Tumgik
#fic: lessons in the unseen
mphountitled · 7 months
Text
𝘽𝙧𝙖𝙞𝙣 & 𝙃𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙩
Tumblr media
: ̗̀➛ Mattheo Riddle x Fem!reader | Brief!Harry Potter x fem!reader
: ̗̀➛ Summary: Jealousy makes the heart grow fonder.
: ̗̀➛ Warnings: Alcoholism, Dark!fic, Ravenclaw!reader, Bullying, Unrequited Love, Shy!reader, Toxic Relationship, Jealousy, Narcissism, Weaponizing!Harry (sorry boo), Fluff, A bit of Angst, Smut +18 (Minors DNI), DubCon, Semi Public sex, Unprotected Sex, Oral Sex, Masturbation, Dom/Sub, CNC, humping, Spitting, Degradation, Dacryphillia, Choking, Gagging, Subspace, Slapping, Sadism, Breeding Kink
5k words
A/N: Hell truly is empty. I apologise in advance.
Tumblr media
You have made peace with the incomparable fact, long ago, that if the muggle God existed - if he is known to shepard Muggles and Wizards alike, then he was far too busy to attend to you. There is just too much going on all at once. The wizarding world is caught in its archaic intolerance of Half-Bloods. On the mortal side, you were informed from your private tutoring with Professor McGonagall that their smartphones are threatening devolution.
“It’s the closest thing they’ve got to a wand, Lovie, so we can’t really fault them on that, can we?” 6 years into your schooling at Hogwarts and you would continue to shadow Professor McGonagall, hoping you might one day soar to her heights of academic prestige in the wizarding world. You needed to be a Professor as much as a mortal needs to breathe….
You cannot let him, of all people, ruin things. Your reputation is a fragile, flammable thing - and he is freaking Kerosene.
It's difficult to pinpoint when it started or how your sensibilities rushed away from you so swiftly. One moment you’re planting your textbook on the face of a wooden desk - the sound reaching the rafters in the highest peak of the deserted classroom…
“A Guide To Advanced Transfiguration.” Mattheo read the title aloud with a tedious uninterested drawl. “Seems a bit presumptuous to shove this down my throat so early on. Shouldn't we be starting from the beginning?"
You ignored him promptly, using the silence to arrange your colour coordinated stationery on your desk beside Riddle's,
“I had no idea," You began, brushing off your blue lined robes and flattening the invisible creases on your skirt, "-That the person residing under my tutelage would be a first year."
Riddle stabbed the inside of his mouth with his tongue, while his eyes rolled to the back of his head. Your face remained passive as you continued, "You are a sixth year, correct?” You asked with a snide tilt of the head before planting yourself on the desk beside him.
“You are a big boy capable of understanding big boy books,” Unbeknownst to you, your words managed to stir something foreign within Mattheo but he conceals it with his usual veneer of arrogance as he swings his head lazily in your direction.
"May we begin?" You asked, with your back straightened - inches away from his hand now hanging on your chair.
"In a bit…" he says, "Just..." his voice trails off as his eyes scan over your visage, likely assessing it like an unseen tapestry. The truth is, Riddle did not know you prior to being forced under your tutelage. His droopy brown eyes appeared even more so as he broke the distance between you two and studied you closer. A tense silence grew pregnant in the ancient classroom, and your resolve was beginning to slip. Only one thought inflated a puddle of anxiety in your stomach:
Could this be your first kiss? Is this what first kisses looked like? Could this be your very first brush of intimacy overall?
Your brain failed to rationalise and compartmentalise his attraction, but your heart pushed your head closer.
"Call me a big boy again..." He had whispered… which evidently led you here.
Your lesson had ended with your hand covered in his release and a breathless smirk painted across his face. "This goes without saying," he breathed out with a satisfied smirk, "But tell anyone about this, and you're dead."
Ever since that day, your tutoring has been but a veneer of something much more sinister. When you were thrusted into the light of day, Mattheo overlooked you as did lots of his Slytherin friends. Besides the occasional threat and vague insult, you mean nothing to him.
When you two are alone, however, as you are right now, he would enchant you into servitude, lightly pushing your head down while he kissed you silly until your knees were planted on the hardwood floor.
Mattheo briefly opens his eyes to peer down at you. It is then when you notice the fresh bruise dotting the side of his face, and his pillowy lips split by a small incursion. He had very clearly gotten into another fight..
“Your mouth feels so fucking good when you're not using it to be a smart ass,” His words illicit a bubble of heat inside you.
Despite all this, you are clearly aware of the fact that you should not be enjoying this at all. Not one bit. For starters, you can feel the old wooden floors digging into the meat of your knees and the crisp winter chill is unkind to your scantily dressed state. Your shirt is unbuttoned because Mattheo was like a moth to a fucking flame when it came to your ample breasts and his hand is buried tightly in your kinky curls, forcing his cock even further down your throat. The very bones of Hogwarts seem to be in vehement protest of your blatant whorishness.
3 silver chains hang from his neck as he plants his other hand against the wall behind you, blocking your kneeling frame between both him and cold, hard stone. You crane your neck back, keeping a half lidded gaze on the jewelry that drives you feral with lust. You are content imagining that perhaps, when he is getting ready in the slytherin common rooms, he wears the silver for you. A fanciful thought but one that consistently has your intestines weaving themselves into knots.
That, paired with his striking, jet black blazer, which is discarded somewhere in the abandoned classroom, has you keening and fighting to take even more of him into your mouth. Perhaps you were peacocking a little - flatting your tongue so his cock slid seamlessly to the back of your throat while you fought to ignore the pain blossoming on your scalp. He had turned you from an inexperienced nun to something you're not quite ready to examine yet.
"You're finally putting this head of yours to good use…" Despite his feigned arrogance you're utterly delighted knowing that only you can bring Mattheo to such an utterly restless state. He does not really know what to do with himself.
Not when you took so much of him, so well.
You clench your toes.
Feeling himself get too close, Mattheo eases his cock fully out of your mouth, languidly stroking himself but still assuming a firm grip on your scalp. He is operating on that very specific plain of narcissism that was special to Mattheo. He is aware of your presence, physically, but his words are spoken into the open air, like you are an inanimate object. A glorified toy.
"Are all Ravenclaws as compliant as you are?”
You bring a crisp white sleeve up to your lips, wiping away the excess drool as you remain kneeled in front of him, knowing he has yet to finish.
"If you ever think of finding out," your voice is hoarse, "this will be the last time I offer you any free study sessions."
"Is money all you seek?" He attempts to feign composure, continuing to languidly stroke his cock. "How utterly greedy. I thought- fuck… - I thought you were far more philosophical than that"
You watch hungrily as Mattheo bites on his pillowy bottom lip. He is prolonging the release, taking his time as he usually did... "If you plan on edging yourself in my mouth instead of actually finishing the job, I do have other commitments to attend to-"
He ignores you... his brows furrowing and smoothening at odd intervals as he continues to touch himself while studying you.
"We may not be studying… but I still intend to pass Transfiguration, hope you're aware." He punctuates his sentence with an breathless laugh- it blossoms across his usually stoic visage, raising his buttercup cheekbones towards his smiling eyes.
As he talks, you examine his scars and feel the slow essence of admiration seep into the pit of your stomach. An arguably pathetic feat, given that your feelings will not ever be reciprocated.
Brewing inside you is the need to take care of him. You knew the rest of the student body viewed Mattheo as a glorified parasite. Something that is only capable of thinking within the capacity of its own means. Something that takes, and takes, and occasionally jokes around, and takes. But how could he know anything different? You suspected that his home life was built on the foundation of survival, on needing to be the loudest, and proudest, and worst of them all.
"What the fuck are you doing?" The sharpness of his words slice through your thoughts, bringing you back to yourself. Mattheo's gaze is placed firmly on something down below. Throughout his mindless tirade, your hand had taken to rubbing soft, comforting circles against the leg of his pants, quite literally on its own accord. Mattheo is bent over, head tilted as he watches you questioningly. Seconds stretch to a minute, and your stomach sinks as time passes.
Eventually, he dismisses you. He shakes his head. "Whatever," He says, tilting your head back and lining your mouth with the head of his cock once more. His visage darkens into a cruel sadistic grin. "Tell me you want me to come in your mouth."
Almost instinctively, you do as he orders and like clockwork, you swallow his cum, wondering if he knew how deeply and truly your words actually were. There was a moment, perhaps imagined, in which his fingers gripping your hair, melted to the side of your soft, supple cheek. It stays there for longer than necessary, leaving bits and pieces of your composure scattered in its wake.
Mattheo soon straightens his posture, stuffing his flaccid cock back into his pants before making himself as presentable to the student body as they know him to be (which admittedly is not a lot) And before he turns to walk away, he leaves you stranded on a glacier with his ice cold words cutting deep into your beating heart.
"Tell anyone about this-"
"And I'm dead," You interject, "I know."
And with that, you pull your ruffled collar over your lint-free school jersey and check your reflection to assess the damage Mattheo and his iron grip might have left. You needn't wait for an extension on the conversation because your job here was done, (pun so malevolently intended).
As far as Mattheo is concerned, you are an easy conduit to release his frustrations through because your unpopularity makes you so incredibly inconspicuous. You blend into any given crowd at any given moment, your name seldom reaching the heights of ridicule among his group because you are so unforgettable… There had been no reason to point out your flaws, not because you did not have any, but because you were simply invisible.
It is particularly strange to have any social interaction beyond the bounds of group projects and class discussions… so Harry Potter gifting you even a sliver of attention had been violently unorthodox. So unorthodox, in fact, you failed to look up from the weathered pages of your novel when his gentle voice wafted in your direction during a rare free period in Study of Ancient Runes. Your professor has been summoned quite promptly by the headmaster and has yet to return. The class has been in a state of havoc ever since.
"I don't know if you're aware of this but…" A deep shadow over the pages alerted you to his presence, "They both die at the end."
It was incredibly rare that Potter, who sat at the desk directly in front of you, ever felt the need to strike up conversation that was not purely academic. Gryffindors made use of Ravenclaws as often as Slytherins.
So naturally, you peer curiously up at him…
"Sorry?"
"Y-Your book. It's a muggle book, isn't it? I haven't seen anything with a cover like that around here. It's refreshing. Everything in the wizarding world is ancient and leatherbound." He mumbles as his index finger slides into the collar of his red quidditch jersey. He finds himself suddenly overcome by a wave of embarrassment even though there was nothing at all to be embarrassed about… he turns his chair slightly in your direction, his eyes darting to the door and the empty teacher's seat before meeting yours once more.
"'They Both Die At The End." He says, pointing towards the title.
"Oh…" You affirm, rocking your head back and forth, "You were making a joke?"
"No," Harry snickers before waving a large hand in dismissal, "Evidently, the only thing I 'made' was a complete and utter fool of myself."
You're not sure when it happens but you feel the lower half of your face melting into what you suspect is a smile. You can feel your shoulders relaxing and your novel lowering imperceptibly.
"Work on your delivery next time and maybe we'll be getting somewhere."
"Is that how it is!?" Harry asked, pleasantly surprised by your banter, "- I could've sworn I had a shred of dignity before the start of this conversation. Now I'm not quite sure where that went."
Mattheo's feet pass over the threshold as soon as the sound of your laughter rushes past him. It is almost charming in its familiarity but incredibly curious in its rarity. He can't recall ever seeing you with your head thrown back while the instinctive sound of amusement races through your throat. He does not know he's staring until Draco shoves past him, to get to their own seats in the front of the class.
His eyes remain on you as he makes his way to his desk, hoping, perhaps, that you would turn your head infinitesimally, in acknowledgment of his presence.
You do nothing of the sort, and it not only fills him with a weird sort of dissatisfaction but it bubbles into full blown vexation when he realises who is capturing your attention so viscerally.
Mattheo has never prided himself on his patience or tolerance.
Overthinking is something he consistently lives without.
Most of his actions were spurred from things he felt in the now, and he was really fucking uncomfortable with what was happening now.
His glances at the front of the class before finding you once more in the very back corner of the class. He notices that Harry is stationed in front of you but the seat beside you is completely deserted.
Did you not have friends?
And more importantly; how did he never notice until now?
What if…
Perhaps if he…
"You didn't let me know we were having a picnic," The sound of a chair scraping against the tiles had both you and Harry rallying into silence. Mattheo appears at your side, pushing the chair against yours so he, too, sits facing Potter - who suddenly appears incredibly uneasy. Gone is the comfortable atmosphere cooked by easy and amicable conversation. Mattheo injecting himself into your little bubble created a suddenly charged and suffocating atmosphere. You cannot keep your wide eyes off Mattheo as he lowers himself to his chair beside you with his legs spread as he slouches down, like he always does.
"Don't stop on my accord," He exclaims, completely oblivious to the fact that your professor might walk in at any minute. "What were we talking about?" Your heart wrestles in your chest as you see him turn to address you. His slouching puts him a level lower than you, but it does nothing to lessen his intimidation.
"Maybe I should ask, Potter?" Mattheo turns his attention to the front, "What were you lot talking about?" There is not a trace of friendliness present in Riddle's tone. In fact, it's the very opposite. Your nerves, swelling with anxiety, only escalate into full-on panic when you feel him place a large hand on your skirt under the table.
Harry's voice is low and his eyes are trained on the floor, "Books-"
"Books!" Mattheo cuts him off with sarcastic fervour, "How utterly fascinating!" The hyperbolic wonder in his tone is utterly rude and unbecoming, but you look down at your desk in blatant anger. Refusing to be a part of whatever this is.
"And tell me, Potter, how many books have you read so far?"
It is then that Riddle's once stationary hand begins the faintest trace of movement. He begins slow and tame, his callouses barely registering on the soft fabric until his fingers prod the lining of your skirt…
Your breath hitches in your throat.
Never had Mattheo ever displayed a desire to touch you. Not in the way he made you touch him. It was made explicitly clear that only he would benefit from your secret rendezvous' and so you were left to deal with your aching cunt alone, with the image of the face he made when he came, still burned into your mind. It had never been about you.
"A couple,'' says Harry, fighting to show this bully that he was unaffected by his intimidation. If only he knew that with every advance Mattheo's palm made, you were slipping farther and farther away.
"A couple books?" Asks Riddle for clarity. He remains lax and languid on the inside, but the nature of his wandering hand underneath the desk tells a new story.
He finally slips under your skirt.
His palm connects with the softness of your thighs and he seems utterly pleased by it. His hand is immediately restless to explore how far you would let him go. Which isn't very far.
Not at all.
If he thought he could suddenly touch you after myriad occasions of using you like a discarded toy… he had another thing coming.
The tips of Mattheo's fingers make gradually increasing strokes along your thigh until his fingers prod the stretch marks on your inner thigh. It is there when you stop him, clenching your legs together, blocking his hand from any further movement.
Mattheo's voice is strained as he says, "And you like reading, Potter?"
Sensing something brewing between the two of you - your withdrawn, hazy gaze, staring directly through the desk and Mattheo's overabundance in questions, has Harry reeling backwards.
