides. The procession is full of pomp and posturing, with the Herald speaking in this loud, bombastic voice just to announce what is already a given, and Leto responds with his own spectacle—the armies of Atreides, chanting as one. It's all a show, since at this point House Atreides has been commanded by the Emperor. The contract is a legal formality; the costly procession on Caladan was (un)necessary showmanship. In the books, showing off the illusion of power and authority is vital in maintaining this cruel, unyielding power system, and without bringing mention of it, the film shows this off too. Then, once the Duke has sealed the form with his signet ring, everything just... drops.

Leto looks at the Herald in the eye, and asks, "So, it's done?"

And just as Leto replied to the grandiose display of the Emperor, the Herald now replies with the levity the situation truly deserves.

"It's done."

Both the Herald and the Duke know what this truly is. It's not a reward. It's not a show of love. The Herald, at this moment, is looking at a dead man walking. Millions of their currency sunk into this process, barely five minutes in total, and all to simply declare it all "done."

You can even feel a sense of satisfaction from the Herald.

The Emperor, in his paranoia and envy, guided the hand of the Atreides into a trap. And the Atreides know it is their doom, but they have no choice. They are popular and loved by the Great Houses, but they are bound by honor. And bound by might.

And all of this, narrowed down into one brilliant scene.

Once again, this subtle, visual storytelling is in full display in Part 2, and my favorite by far happens on Giedi Prime.

The Bene Gesserit Sister, Lady Margot Fenring (who is also a Lady of her own House in the books), watches on as one of their prospects, Na-Baron Feyd-Rautha engages in ritual combat for his birthday. Afterwards, in a hallway lit by only the fireworks outside, she stalks the Harkonnen heir, and Feyd catches on immediately.

Here's the thing: barring other Sisters of the Bene Gesserit, Paul Atreides, and some very gifted Mentat Assassins—you will never know if a Sister of the Order is stalking you. From the beginning, she had wanted to be caught by him. A lure. A tantalizing bait, perfectly designed to entrap the feral Feyd.

And he sinks in immediately.

Here is where my favorite visual storytelling comes into play.

In the hallway, we begin with a fully covered Margot. She is veiled completely in shadow, with the oil fireworks illuminating only her visage.

Next, Feyd strikes and holds his blade to her neck, revealing her face. But only her face.

Slowly, the scene shows off little by little her skin. In the hall, I believe the most we see is her throat, and I could be mistaken. The light flashes erratically, and we see her the way Feyd must see her.

In the shadows, a threat. In the brief sparks of light, a curiosity.

And when Margot confuses him, leading him to the Guest Wing where she stays, the light fully shows her off. She's still in formal clothing, but now we see her dress. It reveals a plunging neckline that barely shows off the top of her chest. Her top is sleeveless, showing off her shoulders and the soft musculature of her arms. In the dark, we could clearly see her wearing a veil that covered her body.

And the light mimics her, stripping away and revealing something beautiful. Irresistible, especially to Feyd, who despite his high intelligence and skill, is just as brutal and animalistic as his uncle and brother. All three so easily give in to their vice, and Feyd is no different.

He is allured by her. He lusts after her.

And all this without a word hinting towards sex in their entire shared dialogue.

Just the use of light, shadow, and body to tell a story.

Afterwards, Margot speaks to the Reverend Mother and Princess Irulan, revealing that she has secured a child from Feyd in her womb, which again without saying anything specific immediately shows that the Sisters have such power over their own bodies that they can ensure fertilization and have complete knowledge over their pregnancy. They even control what sex the child will be, as alluded to in Dune Part 1 when Jessica, out of the love she had for Leto and his desire for a son, rebelled against the Bene Gesserit's orders and sired a male.

Again, without info-dumping, we immediately understand that this religious order engages in Eugenics, and uses sex, fanaticism, and more to control the Great Houses.

Please watch Dune. Please read Dune.

[helaelaemond]

The Princes and I - Daemon/Aemond/Reader

Pairing:  Daemon x Aemond x she/her AFAB reader

Word count: 3.4k

Summary: Daemon is an old lover of yours. He invites you to spend some time with him and his new lover, his nephew Prince Aemond.

Content warning(s): canon-typical incest (uncle/nephew), brief mentions of brother/sister incest, brief mentions of uncle/niece incest

INCLUDES: oral (m receiving, f receiving), fingering (m receiving, f receiving), breast worship, vaginal sex (f receiving), anal sex (m receiving). Top!Aemond, bottom!Daemon

Masterlist

With a smile, Daemon opened the door to his chambers. He was flushed under the collar and his ears were red and he was happy, and the sight of you in his doorway almost made him laugh in delight. 

“My lady,” he greeted you fondly. He let go of Aemond’s hand so that he could take both of yours and kiss your cheek. You so warm. 

“My prince,” you replied with a sly smile. “I do hope I am not disturbing you.” 

“Certainly not.” He pulled back only slightly, and couldn’t stop himself from pulling you closer by the waist. “Thank you for joining us.” 

For a moment, you closed your eyes and tilted your chin up until your nose brushed his, and your smile was one of satisfaction. “Thank you for inviting me.” 

It was you who broke the touch first. With your hands in his, fingers stroking the worn skin around his knuckles, you pulled back to look at Aemond by his side. Your smile did not fade. When your gazes met, his cheeks turned pink. 

“Nephew, this is an old friend of mine. My lady, this is Aemond.” 

Despite trying to comb his hair back in some semblance of dignity since Daemon had grasped it, some had fallen across Aemond’s eyes. He touched the sleeve of his tunic and blinked. The sapphire in place of a missing eye glinted in the firelight “It is an honour to meet you, my lady.” 

“The honour is mine, my prince. I have wished to meet you for many years.” As introductions were made, Daemon gently tugged on your hands to bring you into the chambers, and the guards outside closed the doors. You were alone, shut away from the world. You would have peace. 

He made a fuss of you, unclasping the velvet cloak from your throat to reveal the soft dress beneath. Daemon thought of you when he smelled lavender, and you wore the scent now. And the colour. After setting your cloak on a table close to the door, he drank in the sight of you. The purple dress was almost sheer, soft and light and floating about you like a spring breeze. Your arms and shoulders were bare and on your skin, constellations of freckles splashed from head to toe. The slits of the dress were as high as your waist, allowing him glimpses of your strong thighs. The neckline was plunging and about your neck, you wore a sparkling gem set into silver. 

Aemond wore the dragon pin Daemon had procured him. You wore the eagle pendant he had bought. He bit his lip as he looked between you, trying not to grin. 

“You are most kind,” Aemond said stiffly. His lips had gone thin and pale as his uncle had revealed more of your skin, run his hands over you in light touches. You watched as he bit the inside of his cheek.  

“I hear many great tales of you,” you mused with a gentle laugh. Your hair shifted like starlight as your head moved to the side. “By all rights, you ought to be a knight. Or perhaps the heir to a king.” 

“Don’t forget yourself,” Daemon chided you. Softening his words, though, he ran his knuckles up your arm and to the chain around your neck. He touched the old gift, before ghosting his fingers in remembrance of how he used to choke you. 

Turning to look at him, mere inches from your face, you licked your lips and smiled. “I do not forget myself, my prince. I am merely humbled to be before two such great men. Two Targaryens, gods among men." 

Daemon snorted. "I never much appreciated the honey on your tongue. But how skilled you are with it when you do not speak."

"You wound me," you replied with a raised brow, scarcely able to hide your grin. "And you lie. If you truly believed what you say, you would have tired of me many seasons ago. But still, after all these years, you call me to your side."

He couldn't resist kissing you deeply then. The intensity of it took your breath away - his fingers clutched the silver around your neck and yanked you closer, while his tongue pressed hungrily to the inside of your teeth. "You're not my only friend now," he grunted between kisses. "Are you going to be my nephew's friend, too?"

After a long moment, you pushed Daemon away with heavily lidded eyes. You glanced over at the young prince, and held out your hand. He took it hesitantly. “Any friend of my prince's is a friend of mine, Aemond. I think you quite dear to him, and I’m glad to finally make your acquaintance.” 

His shoulders visibly relaxed as the introductions began to shed their formalities, and he echoed the words back to you. He offered you wine and you accepted. Daemon watched you interact so easily and quickly. He watched how Aemond raked his eyes over you, and saw the tell-tale signs of how much he was beginning to enjoy you. Liked looking at you. Being near you. It mingled with the lust still rushing through his veins. 

The evening was slipping into night. Outside, though, it was still warm and the clear sky twinkled with a hundred thousand stars. Daemon followed his lovers, past and present, out onto the balcony and took with him a goblet of wine. On the wide patio were soft sofas and deep chairs and you and Aemond had chosen to sit opposite each other. He took a chair, and you took a sofa. Daemon leaned over Aemond and kissed him long and slow before settling on the sofa next to you. From the way he shifted in the chair, Daemon knew it had done nothing to soften Aemond’s desire. He watched him as he took a sip of wine, imagining him riding his cock on this very sofa. 

But then he looked at you whose gaze was on the stars, and Aemond was replaced with you. How pretty you used to look atop him, riding him and taking your pleasure from him however you liked. You were such a bright soul; it made it all the more enjoyable to see you enjoy yourself with him however you liked. He got to see a side of you that few others did. 

His robes were soft and did not hide his desire. When you looked at him, it did not escape your notice. The corner of your lips twitched but you didn’t remark upon it. Given your state of dress, you had come to his rooms with your own expectations. 

“Aemond,” you said, tearing your eyes away from the hungry gaze of Daemon, “won’t you tell me the tale of how you came to Dragonstone? There are many rumours as to why - I am curious of the truth.”

Aemond leaned back in his chair and told the tale of his assignment to Dragonstone following the death of Viserys to keep the peace. You listened curiously. When it came to the matter of him essentially being held hostage, he looked to Daemon for reassurance. Settled comfortably back in cushions and enjoying the sound of his lover’s voice, Daemon had nodded slightly. You were discreet and trustworthy. 

“How curious,” you remarked with interest after a while. “There were many who assumed your brother would take up arms against the Queen.” 

Daemon smirked. “It is astounding what loyalty a few nights in my bed can inspire, isn't it, nephew?” 

On the chair across from you, Aemond blushed deeply. 

“And how did it come to be that you… found one another?” 

“The queen introduced us. She, ah…” Daemon hesitated, and glanced over at Aemond. He inclined his head once, granting permission. “Would you really like to know?” 

Smiling, you nodded. 