"I asked you a question, Harry."
"I like reading."
"Good! That's really good!" Quite suddenly, Riddle tilts the ends of his half-moon nails into your thigh. His nails bite into your skin, forcing them to weaken and unclamp. Before you're even able to think, his palm is cupping your cunt through your panties- forcing an indecent yelp from your throat which you quickly (and very badly) disguise as a cough.
Mattheo is utterly pleased while he continues mindlessly stroking your cunt. Not for the purpose of any glorious stimulation. His hand is just there to show you (and perhaps maybe himself) that he has access to the most private part of you.
That thought alone has an unforeseen and sudden wave of lust coursing through his veins and surging straight to his hardened cock. He thinks of all the things he could have done to you but failed to do. He thinks about how, up until this point, he had ever been satisfied with using your mouth alone, not when he was denying himself the softness of your pussy all along.
He felt angry with himself, for being so fucking stupid, he is angry at Potter for seeing whatever it is he saw in you, way before he did and, possibly most harrowing of all is the fact that he is angry with you. And he can't help but be angry at you. How easily you whore yourself out to any and every man. If this thing with Potter had gone far enough, would you replace him? Had you even fucked Potter before?
You bite down on your lower lip as your head bows even further into your book. The words blend into one another, and all you can feel is a rise in temperature and Mattheo's suddenly restless fingers, pressing rudely against your clit - for the sole purpose of ripping an orgasm out of you right then and there, at the very back of an unsupervised classroom, with Harry Potter still very much a part of the conversation.
"You've got so many books to read in your lifetime," Says Mattheo. He sits up slowly, likely spurred on by the dampness seeping through your panties. "Don't cut your long life short by trying to entertain other people's girlfriends, yeah?" Gone are any traces of feigned friendliness. "Fucking Mudblood,"
Your skin feels like you are bathing in magma and you hope Potter could not see the slight tremor in your hand as you gripped the sides of your book with more force than necessary.
Mattheo's words… they have you shifting forward and widening your legs minutely. You crave for nothing more than to roll your hips in tandem with the circles he's pressing against your clit.
"Understood?"
Your orgasm is dangerously close, with the promise of sheer, disgusting shame and embarrassment if he continues. You feel Harry give you one final curious look, perhaps pleading for an interjection of denial at some point but you've taken to bouncing your knee under the table, hoping the vibrations might create enough friction to aid Mattheo's hands. He is keeping you trapped in a space of wanting. So much so, that this almost feels like a punishment.
Once Harry is turned back around and facing the front of the class, Mattheo lowers his lips to your ears. The damp smell of firewhiskey floods your nostril and you realise that he is completely drunk. In the second lesson of the day.
However, you're so completely stimulated, even the warmth of his breath as you fight the urge to hump into his hand like a lost little puppy until you make a mess all over his hand.
"You're such a fucking slut, you know that?" Your book drops to your desk - muffled by the sounds of the classroom cacophony. "You like being humiliated like this?" He asks, almost in complete awe. It takes everything in you not to moan outright.
"Fuck," You whisper to yourself, blinking your eyes shut, warding off the need but to no avail. His fingers are long and limber, and they have you nearly cumming right there, in front of your entire fucking class. Had it not been for your Professor's haphazard arrival into the class, and the swift removal of Mattheo's fingers from between your legs… you might truly have become the slut he labelled you as.
Instead of moving to his designated seat, Riddle raises his hand for the professor… the very same hand that has previously been in between your legs.
"Yes, Mr Riddle?" Asks the Professor, his voice as lacklustre as his appearance.
"May we be excused? We were excused by Professor Slughorn to assist him in-"
"Fine, fine," Says the professor with a wave of dismissal before turning his attention to the rest of the class. "The rest of you, open your textbooks to page 56."
Riddle's hand is clamped around your forearm, already leading you swiftly out the door in a long and wide stride. Had it been any other teacher at all, they might have recognized this for what it so clearly was.
"Here," you have barely made it fully into the boy's bathroom before Mattheo is stuffing his fingers down your throat, making you gag and yelp at the sudden intrusion. "Tell me how good you taste." He doesn't even bother to make sure you're truly left alone in the bathroom before pushing your front against the bathroom sink.
"Is that good?" His voice is as sweet as honey as he forces his fingers deeper down your throat, causing you to cough and gag around them.
Mattheo has half his sense to pull his wand from his back pocket, and without turning around, whispers "Colloportus," and the heavy doors snap shut.
You're supposed to be afraid because you've never seen him like this. Mattheo is always a ball of sarcastic energy between trysts, but it's usually an energy he can somewhat contain.
You don't know what to do with him, not when he's watching you choke on his fingers through the mirror, while his other hand fondles at your breasts and rips your bra down until your nipples are poking through your school shirt.
The figure in the mirror distorts as your eyes begin to water. Thick beads of tears grow pregnant at the ends of your eyes before rolling down the side of your face.
"My girl," Mattheo presses his face into your hair, breathing you in, pressing his body into your side. His hard cock in unmistakable through his school pants, "My messy little girl,"
You finally moan candidly while your fingers grip the countertops and your hips buck into nothingness. Your eyes plead with him in the mirror, hoping they relay how utterly useless with lust you have become. It would not take hard work to make you cum, you're sure one more flick against your material-clad nipples might send you over the edge.
"Fuck, why didn't I think of this sooner,"
This is all new, even for the two of you.
"Spread your legs." He commands, even though his feet are already kicking them apart.
"Come here," you break eye contact in the mirror to face the boy behind you. Mattheo removes his fingers sitting in your mouth, leaving a trail of sticky saliva in its wake before replacing it with a long and messy kiss- one that has his tongue forcing itself inside.
Mattheo weaponizes your distraction to reach around and slide your panties to the side with one hand while he rubs your soft nub with his other, spit-coated hand.
You break away from the kiss, neck craning back and mouth hanging open while your eyebrows dissolve into crescents. You cannot look away from him, as you hump his hand.
"You wanna cum?" You nod enthusiastically. "And what if I told you, you can't cum until I've fucked that little pussy of yours? Hm? What then?" His words have you mewling from the sheer pleasure they bring and your orgasm threatens to snap once more.
"Fuck," He hisses, feeling unable to remove his hand from your wet cunt but needing to, in order to undo his belt and pull his aching cock out. "Don't you dare fucking touch yourself," He says in a deadly quiet voice before bringing his hand up to your mouth. "Spit." You don't ever think of disobeying him, not when you're swimming so deeply in your subspace, not when he's the one to bring you here.
Mattheo collects every bit of saliva you offer him before coating his cock in the stuff.
Deciding not to waste anymore time, he does what his body is screaming for him to do: he bends you over the bathroom sink and pushes cock right through your slippery folds. It's tense and painful and your voice is hoarse from doing all that screaming but the sudden contact strokes a deeply sated part inside yourself. His curved and pretty cock rams your insides with reckless abandon, all while he delivers small slaps against your cheek. Riddle keeps a firm grip on your throat. His mouth is inches away from you while his hips rut into yours. His words are being delivered through clenched teeth.
"You think you're so fucking smart but you're just my little whore, arent you? A little whore thst fucks anything that gives her the slightest bit of attention?" It doesn't even register that Mattheo wrongfully suspects that there had been something between you and Harry but you keep your mouth shut. For all his indifference in the past, this is how you would make him pay.
"Oh~ fuck." His cock bruises your cervix, leaving him balls deep and feral inside you. "Fucking Potter?! You wanna give what's mine, to fucking Potter?!" His voice is utterly depraved and animalistic and it has your orgasm cresting.
He is panting, while he mumbles into your ear.
"What would Potter think? If he saw you like this? What would he think? Would he still want your slutty pussy knowing I've been inside it? Knowing that I've cum so deep inside you? Completely ruining you for anyone else, huh?"
"You…" The tears threaten to spill, "It's only ever been you, Mattheo -oh my god! I'm so fucking close!" You fight down tears as the lava begins to bubble at the pit of your stomach.
"S-Say it again. Tell me you want me!" He exclaims, "Tell me you fucking need me."
"Oh my God, Mattheo, I fucking need you." You push your hips back to meet his thrusts.
His voice wavers after your confession. His strokes became sloppy. His mind is flooded with the tightest of your cunt around his cock- how someone so smart could possibly ever say they need him. It has a flood of heat pooling at the base of his cock. "You're so fucking pretty… my pretty girl - my pretty whore," He nods to himself while his heavy cock finds purchase in a specific clump of sensitive tissue inside your cunt. It has you clamping your own mouth shut, your arms wavering while your back arches towards him, only allowing him better excess.
"I need you," You say once more, swallowing a ball of saliva as you nod towards him through the mirror, "I need you to cum inside me."
"Oh my fucking god," Mattheo's eyes soften in their desperstion, "M'gonna fucking breed pussy right here- fuck!" His grip on your throat grows tighter until you're wholeheartedly cut off from your air supply. You hump his cock until you feel it twitch inside you.
"Y-Youre making me cum, baby- fuck-" You feel his hot cum spurting inside your walls, triggering your own orgasm that has you gripping his cock like a vice.
"So… so pretty" His hips stutter against yours until you've completely drained him of his cum. A sharp tremor settles over your bones and you gasp in vague increments, waiting for the overwhelming state of euphoria to subside… but it never does.
The weight of what you had done comes crashing back down but you are unable to feel anything besides an immense wave of satisfaction at having your deepest need satiated.
"I think I nearly killed Potter today." His voice is a hoarse echo within the school bathrooms.
"There is no Harry Potter," You say, watching him through the mirror, "In my whole world, there is only ever you, Mattheo."
And a part of him believes you, but he refuses to affirm something as emotionally stifling as that. Instead, Mattheo's eyes flutter shut as his nose finds your hair once more. His cock is still buried inside you, and you hiss as he moves his hips slowly, almost insitinvely. He loves being so wholly enveloped by you. He loves feeling you everywhere.
Tumblr media
IM SO SORRY LMFAO
4K notes · View notes
Text
Napoleonville [Chapter 3: The House Of Soup, Salad, And Breadsticks]
Tumblr media
Series Summary: The year is 1988. The town is Napoleonville, Louisiana. You are a small business owner in need of some stress relief. Aemond is a stranger with a taste for domination. But as his secrets are revealed, this casual arrangement becomes something more volatile than either of you could have ever imagined.
Chapter Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), dom/sub dynamics, Nintendo, smoking, kids, parenthood, all-you-can-eat breadsticks, wedding planning, mentions of birth trauma and abortion, a brief Greek lesson, Audi Quattros have very tiny back seats.
Word Count: 9k (someone take this laptop away from me!! I am out of control!!).
Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.
Taglist: @marvelescvpe @toodlesxcuddles @era127 @at-a-rax-ia @0eessirk8 @arcielee @dd122004dd @humanpurposes @taredhunter @tinykryptonitewerewolf @partnerincrime0 @eltherevirr @persephonerinyes @namelesslosers @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @daenysx @gemini-mama @chattylurker @moonlightfoxx @huramuna @britt-mf @myspotofcraziness @padfooteyes @aemonddtargaryen @trifoliumviridi @joliettes @darkenchantress @florent1s @babyblue711 @minttea07 @libroparaiso @bluerskiees @herfantasyworldd @elizarbell @urmomsgirlfriend1
Thank you so much for your patience and encouragement, I was really not doing well for a while but all your kind comments meant the world to me!!! I don't know when Chapter 4 will be ready, but hopefully early next week. My posting schedule is super wonky now. We'll get back to regular Sunday updates eventually, besties. 🥰🧁
It’s Thursday, late-morning, sunlight bending in through the open windows and a flock of blue-winged teals toddling through the backyard on their clumsy webbed feet. From the little pink Panasonic boombox pipes Whitesnake’s Here I Go Again. Your steps as you dart around the kitchen are airy and effortless; you’re humming without realizing that you are. You can’t seem to stop watching the clock, the second hand ticking endlessly, revolving like a moon around its planet. Olive Garden tonight! Olive Garden with Aemond!
“Knock knock?” your guest ventures tentatively as the front door creaks. You hear her heels click on the ever-so-slightly inclined floor and the bright jangling of keys and bracelets. Her accent does not surprise you; you were the one who answered the phone when she called in a panic yesterday.
Jade Dragon is a European company. I shouldn’t be shocked that Brits are descending upon Napoleonville.
You greet her from the kitchen, sight unseen: “Hi! Come on in!” Amir rushes over to set the very last cupcake on the glass serving tray, key lime with cream cheese frosting peppered with zest like flecks of emeralds. You have scrubbed the counter meticulously to make a space for your guest to do her cake tasting. There is an open wooden barstool for her, a yellow legal pad for you to jot down her selections. She steps into the kitchen—click click click, jangle jangle—and she is a stranger, surely, and yet something about her face strikes you as familiar.
“I really must thank you again,” the woman says, wringing her pinkish little hands, glittering with rings; she’s flushed all over from the heat, which she isn’t used to. She wears what for many women would be their Sunday Best: a modest organza dress patterned with sunflowers, gold jewelry and heels, and (oddly) a khaki overcoat that runs to her knees. Her hair hangs in thick, glossy, auburn waves. She smells like perfume, amber and roses, a brand you don’t recognize. “I was so distressed when I called, I must have sounded like a madwoman. It’s all just been so fraught. I know this is very last-minute, and I cannot tell you how much I appreciate you making time to see me today. I’m sure you’re very busy.”
“We are delighted to help!” Amir croons warmly as he swoops in to take her coat, which she surrenders with some bewilderment, her large dark eyes clever but innately vulnerable, anxious. Again, you cannot shake the sense that you have met her before. Amir’s hands sweep down the overcoat as he peeks at the tag inside, and he mouths to you, grinning, eyebrows raised above the tortoiseshell rims of his glasses: Christian Dior! He’s delighted to help this lady, sure; but he’s far more enthusiastic about the prospect of squirreling away more cash for his imminent exodus to San Francisco. Amir hangs the coat in the tiny living room closet and then goes to the stovetop to check on the Kentucky butter cookies that are cooling there.
“Amir and I love baking for any occasion related to a wedding. Everyone is cheerful and excited…and hungry too, of course!” You give your guest a reassuring smile and wave her over to the counter. She’s still tormenting her own hands, still glancing uncertainly around the kitchen. Amir is using a spatula to transfer the cookies from the baking sheet to a cake plate. “Remind me, ma’am, on the phone you said your name was…Allison?”
“Alicent,” she corrects, taking a seat on the barstool beside you and clutching a camel-colored leather purse. She hesitates before she adds: “Targaryen.”
Targaryen?! Jade Dragon?! You gawk at her. Amir drops a Kentucky butter cookie on the floor. You exchange a glance with him and can practically see the bills flitting through his mind: Washington, Lincoln, Hamilton, Jackson, Franklin.
“Please don’t make any fuss on my account,” Alicent pleads with those sleek, imploring eyes. “I’m just a customer, just an ordinary customer—”
“A VIP customer!” Amir says, beaming. He won’t work on their rigs, but he’ll take their money in a heartbeat. He considers it compensation for the inevitable environmental catastrophe, for the souls of all the places their dynasty bleeds dry.
“Ma’am…Alicent…Mrs. Targaryen…” you sputter. “What on earth brought you here?”
“My son is getting married.” She squeezes her eyes shut, an infinitesimal frustration, a self-reproach. “Our son, I mean. Viserys and I, our son is getting married, and we’re hosting an engagement party for him and his fiancée this Saturday, as I mentioned when I called. We had arranged to have caterers fly in, but now there’s some sort of visa problem and they won’t be able to make it in time. I found a company based out of New Orleans that is very well thought of for hors d’oeuvre and lunch, but the cakes I sampled…well…they left a lot to be desired. I was desperate, I tell you, utterly bereft, you know we have family and friends and all these industry representatives who will be in attendance, photographers, journalists, and I can’t ruin it, I can’t embarrass the happy couple, it’s not as if people get more than one chance at a wedding!”
Amir rolls his eyes at you from across the kitchen. Listen to this idiot, he means.
“But then I asked around town, and I got the same recommendation over and over again,” Alicent tells you, smiling now. “Everyone said that I just had to stop by Hummingbird Bakery.”
And now you know exactly where you recognize her from. She looks so much like the drunk man from the holding cell; his hair was blonde and his eyes were that sad swirling blue, but nonetheless he was a Targaryen the same as Alicent, and they share so much of the same bones, blood, innate defenselessness. That boy is getting married? His poor goddamn bride. “Well I am thrilled that you found your way to us, Mrs. Alicent Targaryen. And I think you’ll taste at least a few cakes that you’d be proud to serve at the engagement party.”
“And you can have them ready by Saturday?” Alicent asks fretfully.
“Absolutely.” You won’t sleep much between now and then, but the business matters more. And if you can recruit the Targaryens and some of their associates as regular customers…well, you might actually be able to start saving up for that new house Aemond asked you about on the night you met. You gesture to the glass tray on the counter. “Amir and I have baked twelve cupcakes for you to sample today. I’ll write up a list of the flavors you like best, and we can make any customizations. You can choose one flavor and have multiple cakes made, or four cakes in four different flavors, or any other arrangement, you just let me know and we’ll see that your wishes are granted.”
“These are all for me?!” Alicent says, surveying the cupcakes.
“Yes ma’am. Vanilla bean, triple chocolate, coconut, red velvet, carrot, white chocolate raspberry, key lime, lemon, peanut brittle, cherry chocolate chip, blueberry jam and cream cheese, and hummingbird. But don’t get overwhelmed, you only have to eat one bite of each.”
“And whatever you don’t finish we’ll let Cadi throw to the gator,” Amir says.
“Gator?” Alicent is alarmed.
“She lives in the tree row,” you explain. “She doesn’t bother anyone.” And you almost add: Except Aemond, of course. He hates her.
“Oh. Fascinating.” Alicent blinks a few times. “And who is Cadi?”
“My daughter. She’s ten, she’s at school. She’s…” You glance at the clock. “Learning about fractions and decimals at the moment.”
“How wonderful! And what does your husband do for work?”
“Terrorism,” Amir says, and Alicent Targaryen’s jaw drops.
“He’s the sheriff of Assumption Parish,” you swiftly amend. “But he’s my ex-husband now.”
Alicent doesn’t know how to reply. She stares at the cupcakes instead of at you. After several long, awkward seconds, she says: “My, do these look delicious! Where should I start?”
“Wherever you’d like.”
“This one is hummingbird cake, you said?” She picks it up. Her hands are fidgety; she doesn’t seem to ever stop moving. “I’ve never heard of such a thing. Did you name the bakery after it, or did you name the cake after the bakery?”
“Oh no, the cake existed first. It’s been popular around here since…what, Amir? The 60s? Something like that. My mom taught me how to make it when I was seventeen. Hummingbird cake was my favorite dessert for years.”
“It’s from Jamaica originally,” Amir notes. The Kentucky butter cookies are displayed on the kitchen table, and now he’s beginning to peel vivid green Granny Smith apples for dumplings.
“It has bananas, pineapple, cinnamon, pecans…”
“Mmm!” Alicent sighs as she takes a bite. “Oh, it’s fantastic! The different fruits add such dimension of flavor! And the texture too, so interesting. Very substantial, almost like a fruitcake. Yes, I think that is a strong contender.” She continues on to the next cupcake. As she nibbles on each one, she chats nervously, almost compulsively. “She’s a darling girl. Woman, I mean. My future daughter-in-law.”
You get up to pour Alicent a glass of sweet tea. “What’s her name?” you ask politely. You are actively trying not to let your thoughts drift to Olive Garden: soup, salad, breadsticks, Aemond licking blood-red marinara sauce from his lips as he smirks at you from across the table, acting like he doesn’t want to be there.
“Christabel.” Alicent sets down the carrot cupcake, opens her purse, and digs through her wallet for a photograph. It’s small and rectangular, and the girl trapped inside the frame—a girl, truly, if she’s twenty you’ll eat your white denim shorts—looks like Teri Copley: billowing platinum hair, squarish jaw, pink cheeks and red lips, large dollish blue eyes. She reminds you of Barbie; she reminds you of something that belongs in a box on a shelf somewhere. “Her father is a marquess.”
“She’s gorgeous! And is that…is that a job…?”
“It’s a title,” Alicent Targaryen says with a demure, apologetic smile as she tucks the photo back into her wallet. She has spoken of things she should have known were above you. “Like a duke or a baron. Christabel is from a noble family back in the United Kingdom. Milford Haven, more specifically.”
Amir gasps, elated, waving his paring knife around in the air. “She’s just like Princess Diana!”
“She’s very young,” Alicent says, a bit wearily. She takes a bite of the lemon cupcake. “But then again, I was even younger when I got married, seventeen. That’s just the way it was back then. None of my friends even thought of going off to school for years and years, or playing the field, or getting a serious job. In our eyes, there were no other options. You found a good man from an acceptable family and you settled down and started having babies.” Alicent sips her sweet tea, ice jangling in the frosted glass. “Oh, that’s dreadful! Cold tea!” She shudders. “I suppose that’s how you all keep from getting heatstroke down here. Cold drinks and no clothes.”
“Sorry.” You glance self-consciously down at your shorts.
“No no, it’s quite alright. I’m in your jungle, I can’t expect you to conform to my idiosyncrasies.” This is a word you don’t know, although you try not to show it. Then Alicent winks. “Now, if you ever find yourself across the pond…”
I’ll never visit another country. Nevertheless, you chuckle as Alicent expects you to. “I understand what you mean about not having options. I got married at seventeen too.”
“Did you?” she asks, somber now. Her large umber eyes are uneasy, searching.
“Yeah. I was way too young. And unfortunately, the only way to know you’re too young is to not be young anymore. And by then you’ve already made such a mess of things.”
Amir looks over at you; this is not recruiting-a-customer conversation. Alicent nods, slow and thoughtful, studying you with those vast eyes like a dark mirror image of that Targaryen boy in the holding cell. She nibbles on the peanut brittle cupcake to avoid having to respond.
You pivot. “How many children do you have?”
Now Alicent brightens. “Four.”
“That many! I can’t even imagine. They must bring you so much joy.”
“In between the chaos, yes,” Alicent says, sampling the key lime cupcake. “Daeron is my youngest, he’s so sweet-natured, so encouraging, always offering to help with my projects around the house. He never complains. He hasn’t been gobbled up by the company yet. My only criticism is his obsession with his godawful parrot. I’d have it murdered, but tragically Daeron already knows it’s supposed to live 50 years. Helaena reads a lot—about gardens and insects and other planets, all sorts of things I can’t make heads or tails of—but she’s kind and gentle, and she still lets me fix her hair and take her shopping once in a while.” You think, smiling: If I tried to touch Cadi’s hair, I think she’d claw my face off. “And then my son who’s getting married—”
The front door bangs open and heavy footsteps race across the floor. He appears in the kitchen: greased-back black hair, a single gold earring, tan skin, white suit, a bold Hawaiian shirt—sapphire blue water, green palm trees, hot pink flamingos—underneath. He’s breathing heavily and his forehead gleams with perspiration. Alicent appears stunned to see him.
“Criston? What’s wrong? I said you could wait in the Lexus.”
Amir asks the man: “You’ve been in the car this whole time?”
“Don’t feel too bad for me. The Lexus has air conditioning.” The man, Criston, turns back to Alicent. “There’s a lizard out there!”
Amir sighs impatiently. “It’s a gator. And she’s perfectly harmless.”
“I just watched her maul a duck to death! There’s blood all over the grass!”
Amir is unfazed. “To humans, I mean.” He resumes peeling apples.
You tell Amir glumly: “I might have to get Willis to shoot her.”
“Only if it’s a murder-suicide.”
“Criston, help me choose,” Alicent says. She has a gift for ignoring unpleasantness, you’re beginning to notice. “I suddenly feel so overwhelmed.”
He walks over to the counter and begins taking a hefty bite out of each cupcake, eating after Alicent without any trepidation. They confer in murmurs, nods, shrugs, their own language that is threaded with a distinct and curious familiarity. Alicent catches you observing.
“He’s my bodyguard,” she explains hastily, then titters. “And my personal assistant, and my driver…”
“And your babysitter,” Criston says, grinning, crumbs all over his face.
“Yes, they never seem to outgrow the need for that, do they?” Then Alicent addresses you. “Could you manage to have six cakes ready by Saturday, do you think? They’re all so lovely. I don’t think I can narrow it down to less than that.”
Amir casts you a petrified glance. Notwithstanding that, you reply: “I suppose we can handle six.”
“Brilliant.” And you think: Aemond uses that word a lot too. “Then we’d like one vanilla, one chocolate, one blueberry, one coconut, and one hummingbird. And a key lime. I just adore the color, don’t you? A gorgeous, vivid green. It reminds me of the moors back home.”
“Yes ma’am.” You scribble her order down on your legal pad.
“And how much do your cakes cost?”
“$10 each,” Amir tells her.
“$10!” Alicent exclaims, looking at Criston. “Can you believe that? We’re certainly not in Knightsbridge anymore.” She takes $60 out of her wallet and hands it to you. “And you can deliver it to the house if I leave you an address? Around noon on Saturday?”
“Of course, no problem.”
Alicent gives you an address to add to your notes—you don’t recognize the street name, it must be in a new development—and then checks the clock on the wall. “Oh, is that right?! Christabel will be landing at the airport any minute. I’ve got to rush back to the house to make sure everything is ready for her. I can’t be a subpar host.”
“Where’s your coat, Ali?” Criston asks.
“In that closet over there.”
Criston fetches her coat and drapes it over her shoulders. Amir flashes you a salacious smirk. You wiggle your eyebrows back.
As Alicent and Criston cross the kitchen towards the living room and the front door, they pause by the table where an assortment of baked goods, different every day, is displayed for walk-in customers. Criston points to a cake plate piled high with Rice Krispie Treats. “You know who likes those,” he says softly.
“They’re very popular!” Amir announces, ever the salesman. “And we can make them with any kind of cereal you could imagine. Fruity Pebbles, Frosted Flakes, Cocoa Puffs…”
Alicent says, a bit randomly: “Cap’n Crunch?”
Amir doesn’t hesitate. “Absolutely!”
“Alright.” She has a faraway look in those dark oil-drop eyes, always a little shimmery, always a little sad. “I’ll take two dozen of those as well.”
“I’ll add it to the list,” you say.
“Thank you. Cheers.”
“Cheers,” you echo, perplexed.
Criston and Alicent depart. You hear the front door swing open and then close again. Outside, Criston reminds Alicent to leave plenty of space between her and the gator. An engine rumbles and gravel crunches as the Lexus rolls out of the driveway.
“If they’re not fucking, I’m Tom Cruise,” Amir says. “Speaking of fucking, what time is Scarface coming to pick you up?”
“5:15.” You nod to where Alicent was sitting. “She’s not bad for a robber baron.”
“Oh, please. She would grind your bones into flour if that’s what it took to have cakes ready for her child bride engagement party. I hope that Christabel girl knows what she’s getting into.”
What is she, eighteen? Nineteen? “She doesn’t.” The phone rings and you scramble for it. “Hello?!”
It’s not Aemond. “Hey, sugar.”
Ugh. “Hi, Willis.” Across the kitchen, Amir mimes slitting his own wrists with the paring knife.
“Listen,” Willis drawls in his familiar, I’m-about-to-deliver-bad-news tone. You can hear noise wherever he is: sirens, shouting. He must be using his car phone. “I’m all tied up down here on Route 90, we got a hell of a wreck, ten cars and an 18-wheeler. Had to close all the goddamn lanes in both directions. I don’t think I’m gonna get home until late, really late, maybe not ‘til 9 or 10.”
“So you have to switch nights. You can’t pick Cadi up from school.”
“Tell her I’m sorry, will ya? And that I’ll take her fishin’ this weekend to make it up to her. I’ll keep her Saturday and Sunday, if that works for you.”
“She’ll love that,” you say distractedly. No Olive Garden. No Aemond. Not tonight, anyway. “Anything outside and with animals. Anything that lets her get filthy.”
“Thanks for understandin’. I gotta run.”
“Bye.”
“So long, sugar.” Willis hangs up. So do you.
“Oh no!” Amir waves his knife around threateningly. “No, not a chance, that gremlin does not get to ruin the first real date you’ve had in…what…ever?!”
You smile; you can’t help it. “It’s not a date. Aemond is fancy and kinky, I’m a mom covered in frosting, people like us don’t date. Besides, his personal ad was very clear: Single and not looking to change that.”
“He’s not acting very single.” Amir begins chopping the peeled apples.
“It’s fine. It happens. We can go to Olive Garden some other time. I’ll try to call Aemond, and if he doesn’t answer I’ll tell him when he gets here. Maybe we can at least chat on the front porch for a while or something. Watch the lightning bugs come out as it gets dark.”
“I’ll hang out here with Cadi,” Amir offers.
“What? Really?” Olive Garden might be back on the menu! “You will?”
“Yeah, ho. I can’t in good conscience just stand by while you are deprived of traumatized war veteran dick. I need a break from Grandma anyway. She’s gotten really into Unsolved Mysteries and that shit gives me the creeps. I don’t want to hear about missing or murdered people. I’m already scared I might end up like that.”
“I’d find you. I’d rescue you. My and my pet gator.”
Amir laughs, his eyes sparkling behind his glasses. “Sure you would.”
“I’ll give you $10 out of my share of the bakery profits this week. For watching Cadi, I mean.”
“Deal,” he says. “Now help me with these dumplings so we can get started on those six cakes for the motherfucking Rockefellers.”
~~~~~~~~~~
It’s 5:13 p.m. when Aemond arrives at what Cadi named the Fall-Down House when she was in kindergarten, toting in her Chewbacca backpack sheets of homework about shapes and seasons, things you could help her with. You wonder what you’ll say when she gets to her senior year of high school and starts asking about calculus, physics, Shakespeare, college applications. It’ll be like she’s trying to talk to you in a foreign language. It’ll be like trying to explain colors to a blind man.