Daemon moved closer on the sofa to you until he was almost behind you. Aemond’s gaze burned into you as he ghosted his lips across your shoulder. He left a whispering kiss on your neck and breathed against your ear. “I found him in Rhaenyra’s lap, full of the queen's fingers and cock untouched, almost mewling. He looked so pretty, so wanton. I couldn’t refuse when he almost begged for me.” 

Your eyes closed. Your hand grasped his thigh, air suddenly stolen from your lungs. “Is that so?” 

“You should see him, my lady. He is so perfect when he is given what he needs.” 

“I’m sure.” 

“What do you need?” 

Pulling away slightly, you looked back at him. “More than a few pretty words.” 

Daemon knew how to work you. Soft conversations, kind words, compliments, gentle touches. They filled the evening with them. Aemond stayed where he was, content to watch for now. He was a quick learner. 

“My prince,” you moaned softly. Daemon had stripped you bare and laid you on his bed and settled between your legs. How he had missed it here! His mouth found its place on your breast and he teased your nipple with his teeth and tongue. You never tired of the attention; you loved it. You sighed and scraped your nails over his scalp. Silver hair slipped through your fingers. “Yes.” 

Aemond hesitated at the foot of the bed. He wanted to watch, but he wanted to feel, too. Something about seeing your neck arch and thighs tremble just from the attention on your nipple had him leaking through his breeches, though, and just a touch of your speckled skin would be too much. 

Daemon sucked harder and teased your other nipple between long fingers. He pressed his knee hard between your legs and you swore. Immediately you found a rhythm against his knee and thigh and as he lavished attention on your chest, you chased your first orgasm. 

Aemond watched as you threw your head back and the intensity overtook you. Your whole body writhed and your legs shook and you pressed Daemon’s face tighter against you. Before you had the chance to come back down, he slid down your body and buried his mouth between your thighs. 

Aemond let out a soft and strained noise. He couldn’t see his lover’s lips against their guest but he could taste you in your mind. He could imagine how slick you were against Daemon’s chin and how your clit throbbed against his tongue. You grasped your breasts and pressed your nipples between your fingers in an echo of Daemon’s ministrations. You came quickly a second time. 

After, Daemon kissed your mouth and let you taste yourself on him. It made you laugh, made you wrap your arms around his neck. He stroked your cheek and whispered something soft to you. You nodded and kissed him one more time before letting him go. 

“Aemond,” he called out smugly. “Come to me, my prince.” 

It was strange, but Aemond didn't much mind the sarcastic tone his uncle had whenever he used his title.

You had stripped Aemond of his tunic but he had stopped you before you could unlace his trousers. He did not want you to think he would demand something of you that you weren't willing to give. But now he was half-mad with the need for both of you. For his uncle, for his lady. He heeded Daemon’s call. 

“Isn’t she beautiful?” Daemon murmured as he got up from the bed. He wore nothing but a smile and he took Aemond’s sharp face into his hands. 

“Yes,” came the whispered reply. 

“Do you want her?” 

He looked at you with glittering eyes. He could cry for how badly he did. But you were here for Daemon, not him. “How could anyone not?” 

“Taste her, nephew.” 

Your hair was fanned out around your head and shifted between starlit hues. You looked over at him with longing but asked nothing of him. He was here for Daemon, not you. 

“I would taste you, uncle.” He flushed when he whispered it. “Please?” 

The way they kept calling each other uncle and nephew was filthy. It made your cunt throb.

The kiss Daemon gave him was deep and needy. Aemond sucked on his tongue and bit his lip and sank to his knees. You propped yourself up on your elbows to watch as he took Daemon into his mouth with devotion in his eye that was absolute. Daemon dropped his head back and groaned. His fingers roughly grasped Aemond’s hair. Purple eye closed; blue sparkled. 

Without taking your eyes off the couple, you got up from the bed and took your place behind Daemon. His strong body was so familiar to you and as Aemond worshipped his cock, you touched every part of him that you could reach. Oil had been on the edge of the bed and without needing to think, you slicked three fingers and slipped two against his entrance. You kissed the seam between his shoulder and neck and he nodded, eyes closed. 

“Go on,” he demanded of you. Without needing to be told again, you pressed inside of him. He was so warm and tight about your fingers and you buried them to the knuckle. Every time he clenched thanks to Aemond’s ministrations, you smiled against his skin. 

It was impossible to see where Aemond had him in his mouth, but the noises were obscene. Wet and slippery and mingled with moans from both of them, grunts from Daemon and hums from Aemond, you nearly came from the sounds alone. But you held on. 

Daemon’s orgasm swept through him with a warning to his lovers. Aemond swallowed him greedily. He needed barely a moment to catch his breath before he stood up and kissed Daemon deeply. You peeked over his shoulder to watch them. It seemed as if Aemond had grown half a foot since the evening had begun. His confidence turned him to a giant. 

When the kisses, hot and needy and desperate, ended, you gently pulled your fingers from his body and felt eyes watching you. Aemond was so close now, you could see every fleck of starlight in his eye. The depths of it made you curious and you blinked. He blushed again. 

“Aemond,” you whispered. His lips parted as if the air had been knocked from him, as if the world had stopped. 

“Isn’t he a wonder?” Daemon said with satisfaction. Aemond’s gaze darted to him and softened, and he welcomed another kiss greedily. Slender fingers ran up Daemonr’s back and into his hair. You watched with fire in your belly, between your legs. 

When you stepped back towards the bed, Daemon stopped you. He turned and grasped your hand and pulled you to them so you all shared an embrace. The air between you was thick and all you could think of was how your skin was pressed against Aemond’s pretty chest, his strong stomach. Hesitant hands almost traced the curved planes of his muscles, but instead, they found their place on Daemon, familiar Daemon, demanding Daemon. 

“You look so beautiful when you come,” you told him. “I missed the noises you make.” 

He laughed and leaned down and kissed you. You could almost taste Aemond on him. You smiled against his mouth. Your hand traced down his stomach between his legs and found him half hard again. 

“I want you inside me, my prince.” 

“How much do you want me inside you?” 

You took his hand and pressed it against your cunt and he slipped his fingers between your swollen lips. You bit your lip. “I am aching for you.” 

A noise came from the back of his throat. “Bend over the bed. I would like to have you while Aemond has me.” 

You looked up with a smug grin. "You like him having you?"

Daemon gave Aemond an appreciative squeeze between his legs. "You would not believe how well his cock fills me up."

Aemond kissed his neck and sucked until Daemon had lost nearly all thought. He would be marked by morning. 

You took the hand that was not around Aemond's cock and led Daemon back to the bed. “I would look upon your face.” You lay back and spread your legs for him. 

His mouth watered to see you flushed red and spread wide for him, so slick and needy. He nodded and took his cock in hand. It slid through your folds and he pressed the head to grind across your clit and your eyes rolled back. You murmured words of encouragement before shifting your hips up in a silent beg for him to slip inside of you. 

The moment he pressed forward, he felt Aemond line up behind him. Strong arms wrapped around him from behind and fingers splayed across his chest. Aemond was dripping with seed and oil and with Daemon's hole already smooth from your ministrations, he was more than ready. The delight of your pressure welcomed him when he moved forward, and Aemond’s hardness stimulated him when he pressed back. 

You moved slowly at first to find their rhythm. Daemon moaned the name of both of his lovers. 

Then you begged to be fucked. Aemond thought of fucking you. Daemon thought of being fucked by both of you. Aemond was the first to change the pace. He slammed into Daemon and felt how his uncle clenched around him. He did it again, and again, and again, until it was a brutal rhythm that had you all panting, your groans mingling, names spilling from lips in a haze of delight and lust. 

“Aemond,” you begged. You were getting close. You reached blindly for his hand and found it on Daemon's back and your fingers laced together. 

Daemon’s hand ground against your clit and he leaned down to bite your nipple and suck your sensitive ear. When his head was pressed against your neck, you caught Aemond’s gaze. You held it when you came with high moans and hoarse shouts. You raked your nails down Daemon’s back who quickly followed. Aemond let himself go on Daemon’s back with Daemon’s hand grasping back against his thigh.

After, Aemond stumbled to fetch water and cloths before collapsing in sated sleepiness onto the bed. You and Daemon, satisfied and floating, cleaned one another and he gently wiped Aemond. Aemond shuffled up the bed and slipped under the covers and with Aemond at his side, he drifted off to sleep. 

“He really is quite beautiful,” you whispered after a time. “Does he always sleep in your bed?” 

Daemon smirked. "When he pleases me."

"And how often is that?"

"Most nights."

"What of the queen?"

"She likes to join us sometimes. Sometimes, she brings Aegon. A pathetic little thing, really, but so obedient." He kissed you and sucked on your lower lip until it made you moan. "You would enjoy him."

You grinned. "There are only so many Targaryens I can handle at once. I think two is my limit." You watched as Daemon's gaze turned to his sleeping nephew. A man grown, he was, but there was something innocent in the peace that had relaxed his scarred face as he slept.

It did not escape your notice how tenderly Daemon looked down at him. It was an expression you had not often seen him wear. Perhaps Aemond was more than just his play-thing. Carefully, so as not to disturb the young prince, you got up and began to pull your clothes back on.

“Where are you going?” Daemon asked somewhat indignantly.

“I thought you might prefer some privacy.” 

“Don't be ridiculous." He pulled back the bedsheets at the other side of Aemond. "Get in. Stay."

"Are you certain?"

He rolled his eyes. "Get in."

"And in the morning?"

"I'm going to watch him fuck you until you cry."

You looked over at Daemon with a raised brow. "Is that so?"

"It certainly is. Now, go to sleep. You will need your strength."

Resting your head on the soft pillow, you looked directly in front of you. Aemond lay sleeping between the two of you, and you could see every line, every eyelash, every freckle on his face. You blushed and buried your head into his hair as you tried to sleep. The thought of what was to come with the dawn kept you awake for a long time, though.

[roguelov]

Crimson Stained Petals (Chapter 5)

Summary: Set in the 1880s, rumors and mysteries swirled around a quaint town, mostly about a lord tucked far into the woods. Arriving in town, you could not deny your curiosities, but you were not here to stay. Or so you thought. Low on funds, and a job for a live-in servant advertised in the paper, you now found yourself in the home of Lord Morpheus - the source of all rumors. Passions and tensions will grow. Questions will be answered, but may come at a hefty price. And a promise may be broken. But, is Lord Morpheus, and those few residents, truly as scary as they seem?

Words Count: ~6.1k

Reader: Fem

Warnings: fluff, pining, heated makeout, bloodlust, some angst

Chapter 4, more chapters to come!