You’re almost done wiping down the stove and counter; Amir and Cadi are singing along and dancing to Kyrie by Mr. Mister: the Moonwalk, the Electric Slide, the Wop, the Sprinkler. Aemond wanders in and hovers on the border between the living room and the kitchen, his neon teal duffle bag hanging from one shoulder, staring with this profound, childlike puzzlement on his face. He looks like he’s never seen people dancing before; it’s some exotic ritual, some rite of a religion he doesn’t practice. He wears dark jeans, a black button-up shirt, black Converses, and his trusty Marlboro jacket. His fists are buried deep in the pockets like he’s holding something precious there, treasure, wisdom, secrets.
“Wassup, Scarface?!” Amir yells over the music, pretending to be reeling Aemond in like a fish. “Show us your best moves! Do the Worm! Do the Robocop!”
Aemond raises an eyebrow, drops his duffle bag, and—after a moment’s hesitation—glides across the tilted wooden floor to you. He takes your hands, spins you around, something like a clumsy, out-of-practice waltz, something real and enchanting beyond measure. And when was the last time you really danced with a man? Willis’ senior prom? Aemond sings as Amir and Cadi do the Running Man:
“Kyrie eleison down the road that I must travel,
Kyrie eleison through the darkness of the night,
Kyrie eleison where I’m going, will you follow?
Kyrie eleison on a highway in the night…”
Aemond releases you, sweeps his blonde hair off his forehead, and guzzles your frosty glass of sweet tea that you left on the counter in an expanding pool of condensation. You are reminded of how Criston devoured the cupcakes with no concern for the fact that Alicent had already tasted them.
“Such a weird song,” Cadi says as it fades out, as the cicadas and nighthawks grow louder through the screens of the open windows. “What the heck is a kyrie eleison?”
“It means Lord have mercy,” Aemond tells her. “It’s Greek.”
“Willis got stuck cleaning up an accident about a half hour south of here,” you explain. “But Amir and Cadi are going to have some nice couch potato time together.”
“Can we watch Unsolved Mysteries?” Cadi asks Amir excitedly, clinging to his arm. Amir groans.
“I might have an alternative,” Aemond says. He returns to his duffle bag, unzips it, and produces—not blue silk scarves, fuzzy handcuffs, a riding crop, or any other tokens of depravity—but a Nintendo game console.
Cadi screams and sprints to Aemond, unable to rip it out of his hands fast enough. “No way! Really?! I can play it?!”
“You can keep it.”
“What?!” She ogles the tannish rectangular box, the two handheld controllers. “This is the most epic day of my life!”
“I’m glad I could deliver it in person. I was just going to leave it with your mum.” Aemond starts taking cartridges out of the duffle bag. “I have Commando, Super Mario Bros., Star Force, the Karate Kid, Kung Fu, Burger Time, Donkey Kong and Donkey Kong 3, Alpha Mission, the Legend of Zelda, and Golf, which I honestly would not recommend. I used to have Top Gun too, but my brother spilled Tang all over it.”
“This is better than Christmas!” Cadi shrieks. “This is better than my birthday!” She dashes to Amir and starts hauling him off towards her room. “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!”
“I’m being kidnapped,” he tells you, feigning distress.
“Cadi, chill. Do you know how to hook that up to your tv?”
She reluctantly surrenders Amir’s hand. “Yeah, Michelle has one.”
“Okay. You can get it ready, I have to talk to Amir for a sec.”
“Fine,” she grumbles, and vanishes into her bedroom with the Nintendo and a precarious armful of game cartridges.
“Thank you,” you tell Amir quietly. “Seriously. I know I owe you.”
He grins. “Anytime. You’re helping to pay my way to San Fransisco, I really can’t complain.”
Aemond perks up. “You’re visiting San Fran?”
“I’m moving there,” Amir says. “And as soon as humanly possible! Sun, sand, and Speedos, here I come! Why? Have you been?”
“I have, actually. It’s a great city.”
You turn to Aemond; this is new information. “Did you go to school there?”
“No, I went to Imperial College in London. But I flew to San Franscisco to interview someone I was writing a term paper about.”
Amir squints at him. “Imperial paid for you to fly across the world for one interview?”
Aemond shrugs, hands back in his jacket pockets. “I got, uh, a research stipend.”
You ask: “Who did you interview?”
“I don’t think you’d recognize the name, but he was a really incredible guy. He was a nurse and the first person to ever come out publicly as having AIDS. Then he spent the rest of his life educating people about the disease. Bobbi—”
“Bobbi Campbell?!” Amir is awed. “Of course I know who he is! You actually met Bobbi Campbell?!”
“Yeah, we had lunch together. Wine and cioppino. His partner was there too.” Aemond is somber, reflective. “It’s probably the most worthwhile thing I’ve ever done.”
“Well you just get better and better, don’t you, big boy?” Amir says. “Have fun at Olive Garden. Don’t hurry home or anything.”
~~~~~~~~~~
You are beaming, serene, warm all over, bewitched by the magic of liminal spaces, doorways between realities that rarely touch. Frank Sinatra—Fly Me To The Moon—floats through the restaurant speakers. The table is cluttered with plates and bowls: breadsticks, salad wet with Italian dressing, zuppa toscana, minestrone, main courses. Families in nearby booths are chattering; wine glasses clink, stories are recalled. You always wonder when you see cheerful married couples surrounded by children: Are they really happy? Is it worth it? Or do they go home after these displays of fairytale adoration and ignore each other, argue, brawl, crack open the Bud Lights, crack knuckles, crack bones like glass? Does true love exist at all? Or is it a lie we’re taught so the species can live on? “I’m in Italy.”
“You’re not in Italy, Cupcake. You’re in Gonzales, Louisiana. I can glance out the window and see a Doller General and a Burger King.”
“I’m basically in Italy.” You gesture to your plate, large and oval-shaped. Your entrée is divided into thirds: chicken parmesan, lasagna, fettuccine alfredo. “I got the Tour of Italy. I’m now an expert in all things Italian.”
Aemond smiles at you, the way he usually does: amused, teasing, craving. “In Italy, the pasta is always al dente. And they use very little sauce, not like here where everything is drowning in it.”
“I personally love my ocean of sauce.”
“And in Italy the bread is served plain. No butter, no olive oil, no…” He scrutinizes a breadstick. “Whatever this is. Assorted soy products, probably.”
“Don’t ruin my dinner or I’ll tie you up next time.”
Aemond laughs: crinkles around his eyes, pure boyish radiance. “Go ahead. I dare you.” He eats a bite of his herb-grilled salmon. “I looked into your Saint Honoratus of Amiens. He’s the patron saint of bakers.”
You roll your eyes like this is obvious. You like knowing something Aemond doesn’t, Aemond with his vocabulary and his high-powered career and his petroleum engineering degree from Imperial College in London, England, a place you have never seen and never will, a city that might as well be located on one of Saturn’s rings. “Yeah, clearly.”
But you never feel like the clever one for long. “And of oil refiners.”
“Is he really?”
Aemond grins. “Yeah. So we’ll have to share him.”
“Did you ever think about doing something besides engineering?” You already know the answer. You saw it in the way he talked about Bobbi Campbell.
“I did,” Aemond admits. “The engineering thing…it was expected of me. It wasn’t really my choice. It’s fine, I’m okay with my job, I’ve come to terms with it. But when I was a kid, I wanted to be a historian.”
“People get paid for that? To study history?”
“Not a lot. But I love the stories. When I was at Imperial, I’d fill every extra space in my schedule with history and anthropology courses. I interviewed Bobbi for my Microhistory class.”
“Micro…history? Tiny history…?”
“You learn everything there is to know about one individual, or one town, or one product, whatever, and through it you can get a better sense of the bigger picture. Like…you could catalogue what specific pieces of furniture were in George Washington’s house to study 18th-century trade routes.”
“Or you could use Ketchikan, Alaska as an example of the dangers of oil rigs and the corrupt, greedy company policies of modern-day robber barons.”
Aemond stares at you. “Yeah. Sure. You get it.” He wastes no time changing the subject. “Where did you go to college?”
“College?” This is preposterous. “Aemond, I never finished high school.”
“You’re joking.”
“No, I’m not,” you say. “I dropped out. I don’t have a high school diploma. I definitely didn’t go to college.”
He’s utterly bewildered. “But…you aren’t stupid.”
“Yes, Aemond, a lot of not-stupid people don’t go to college. And I’d imagine the opposite is true as well.”
He sighs, long and deep, rubbing his scarred forehead with his fingertips. “I’m sorry. I could have worded that more sensitively.”
“Willis is a year older than me. I got pregnant the night of his senior prom. I never went back after summer break. I figured…you know…what was the point? I didn’t need Calculus or World History. I needed money. I needed baby clothes and a crib and a car. And my high school wouldn’t have let me in anyway.”
Now Aemond glares, though his wrath isn’t for you. “They kicked out pregnant girls?”
You smile wryly, chomping on a breadstick wet with marinara sauce. “They still do. They have to make cautionary tales out of us. The weak and the lustful.”
“Well then how the fuck is someone like you supposed to provide for yourself?”
“By marrying whoever got us pregnant and never leaving them.”
“Medieval,” he snaps. He stabs at his salmon, loses his appetite, slams the fork down on the plate. The waitress had just been approaching to ask about dessert; she does a 180 and vanishes again.
“Aemond,” you say gently. I don’t want to ruin tonight. “Please don’t be angry.”
“There are specific things that make me angry.” He rests his chin on his knuckles and peers out the window. Seconds tick by; Frank Sinatra sings about New York, another city you’ll never visit. Then Aemond looks at you again. “What is it like to be a parent?” he says, in the same reverent and mystified tone that someone might use to ask what it was like to flatline on an operating table before being brought back to life. Did you get a glimpse of the gates of Heaven? Did you feel the heat of Hell?
“I can only tell you how it feels to me.” You are wistful; you are painfully honest. You’ve never told anyone this before. No one has ever asked. “It’s…wonderful, and terrifying, and exhausting. You love them more than anything, but that doesn’t mean you don’t get tired, irritated, impatient, resentful. One minute you’re laughing hysterically with them, the next you’re begging them to go to sleep so you can have a half hour to yourself, or just ten minutes, or just five. And then as soon as they’re gone you miss them. You’re too strict or too lenient, never just right. You sacrifice—money, time, your body, your soul—but it’s never enough. You accidentally hurt their feelings and then tie yourself in knots to fix it, but you can never show them when you’re sad, or frustrated, or afraid. They can be so sweet and then so inadvertently cruel. They’re too young to understand that they’re being ungrateful. They ask you questions you don’t want to answer. They’re your reason for living, they’re a burden, they’re the best thing that ever happened to you, they’re your closest friend, they’ve trapped you somewhere you don’t want to be. There are all these emotions that come in waves, they go around and around and never stop. It’s like a tire spinning in mud.”
Aemond considers you for a long time before he speaks. “I think you’re doing a good job. Cadi seems happy. She’s…uh…spirited. But happy.”
“She’s a little wild, but that’s my fault. We grew up together. I didn’t draw many lines, and now it’s too late. And she’s getting old enough to notice things she didn’t see before. Most of her friends’ parents are still married. They might not be in love, but she doesn’t understand that part yet. What she understands is that we’re broke and her dad lives in a different house, and I’m the one who made that happen.”
“You’re doing a good job,” Aemond insists. He starts to reach across the table for your hands, then stops, reconsiders, grabs his duffle bag that’s squeezed next to him in the booth instead. He unzips the small pocket on the side and pulls out a toothbrush, a travel-sized tube of Crest, and a miniature bottle of Listermint. “I’m going to go brush my teeth in the bathroom, and then I’m going to fuck you in the back of my car. Okay?”
Your smile has returned. The magic has too. “Okay. You don’t want dessert?”
“I don’t need tiramisu. I already have a Cupcake. Unless…do you want tiramisu…?”
“No, I don’t like coffee.”
“I think they have other things too, cannoli, cheesecake…”
“Aemond,” you say. “I want to leave now.”
“Got it.” He leaves $30 for the waitress on the table—he always pays with cash, you notice—and bolts for the bathroom. Fortunately, you’d had the same thought; shortly before Aemond arrived at the house two hours ago, you’d packed your pink toothbrush and a tube of Ultra Brite in your Valerie Barad rainbow purse…just in case. By the time you get back to the table, Aemond is waiting and looking uncharacteristically anxious: biting his lower lip, clasping his hands together behind his back. He’s relieved when he spots you. “I thought you might have ditched me.”
“What, and walked 25 miles home?”
“Forget it. Let’s go.” And he shoves his hands into the pockets of his Marlboro jacket before he can reveal any more of himself with them.
~~~~~~~~~~
You’re flying down Route 70 with all the windows down, warm twilight wind flooding through the gaps between your fingers, centuries-old southern live oaks and flowering dogwoods passing by in a blur, an Eddie Money tape in the Audi Quattro’s cassette deck. Under the bridges you cross, brackish bayou water ripples lazily, thick with cypress trees, duckweed, spider lilies, salvinia, wading great egrets and lurking alligators. The seats are tan leather and spotless. Aemond rests a palm on your bare thigh, just below the hem of your shorts. His blonde hair whips in the breeze. From the passenger seat, you can only see the right side of his face, the unscarred side. It’s almost like he’s whole again. He puffs on a Marlboro Red, smoke escaping through the open windows, tobacco and tar and nicotine, chemicals and earth.
“We better stop before we get into Assumption Parish,” you tease. “You don’t want one of Willis’ deputies to stumble upon us.”
But Aemond is particular; he wants the perfect spot. Just a mile before Ascension Parish gives way to Assumption, he finds an overgrown dirt pull-off used for fishing. He parks the Quattro just out of sight of the highway, rolls up the automatic windows, blasts the icy air conditioning.
“Get in the back,” he orders, unclicking his seatbelt. The intro of Take Me Home Tonight thunders through the speakers. You obey, climbing into the (very not-spacious) back seat. Just seconds later, Aemond follows.
You giggle when he pulls you into his lap to straddle him. As you toss away his Marlboro jacket and unbutton his shirt, Aemond yanks off your orange tank top, unhooks your bra, accidentally breaks the tab of the zipper off your white denim shorts with his strong, frantic hands. He needs you; he needs you all the time, everywhere, and he’ll never get enough. He’s kissing you deeply, roughly, nipping at your lips and tongue, breathing his smoke into you. His fingers slip into your shorts and under the silk that you bought for him, blue like his eyes, blue like the sky before heavy rain. You’re moaning, grinding, impatient; he’s helping you shimmy out of your shorts, he’s tugging down his jeans. And now you realize that he wants you to stay on top. “Aemond, no, I’m not good at it…”
“Shut up. You’re good at everything.”
That’s a lie, you know it is; still, Aemond makes you believe it. He grabs your hips and shows you exactly how to move them, and soon the rhythm feels effortless, soon you are wet and relaxed enough for him. At the last minute, he gets a condom from the pocket of his jeans, rips it open, and rolls it on. And again, you are struck by a strange but unmistakable disappointment that you cannot have all of him, that you cannot experience what it’s like to be as close to him as humanly possible, this man that you hardly know, this body that unleashes ecstasy in yours.
It’s quick: your arms linked around the back of his neck, Aemond kissing your throat and the slope of your jaw, his hands and murmurs guiding you, delicious fullness and friction. You’re amazed when he comes—I made that happen?? I did that??—and a tidal wave of extraordinary pride, lust, power surges through you. Aemond helps you finish with his fingers, only a few vigorous strokes, and then he drags you down onto the Quattro’s back seat with him.
“Careful,” you say as you lie on top of Aemond’s chest, both of you breathless and slick with sweat, goosebumps springing up in the chill of the air conditioning. You’re all tangled up in each other; there’s no room to get away. “You’re not going to be able to get rid of me.”
“I’ll accept the risk.” The last rays of sunlight fall across his damp skin, turning him to amber, tiger’s eye, gold. “What happened when you had Cadi?”
You turn your face to look at him. “Huh?”
“You said you were unconscious for a few days after she was born.”
“I told you that?”
“Yeah. The first night I came over. And you’ve been on the pill ever since. You never wanted more kids?”
“No,” you say quietly. “No, I didn’t. I still don’t.”
“So something happened.”
“It’s not a cute story. It’s not sexy.”
“I’ve surmised that.” Another word you don’t know.
“I don’t really ever talk about it.”
“Because you don’t want to, or because people don’t ask?”
You’re amazed by how much he sees, like you’re a clean window, like your skin and skull are made of glass. “My water broke and I went into labor, but I wasn’t progressing fast enough,” you tell Aemond. “I mean, the nurses told me I wasn’t progressing. I didn’t really understand what that meant. It felt like something was happening. There was a lot of pain and pressure, and it was intense, definitely, but it was bearable, I still felt like myself. I was actually really proud of how calm I was. But I guess it wasn’t enough. So the doctor started me on something called Pitocin, and then the contractions weren’t bearable anymore. They were…I can’t even describe it. It was like this bone-breaking twisting, but also sharpness, razor sharpness. I imagined knots of barbed wire. It’s the only thing I could compare it to. And I wasn’t in control anymore. I wasn’t myself at all. I was this animal being trapped, being tortured, and there was no break between the contractions, they happened over and over and over again, one right after the other, and it went on for hours. I kept telling everyone that I couldn’t do it. I needed an epidural, laughing gas, pills, anything. I was begging them to knock me out. I was trying to rip the IV with the Pitocin out of my hand. But no one listened. The nurses acted like I was being dramatic. Women have babies every single day all over the world, why couldn’t I just shut up and deal with it? My mom was around, but she had pretty straightforward births, and I don’t think she could comprehend what it was like. Willis told me I was doing a good job. That’s all he could say: Good job, sugar, you’re doin’ just fine, sugar. But I didn’t want mindless encouragement. I wanted somebody to help me. I thought I was dying.”
Aemond’s hand smooths your hair. He’s watching you closely.
“When Cadi…when she was finally born, I wasn’t excited to hold her. I didn’t even care. I was just relieved the pain wasn’t so bad anymore. I told my mom to take her. I could hear the baby crying, and I remember thinking: Who is that? I almost died for that? I felt nothing for her, absolutely nothing. And then I heard…it sounded like someone had turned a sink on, because there was water running. But then the nurses were yelling and the doctor rushed back into the room. I was hemorrhaging, and it wasn’t water that I’d heard, it was blood, my blood, gushing all over the floor. I passed out and I needed transfusions and I woke up three days later. The very first thing a nurse said was that she was so happy to tell me that they’d been able to stop the bleeding without doing a hysterectomy, so I’d be able to have more children. Can you believe that? It was like I didn’t exist. I was just a vessel. As if I wanted to go through that again. No, never, no thank you. I got attached to Cadi, but it took months. Obviously, now I love her. But I was empty for a long time. Just empty, and sad, and in pain, and hopeless.”
“And your useless fucking husband named the baby you almost bled to death having.”
“He didn’t mean for it to be hurtful,” you say. “He thought he was helping. And it’s a hell of a name, I have to admit it. Arcadia Dove, like a Star Wars character or a superhero. It suits her.”
But still: Aemond shakes his head, incredulous, outraged on behalf of your long-gone teenage self. “When you found out you were pregnant, did you ever consider…you know…not having it?”
You give him a small, guilty smirk. What kind of mother could admit this? “Yeah. Yeah, I did. That was my plan, actually. I called a clinic in New Orleans and made an appointment. Cleared out every penny of my savings to pay for it. Cheaper than a life sentence, right? Amir offered to go with me, but neither of us had a car or a license, and I could never let my mom know. So I asked Willis.”
“And he wouldn’t drive you.”
Worse. “He told me that if I went, I’d be a murderer.”
Aemond jolts upright, furious. “He actually said that to you?”
“Aemond—”
“No, hold on, he actually said that?! He said that you could drop out of high school, you could throw all your dreams out the window, you could become a mum at fucking seventeen years old and marry some guy you barely knew, and if you wanted a way out that would make you a murderer?!”
You offer weakly: “Willis is really, really Catholic. A lot of people down here are, and—”
“He’s a coward, that’s what he is. He was willing to sacrifice your future to soothe his conscience. His life didn’t change. Yours did.”
“I love Cadi. I don’t regret her.”
“But you should have had a choice.”
You study Aemond: his glinting right eye, the deep stormy furrows in his brow. “Why are you so angry?”
“Because you deserved better. You could have been something more.”
Something more? Something more? “I’m not horrified by how I’ve turned out, Aemond. I made the best of my circumstances. I have a job I enjoy, I keep a roof over our heads, I have people to live for.”
“You deserved better,” Aemond repeats, soft and low.
“So did you.” You touch your palm to his scarred cheek and ask in a whisper: “What happened? Who hurt you?”
“Stop,” Aemond says, flinching away from your hand. And that’s the safe word; you have to listen.
~~~~~~~~~~
At home, Cadi and Amir are chatting at the kitchen counter with a late-night snack of apple dumplings, warmed in the microwave, and Breyer’s vanilla ice cream. Blue Bell is cheaper, but Breyer’s tastes real; it’s one of the few things you won’t compromise on.
“Mom, guess how many levels I beat in Super Mario Bros.!” Cadi doesn’t notice that your tank top isn’t quite covering the brutalized zipper of your shorts. Amir definitely does notice; he mouths to you: Baby Jesus is so sad.
“Um, I don’t know…how many levels does it have?”
“Thirty-two,” Aemond informs you.
“Seven?” you say.
“Try ten!” Cadi grins triumphantly.
“Radical! Amazing!”
Aemond applauds. “No way! You’re a prodigy!” You don’t have to ask if he wants to stay. He scoops two apple dumplings into the same bowl and then pops open the microwave, like he lives here too. “How long should I heat these up?”
“About 45 seconds,” Amir says. He yawns and puts his dishes in the sink.
“Thanks again for entertaining Cadi.” You give him a tired, repentant smile. “I would tell you to take tomorrow off, but we both know that’s not an option. I’m going to set my alarm for 3:00 a.m.”
“I myself will most certainly not be awake at 3:00 a.m. But I’ll try to get here by 7:00.” Amir gives Cadi a hug that she pretends not to appreciate. “Goodnight, slayer of Bowsers.” Then he waves to Aemond as he breezes out of the kitchen. “Goodnight, destroyer of zippers.”
Aemond covers his mouth to keep from laughing. “Cheers, Amir.” He brings the bowl of apple dumplings from the microwave to the counter, adds several heaping mounds of vanilla ice cream and two spoons, and slides it over so you can share. Outside, you hear Amir’s Ford Escort pull out of the gravel driveway. “You have a lot of baking to do, huh?”
“Oh my God, I completely forgot to tell you. You’ll never believe who showed up—”
“Mom, can we go shopping tomorrow?” Cadi asks, derailing your train of thought.
Cadi? Shopping? This is an unusual request. “Shopping for what?”
“For my riding boots,” Cadi says brightly as she finishes her apple dumpling, and you think, sinking in ways you can’t let her see: Oh fuck. Here’s the conversation I’ve been avoiding for weeks. “Michelle and Erica are both going to that horse camp in July. Breanna and Sam are going too. Kristen might even go, and she’s a total freakazoid! I can go, right? I’ll need boots, and a helmet, and I want to ride an Appaloosa. They have all kinds of horses, but Appaloosas are my favorite, and if they don’t let me ride one I’m going to go nuclear.”
“Honey, I don’t think it’s going to be possible this year.”
“But I have to go. Everyone else is going.”
“I tried, I really did. But I just can’t swing it right now. Next summer I’ll have more money saved up, hopefully, and then you can go to horse camp, and maybe we can even go to Biloxi for a week too—”
“I don’t care about Biloxi.” And now she’s lashing out, because she’s realizing the answer might really be no. Aemond is silently picking at the apple dumplings, looking between the two of you but not knowing what to say. “I care about going to horse camp when literally all of my friends get to—”
“Cadi, I’m so sorry, I really am. But sometimes things just don’t work out, and that’s okay, that’s a part of life. We’ll still have fun this summer.”
“I’m not going to have fun if I’m just stuck here at home all day!”
Stuck here with me, stuck here in the life I built for her. “Cadi, please—”
“I’ll give up my birthday presents,” she pleads, her eyes turning misty. “You can just not buy me anything for my birthday, or Christmas either, and you can use what you would have spent on that for—”
“I’m sorry,” you say gently, a hand on her little shoulder, her tiny breakable bones. “I wish I could give you what you want. I really, really do. I’m trying to make things better for us.”
“Can’t you ask Daddy for more money?”
And you remember what Willis said at the Assumption Parish Sheriff’s Office: Tell her if she grows her hair back out, maybe she can go next year. “Daddy wants to help too, I’ve already talked to him about it. We just can’t make it happen right now.”
“Daddy always says he’d have more money if he didn’t have to send you so much every month!” Cadi blurts out. Aemond is watching you, but you shake your head. He can’t say anything. It’s not his place. “That’s why I can’t go to horse camp, isn’t it? Because we don’t all live together?”
“No, Cadi, that’s not what this is about—”
“Erica’s parents live together and she gets to go! Michelle’s mom and dad are always taking vacations!”
“Every family is different,” you say, fighting to stay calm while your throat is closing up and the blood in your face is hot enough to scald.
“Sam’s mom just bought her riding boots and gloves!”
“I’m not your friends’ mothers, I’m sorry, I’m just not.”
“Well maybe you shouldn’t have kids if you can’t afford them!” Cadi screams, tears streaming from her bloodshot eyes, and then she storms off to her bedroom and slams the door.
You and Aemond are left alone in the midst of humming florescent lightbulbs, long-eared owl hoots, the ambient shrieks of cicadas. The apple dumplings and ice cream have dissolved into a soup. Your lips are trembling; a single blistering tear escapes down your cheek. You refuse to break down. You learned years ago that there is nothing to be gained from it. Aemond studies you, seeking and worried. You avoid his gaze. His hand reaches for yours, stops short, retreats to drum his fingers against the counter.
At last, Aemond says: “How much is the horse thing?”
“Too much. Way too much. It’s over $300, I won’t be able to make rent.”
He sighs; not a frustrated sigh, you think, but a sigh of incredulity, maybe even of pity, which is the last thing in the world that you want from him. Aemond takes his wallet from his jeans pocket, leafs through it, and counts out $400 in twenties and tens that he stacks on the countertop.
You are mortified, horrified. “Aemond, no—”
“Look, next time I see you, we need to talk. We need to talk about my situation, and your situation, and what we’re going to do going forward. And it’s…fuck, it’s, it’s complicated. You’ll see. But we have to get it sorted out, because this is…” He gestures to you, to him, to what you’re building between you like a bridge linking islands. “It’s different than what I expected it would be. And that’s a good thing, but…there’s just a lot we have to discuss.”
“Aemond, I can’t accept this much money from you.”
“The money doesn’t matter. $400? That’s nothing. The money’s not real to me. But it is real to you. So please just take it. And next time I see you we’ll…we’ll decide what happens next.”
It’s complicated, Aemond said. You’ll see. See what? How bad could it possibly be? “We can’t talk now?”
“No, I can’t do it now. I just can’t.”
He’s not just uneasy or distracted. He’s fucking scared. “You’re married,” you say.
“No. No wife, no kids. I swear to God.”
“No girlfriend either?”
“No.”
“You’re divorced.”
“No.” He combs his fingers through his short blonde hair, stares blankly at the wall behind you. “You’re free Saturday, right?”
“Yeah. I think Cadi will be with Willis all weekend, actually. He’s taking her fishing on Lake Verret. If Jade Dragon hasn’t blown it up by then. I’ll be busy with work Saturday morning and early afternoon, but after that I’ll be around.”
“I’ll come over around dusk, probably,” Aemond says, hands in his Marlboro jacket pockets, thoughts miles away. “I have something going on Saturday afternoon too.”
And he leaves before you can thank him for the stack of cash on the counter, or for any of the rest of what he’s given you.
191 notes · View notes
sapphire-writes · 1 year
Text
A Night Out ~ Aemond x Reader
request: So now that requests are open 😏…. What do you think about a fic where y/n has lived in kings landing her whole life but has never left the safety of the red keep. She expresses to her best friend Helaena that she wants to travel the world one day but when Aegon over hears her he makes fun of her with Aemond, telling her she wouldn’t last a day. To prove them wrong she sneaks out of the castle but Aemond follows her to make sure she doesn’t get hurt 🥰 ~ @missscarletta7 word count: 1.1k warnings: suggestive language, mentions of reader being in danger, nothing explicit note: love this request, I love me a protective Aemond 😩 thanks for the request friend 💚
Tumblr media
“I should like to travel,” you tell Helaena, who rests with her head in your lap, eyes closed as the summer sun washes over her. 
“Would you?” Helaena murmurs, keeping her eyes closed. A soft smile decorates her lovely face. 
“You wouldn’t last a day in the world,” Aegon says, chuckling from where he also lays in the grass. 
The days had grown cold with the promise of autumn, but for some reason today the weather was lovely. The sun bathed the gardens in warmth, which led to everyone spending as much time in the sun as possible. 
Aemond doesn’t lay, he is seated on a bench nearby, and a book open across his lap as he listens to the conversation. Your cheeks flush at Aegon’s teasing. 
“That is not true-”
“It is true,” he says sitting up to face you, “you’ve been kept in the Keep your whole life. The second you leave this castle wicked men will corrupt you.”
Helaena opens her eyes then, turning her head toward her brother. 
“Come now Aeg, you shall frighten her,” she says, defending her lady-in-waiting. Aegon shrugs. 
“I speak only the truth, a lovely creature such as yourself is destined to ruin.”
Your mouth drops open, cheeks pink.
“What horrible things you say, Aegon,” you scold, “and anyhow it is not like I would go unarmed.”