With a single exhale from the universe, days flew by on the breeze. Your once tense nerves for the party suddenly formed into bubbling excitement. Yet, before you could stew in such emotions, the day of the party arrived. As the sun slowly descended, you began to get ready and luckily Lucienne happily offered to help.

“You look stunning,” Lucienne commented as she finished up the final touches.

Your hands ran over the fine material. A bashful smile curled over your lip and you muttered, “Thank you.”

She smoothed out the dress once more. She stepped back, smiling at you. “Now go, you don’t want to be late.”

You stumbled out your thanks as she ushered you out of your room. You laughed then walked towards the front door. From the front entrance, Morpheus heard your footsteps and sweet melodic laughter. His back faced you, yet as you rounded through the corner he peered over his shoulder. In a single look, you revived his ancient heart.

You were draped in a matching color: an inky midnight black. The neckline plunged rather far, a revealing cut. Thick, velvet, straps looped over your shoulders with fine silver fabric mimicking tassels draped and swayed over your bicep at every fraction of your movement. The dark corset delicately cinched your waist, elongating your figure. Silver embroidery - swirls, spirals, with floral accents - trailed across the top of the corset. The same pattern was added onto the skirt, winding down the side and along the bottom. A single slit ran up the dress revealing the dark ruffling underskirt - or so the illusion. With every movement, a small train behind you swished. The final touch were silk black gloves pulled up past your elbow.

It was elegant, it was expensive.

It was also a gift from Morpheus for this special night.

Morpheus slowly remembered how to breathe again as he fully turned around taking you all in. “You’re beautiful.”

You bowed your head, feeling a heat rise to your cheeks, “Thank you.” It was such a simple compliment, yet coming from him it meant the world to you. “And you look handsome as well.”

Morpheus wore a pristine three piece all black suit. A notable design was the similar swirling, floral pattern on his vest, however it could only be seen up close. It was black on black, and still striking. His pale skin glowed against the void of color. His eyes sparkled like gems, blue topaz seen dangling from high society ladies’ ears and necks. He was the epitome of night, not an ounce of color on him this evening, not even his usual ruby.

“Thank you,” he smiled softly. He extended his arm out to you. “Shall we?”

You easily returned his smile, and looped your arm through his. “Yes.”

Morpheus led you out to the carriage, and the awaiting driver. He kindly opened the door for you and helped you in. For a moment, you were royalty. And you secretly indulged in the fantasy of riches and glamor. You were from wealth and not a lowly worker. You were about to have an evening of adventure and fun with your date -

Date?

Plopping down into the seat, you stewed in such thoughts as Morpheus joined you. He slid into the seat across from you and asked the carriage man to please go. It would be a long ride and it was best to start now. The sun had already set, leaving hints of its warm light still clinging on the horizon. Yet, neither of you panicked. It was a ‘midnight gathering’ per Robert Galding’s words.

You jerked in your seat as the carriage lurched forward.

Date? You thought again. Is that what you truly were tonight? Were you his date or was this a simple act of kindness? Yes? No? Somewhere in between? No, you were a simple employee who struck gold with such a generous employer.

Or, so you continued to tell yourself.

Even if a part, deep down, wished otherwise. A part of you with a voice so small and neglected over the years. If it could just speak, if it could just have this for a moment. But, perhaps it was best to not indulge in such dizzying fantasies. He was your boss and -

“Are you okay?”

Jolted by his voice, you snapped out of your thoughts. You blinked, staring wide eyed at him. “I’m sorry, what?”

Morpheus offered a soft lopsided smile. “You seem … lost in your thoughts I suppose, are you okay?”

You laughed nervously, pushing aside your previous thoughts. “I guess I’m a little nervous. I haven’t had much experience in parties.”

If any.

“I’m sure you will do well. It will be fun, a nice change of pace,” he offered.

You nodded. “I’m sure it will be.”

Hopefully.

He smiled, leaning back into his seat. “Relax, we have a long journey ahead.”

Your eyes dropped down as his leg gently bumped into yours, a small reassurance. Your heart flipped then quickly settled. His calm aura, his charming smile, the way his head tilted back further into the seat, how his eyes softened as you stared, you were spellbound by him.

His calmness radiated, making you calm.

In a few short hours, you arrived at an extravagant home - a mansion. Warm light oozed out of every window and opening. Soft chatter and laughter of people enchanted your senses.

Morpheus stepped out, graciously took your arm and guided you to the front entrance of the home. Standing inside the main hall, a man talked with a woman. His laughter was so loud and so contagious. His smile radiated. He was a dash of sun during these dark hours. His chestnut hair, flecked with grey streaks on his temples, was slicked back and nearly touched his shoulders. His chin was stubbled with a faint beard, a certain ruggedness to his otherwise soft appearance. His suit was a fine charcoal grey, soft and subtle, like the color of a rain cloud blowing away on the wind revealing the sun behind it, or grey found in the pebbles of a riverbed full of fish and life. He was a breath of life, and you were instantly in awe of him.

The woman giggled then shuffled off into the ballroom off to the side. The man’s warm eyes swiveled, locking onto the pair of you. His eyes instantly lit up. “Morpheus,” he greeted, smiling ear to ear.

“Robert,” Morpheus said with a far more reserved smile. Morpheus turned his head addressing you. “This is my dear friend, Robert Gadling. Robert, this is my company for tonight, (Y/N) (Y/L/N).”

Robert reached over, taking your hand and politely kissed your knuckles. “Pleasure, and do please refer to me as Hob most of my friends do.”

“Pleasure, Hob. You may simply call me, (Y/N).”

Hob smiled, beaming and bright. “So, how do you know our dear dark friend?”

“Oh, well, I’m actually one of his employees,” you mumbled, slightly embarrassed. “I’m a live-in servant. I mainly do house chores.”

“She is my plus one,” Morpheus interjected. “And that is all I wish to hear from tonight.”

He didn’t need, nor want, more gossip.

Hob glanced at Morpheus with a certain flint in his eyes and nodded. He glanced back at you, still smiling, “Well, I do hope you enjoy yourself tonight.”

“Thank you.” You returned the smile.

Morpheus led you into the room. He greeted a few others and introduced you, but you quickly forgot their names. It was a bit overwhelming. He steered you to a table filled with refreshments. Picking up two filled glasses, he passed one to you. You both silently cheered before taking a sip. A sweet wine coated your tongue and down your throat. You hummed, thankfully for the alcohol hoping to settle your nerves.

Morpheus leaned into you. “I am going to speak with Robert, will you be okay by yourself?”

You couldn’t deny the quick douse of fear over your heart. Your eyes darted to the other guests who laughed loudly. However, you simply smiled at him. “I believe I will be, I’m more than capable of handling some social interactions.”

He chuckled lightly. “Good, I will be back shortly.”

He strolled off to Hob, who stayed by the ballroom entrance to greet any other late guests. You eyed the crowd, sipped your drink for a boost of courage, then decided to try to talk with others. You hadn’t spoken to many on your way in, you might as well see what these fine folk are like.

Morpheus slid up beside Hob. His eyes were still on you as you made your way to the crowd of people. Hob followed his line of sight and snickered under his breath. He turned to look at his dead old friend with his ever charming smile. “So, a mortal?”

Morpheus did not respond initially.

”Although. I did specify not to bring Lucienne, you still somehow managed to bring an employee of yours.”

”Is there a point you are trying to make?” Morphues tore his eyes away from you.

Hob continued to smile, one that was endearing and kind. “I’m simply glad you came.”

Morpheus was slightly taken back.

”It’s good to see you out again. You haven’t visited me in years, and had declined my other invitations so I’m happy to see you are doing well.”

Morpheus’s gaze slowly peered back at you amongst the crowd. Your smile was wide and beautiful, and your laughter was still the most wondrous melody he had ever heard. “I am, better than I have been in years.”

“Good.” Hob pushed himself off the wall. “I do believe it is time we start the party, I hope you don’t mind what I am about to do.”

Unaware, you laughed as a woman recounted her lively escapades with countless partners.

“Excuse me?” You twisted around to see the host, Hob, with his hand reached out to you. “May I have the honor of dancing with you?”

“Oh, um,” you hesitated, seeing how Morphues was nowhere to be seen. But, you couldn’t be rude to the host of the event. You carefully placed your hand in his, “Yes, you may.”

Hob smiled and led you over to the dance floor. It was nerve wracking. It wasn’t the honor of dancing with him, but also the first dance of the night. Your nerves must have been apparent because Hob joked, “You don’t have to worry, if anything I should be. I have two left feet.”

A smile tugged on your lips as your nerves settled. Hob gently spun you around and instantly the musicians - who eagerly waited - began to play a beautiful melody. Hand in hand, arm on waist and shoulder. hob led the two of you in a circle to the heart of the song. Quickly, and thankfully, others began to join. The dance floor was filled with a sea of people and a cacophony of noise.

“So,” Hob began as he twisted you around, “how did you come to know our dear brooding friend?”

You laughed once. “It’s not an exciting story, quite plain actually.”

”Tell me, if you can.”

”Well,” you sighed, “I travel often, and wanderer I suppose, never in one place for too long. I was in town and saw an advertisement in the local paper for a live-in servant to do housework. I was low on funds and decided to take a leap.”

Hob nodded, “I see, so happenstance?”

”Correct.”

”And I hope you do not mind me asking, but why haven’t you set roots somewhere? I understand the need to see the world, I also don’t stay still for long.”

“Like you said, to see the world and sometimes my feet are already moving before I can hear the call myself.” Your smile turned somewhat sorrowful. “I am always looking for something. I’m not sure what it is, but I’ll know it once I see it.”

Hob’s eyes softened. “And I hope you find what you are looking for.”

Suddenly, Hob’s eyes flickered behind you. A knowing smile curled on his lips. A new hand tapped on your shoulder and a familiar voice asked, “May I have this dance?”

Looking behind you, Morphues stood in the moving sea of spinning people with his hand offered out. You glanced back at Hob, and he gave a small nod. You can go, it said. You faced Morpheus smiling widely, “I would be honored.”

You placed your hand into his and instantly the world faded away. Taking your hand, he spun you around almost as if he was showing you off. He brought you close as his free hand landed carefully on your waist. Despite the layers you adorn, you still felt it.

“I hope Hob wasn’t too much for you,” he asked, leading the dance.

You laughed lightly. “No, not at all.”

“Good.”

Dancing with him, the world melted away. It was you and him, nothing else. Two hearted pounded in unison as feet echoed the chaotic beat. If others were watching - and they certainly were - you did not care. Sparks flew. Words needn’t be said. Each of you were utterly entranced. You danced and danced, pulling and pushing each other. The gap between the two of you seemed to shrink and shrink with every step and turn.