Aegon cocks a brow at you. 
“And what access to the armory do you have, my lady?” he questions causing you to pout. 
“Ser Criston would allow me a weapon of my choosing, I am sure of it,” you tell him. Aegon chuckles. 
“That would be rather unwise of him,” Aemond chimes in, “considering you’ve never had a lesson with the blade in your life.”
Your frown deepens.
“How hard can it be?” you challenge, causing Aemond to close his book. 
“Hard enough,” Aemond tells you, causing you to roll your eyes. 
“Stay where it is safe, my lady,” he tells you, “I hope to not see you on my own adventures into the streets of King’s Landing.”
Your cheeks seem to darken at this, knowing Aegon is referring to his trips to the Streets of Silk. 
That night you decide you will go into town. You shall prove them wrong. 
Aemond was returning from a rather late night spent in the library. He has gotten into reading a new book and lost track of time, only stopping when his candle fizzled out. 
As he walked down the silent corridors he spotted you, a cape draped over your shoulders, as you pulled the hood over your head. Where on earth were you going? What were you doing?
Your movements were slow and calculated as you evaded several goldcloaks, as a small kitten would evade the crashing feet of passersby. Aemond found himself smirking, as he watched you. Grabbing a cloak of his own, he decided he would follow you. He could not let one of his sister’s ladies fall prey to the madness outside of these walls. It wouldn’t be right. 
Somehow, someway, he followed as you made your way through the gates unseen. 
He follows behind you, remaining unseen as you find your way to a tavern. Aemond enters several moments after you, planning to continue to guard you against afar. 
You sit at a table, removing your hood, eyes lit up with wonder. A tavern girl walks over to you. 
“What’ll it be?” she says, gruffly, with her hands on her hips. 
“Is there something you recommend?” you ask and the lady makes a face at you. 
“We have mead, and we have bread,” she tells you. 
“Sounds lovely,” you tell her and she walks away, perplexed. 
Aemond chuckles to himself, keeping his head low. He is terribly recognizable, let alone with just his Valyrian coloring. The eyepatch does not allow for anonymity. 
“Hello beautiful,” a voice says, causing you to turn. A man gazes down at you. 
“Good evening,” you say politely, feeling your heartbeat thumping against your chest. 
“Fancy a shag?” he asks, and your eyes widen.
“No,” you tell him, but he grabs your arm, pulling you from your seat.
“Come deary, let me show you what I can-”
The man never has the chance to finish his sentence as he is torn away from you. You fall back against the table, the corner biting into your hip. The man had been thrown to the floor and moaned in pain. 
You look toward your savior, a tall man hidden behind a cloak.
“The lady said no,” he says, voice caressing you like silk. Wait a minute. You know that voice.
Your savior turns to you, keeping his head low, but you spot the patch across his face. 
“Aem-” you begin before he brings a finger to his lips to silence you. 
“Come,” he says, taking your hand and leading you from the tavern into the streets. He brings you to a nearby alley, away from the bustling chatter of the nightlife. 
“Did you follow me?” you accuse.
“I only planned on watching, if only you needed assistance,” he tells you, “which you did.”
“I could have handled myself,” you argue.
“Oh could you?” he teases, but his eye widens as you reveal a small blade from the pockets of your skirts. 
“Yes,” you insist. 
Aemond lets out a laugh. 
“You planned to stab a man in the middle of a tavern?”
“I will do what needs to be done!” you tell him, “I am not a maiden in need of protection.”
You remind him yet again of a small kitten, claws out. Aemond finds himself grinning at your ferocity. 
“What if I enjoy protecting you?” he tells you. 
You scoff, cheeks reddening.
“You are making fun of me,” you accuse, bringing a hand up to push his chest.
Aemond grabs your hand, taking a step forward, forcing you backward until your back hits the wall. 
“What would you do?” he asks, as your breathing picks up, “if I was a madman, wanting to have his way with you right now, right here?”
You wet your lips at the implication. 
“Because that is what that man was thinking,” he tells you, his face serious, “stab me? The goldcloaks would throw you in a black cell. Or worse.” 
Your gaze flickers to his mouth before you turn your head away. 
“I just wanted to see,” you tell him, “I know, I know it is dangerous. I just do not wish to live life like a prisoner.”
Aemond watches you as your eyes become glassy with frustrated tears. 
“I can give you that,” Aemond tells you, placing a hand under your chin. You meet his gaze. 
“You need only ask,” Aemond continues, watching as your lips part. 
“Please,” you beg, and Aemond connects his lips to yours, kissing you with such ferocity you are sure you shall melt into the wall behind you. 
“I shall not be kept locked up in the Keep,” you breathe against his mouth. He hums before kissing you once more. 
“You do not need to be,” he murmurs, “Vhagar can take you anywhere you wish to go. As long as you take me with you.”
note: UGH my heart explodes with fluffy protective Aemond why can't I be pushed up against a wall by him 😩 hope you enjoyed it loves 💚
1K notes · View notes
planet-marz1 · 6 months
Text
Tumblr media
I'm so so behind on reading fics, but these are some I've read this week! I decided to be an organized girlie for once, and seperate these into which specific character the fic includes
you can find a masterlist with all of my fic recs here
Javier Peña
Take The Weight Off His Shoulders by @thetriumphantpandanotifs
stuffing by @palioom
Unexpected Phone Calls by @tangledupinyellow
I just had to let you know you're mine by @tulipsbymybed
Drenched by @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin
Joel Miller
Sitting Pretty by @gasolinerainbowpuddles
Pretty In Pink by @lincolndjarin
Edge Of Darkness by @hyzer34
little old piece of heaven by @buckyysdoll
Blood Flow by @bunnysbrainrot
Patience Long Gone by @fettuccin-e
What U Need by @sageispunk
the man in apartment 6a by @spookykoolkat
Transit 1C by @randofantfic
Needy & Mornin', Birthday Girl by @talaok
the best of the world in the palm of our hands by @covetyou
Ring by @mandoisapunk
Sarah's Teacher by @granolawriting
In the Middle of The Night by @javiscigarette
Guilty by @chloeangelic
First Date by @thepascalofus
here in your doorway by @swiftispunk
making forts under covers by @janaispunk
hot single dilfs in your area want to chat! by @walkintotheriveranddisappear
Biting Down by @psychedelic-ink
Who Does this Belong to? by @lucyeyelesbarrow
Din Djarin
Keen by @bits-and-babs
Love Is a Fire That Burns Unseen by @moonlight-prose
Sweet Boy by @lincolndjarin
NSFW hc by @the-scandalorian
Lesson by @pedroshotwifey
highly recommend any works by all of these lovely writers 💗 I'm very veryyyy behind on my tbr list, so I'll probably do another rec list early next week!
212 notes · View notes
fayes-fics · 1 year
Text
Today’s Lesson
Lessons Series Masterpost
Pairings: Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader, Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader (threesome), Modern AU
Summary: Modern AU, it's playtime with the oldest Bridgerton boys...
Tumblr media
Warnings: 18+ smut, minors dni, threesome, d/s relationships, sub!reader, dom!Bridgertons, remote vibrator, public orgasm, slight exhibitionism, sensory deprivation (blindfolds), dirty talk, hair pulling, oral sex (f to m, m to f), deepthroat, anal play (butt plugs), fingering, spanking, impact play (leather belt), bondage/frog-tie restraints, vaginal sex, squirting, anal sex. No incest.
Word Count: 8.3 k
Authors Note: Dedicated, as all Lessons fics are, to the lovely Emmy @iboopedyournose. Peeps, this is pretty full-on. Please heed the warnings, and if you don’t like them, don’t read it!! I mean it, this is NOT vanilla romantic sex. Thank you to @makaylan for the read through. For those of you willing to read, I hope you enjoy. Happy New Year! <3
Tumblr media
You are sitting in a booth at a very upscale, atmospherically-lit restaurant and trying to act normal. Anthony is really not making it easy. You requested this, a night where he pushes your limits; teaches you new things about pleasure and submission, but if this is just the start, you may not survive the evening.
“How’s that, my girl?” He whispers duskily, leaning in, his warm lips on the shell of your ear.
“It’s just about bearable, my lord,” you reply honestly through gritted teeth, trying to keep your breathing even, fingers gripping your cocktail glass, gazing out of the window at the skyline of London twinkling beautifully.
He hums thoughtfully, then idly flicks a setting on his phone screen. You silently gasp and shift as subtly as you can on the leather bench seat as he smirks at you.
“And how about now?” His voice carries a little menace.
“My lord,” you grab the meat of his thigh under the table and breathe heavily, desperately trying not to give anything away to your fellow diners in this very fancy restaurant.
“Oh, that’s the setting we want,” he chuckles.
“Please turn it down, my lord, by god,” you beseech, fighting every reaction in your body.
“No,” he says gruffly.
“But my lord….” you protest.
“You asked for this,” he reminds, taking a bite of his dinner.
“Please…” it’s a pleading, acute sound.
“No. Now you will come in public. Silently.” His voice edged with flintiness. You also asked him to argue back if you resisted, just like he is. Regret is a bitch.
You bite your lip and fight the quaking in your body as you hurtle fast towards a climax. The remote vibe is right against your clit, buzzing insistently but silently. Intense pulses of pressure he is controlling using the app on his phone. As agreed, you are forbidden from touching yourself or moving the toy in any way.
All of your body feels on fire, and you have to bend your head so your face is unseen by the other diners as the waves of pleasure take over your body. This is the best kind of torture. Just before you break, you grab his hand on the seat and lace your fingers in his, squeezing his hand so tight and puffing breaths over your breastbone. Your core clenches hard as a shudder wracks your whole frame. You scream behind your lips clamped tightly shut, but the only audible sound emitted is a series of long needy whimpers.
He leans in and kisses your hairline before finally giving you a reprieve and turning it off. “Well done, my beautiful darling girl, that was spectacular”.
——
“How was dinner?” Benedict greets as he takes your coat, ever the chivalrous gentleman.
Anthony drove you back to his penthouse, promising you a memorable night; he wasn't lying. You are thrilled when Benedict opens the front door. Time alone with either of these brothers is wonderful, but the sessions the three of you have together are always fantastic.
“Stimulating,” Anthony replies on your behalf with a chuckle.
“I wish you were there, sir,” you sigh and twine your arms around Benedict, perhaps to make Anthony a touch jealous. “My lord was so mean,” you stick your tongue out at Anthony over your shoulder, then curl into Benedict’s embrace.
“Just a little remote vibe,” Anthony offers by way of casual explanation, waving his phone, “nothing she can’t handle.”
Benedict smiles, kissing your cheek. “Oh my girl, then you got off lightly,” he opines, grabbing the back of your head with his large hand, his lips brushing your ear. “If it were me, I’d have plugged your beautiful little bottom, too,” he murmurs. You clench at the thought.
“Will you do that for me tonight?” You whisper before you know what you’ve said, hands gripping his shirt.
Benedict growls a little. “Fuck yes, I will.”
“Thank you, sir,” you sway in his arms for a moment, then allow yourself to be pulled away by Anthony.
With a firm hand on your lower back, Anthony walks you towards the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the beauty of London at night, right on the Thames. Crowding into your rear, he pulls your head back onto his shoulder and twists your head slightly, drawing you into a possessive, exhilarating kiss that leaves you breathless and wanting.
“Hands on the glass, my girl,” he orders, pulling away, and you heed the instruction, placing your hands at shoulder height. “A little higher, stand closer,” he adds; you shift as requested.
You feel his hand run up your back to your shoulder and then trace back down to your bottom. “You seemed to enjoy coming in public earlier,” he opines. “How about I fuck you right here against the glass? Anyone could look up and see you.”
“Yes, please, my lord,” you respond eagerly. Again he pulls you back, and his lips cover yours in a deep kiss.
“Hmm, that’s what I thought, you little exhibitionist,” he smirks right next to your mouth.
His fingers find your dress zip that runs the length of the garment. Slowly he pulls it down, the sound seeming so loud in the quiet apartment. You can see Benedict observing in the reflection of the window, casually leaning on a pillar. You always like to make eye contact with the other brother if one is with you. You see him wink, and you smile demurely back in the window.
Anthony bends slightly to unhook the end of the zip and pushes the dress forward, so your back is exposed. He runs a knuckle down your spine slowly from your neck to your underwear, making all your flesh goose pimple, grabbing a handful of your bum cheek.
“You always look so fuckable, my girl, he sighs as he releases his hold. “Now bend forward. Face on the glass. Lose the dress.”
You do as told, shuffling your legs wider and resting your temple on the cool glass. The lacy underwear between your legs is on display to them; a little flash of purple silicon is visible through the pattern.
“See, brother, she’s still wearing the vibe. I took pity on her and turned it off for the ride back, but now we are here; I’m feeling a little devilish again.” Anthony idly unlocks his phone, and with a flick of a finger, it starts up again. You immediately whine and puff condensation onto the glass. It’s the lowest setting, just a tickle. “That stays on, my girl until we remove your underwear.”
You quiver quietly, snagging your lower lip with your tooth, hoping he won’t turn it up too much more, the tickling motion already making your blood run hot. Watching out of the corner of your eye, he pulls off his jacket and unloops his tie, a simple, elegant black silk one that contrasts his crisp white shirt, of which he undoes the top buttons.
“Shoes off, my girl,” he orders quietly, and you do so, pushing away your dress and shoes into a corner with your foot. “Face and hands back on the glass, please.” Again, you do as requested. “Now look down. Do you see any people down there, my girl?”
“Yes, my lord, I see a group of three men on the Thames Path,” you answer. They appear to be walking, slightly inebriated, leaning on each other. You quickly scan for others but see none.
“Are they looking up at you?” He queries, his fingertips drawing swirling patterns on your lower back that feel distractingly wonderful.
“No, my lord.”
“Bang on the glass,” he demands.
Butterflies roar in your stomach. “My lord?” you question.
“Do it, or I will,” he warns with a touch of menace.
So you use the heel of your hand to bang on the glass. The men don't look up. You try again—nothing.
“Oh, that’s right,” he barks a laugh, “I forgot this is soundproof glass. What a pity no one will hear your pretty screams either. Well, maybe they will look up anyway. It would be a shame to miss such a beautiful sight after all.”
His hand trails back up towards your neck and grab a fistful of your hair.
“On your knees,” he commands.
Oh yes. Your heartbeat spikes, and you gush all over the vibe as you pull your face away from the window and drop to kneeling, hands audibly smearing down the pristine glass as you do so, loving when he takes command like this.
“Good girl,” he compliments as his grip on your hair releases. “I’m going to blindfold you now,” he explains, and you nod—always something you’d agree to.
He takes his soft silky tie and wraps it over your eyes; your other senses instantly heighten as your vision blacks out.
“Mmm, that’s perfect,” Anthony purrs. “Now crawl to your sir. I want you to come with him in your mouth.”
“Not you, my lord?” you frown.
“No, my girl, you have spent most of the evening with me, and there will be plenty with me later.”
You inhale deeply, immediately turn around onto all fours, and begin crawling.
“Where is he, my lord? Is this the right direction?” you inquire.
“I’ll direct you with this,” his voice laces with entertainment as he turns up the vibe, and you instantly moan, knees scrambling slightly on the smooth, heated marble floor.
“That, my girl, means move forward,” he instructs.
You crawl a few paces forward, gasping slightly at the increased sensation. Suddenly you feel the buzz move to the left side of your clit only.
“Does that mean I turn left, my lord?”
“Clever girl,” he compliments lowly.
You turn to your left and begin crawling again, feeling your knees sink into a luxurious rug. You must be near the seating area now. The buzzing returns to your centre as you keep moving forward. Then suddenly, it swings to your right, and you follow. Edging your way around what you assume, from memory, is his coffee table.
“You are doing so well, my girl,” you hear Anthony call, but he seems far away. It appears he didn’t follow you; he’s merely directing you. The vibe buzzes insistently over your centre, and you crawl forwards again.
You smell Benedict’s familiar cologne before you feel his legs in front of you. He must be sitting on the sofa. You lift your hand and reach forward, connecting with one of his knees. You hear a creak as he leans forward, and then there is a hot breath over your cheek.
“Well done, my girl, you look beautiful on your hands and knees,” he whispers as you feel the vibe turn back down to its lowest setting.
“Thank you, sir,” you bask in the compliment.
“Now, what are you here to do?” his voice light and teasing.
“I’m here to do whatever you want, sir, but my lord said I should take you into my mouth.”
“And you wouldn’t want to disappoint him now, would you?”
“No sir, never.”
“Then I think you should obey,” he opines, as If he isn't the beneficiary of such actions.
He smiles unseen by you, hooking a thumb slightly into the corner of your mouth. “Are you okay with me testing your limits today?”
“Green, sir,” you respond as his thumb pulls away.
He nods and sits back, so you run your hands up his thighs, finding his fly button, flicking it open, and pulling down the zip. As is often the case when you play, he isn’t wearing underwear. You immediately feel the warmth of his skin, and when you grab his cock with your hands and gently squeeze, he gets fully hard. You always love how responsive he is. He groans as you lick a hot stripe up the underside. Pausing to tongue his frenulum, then take him into your mouth. You always enjoy sucking his cock because he is so damn vocal and alive, hands scrabbling, voice needy. Taking a deep breath, you push down onto him. And just like every time - every time - he moans your name and shifts in the chair.
“Ready?” his voice almost soft.
You tap twice on his leg, the agreed signal for yes, and suddenly both his hands are on the back of your head, pushing you down, so your nose sinks into his trimmed pubic hair. He hisses his approval, and you know his eyes are screwed shut in ecstasy just from the way he slumps back, his head likely rolling onto the back of the sofa.
Suddenly the vibe springs to life, and the jolt makes you startle as you are pinned down on him. You make a noise in surprise, and the vibration of it just encourages him, lifting his hips a little and surging deeper. Your eyes lashes catch on your blindfold as you blink away the drops watering from your eyes.
“Oh my girl, stay down,” he groans.
The vibe roars harder as he pulls you off with a harsh grip on the tie knot at the back of your head. You gulp some gasping breaths, moaning.
“Is that little vibe on?” He questions.
“Yes sir, oh god, it’s so strong,” you croak.
“Good,” he clips.
And with that, he pushes you back down, sliding deep again. Your clit pulses and begins to ache under Anthony’s remote assault.
“Turn it up more,” Benedict voices, presumably at Anthony, his hand twirling in your hair, gripping a handful.
You hear a chuckle from across the room, and then you want to scream as the vibration morphs into strong, pulsing waves. Your hips cant up against nothing as you fight the white-hot pulsing heat around your clit. All the while, you fight to breathe with your throat stretched tight around Benedict’s cock.
“Oh god, I love seeing you like this,” Benedict confesses, watching your hips move, his fingers tracing the tears down your face as they seep under your blindfold, and you drool around him. “You look so fucking beautiful, eyes watering and gyrating.”
Sometimes this is precisely what you want: to be treated a little rough and have your limits pushed. It’s like they sense you want something very primal tonight. You have your safety word and action, which you can use at any time, but you don’t want to. You want this. He pulls you up again, and you shudder deep breaths. Using the tie blindfold, he tilts your head up, and you sense him leaning forward. He chastely kisses your cheek, then calls across the room.
“Brother, bring Pandora’s Box, will you?”
Oh. The box. Pandora’s box, you know it so well. It’s a small wooden chest where the boys keep their toys. Or rather, the toys they use on you.
“What are you going to do, sir?” you ask breathily.
“You’ll see,” he says cryptically, his hand wrapping around behind you, grabbing your left butt cheek and spanking it hard. You groan and slump onto his shoulder, kissing his neck, enjoying the feel of his skin on your lips as you hear Anthony approaching to your right and the metallic sound of hinges on the box opening.
“Yep, you guessed it,” you hear Benedict chuckle, presumably as Anthony picks out an item.
“You want me to do the honours, brother?” Anthony offers.
“Well, let’s get it warmed up first, then sure,” Benedict responds, and you start to narrow down what it might be.
Benedict pulls you forward from his shoulder. “Open your mouth,” he orders.
Without sight, you are unsure how much you should open, but there is no comment; then you feel cold metal placed on your tongue.
“Suckle darling, get it nice and warm,” his voice gentler, and you realise this is the little butt plug you wear. It’s small with a heart-shaped gem handle. You close your mouth around the plug, heating it with your tongue.
“Good girl,” Benedict purrs, holding your jaw, feeling your suckling action.
You hear the creak of a flipped lid behind you, presumably Anthony opening the lube.
“I think that’s good,” Benedict states, pulling it carefully from your mouth.
You assume he hands it to Anthony because the next thing you feel is Anthony pulling down your underwear, just enough to expose your bum, not removing them completely. There’s a sudden wet, cooling feeling between your bum cheeks that makes you jump a fraction and writhe.
Benedict whispers in your ear, “Are you going to be a good girl for us? Take your little plug and your little vibe?”
“Yes sir”, you respond breathily, as you feel Anthony press the warmed metal up to your opening, your breathing speeding up.
“Good; I want you to be nice and open so you’re ready for when I fuck your tight little hole,” Benedict whispers.
Oh, fuck yes. You love when Benedict talks utter filth in his lilting voice, it makes you weak in the knees and so desperate to experience what he is promising. You can’t help but moan at that and the pressure you feel as Anthony slowly pushes against your opening.
“That’s it, my girl; relax, let it in,” Anthony's voice soothes, rubbing your bum cheek softly.
You take a deep calming breath and relax all your core muscles. Feeling blunt pressure, the plug inches in, and you groan a little getting used to the stretch.
“Just a little more, and you’re done, my girl,” Anthony encourages.
With sudden relief, the pressure changes, and you feel your body close up around the narrow stalk. Inside there is an insistent stretch. It feels delicious, as it always does, so different but stimulating.
“I love the sight of this little gem nestling between your bum cheeks,” Anthony confesses, grabbing and squeezing both.
You groan and sway your hips back towards him. You want him to pull down your knickers and fuck you right now. Instead, he slowly pushes your knickers back into place. His hands crest your hips and pull you back roughly towards him, his clothed cock sliding along the cleft of your asscheeks.
“Why don’t you fuck me, my lord?” you query over your shoulder, even though the blindfold stops you from seeing him.
The vibe roars back to life on your clit, and you cry out.
“Well, my needy girl, because I want you utterly mindless before I fuck you,” Anthony replies. “Also, I don’t believe you have done what we requested of you yet. You are supposed to come sucking his cock; I do believe, so do it,” his voice talking a harsh clipped edge.
“Yes, my lord,” you respond meekly, turning back to Benedict’s lap and sinking your mouth back onto him.
Anthony turns the vibe up to full tilt, and you moan hard, causing Benedicts to do the same as you vibrate around him. You won't last now you are plugged, and Anthony’s hands are on you, caressing your skin, sliding his hard cock over your tailbone.
“I think what my girl needs is just a little bit of….” Anthony begins, and then he spanks your left bum cheek hard.
It's all too much sensation, his spanking, Benedict's cock, the vibe, the plug - all while you are blindfolded. You are drooling all over Benedict, uncaring about what you sound or look like as you are rapidly spiralling, your head spinning.
Then there is a second spank from Anthony on your right cheek this time, and you are cresting hard, convulsing around the plug, flooding your knickers, screaming on Benedict, pushing back onto Anthony. Hundreds of stars behind your blindfolded eyes and electricity humming in all your bones.
Benedict wrenches you off him suddenly, panting hard, squeezing the base of his cock to stave off his response. “Fucking hell, I almost came at that,” he blurts out, shuddering.
“That was something truly special, my girl,” Anthony gloats, dialling back the vibe as you gasp for air, your whole body fizzing.
As you recover, you lay your head in Benedict's lap and feel their hands caressing your skin. After a few seconds, Anthony tugs down your underwear.
“I think that's enough of the vibe for one night,” Anthony says soothingly. “Besides, I want to see this beautiful jewel right here,” he adds, tugging on your plug, not enough to remove it, just enough you can feel the movement, and you groan as he finishes removing your underwear.
“How adventurous are you feeling tonight,” Anthony asks, leaning over your back and breathing into your ear.
“Very,” you answer honestly.
“How would you feel about cuffs on your ankles and wrists, my girl?”
You inhale sharply. “Green.”
“Hmm, good and what about if they were holding you in position?” he continues, pulling you up off Benedict's lap and nuzzling your neck.
“Green,” you answer, anticipation burning.
“Good girl,” he flatters, stroking your hair with delicate fingers as you rest on his shoulder, “just what we wanted to hear. Come with me.”
He sweetly helps you to your feet, your legs shaky from your orgasm. With his arms wrapped firmly around you, he walks you down a hallway; his body solid as it flexes around you. He leads you to his bedroom if your mental map serves you correctly. The blindfold is still blocking all sight you may have.
“Is this your bedroom, my lord?” you guess as he stops; you are sure his spare rooms are to the right, not the left.
“Well remembered, my girl”, he sounds impressed. “I may have purchased some fun things for our playtime,” you can hear the smirk in his voice.
“Tell me more, my lord,” you bite your lip, knowing it always makes him kiss you.
Sure enough, his thumb plucks your lip down from your tooth, and he sucks it into his mouth, pulling you into his arms and walking you backwards as he claims your mouth with a deep kiss. He pulls away just as your calves bump into the bed and spins you in his arms, so you are facing it now.
“Crawl onto the bed, my girl. Make sure your back is arched nice and low. I want to see that jewel as you do it,” he orders, his hand resting on the top of your cheek.
You reach forward and climb on all fours tilting your pelvis up, your back curved down.
“Fuck yes, that’s it,” he growls, and there is a light spank on your left cheek before you’ve moved a knee forward. You groan, wanting more, a harder spank that makes your skin tingle.
“Harder, please, my lord,” you sway back, pushing into his crotch, rubbing shamelessly on him like a cat in heat.
“Are you asking for a spanking?” He teases thickly.
“Yes, please, my lord,” you reply.
He obliges a swift stinging smack on your right cheek this time, which morphs into something lingering and tingly as he kneads the flesh he spanked.
“Crawl a little further for me,” he lectures.
You do so, each movement slow, ensuring you sway your hips and display yourself as much as possible, loving when his voice gets low and scratchy from watching you move for him.
“Stop right there,” he voices suddenly. “Put your face on the mattress; keep that bottom up.”
You comply, knowing how lewd you must look. Just as you hear another set of footsteps enter the room.
“Fuck, that looks amazing,” Benedict stutters.
“Ah, good of you to join us, brother,” Anthony comments, “I wouldn’t want you to miss that sort of view.”
You hear a creak of leather as you assume Benedict sits in the chair over to the left near the floor-to-ceiling window; it appears he is here to observe for now.
“The problem is, my girl, your skin is just begging to be marked. Look at all this beautiful flesh,” Anthony sighs, spanking the top of your thigh so hard you squeak. “I don't think my hands are enough…” he trails off, and you hear the metallic tink of his belt buckle unfastening. Your belly roars to life with butterflies. You wondered why he was wearing a belt tonight; his trousers are custom-made; it's a superfluous item of clothing that he rarely needs or wears. Now you know.
“Green,” you mutter quietly before even being asked.
“Oh, my clever, clever girl,” Anthony exhales, running a hand over your other thigh and spanking there, too, for good measure. You squeak again, the sting radiating between your legs, right to your throbbing clit.
You hear the sound of leather stretching as he winds the belt around his hand, and you take a staccato breath, the anticipation burning low in your gut. Not being able to see any movement, to anticipate the first strike just heightens the heat and awareness prickling over your skin.
You gasp as he trails the leather belt end over your toes, the soles of your feet, and then the back of your calves. Then it's gone, and you hear a tiny noise in the air before the belt thwacks lightly against the back of your left thigh, a gentle sting.
You hiss as you feel a little colour bloom there.
“What do you say?” he commands briskly, “for making your skin look so pretty like a picture?”
“Thank you, my lord,” you stutter out.
“That's right,” he preens. “You need more, don't you?”
“Yes, my lord, please,” you plead, your voice light and thready like chiffon.
As you answer, there is a blow to the back of your other thigh, the same strength but a different angle, like he is painting an abstract swath onto the canvas that is your flesh. You moan loudly and flex your hips. Anthony loops the belt between his hands and pulls it taunt over the cleft of your ass, running up and down in a swift motion, making it tug against the plug in your bottom, putting pressure on the walls of your channel.
“Fuck, my lord,” you stutter as he chuckles richly.
Then there is a stinging blow to the globe of your ass, and you cry out, much stronger than the stroke on the back of your thigh. It stings so well, the pleasurable pain a lightning rod to your clit, throbbing and needy. He can likely see it, see you leaking down your thigh, but he pays it no heed.
Instead, there is another strike on your other cheek and your whole body jerks, swaying slightly and widening your knees as you try to keep your ass up high and your face down low, just as he wants.
“Well done, my girl,” he praises, and you hear the belt fall to the floor as you breathe through the sting. A warm hand lands on the middle of your back, giving soothing strokes for a few moments as you recover.
“How would you feel about being harnessed just like this?” Anthony enquires smoothly after a minute or so.
“Green,” you respond after briefly considering the question.
“Good,” he says, the hand running down your spine softly. “I purchased a beautiful leather restraint set”. His fingers trace over the sensitive skin where the back of your thighs meets your bottom. “They are going to wrap around your right here.” He moves your hands backwards, holding them on the side of your thighs. “Your hands will be here,” he says quietly, “and your feet…” he picks them up, moving them, almost but not quite flush with your bum cheeks, “…will be like this.”
In this position, your knees and face are your only leverage points of balance.
“It’s called a frog tie, and I just think you would look so beautiful in it, my girl,” he explains, caressing your calf and kissing your lower back.
“Green, my lord”, you agree, excited to be restrained in such an open manner as he lowers your feet back down for balance.
“Thank you” his tone is reverential. He moves up to stroke your hair affectionately, sitting on the bed near your head. “Thank you for this, my darling girl. I promise it will be wonderful for you.”