He was so close.

So tantalizing close.

Morphues spun you around, bringing your back to his chest. His hand laid flat against your stomach. His other hand held your wrist still leading the dance. He dipped his head, his hot breath fanned across your ear.

“Care to join me for a breath of fresh air?” He whispered.

You tipped your head back, and hummed, “Yes.”

Off the dance floor, and your arm looped through his, Morpheus led you away from all the commotion. Through the pair of double doors, he stepped outside onto the terrace. On the lawn, there was a cobblestone path leading to a fountain with an assortment of bushes and flowers lining the path. It was open, and freeing, with its rolling hills surrounding the property. You could see to the farthest home with its lights still aglow inside. You could imagine picnics in the sun, or tumbling down the hills like a child. It was gorgeous, yet the hills brought a silence unlike the constant chatter of the forest.

Morpheus guided you down the cobble path and around the fountain to a bench. He sat down, his back to the fountain and manor. It was a miser of privacy, but he was willing to take it. He needed the fresh air, he needed just a moment alone with you. He gazed up ahead at the twinkling stars and crescent moon. You carefully sat down beside him, however you did not look uo. Instead, you looked at him. He was the night. The color of his hair plucked from the dark corner of the night sky, his skin bathed in starlight, and his eyes were like two moons brought to life from legends.

He was a god of night.

Stunning, lovely, and frightening all at once. He was dangerous, you knew that. A man of power, and a man of prestige. And yet, you could not stop your heart from fluttering in his presence, you could not stop yourself from constantly seeking him out, you could not stop thinking about him.

Delusion, such blind delusions.

He was dangerous and charming, a wicked combination.

But, for a moment, you allowed yourself to live in these dizzying emotions. If just for a single night. Let me have this, let me pretend, let me dream. You leaned over, with your heart in your throat, and pecked his cheek. “Thank you for bringing me,” you whispered. “Even if I was your only choice.”

Morphues whipped his head. Surprise and confusion battled in his eyes. You were so close. He could hear your wild heartbeat, and he knew his own matched it. He could smell your impossibly sweet blood coursing through your veins igniting his courage while also driving him to near insanity. Your soft breath hitched, your lips parted, and your face under the moonlight beckoned him - like a moth to a flame.

Or a predator to its prey.

Your words finally broke through his stupor. “Only choice?” He repeated those words, almost unsure he heard you correctly. “My dear, it was never a choice. I brought you - I came here - to show you a good time. If anything I should be giving my thanks that you agreed to join me.”

”But, you didn’t have to, even if your friend heavily suggested -“

”If I did not wish to come, I wouldn’t be here/ And you have been so kind and wondrous with your stay. I wanted to repay your kindness.”

He didn’t have to. He didn’t need to say a thing to you, yet he constantly sought out your options and checked in on you. “Why?” You asked.

Why me?

“Because I wanted to, is that so wrong?”

”No, no, it’s not,” you shook your head, “I just cannot fathom that a man of your stature acts the way you do.”

It doesn’t make sense.

“Should I ignore you? Scold you? Treat you poorly so that you hate working for me?”

”No, I -“

He leaned forward, his hand rested on top of yours. All you saw and felt was hime. His hand sparked a fire across your fire and burned its way into your chest. ”Please, stop questioning my generosity. I do what I do because I want to. I wanted to bring you here, I wanted you to meet my friend, I wanted to dance with you, I wanted you to be here with me.”

You couldn’t breathe. He stole your breath, your thoughts, and any sane reasoning. Don’t. Don’t do it. Your logical side urged you, it was here to protect yourself. However, you could not hear it over the sound of your own heart, a heart full of want and blinded by rose colored glasses. You couldn’t hear it over Morpheus’s voice that sang sweetly in your ears. You couldn’t see reason when he was directly in front of you, and how his soft lips tempted you.

Damn everything for just a moment.

In a flash, you closed the gap and kissed him. It was short, a quick peck on the lips. You may have gathered the courage to act, but you didn’t want to overstep. You pulled away - a small sliver of space to breathe and collect your thoughts. Opening your eyes, you were met with the most beautiful blue imagainable, a blue which haunted your dreams. You leaned away as an apology formed on your tongue.

However, Morphues was a viper.

His hand shot out and wrapped around the back of your neck, bringing you back to him. His lips collided with yours. This time he wanted to savor it, he had a tasting and it wasn’t enough to satisfy him. He eagerly parted his lips, begging for entrance. And why would you deny him? It was messy, it was intense, and you wouldn’t want it any other way. You were set on fire by him, consumed by him.

He tilted his head, and slipped his tongue inside. Instantly, you moaned, unabashedly and surprised by how easily he pulled out such a sound by you. You gave yourself over, letting him learn how to make you sing.

And sing you would.

His tongue swirled around, making your skin flush. You grabbed the front of his jacket, pulling him closer. Your bodies flushed together like puzzle pieces. A hum rumbled in the back of his throat. His lips were impossibly soft and addictive. The touch and taste seared into your mind, a memory to always look back on. A hauntingly sweet memory.

More. He wanted more.

He gently lowered you down on the bench. His hands landed on either side of your head. He finally broke the kiss, staring down at you - you who was somewhat sprawled out so lovely on this stone bench. You looked delectable, you looked ravishing, you looked like a goddess he was ready to drop to his knees and pray to. Your chest heaved frantically. He could hear how your heart raced, and how it raced in tandem with his ancient one. You had brought new life back into this immortal.

Staring up, Morpheus was casted in the moonlight. An angel of mythos or the devil of temptation, you couldn't decide. However, in this moment, you frankly didn’t care. Salvation? You never cared for it, especially now. Under the moonlight, his eyes almost seemed to glow, unnaturally so. A trick of your drunk mind - drunk on alcohol, sin, and love. You reached up, caressing his face. He immediately leaned into your touch. He turned his head and kissed on top of your glove on the inside of your wrist.

A flare of desire and hunger swirled inside of him. It was deadly to play with them, but he couldn’t leave this moment yet. He weaned to savor every possible second until the clock struck.

Or before the monster called.

He kissed down your arms. You hummed, craning your neck. You threw your arm over his shoulder, not wishing him to leave. He nuzzled his face into your neck, inhaling your scent. He groaned.

Dear lord -

His lips traced over the vein in your neck. Your blood called out to him. He could feel the pulse by his lips, beckoning him. He tentatively kissed the crook of your neck. Hearing you sigh in delight, he continued. He trailed butterfly kisses up and down your neck, feeling you squirm under him. He slowly placed an opened mouth kiss on your neck and you shivered. Desire surged through him. His teeth grazed over the unblemished skin, and he thought it a crime to not tarnish it.

Part of him, lost in the moment, wanted others to see. He wanted them to know you were his. No hands shall touch you unless they want repercussions. He began to nibble on your skin. You breathed out a moan, drawing him closer. You didn’t dare let him leave now.

He could imagine countless nights tangled together. He could imagine you laid out on his bed, on his silk sheets. He could imagine how you called out his name like a prayer. He could imagine mapping out your body with his lips. He could imagine how your back would arch under his touch. He could imagine how your eyes would droop in lust and want. He could imagine himself begging for a taste. He could imagine you smiling and turning your head to reveal a faint scar where he already fed before. He could imagine how sweet you would taste and how the pain brought ecstasy. He could imagine -

His incisors lengthened, beginning to poke at your skin. Unaware, and drowning in bliss, you hummed softly. Morpheus slowly began to apply pressure. His once playful intentions were replaced with something more sinister. Pain and pleasure mixed. Morpheus could not, and would not, stop. He had you in his grasp, and all he wanted was a taste. Just a mere taste. Back in the garden, it wasn’t enough. You lingered on his tongue constantly all day and all night.

More. Just a little more, a voice growled in his thoughts.

However, pain grew to discomfort, it was no longer pleasure. You hissed. He felt it. He felt your heartbeat jump, not out of lust but fear. He smelled the surge of concern wash over you. It was bitter. He instantly lurched back. He hovered over you. You opened your eyes, meeting his. His eyebrows furrowed together as sorrow stained his eyes. You tried to say something - anything - to calm him, to keep this going. But, he was gone. He muttered under his breath, then ran off.

It happened all so fast, like in a blink. One moment he was drawing out such desires, the next he vanished. Like a mirage, a dream. Now, you were left on your back, breathless, trying to claw at the fleeting memory. You wanted to savor, to hold it close to ensure it was reality and not some fantasy of the night.

“I’m sorry.”

That was what he said. The two words finally caught up to your ears. He was sorry, but why? Why would he be apologizing? Was it you? Was it -

You sighed, deeply. The fantasy, the allure of the night, had finally washed away. You shouldn’t be delving into such delights. Not with him. You sat up, and ran your hand over your neck. You winced slightly under the tender flesh. You glanced back at the light of the manor, to the cheers of people and music. Now, you had to walk back and pretend to others as if they did not know what happened, as if the signs were not slowly forming on your neck.

You walked away, not daring to glance back at the space which held a new secret. It was best to get back to the manor, best to get back to reality. You shouldn’t mix yourself with him, you knew better. Slipping back inside, you scanned the room. No one paid any mind to you, perhaps too drunk to care. However, you did not see Morpheus, no signs of the regal dark king.

The idea of the ride back, those long few hours, weighed on you. The tension, the awkwardness, and the obvious confrontation was going to be unbearable. Yet, you continued on your search because you wanted to go back, you were done with this silly dream, done with your delusions. You only needed Morpheus to return back with. If you can find him, which was somehow proving to be more difficult.

You did, however, find Hob. He was leaning on the wall near the doorway to the main foyer and ballroom. He was watching over his guest ensuring they were still enjoying themselves.

You approached him, “Excuse me, Hob?”

Hob, who was enjoying a moment of solitude with a drink, smiled at you. “Yes?”

You glanced around once more, yet still no Morpheus. You sighed deeply, addressing Hob. “I’m sorry to bother you, but have you seen Morpheus?”

“I’m sorry, I have not.” Hob frowned, “Has something happened?”

“No, I just wish to go home now.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to see you go. But, I will keep an eye out for him. If I see him, I will tell you straight away.”

“Thank you, Hob, I appreciate it.” You turned and fell into the crowd, moving through the crowd of people trying to find him.

Hob sighed and leaned his head against the wall. “I suppose you heard that.”

On the other side of the entrance, Morpheus was pressed against the wall hidden in the edges of darkness. Yes, he heard it all. And, it pained him greatly. He ran his hand over his mouth, still feeling your lips and skin on his lips. Most of all, he felt his incisors still out seeking your blood.

“I did,” Morpheus mumbled.

“You should talk to her.”

“And do what?” Morpheus hissed. “I nearly killed her tonight, Robert. And I can still feel myself being pulled in by her.”

“And what should I do?”

“I’m not sure. I simply can’t be alone with her, for I am afraid I will hurt her gravely.”

Hob sipped his drink. “I understand.”

A silence hung over the pair. Hob watched as you circled the party still looking for Morpheus and even asked a few others. Meanwhile, Morpheus was only a few feet away.

“I’m surprised you brought her.” Hob whispered. “A mortal and one in your care, it’s just like -“

“Do not speak his name.” Morpheus’s tone was cold, and intimidating. Hob was crossing a line, one neither spoke of but knew existed.

Hob, however, quickly brushed over Morpheus’s threat. He wouldn’t speak his name, but he would warn his friend. “I worry about you, Morpheus. That is all, we all do. I just hope you understand what will and what always happens to mortals.”

“I am very aware of their lifeline, Hob.” More than most realize, he bitterly thought.

“… I … I just don’t want to see you hurt again.”

Morpheus frowned at Hob’s gentle tone. Hob was truly his closest, and only, friend he had. He trusted him without a doubt. “I believe we both know pain is permanently ingrained in our long lives.”

Hob snorted, taking another sip. “Yes, I cannot disagree with that.”

“Please,” Morpheus mumbled, completely broken. “Tell her I fell ill, or that I already left. Send her away in our carriage, and I will find another transportation home.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I can’t be near her now.”

“Okay.”

That was all Hob said, before he pushed himself off the wall and walked towards you.

Morpheus peered out from behind the wall, and watched. Hob smiled as he approached you, only for his smile to drop like a well timed act. He told a lie, and said to take a carriage home. Your face dropped, but before sadness could take hold you smiled. You thanked Hob, and wished him the best and to hopefully see him again. You held yourself high, and buried your emotions deep. You would not break, at least not now in public.

Morpheus’s heart squeezed. To think he caused this, to think he brought heartache upon you, it nearly ruined him. And in a way, he believed he deserved it. Was he not a monster after all? Did he not almost lose himself and try to kill you?

Hob, taking your arm, led you out. While, Morpheus slinked away into the darkness, into halls unseen. Like the monster he was. Hob walked you outside and saw you out. With a flick of the reins, with a whine of a horse, Morpheus now knew you were safely away from him. When Hob returned, he headed directly towards Morpheus casted in his shadows.

“She is gone.” Hob stated.

“I know.”

“And so how will you get home?” Hob asked.

“I have my ways.”

Anger and discontent roared inside Hob. “What will you do? Run the whole way? Ride a carriage and pray the sun doesn’t touch you? You are not even wearing the charm I gave you, how will you protect yourself now? You think you are faster than the sun, or do you want the sun to catch you? Or do you think my magic can do such great feats of sending you away in a blink or stopping the sun from rising?”

Morpheus’s lips thinned.

Hob sighed heavily, dropping his shoulders. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I am just worried for you.”

Morpheus’s expression softened. “I know and I appreciate your concern. But, I can see myself out.”

“Morpheus, please -“

“I will be fine, I assure you.”

Hob wanted to argue more, but Morpheus had been set in his ways. “Okay, but do make it back alive. If not for my sake, but for her sake.”

Morpheus blinked, then sighed. “I will. Thank you for inviting me, Robert. I do apologize for the inconvenience I thrusted upon you.”

Hob waved him off. “Nonsense, it makes for an exciting night, just keep in contact more.”

“You have my word.”

Morpheus was out the door before Hob could properly say goodbye. Outside under the moon, Morpheus tipped his head back, exhaling deeply. He opened his senses allowing the world to flood through him once again. Hob’s comment about running home was partially true. Perhaps if he was in his younger years, and if he had fed properly recently, he could have surpassed you in the carriage. However, he was older and muscles had not been used in so long. He had resigned himself to a chair and desk, dealing with stories and business. Instead, he could make it home before sunrise, but not before you. No, you would walk into an almost empty manor with questions and thoughts he could not answer.

No, not until tomorrow. Or if he had the courage to do so.

He looked towards the direction of home, towards you in the carriage vanished from sight. Inhaling, he turned then stepped once then twice then sprinted away. One moment he stood in the driveway of Hob’s home, the next Morpheus was gone. All that was left behind was the sounds of wiping wind, and regret.

Meanwhile, you stewed in your thoughts. Hob had lied. You knew that. It was evident on his face. Morpheus was not sick, he was hiding. But, why? Why the lies? What happened by the fountain? What changed?

And why did you care so much?

You closed your eyes, and rubbed your temples as a headache slowly formed. To think tonight ended in such an unbelievable way. You nearly wished to go back in time and warn your younger self. But, you couldn’t. So, instead, you sat here with bitter thoughts and a confused heart.

When you arrived at the manor, in the dead of night, you quietly thanked the carriage driver. He said nothing, only rode off. You slowly approached the door, and it dawned on you: you had no key. You internally groaned, but knew one person was home. Ringing the bell, you winced at how long it resonated throughout the silence. You, thankfully, did not wait long. The door swung up revealing a slightly disheveled Lucienne. Her glasses gone as she blinked trying to get her bearings.

“I am so sorry, Lucienne,” you apologized. “I truly didn’t wish to wake you, but I didn’t have any choice.”

Lucienne’s eyes landed on you, then darted behind you. “Where is Lord Morpheus?”

“Still at Robert Gadling’s. He had fallen ill, and insisted I go without him.” You so easily spewed out the lie you were told.

Her eyes widened, “Is he okay?”

“I believe he is, he is under Mr. Gadling’s care that I see no reason to cause concern.”

Lucienne nodded. “Right, well, I do hope he comes home soon.”

You didn’t respond to her statement. “May I come in?”

“Oh, yes, of course.”

Lucienne stepped aside and allowed you through. She shut and locked the door behind you. Turning towards you, Lucienne asked, “Are you okay?”

“What?” You spun around.

“Are you okay? Traveling alone and for so long, not to mention having to leave Lord Morpheus, I suspect you might be in some distress. Which is unfortunate after what I hope was a lovely evening.”

“Oh, yes, well the night was fun, certainly unforgettable.”

Lucienne smiled, softly. Her eyes were clearly tired.

“I should let you go,” you said. “You must be tired, for I know I am.”

She chuckled lightly. “Of course, goodnight.”

The two of you started to parts way, but Lucienne froze halfway up the stairs. “Oh! Before I forget, there is a letter for you.”

“There is?” You glanced up at her from the bottom floor.

“Yes, I went to the post office this morning and the worker there asked me to give it to you. I placed it on your desk in your room.”

Your eyes darted to the hall, to your room. “Thank you, and again I apologize for waking you.”

“Nonsense, it soothed me knowing you made it back okay. Maybe we can talk more tomorrow about your adventure,” she smiled, making her eyes crinkle.

“Yes, maybe.” You returned the smile, despite it not being as genuine as hers.

“Goodnight,” she hummed sleepily.

“Goodnight, Lucienne.”

Walking into your bedroom, you first started the task and annoyance of undoing the corset and peeling off the layers. You sponged yourself off, then threw on a nightgown and robe. You nearly crawled into bed, utterly exhausted when you remembered the letter. You changed course heading towards your desk. Picking it up, the sender was titled: Alvin Sheng. A pen name you recognized. And instantly, you were greeted with relief and dare you say some nerves. Opening up the letter, you moved to the window using the moonlight to read it.

My Dearest,

I hope this letter reaches you well while on your new chapter of your life. In your previous letter, you spoke of your new job - one you implied of utmost importance. I am impressed to say the least, but I do hope you know what you are doing. If anything - and I do mean anything - arises please do contact me. But, as you are like myself, I know you will accomplish what you set out. I just implore you to be cautious. So, all I want to say is I wish you luck, and I hope to hear - or to ease my old heart, see - from you soon.

Please write again soon.

Much love and sincerely,

Alvin Sheng

To you Alvin Sheng was your loving uncle, to most he was a nobody, however to the hidden dark world lying beneath it all he was a legend: he was Van Helsing.

[cx-boxbox]

I was going to write a fic about Lando wanting to wear pretty clothes, but I gave up after a couple scenes. Anyway, here's the only part I kept:

Lando’s fingers twitch nervously as he collects his packages, fiddling with the corners and ducking under the tape sealing the flaps shut, but he’s careful not to accidentally open them where anyone can see. It was already embarrassing enough to ask the concierge for them, and he cringed at the heavily branded boxes. The lady probably now thinks he has a secret girlfriend or something.

It’s nice out in Melbourne, and Lando is more than happy to swap the polo and jeans he wore to the paddock for a new purple v-neck that’s so soft and light to the touch it might disintegrate between his fingers and shorts that are just a tad bit shorter than the ones he ran around the city in. He has already been photographed without his shirt within days of arriving, so if he does bump into someone, it shouldn’t come as too much of a surprise.

But it is really just Lando’s luck that he quite literally smacks into his teammate’s back as he rounds the corner.

Oscar straightens with his bucket of ice, blinks at him, and asks, “Where are you going in such a rush?”

Lando folds his arms over his chest.

“Dinner. Not a foreign concept to you, hopefully.”

“‘Course not.” What is a foreign concept is how Oscar’s gaze keeps drifting south, flickering between the plunging neckline of Lando’s shirt and his upper thighs.

Oh, how interesting, he thinks, amused. Out loud, he asks, “Wanna come with? I have no idea which places are trainer-approved.”

It takes a moment for Oscar to shrug and respond, “Sure, why not. Teammate bonding and such, right?”

Lando gasps and plucks the bucket from Oscar’s hands. He pokes Oscar’s shoulder for good measure. “We’re plenty bonded, mate!” Not as much as he’d like, but still. “Just admit that you’re simply leaping at the idea of spending time with me away from the paddock.”

“I’m going to bring you to a seafood restaurant.”

“Aah! No, no, don't do that. I dressed up so pretty, I even shaved, and you’re not ruining my hard work with, eugh, fish.”

Once again, Oscar’s gaze travels over Lando’s figure, and Lando is incredibly delighted to see red tinting his cheeks. He preens a little, which he cannot be blamed for.

It’s so flattering that it more than makes up for Oscar’s simple affirming, “Hm.”

God, Lando would be so over this whole flirting-not-quite-boyfriends thing if it wasn’t so entertaining. He just hopes that Oscar’s patience doesn’t run out before either one of them gives in and just confesses. He also hopes that he isn’t misreading anything either. That would be fucking humiliating.

The little smiles and full-body laughter Lando regularly receives from him keeps him hopeful at best and delusional at worst.

On the way to Oscar’s hotel room, Lando asks what he planned on doing with the ice, and he only receives a shrug and a mumbled, “You never know when you just need a bucket of ice.”

“That’s fair.”

“Speaking of ice, are you going to be cold in just that? It gets cooler in the evenings, and your circulation sucks.”

“A price I’m willing to pay. Have you considered that maybe your circulation is working overtime? That it might be doing too much?” Lando retorts in lieu of admitting that he didn’t actually think that far ahead in his nervous excitement. A green hoodie promptly hits him in the face.

It’s not McLaren merch. It’s OP81 merch, and it smells like Oscar. Lando resists the urge to ball it up and shove his face into it.

“Just hold onto it if you don’t wanna wear it now,” Oscar says before disappearing into the bathroom. He re-emerges in a long-sleeved shirt and trousers that don’t have drawstrings. Lando almost breathes a sigh of relief. Small mercies.

Oscar’s hoodie also ends up being one of those small mercies, and Lando burrows into it comfortably as they take a longer route back to the hotel because the city after dark is nice. Oscar raises an eyebrow at him in his subtly gloating fashion, which Lando ignores in favor of tucking his nose into the collar.

“You look prettier in my hoodie,” Oscar mumbles.

“Huh?”

“Never mind. We’re here anyway.”

[themusingsofacurlyhairednerd]

Wicked Games

Assassin!Reader x Poly!Feysand

Author's note: This is my first self-insert and first smut, wanted to try something new for a change. Not proof-read, we die like men.

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This mission was supposed to be simple, quick. In and out, cut and dry, the job coming in like all the others: A manila envelope under your door, no markings, the target and order inside. That was how it had always been, how it always would be, it was the only thing you knew to be true. So how in the Seven Hells had you ended up here? The High Lord leaned against the wall, his well pressed shirt open half way down his chest, the swirl of Illyrian ink in stark contrast to his bronze skin, so casual in the face of what should have been his own demise. Worse, the High Lady, perched atop the desk, her bare legs bouncing against the wood as she kicked her feet almost giddily. Neither of them looked displeased with the fact that you had been sent there to kill them. In fact, you were quite sure the infamous Curse Breaker was laughing at you as you squirmed uncomfortably in your seat. They hadn't even tied you down! It was starting to feel like an insult, they way they'd simply ushered you in here and asked you to sit like you'd come in for a meeting and not for the poison you'd slipped into their wine minutes before.

"It was a valiant effort, really," said Rhysand as he pushed away from the wall and came to stand behind you.

It was impossible not to be aware of the sheer power of him when he was this close. It was like a dropping a stone into a pond, the ripple of star-kissed power brushing steadily against you. You'd been around powerful males your whole life, had been trained to kill many of them, but none had ever felt like this. He was the shadow of a thought in your mind, a brush of darkness against your skin, you could practically taste jasmine and citrus.

Feyre was no better as she placed her elbows on her knees and leaned forward to get a better look at you. The dress she wore was cut low, the neckline plunging towards her midsection, accentuating every curve when she sat like that. Power radiated off her, not just Night, but something other, as if something beyond the power of the High Lords prowled beneath her skin.

"Not many people dare try," she said with a grin. She'd been the one to catch you. It had been a mistake going for her first, you could see that clearly now. The decision to spike their wine and than disguise yourself as their new cupbearer was already a risky move, but you liked to be absolutely sure the job was done, and done right. And Feyre hadn't taken her throne, she had been perched in Rhysand's lap, kissing his neck and whispering in his ear as she drank cup after cup. You'd thought she would be too drunk to notice the change in taste, too caught up in the revelry to even notice that you were not their usual cup bearer. You had been very, very wrong. She hadn't even gone in for a sip, had somehow been using her public display of affection to distract from the fact that she'd slipped right into your mind and seen exactly what you had done. And still, she could have killed you right there, could have summoned water or flames or ice and you'd heard she could do and taken you out in front of everyone in the Court of Nightmares. But she'd gotten out of Rhysand's lap, stumbling on heels you thought were too tall for her, and thrown an arm around your shoulder, whispering in your ear that she needed your help finding the bathroom--and knocking the spiked drinks out of your hands in the process. It was very clear to you now that she had never been drunk in the first place.

Neither of them were anything like the report you'd gotten.

"I-" what was there to say? Words felt useless.

Rhysand leaned down, resting the bulk of his weight on the back of the chair, his lips dangerously close to your ear. "So who do I get to thank for sending you?"

You shivered at his proximity, at his warm breath over the shell of your ear. Not many people dared to get this close to you; not many people got the better of you like this either. This was certainly a lot of firsts.

When you gave no response, Feyre said, "Don't be shy."

They were likely to rip the answer right out of your skull with those terrifying daemati powers if you kept your mouth shut, or worse, summon that Shadowsinger you'd seen lurking around the halls earlier. "I don't know."

Rhysand made a disappointed sound from where he still hovered by your ear. You refused to try and turn to look at him, refused to acknowledge that you had even heard him.

Feyre jumped off the top of the desk, her stilettoes clicking against the polished marble floors. "Now, now, don't make this difficult for yourself."

"Your secret is safe with us," Rhysand said mockingly.

"I don't know! I get my orders in the mail. There's never a return address or signature."

"Where's the mail?"

"I burned it."

"Well in that case," his voice was the only warning before you felt something scrape against your mental shields. You tried to throw more walls up as a talon slashed across your mind, but it was not Rhysand that slipped past, but Feyre, quick and quite as the huntress they said she used to be. She laughed as she sprinted through your memories, all attempts at shielding useless as Rhysand kept poking at what little shields you had up to distract you. They were the perfect team, synced to perfection, each move calculated and sharpened.

Feyre stepped into the memory of you opening the envelope as simply as if she had stepped through a doorway. The memory unfolded for her, you saw your own hands break the seal, open the letter, and burn it in a flash, before reality broke back through. You shook your head, fighting the memory away like it was a spot in your eye.

"That handwriting looked familiar, didn't it, Darling," Rhysand purred, the low timber of his voice rumbling in your ear.

"How thoughtful of Keir to give us an Anniversary gift," Feyre returned.

Keir. You only knew the stories about him, what a horrible male he was. You'd been lucky to have not been born in the Court of Nightmares like your mother, had grown up only with the tales of what kind of place this was. Your mother had protected you for as long as she could, but when Amarantha had come, when war bands had fought and bickered over land in the little territory she and your father had managed to make for themselves... well, they were gone and you'd had to find a way to survive, but you hadn't forgotten those stories. Your stomach twisted. This job had never been easy, but it had never been for males like Kier. At least, you'd never thought so.

You must have looked surprised because Feyre put two manicured fingers under your chin and tilted your head up to look at you. Something wicked gleamed in those strikingly blue eyes and you quickly blurted, "I swear I didn't know! I needed the money, I didn't know the job was from him."

"We believe you," she said. "But I think you should prove you're worth letting go."

You swallowed the lump in your throat. "I'll do anything!"

Rhysand chuckled at that. "Anything?"

The suggestiveness in the question made you shiver, more so when the High Lady broke into a grin. That couldn't be a good sign.

"I want to see Keir sweat a little, don't you dear?" Feyre asked over your head to her mate.

"More than just a little, I should think."

This felt like a fever dream, everything a little distorted and muffled. Perhaps it was. You had hit your head pretty hard on your last mission. How else could you explain what was happening here?

"Stand," Feyre ordered.

You did as you were told, even if you were biting the inside of your cheek.

"So responsive," Rhysand said, more to Feyre than you.

You frowned at that.

Feyre stepped closer to you, settling her hands on your hips. There was no room to twist away as her mate settled in behind you, the heat radiating off him seeping through your shirt. They even moved in perfect sync.

Nowhere to run now.

"You're going to play our favorite game with us."

Game? The reports hadn't said anything about them liking games.

"I don't understand-"

Rhysand cut you off, "Just follow our lead."

Feyre gave your hips a squeeze, "It's fun, trust me."

You didn't know what this had to do about proving you had made a mistake in taking this job, but you didn't know what other choice you had, so you just nodded.

They led you back into the throne room, the night's revelry still in full swing. Near the back, where the tables were still piled high with food, was Keir, the aging steward speaking conspiratorially with some of the other high ranking officials of the Court. Did he know already that you had failed? If he did, he didn't show it. He didn't so much as look up from his conversation.

Something hot twisted in your stomach at the sight of him. How could you have taken a job for a male like him?

Feyre pulled your thoughts away from him as she pulled you over to the dais, where their thrones sat empty. Even though Keir wasn't paying attention, others in the crowd were.

You swallowed thickly as Rhysand slid into his rightful seat, looking every bit the High Lord he was. Feyre didn't resume her seat in his lap, however, this time she perched on the arm rest, and guided you into her former place.

Your cheeks heated, mouth dry as the High Lord looped a strong arm around your waist and positioned you more comfortable on his lap, one long leg slotting between your own.

Feyre chucked at your obvious embarrassment. "Now now, you said you'd do anything." She said into your mind.

You dared a glance at her. This wasn't what you'd meant!

"This game is much more fun if you relax," Rhys purred as he dragged his nose over your throat looking for a place to sink his teeth.

You shivered despite yourself, the warmth of him seeping into you.

Feyre gripped your chin in her hand, forcing your gaze away from where it had wandered into the crowd. Keir still wasn't paying attention, but more and more people were halting their dancing and drinking to leer at this new pet their High Lord and Lady had brought back with them.

"Eyes on us."

Rhysand's hand slid over your hip and down to your thigh. The servant's garb you'd borrowed was a thin pair of pants, and a large, hooded sweater, not the sexy, revealing gown the High Lady donned, but you still couldn't help but feel incredibly vulnerable in this position.

How were you supposed to know what to do? How was this proving you could be trusted not to take another job from Keir? Was that fool even looking this way?

Rhysand nipped at the underside of your jaw and you jumped, thoughts careening away from Keir and whatever he was doing. The High Lord's breath was warm on your neck, each nip he left along your jaw sending shivers down your spine. It was an effort to keep your eyes open, to not immediately tilt your head back against his shoulder and let him explore every inch of you as you submitted fully to him. He could make you, if he wanted, it would be all too easy for him to reach inside your mind and move you however he wanted. You'd be a liar if you said the thought didn't excite you. The thought of handing yourself over to someone with that kind of power, testing to see what they'd do with it was more tempting than you'd ever dare say aloud. And maybe the High Lady had heard those thoughts, because a moment later, she was threading her hands through your hair and tilting your head back to let Rhysand explore further.

You whimpered softly as he ran his tongue over your pulse point and then Feyre was leaning in and nipping at the other side of your neck. It was too much at once, the overwhelming scent and warmth of them had you leaning fully into Rhysand's shoulder, eyes closing. One of their hands slid under your shirt, stroking at your side, you thought it might be Feyre, but didn't dare open your eyes to look, lest this really be a dream and you'd awake alone.

"Good girl," Rhysand praised. Somehow, even in your head his voice was low and husky. His hand slid further up your thigh, testing as he drew closer to your core. The move had you squirming and Feyre responded by dragging her hand from underneath your shirt to hold your hips down. There was no escaping either of them.

You still weren't sure how you ended up in this position, but you no longer cared. All you knew was this, them, and how much more of them you needed. Distantly you wondered if this was some daemati trick, if they had slipped into your mind and convinced you to do this. You decided you didn't care if they had, not as Feyre's lips were on yours, her tongue sliding past your teeth. There wasn't a hint of wine on her lips, despite all you'd seen her drink earlier. How she did that was anyone's guess.

Rhys drew circles on the inside of your thigh with his fingers, teasing you now as he continued to nip at your throat. There'd be marks in the morning, of that you were certain.

Feyre broke apart abruptly, laughing as you chased after her. "I think she likes this game of ours."

"Shall we play some more?"

You could play it all night if they wanted. There was something intoxicating about the two of them that had you desperate for any scrap of affection they could give you.

"Yes!" You said it faster than you intended, a blush creeping it's way back up your cheeks as you realized how pathetic it sounded, especially to two high fae. "Please."

Feyre leaned over you to kiss Rhys this time, intentionally pressing herself forward so her chest brushed up against you. You arched up to press your lips against her collar bones, too scared to go lower. She hummed approvingly into Rhy's mouth and he rewarded you by dragging his hand the rest of the way up your thigh, cupping your core through your pants. You were desperate for friction now, grinding your hips into his palm, even as your lips continued to work of Feyre's collarbones. She smelled so good! Her skin soft under your lips. You wanted the time to run your lips over the smattering of freckles she'd gotten while hunting in the summer time.

Rhys' free hand slid into your hair, pulling tight as he whispered in your ear, "No marks on your High Lady. Not without my permission, understand?"

If you were of any sound mind you might have been tempted to scrape your teeth across her throat, just to see what he would do, but you knew you weren't lucky enough to get away with it after everything that had happened already. "Yes, sir."

His dark laugh rumbled in his chest, the vibrations sending shivers down your spine. This was a very dangerous game, far more dangerous than any assassination attempt had ever been. Dangerous, because, for once, you were enjoying it and enjoying anything in this line of work got you in trouble.

Feyre leaned back, out of your reach, and still held by Rhys' arm around your waist, it was impossible to reach out after her. Especially now that the High lord had decided he didn't like the article of clothing between his hand and you, and was reaching for the waistband of your pants.

The blush returned tenfold. This--touching, kissing, in front of all these people was one thing, but that?

The High Lady pouted as she looked at you, her eyes lust-blown, so dark you almost couldn't see the blue. "I think you have too much on."

Before you could contemplate what that meant, she snapped her fingers and your sweater disappeared entirely.

You tried to move to cover yourself, squirming now, and she grabbed your hands with a disapproving tut. "No hiding."

Rhys' hand had slid inside your waistband, so close again your hips rocked forward, searching for him without conscious thought, even as your face heated. There was a fine line between your pleasure and sheer mortification and somehow you were still teetering between the two, torn between wanting more and wanting to sink into the floor and disappear. The crowd was watching, or at least you were pretty sure they were, at this point you were too scared to look and kept your gaze glued to where the High Lord and Lady were touching you.

"So pretty," Feyre hummed as she moved your hands up and around Rhys' neck.

There was no hiding what they were doing to you now. You might have fought them harder if Rhys' hand wasn't finally where you wanted him so desperately, a finger sliding easily into you. Your jaw dropped, a strangled sound coming out of you.

"So wet," he teased, mind to mind. "All this for us, pet?"

Pet. Toy. The High Lord's little play thing. You'd been called worse.

"Yes, sir."

"So well trained, maybe we should keep her," Feyre said as she placed a gentle kiss on your nose.

"Where'd you learn this manners, hmm?" He nipped at your ear as he slid a second finger inside you.

Your eyes rolled back into your head at the stretch, at the way he curled his fingers, hitting all the right spots. Heat coiled in your gut and you found yourself instinctively tightening your hands into the silky strands of his hair.

"Certainly not Keir," Feyre said as she brought her hands to squeeze at your breasts.

You'd had your eyes closed, lost in the bliss of Rhys' ministrations, unprepared for the new sensation of her hands on you, you let out a moan louder than was appropriate for the situation.

"Guess I'm just good at this game," I quipped weakly. The two of them working together like this was becoming overwhelming, you could barely think past the point of contact of with their hands. There was only this and them and the heat coiling tighter and tighter in your stomach. Rhys' pace was quickening. Feyre was playing with the clasp at the center of your bra, toying with it like she was contemplating ripping it off you.

She might have, if someone hadn't cleared their throat at the base of the dais.

"What do you want Keir?" Rhys sneered, the true picture of princely boredom, as if he was not currently holding you at the cusp of an orgasm, as if his mate wasn't leaving hickey's on the exposed skin of your breasts as they spoke.

You'd thought, as you registered Keir's presence that this would be the end of it, that they would stop now that they had his attention, but Rhys was still curling his fingers inside you, stroking relentlessly as Feyre bit and sucked at your sensitive skin. You arched into her, biting down on a moan, this game be damned. Who cared about Keir? About the rest of the court? You needed them to keep touching and kissing you. This was all that mattered.

You were panting as Feyre giggled into your skin. "Doing so good for us."

"Please," you begged, grinding yourself down on Rhys palm. You were so close, just a little more.

"I hate to interrupt," Keir began.

"No you don't," said Feyre. "It's your favorite thing to do."

"But your little toy-"

"Brought us a gift for our anniversary?" Rhys finished for him.

"We know," Feyre added. "It was a really sloppy attempt at a gift."

Keir stammered, none of the words coming out right.

"She needs some training," Rhys said. "A little refining around the edges, but I think this will be a very profitable relationship."

"Just wish we knew who sent her our way," Feyre cooed.

Rhys' free hand hand came up to rest on your throat, just tight enough to make you lean your head back to look at him. The move sent heat straight to your core, your muscle tightening as you whimpered for him. "But we'll get it out of you eventually, won't we, pet?"

Keir was visibly shaking now.

"Mhmm," you whimpered.

"Come on now, where are those pretty little manners you had before?" Rhys teased, his hand suddenly stilling.

The loss of friction was too much, tears welling up in your eyes. "Yes, yes High Lord." You stammered.

His grin was feline as he started moving again, faster this time. Feyre slid behind your mental shield again, this time opening up a door in her own mind to show you what you looked like through her eyes, your pupils blown, your cheeks flushed, lips kiss swollen and red. They'd left little red marks all along your throat and chest. Then she blasted you with an image of what she still wanted you to look like, images of her between your legs, of you taking Rhys in your mouth. You tightened around Rhys' fingers.

"And you would take the word of some-" whatever word he was about to throw at you was suddenly cut off as Rhys removed his ability to speak.

"Careful how you speak, Keir."

The steward's mouth opened and closed as he tried in vain to defend himself.

Rhys waved a hand, "You clearly have nothing useful to say here, you can go." Keir spun like a top, mouth still flapping open and closed like a fish, limbs splayed awkwardly, clearly not in control of his body, until Rhys made him walk half way to the door. Once he'd been released from the High Lord's grip, he stumbled and all but ran for the door.

"Why...?" The rest of the thought eddied from your mind as Rhys curled his fingers, hitting a spot inside you that made stars dance across your vision, your orgasm barreling through you so fast you're sure you screamed their names, but didn't have the presence of mind to hear it for yourself.

"We could kill him now," Feyre said as you slumped back against Rhys' shoulder. "But what fun is that? Why show him the mercy of a quick death when we can have him looking over his shoulder every five minutes, contemplating how to beat us in this wicked little game of ours?"

"I think," Rhys cooed as he placed a gentle kiss on your temple. "That it would be much more fun to eventually turn you on him instead."

You huffed a laugh at that.

Rhys carefully removed his fingers from your core and attempted to bring them to his mouth for a taste, but Feyre beat him to it, sliding his long fingers directly into her mouth, holding eye contact with you the entire time.

You clenched your legs together, wincing at the bit of soreness you felt there.

"Besides," Rhys purred in your ear, right before he shifted you around, settling you chest to chest in his lap. "This game is just getting started, isn't that right, pet?"

[erikahenningsen]

Regina visiting Janis at work

If Janis gets fired from this job, it will not be because she is bad at selling moderately priced soaps. She's actually not bad at it, although all her job really consists of is ringing people up and restocking the shelves.

No, if she gets fired, it will be Regina's fault. Every time she walks in the store, Janis knows that this day could be her last.

Like today: Regina plunks a jar of hand cream on the counter in front of Janis and complains, "This smells bad."

"Then don't buy it," Janis tells her, making a notation on her inventory clipboard. She takes the jar and sets it aside, knowing Regina won't put it back in the right place, if she puts it back at all.

"Who would want their hands to smell like spearmint?" Regina asks, wrinkling her nose.

"People who aren't you."

"It's gross," Regina says. "I don't know how this store stays in business."

"We carry a variety of scents for a variety of people," Janis recites tiredly.

Regina leans against the counter and sighs dramatically. She does look very pretty today, wearing a shirt with a plunging neckline—coupled with the way Regina is leaning over the counter, Janis momentarily forgets the difference between hand cream and hand soap.

"Can I help you with something?" Janis asks exasperatedly. "Because I really need to get this done."

"I'm bored," Regina whines.

Janis gestures to the exit of the store, which leads into the mall. "Then go to one of the many other establishments."

Regina touches the inside of Janis's wrist, right over her pulse point. "But you're here," she says, managing to make it sound more like a complaint than an endearment.

Nevertheless, it makes Janis's chest warm that Regina wants to spend time with her, even if she doesn't particularly want to be doing it here—that Regina will endure apparently offensive odors just to hang out with Janis.

"Um, excuse me?"

Janis looks up to see a lady around her mom's age. "Hi," Janis greets.

The woman slides a piece of paper over the counter along with a tube of body lotion. "I have this coupon," she says.

Janis takes the coupon and looks at it, then frowns. "Sorry, but this expired a couple of weeks ago," she says apologetically. "The promotion is over."

The woman stares at her. "It's expired?" she asks.

"Yes, sorry," Janis apologizes again.

"But I was out of town," the woman says. "I couldn't have gotten here before it expired."

Janis sighs internally. She has a conversation like this every time the store does some kind of promotion or sale. "Unfortunately I can't accept it," she says, as firmly as she can.

"But—"

"She said no," Regina cuts in, glaring at the lady. "Your inability to read the fine print is your problem."

"Regina!" Janis hisses at the same time the woman says, "Excuse me?"

Regina turns to Janis and widens her eyes, like she has no idea why Janis is scolding her.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," Janis starts, "I—"

"I'd like to speak to your manager," the woman says curtly.

"How do you know I'm not the manager?" Regina says, stepping closer.

Janis grabs her arm, nails digging in warningly. "She is not the manager," Janis says, ignoring the dirty look Regina gives her.

"Janis?"

Janis briefly closes her eyes before turning to see her actual manager.

"What's going on?" he asks, bewildered.

"Banned," Janis says to Regina in a low tone. "You're banned from this store."

"Fine!" Regina huffs. "I didn't need to buy foot cream for my grandma, anyway."

Ten minutes after Regina storms off, while Janis is being lectured by her manager, she receives a text.

Regina George: bored. miss you

[slvt4em1lyprenti2s]

Sparks

Originally published on my wattpad: slvt4em1lyprenti2s

Summary: You and Emily have had tension for a while now, and it finally breaks.

Word Count: 2k 

Fluff, implikation of nsfw, normal case details, being held by an UnSub (extremely briefly)

Pairings: Emily Prentiss x fem!reader

!NOT PROOFREAD!

Emily's pov:

This case is dragging on, and on, and on. We know who the UnSub is and we're keeping a close eye on him but we have no solid evidence to pin him yet, so we're basically waiting on him to kidnap another woman. 

He stalks them at clubs and then whisks them away with his 'charm' and they think they're getting lucky. But they're not, they're getting an early grave. It's sad but c'mon men are stupid and cruel and disgusting. Ugh men. 

It's hard not to prove the lesbian stereotypes.

Anyway, we're running out of options because this guy just isn't biting, we think he's cottoned onto the surveillance we have in him and is therefore not going to kidnap another woman. We're sitting ducks. We just need a woman he can't resist to waltz into the club he's in right now to resolve this problem.

"You ready?" I hear Hotch say. My interest piqued I look to see who he's talking too and my eyes fall on the y/h/c haired beauty I get to call my best friend. Although I wish it was more. She's in a red dress thats stops around mid thigh, a slit that goes too far up for my liking on her left leg and a plunging neckline that makes it hard not to stare. I come to my senses as I hear her angelic voice.

"Ready as I'll ever be, I didn't imagine I'd be spending my Saturday chatting up a serial killer but here we are." She chuckles, got I could listen to her laugh all day- wait what. She's going to chat up the UnSub?

Rossi must've seen me coming and realised what I'd head as he said "Uh oh, here comes your girlfriend y/n/n." The team all laughed at this as they saw me coming. I wasn't going to stop her from doing her job but I sure as hell wasn't letting her go in unprotected. 

"Take this." I hand her a small pistol that can fit in her clutch, remembering I had been in a similar situation before. 

"Thank you em." The blush on her face is evident to everyone in the room, thankfully no one mentions it. 

As she stuffs it into her clutch she spins to face me and pulls me into a hug. I grip her tightly, my hands resting on the small of her back as I take in her scent. 

"Be careful, please." I plead quietly.

"I will, pinky promise, you know I can't break pinky promises." As she finishes her sentence her pinky makes its way round mine and we each kiss our hand. It's a little tradition we have when we promise something and really mean it. 

Me and y/n/n have had tension for months, I'm not even 100% sure she's into girl but hey, I can dream. 

After this little display Morgan started making kissing noises to which he received a middle finger from me and a 'yeah you wish you could watch' from y/n/n which made the team laugh even harder. 

"As amusing as this is, we have an UnSub to catch, so come in everyone. Let's get going to the SUV's." Hotch said over our laughter.

Time skip to when you are in the bar

Reader pov:

Jesus christ. I didn't know anyone's ego could be this big. He's talking to girls left and right as if he owns them, as if it's his right to talk to them. I actually might throw up. Hotch, Derek and Emily are positioned in different places throughout the bar and Jj, Rossi and Spencer along with SWAT and local PD are surrounding the building so, I'm completely safe.

I fix my face as he looks in my direction putting in my best smile and giving him a flirty wave. He instantly smirks and excuses himself from whatever meaningless conversation he was having with this poor girl and makes his way over to me.

"What's a pretty lady like you doing alone on a Saturday night?" He asks while touching my lower back as he walks up next to me, leaning against the bar.

"Just looking for a friend, you know, the usual." I respond, dragging my finger along my glass of lemonade. 

"I could help with that." He whispers into my ear. God I could punch him right now.

"I'd like that, you wanna get out of here?" I propose trying to get this done as soon as possible.

"Whoa slow down little lady, I gotta get you a drink first. Get to know ya a little." I internally roll my eyes because what he means is 'Whoa slow down, I need to drug you first.' 

He clearly senses my hesitation and puts the dots together. 

"You're not here for a friend, are you?" This time I actually roll my eyes and that's enough for him as I then feel something cold and metal press against my ribs. Shit. 

"Don't make a scene and walk with me." His words are like daggers. Or maybe that's just the actual dagger pressing on my side. Who knows? 

"Eric Mannings, FBI!" I hear Hotch shout with Emily and Derek right behind him, guns out, pointing at him. Immediately my position is flipped, there's now a knife on the throat, not my side. I'm in a headlock, about to get my neck cut and the only thing I can think about is how bad this guy smells and how hot Emily looks in her FBI vest and with her gun out.

He is going back and forth with Hotch until I see Emily out of the corner of my eyes, getting a better position. Uh oh, this is either going to end with a bullet in his body or, Emily's badge and gun on Strauss' desk. I can only hope for the first option. Everyone has been ordered to shoot if they have a clear shot which is exactly what Emily had right now. BANG! I scrunch my eyes as the shot rings awfully close to my ear. 

I feel the grip on my loosen as he falls down on the floor, shot in the neck. Wait why was that hot- OMG STOP. Emily immediately rushes over to me and helps me away from everyone as Derek crouches to check his pulse and everyone else from the perimeter comes in. 

"Hey are you okay?" Concern evident in her voice. 

"Yeah, yeah I'm okay." I lie through my teeth. In all honestly even though I acted okay, I did just get held with a knife at my throat by a homicidal maniac, so you know, kinda shaken up. 

"No you're not." Her tone gentle yet commanding.

"No, I'm not." Tear prick at the corner of my eyes, threatening to spill. 

"Oh honey, come here." She pulls me into her warm embrace and I cling to her.

Honey.

Honey.

Honey.

Like sure we have nicknames but a pet name? Never crossed that line before. Does that mean.. No stop being delusional she'd never like you back.

A few tears escape my eyes as I lay my head on her shoulder.

"Let's go home yeah?" She says, as she begins to guide me out the bar and into one of the SUV's.

"Yeah, that sounds nice." 

Time skip to when you're  back at Emily's apartment.

"This isn't my place?" I question as we pull up to the block of flats.

I look around the familiar neighbourhood and realise we're at Emily's place.

"I can take you home if you want I- uh I just thought you wouldn't want to be alone after what happened, I know I wouldn't. But, I can leave you alone if you want?" She rambled as her hand subconsciously rests on my thigh. My breath catches in my throat slightly at this action.

"No, no, em. It would be really nice to have some company actually. Thank you." A blush creeping onto my cheeks, thinking about spending the night with Emily Prentiss, alone. 

As we walk out the car and into her flat, our hands intertwine. It sends sparks through my body, as cheesy as it sounds. We finally make it to her flat and she gets her keys out, unlocks the door and we walk in. 

"Make yourself at home; do you need anything?" She asks, instantly fussing over me.

"I'm okay, em, really. I just need you." Now it was Emily's turn to blush. She looked to the ground and muttered a quick, 'I can do that' as she walked me to her bedroom. 

I was passed a pair of old sleep shorts and an oversized hoodie with the words 'FBI Academy' written across it. It was the comfiest jumper I've ever worn; and it smelt like em which was a massive bonus. Emily made her way to the bathroom giving me time and space to change into my pj's. 

As I was slipping my shirt off so I could but on the jumper she gave me I heard the bathroom lock click and the door swing open quicker than I could cover myself. 

"Oh god! I'm sorry!" She squeals covering her eyes. 

"It's okay em don't worry about it! We're both girls, nothing we haven't seen before, right? And plus, I still have a bra on." I try to tame the   blush that's infecting my face, but that fails as soon as she responds to my words "I wish you didn't." She says it so quietly I think I imagined it. 

"What was that?" 

"Nothing." 

"I mean I wouldn't object to it, if you're being serious." 

"Really?" 

"mhm"

She creeps closer to me, our faces inches apart. Her warm breath fans across my face as my arms lace around her back as hers reach for my hips. 

"Honey you have no idea what you're doing to me right now." There it is again, that damn name. If she keeps that up I'm going to melt.

"I think I have some idea." 

"Oh really?" 

"Yeah, I think I do."

"Prove it." 

Without a seconds hesitation I smash her lips against mine in a heated kiss. The months of built up tension, flirting, jealousy, all spilt into this one kiss. I feel her hand travel from my waist to the back of my neck and she pressed my head in and deepens the kiss. Her tongue grazes over my bottom lip asking for entrance which I happily grant opening my mouth. I let out a small gasp as she pushes her tongue into my mouth, instantly dominating and not leaving an inch unexplored. 

We pull away and the look in her eye tells me all I need to know. She gently guided me to her bed until my knees hit the edge and I sit down. I shuffle back and she sits next to me pulling me into her lap. 

"Promise me something." Emily says abruptly. "Of course, anything." I respond, wondering where this is leading.

"Be mine, forever. Be my girlfriend." Her dark eyes lock with my y/e/c ones and I immediately respond, "I want nothing more than to be yours em." That's all the incentive she needed to kiss me with that same passion again. Hungry lips make contact with my collar bone, nipping and sucking at my skin, already leaving marks. 

This was going to be a long night, not that I'm complaining though. 

A/N: LMAO THIS WAS SHITEEE. It's okay though it's 1am so cut me some slack and I started writing this ages ago and completely forgot what I was planning to write so I just made it up as I went along. Sorry for the crappy chapter!

ALSO PLEASE LEAVE REQUESTS!!