“I know, my lord, I trust you,” you answer.
“Your trust is the most beautiful gift you can give me,” he assures, his voice thick with emotion.
You just smile and lean into his gentle caresses as you feel a dip in the bed behind you as Benedict kneels on the mattress and strokes the back of your thighs.
“Look at these soaked thighs; I think this pussy needs some attention,” Benedict declares.
“Please,” your response is needy, desperate to alleviate the throbbing.
Anthony pulls up your blindfold a little, and you blink, adjusting to the low light in the room. You twist your head to the side to observe him as he opens his shirt buttons. His motions are a striptease, and you nod as enthusiastically as you can with your head down on the bed, and he smiles wolfishly and shucks his shirt.
Benedict chuckles at your exchange, then his hands grab your asscheeks, dives face-first into your cunt, greedily lapping at your juices. You cry out and clench around the plug in your bottom.
“Oh, I saw that little gem move,” Benedict growls, muffled into your flesh. “I hope it’s getting you nice and open ready for me,” he warns, filthy.
“Yes, sir,” you answer breathily.
“Good girl,” he replies and spanks your bottom hard, diving his tongue back inside you.
You squeal at the sensation on your tender bum and grind your core shamelessly back onto Benedict’s face as you watch Anthony pull off his trousers, also without underwear, his magnificent cock bobbing as he stands back up straight. You salivate for it. He climbs onto the bed and settles against the headboard, legs on either side of you, leaning forward and pulling your head up off the bed, kissing your lips.
“Do you want to come with my cock in your mouth, too, darling?” He whispers as he eases the blindfold back down over your eyes.
“Yes, please, my lord,” you lean forward and rub your face in his chest hair, your sense of touch heightening as you are robbed of your sight again.
“Brother give this greedy beautiful girl her third orgasm of the night, please,” Anthony orders casually.
“It would be my honour and pleasure,” Benedict responds, the five o clock shadow on his chin rasping your clit as he talks. You moan at the sensation.
“But what about my restraints, my lord?” you ask, kissing Anthony’s right nipple as Benedict drags his tongue lower, lapping your clit, and making you groan.
“I thought for later, my girl,” Anthony remarks, “do you want to be in them now?” He queries, his voice impressed.
“Yes, please,” you whisper into his sternum, almost ashamed of how excited you are by the prospect; the freedom of giving up all control is such an intoxicating thought—panting now at Benedict’s sensual assault.
“Do you really want me to interrupt whatever is making you pull that face?” Anthony questions, bemused, cupping your jaw and kissing your cheek. You groan and drop your head down out of his grip as Benedict rubs the edge of his teeth over your clitoral hood.
“K… fine… after orgasm,” you stutter, barely forming a sentence. Anthony chuckles above you and shuffles upwards slightly. You feel the heat of his cock close by, so you nuzzle with your face until it catches your chin, and you open your mouth and take him in, suckling just the head lightly as he moans in delight; it sounds like he grabs the metal bar on his headboard, his signet ring tinking against it.
Benedict pushes a hand on your lower back, making your back arch further, and he sucks your swollen clit wholly into his mouth and bites down. Your curse is muffled around Anthony’s cock, the shock causing you to slide down further, him bumping the back of your mouth. All three of you groan simultaneously, you being bookended by these beautiful boys.
Anthony grabs the back of your head, holding you down as you feel the pressure. At that moment, Benedict intentionally bites your nub again while tugging gently on the plug in your bum. You scream around Anthony, and he moans so deeply you think he might come.
“Oh my fucking god,” Anthony gusts, the hand on your head weighty, “stay down; you feel like heaven; I wanna fuck you so hard… so fucking hard right now,” he mumbles through gritted teeth.
Benedict is keeping you right on edge with his teeth and tongue. You are just making a long low whine now but desperately need air, your lungs burning. Anthony wrenches you up off him, and you take wracking, deep breaths, fighting for oxygen and groaning at the white-hot pleasure around your clit. Benedict knows you are dancing on the precipice, thighs twitching.
Anthony pushes you back onto his leaking cock, testing your breathing limits. “Stay down until you come, my girl,” he warns. You feel lightheaded but, more than anything, want to obey.
Without warning, Benedict pumps three long fingers inside you and rumbles against your clit between his lips as he does so. The low vibration tips you over into a shuddering, screaming orgasm, writhing and pushing back onto his face as he puts pressure on your plug as you clench and release in waves, holding it firm.
Anthony is groaning hard above you, and he twitches in your mouth. “Fuck, you are a wonder, my girl,” he babbles.
You will do anything to please him, so while you come down from your intense high, you stay on his cock, leaking juices on Benedict’s face as he places gentle kisses on your inner thighs.
“That she is,” Benedict concurs, running his tongue up your slit obscenely and over the gem nestling between your cheeks before pulling upright and spanking you hard, rubbing his cock over your tailbone.
Anthony pulls you up by grabbing your hair. “Well done, my girl. If you stayed down any longer, I would have come, and we both know where we want that don’t we?”
“Inside me?” you pipe up between breaths, tilting forward to rest your head on his stomach.
“That’s right,” he says, stroking your hair again.
Benedict hops off the bed and retrieves something from across the room.
“Are you ready to be restrained now, our girl?” he questions softly.
“Green sir,” you enthuse over your left shoulder; even though you can’t see him, the instinct to turn towards the person speaking to you still lingers.
Anthony shifts around you and gets off the bed to your right. “I’ll take this side, brother. Ass up higher, my girl; show me that beautiful gem,” he tutors as you shuffle into position. “That’s it perfect,” he praises.
You breathe slowly, tamping down the excitement crawling over your skin as you feel the soft leather wrapping around your upper thighs as they both adjust the buckles.
“It should be snug but not hurt,” Anthony counsels, “how’s that fit?”
“It’s good, my lord,” you confirm.
“Wonderful. Third notch brother,” he advises Benedict as you feel the identical fit around your left thigh.
They cuff both ankles simultaneously, pulling your legs up and attaching them via a clip to the back of your thigh restraint. Something calming and arousing settles into your gut once you are entirely restricted in moving your lower half, your ankles tethered to the back of your thighs, your knees being your only leverage point.
“My girl, give me your colour, please,” Anthony says sincerely. “Try to wriggle; confirm you feel comfortable.”
You do as advised and feel nothing but excitement. “Green, my lord.”
They round the bed on either side, each taking a hand and wrapping a soft cuff around your wrists. There is a loop to attach them to the side of your thighs, but they don’t do so.
“Let’s see how you go like this for now,” Anthony intones, rubbing a soothing pattern down your spine. “If you like it, we’ll clip your wrists in too.”
“Green, my lord,” you respond clearly, “I’m sure I will.”
He huffs an amused noise and walks to the end of the bed, climbing to kneel behind you, he grasps your hips, and you lean down onto your forearms. Assuming a position you know he likes.
“Oh, good girl,” he clucks, “are you ready to be fucked, darling?”
“Please,” you implore.
“I do so love it when you are needy,” he exhales, “And I love this being here. Your bottom looks so pretty” he spins the plug just a fraction which has you moaning. “Now you’ve already come three times tonight, you greedy girl. So guess what? You’re not allowed to come again until you have my permission, do you understand?”
“Yes, my lord,” you confirm, your words muffled into the bedding.
“Widen those knees, my girl. Let’s really see those restraints working,” he taps your thigh, and you do as told.
You feel his tip nudge you and smile, so aching and ready to be filled. He surges forward in one swift movement burying himself deep within you, holding his thumb over your plug as your body tries to push it out with the force of his entry. You moan into the sheets, feeling so overwhelmed and so filled.
“Oh god, this is perfect,” he growls, “I can feel that plug through your wall, darling girl. God, it’s making you so tight. I’m going to have to go slow,” he says through gritted teeth, pulling back slowly, then pushing back in with a groan. “Brother, you must try this; she feels exquisite.”
You feel a dip in the bed next to your shoulder as Benedict sits down. “I will,” he responds with a chuckle. Then you feel him lay down perpendicular in front of you, his head near yours.
“Hello darling girl,” he murmurs, “I haven’t even gotten to kiss you yet tonight, have I?”
“No sir,” your response is uneven as Anthony retreats and then surges into you.
“Then let’s remedy that right away,” he pulls you down into a searing kiss as Anthony sets a slow, dragging rhythm.
“Are you enjoying yourself tonight?” Benedict’s tone is gentle as he caresses your face with warm fingertips.
“Yes, sir,” you enthuse before he kisses you again.
“Do you like your restraints?” you can tell from his tone that he is smirking, his lips warm on your face.
“Yes, I love being like this,” you admit.
“Good. One day,” he sighs, almost wistful, “I’m going to tie you down spreadeagled and fuck you so hard you will be begging me to keep you there.”
You love when he talks utter filth to you, especially while his brother takes you so hard. You can’t see it, but you know Benedict is smiling devilishly from the tone in his voice.
“I’ll crop your beautiful skin—it should always be flecked with little marks from discipline. You are such a little brat who needs so much taming.” He rounds a hand into your hair as he speaks, tugging your scalp and making you rasp. “I want you to wear clamps. Beautiful jewelled clamps to match your lovely little plug. With a chain between them, so I can pull on it, make your nipples ache for my tongue to soothe them.”
You groan as he talks, wanting everything he is promising. Anthony’s cock spearing you open over and over as you picture precisely what Benedict is saying. He moves so his lips are on the shell of your ear, his fingers feathering along the tie that is your blindfold.
“But most of all, perhaps I want you to wear a collar, my collar. I want you to belong to me.” His voice is so quiet you know Anthony can't hear. “I will share with my brother, but you should know I don't always want to. I'm a greedy man, and sometimes I want you all to myself. Part of me wants to whisk you away and lock you in a luxury tower somewhere secret and far away. Make you submit to every single one of my fantasies.”
You are breathless, knowing you would let him and probably beg him for more. And if Anthony offered you the same thing, you would in a heartbeat as well. You want them both so much.
“Restrain my hands, sir,” you pant in response. You want to feel helpless.
“Right now?” he checks, his breathing unevenly.
“Please. Yes. Green.”
You feel the bed move as Benedict gets up and tilts your shoulders to the mattress before grabbing your left arm and locking it in place.
“She asked for this, brother,” Benedict assures, and Anthony growls when he realises what you asked for, his pace never wavering as he plunges into you.
You hear Benedict round the bed and pull back your right arm, looping the cuff into the ring at your thigh.
Now you are entirely frog-tied at their mercy.
Unable to do much but shuffle and tilt over. The fire that rages in your belly notches lower and licks at your core, feeling an insistent throb where Anthony pounds into you. You know you don't have permission to come yet, but something about being so bound is rocketing you towards another climax. You just submit to the sensation of Anthony, his hands gripping your hipbones insistently, the plug in your bottom jerking with each surge into your body.
“Anthony,” you murmur his actual name into the sheets, flexing your hips slightly, testing the bounds of your restraints.
“Fuck darling girl,” he gasps, “I'm going to come.”
“Do it please, please, my lord,” you urge, desperate to see him behind your blindfold but even more frantic to feel him come apart inside you.
“Are you going to come with me, my girl?” his voice questioning.
“Do I have your permission, my lord?”
“Oh, good fucking girl,” he compliments, grabbing the meat of your bottom before returning to grasp your hip, “yes, yes you do.”
Suddenly, an arm curls under you and strong fingers are at your clit. But you realise they cannot be Anthony’s as both his hands are branding a bruising imprint onto the crest of your hipbones.
Then that sinful voice is back by your ear. Benedict. “Come on his cock, do as you are told.”
You can only obey, the thrill of being restrained and both of their attentions hurtling you fast towards another high. As you break, you realise this one is a gentler wave. It crests over your body; you moan and writhe, feeling Anthony piston in and out a few times, then jerk hard, holding still, slumping over and biting your shoulder as he empties deep inside you with a wracking groan. You bear his weight the best you can, your leather restraints creaking as it pushes your knees out wider, sinking further into the mattress. He pants hard as he slowly pulls out and takes his weight off you.
“Fucking hell,” he gusts, “It's never been that intense. Brother, you have to get on that. Right now,” Anthony advises sagely, and you feel him dismount the bed and stumble away to catch his breath.
Benedict's fingers are still on your clit as he rounds behind you. “Are you ready for me, darling girl?” his voice a low dangerous vibration. There will only be a few heartbeats between them being inside you, and the thought of it makes you burn hot.
“Yes,” you croak quietly.
He surges into your still-fluttering cunt, and you both groan loudly. He stills, feeling the ripples surrounding his cock and breathing heavily with each pulse.
“I thought you were going to fuck my ass, sir,” you goad.
He huffs a laugh. “Oh, I will,” the glittering promise already making your body bow.
Benedict does not move. He just holds you on him, buried so deep. He always feels different to Anthony in a way you can’t articulate, no less intoxicating, though. Then you feel his fingers wrap around the heart-shaped plug, and your breath catches. Your teeth sink into the sheets as he twirls it around in a slow circle.
“Now I think it's time this little plug came out; you should be nice and ready for me now,” his tone dusky.
You moan as his knuckles slide against the skin around your hole and hook under the plug handle, pulling up and out slowly but steadily. You huff as the plug reaches its widest part slipping out of you. The stretch is entirely pleasant, and your core pulses around him. Benedict groans and tosses the toy aside onto the floor as you pant lightly and feel a cold slide of liquid between your cheeks as he applies more lube. You hold your breath as he slowly pulls out of your cunt, and there is a creak of the restraints as he rearranges your body and himself, lining up.
“Colour,” he demands.
“Green, sir,” you answer instantly.
And then it begins. The pressure is intense as the blunt head of his cock pushes insistently at your tight entrance.
“Relax, my girl,” he tutors.
You take a deep calming breath in. As you exhale, Benedict slips into your body. You groan loud and long, the stretch and feeling of fullness back there so different but just as exhilarating. He stutters and swears, pausing to adjust his stance before driving forward a little more, spearing deeper. Taking your upper body weight on your chin makes your jaw ache, so you swap the weight to your forehead and pant, wanting more than anything to be entirely at his command, to enter that mental space where your body submits, and your mind floats.
“Good girl, you are such a good girl,” Anthony praises as his warm hand runs up your spine and into your hair, grabbing and pulling tight. “Breathe.”
You do as Anthony commands, breathing deep and slow as Benedict slips further inside you.
“You feel so good,” Benedict praises as he sinks to his root with a grunt, letting you adjust to the sensation of being so viscerally invaded. “How do you feel?”
“So very full,” you puff into the sheets, feeling the pull of your restraints as he grabs your butt cheeks and spanks them hard.
You squeal and that makes him chuckle.
“Good, I don't plan to go slow, so hold on, sweet girl,” he warns.
“To what, sir?” you sass, waving the hands cuffed to your thighs.
He chuckles deeply. “Brat,” he lobbies affectionately.
As Benedict draws back, Anthony releases your hair, and you sense him slipping under you. With a slight tilt of your body, he slides between you and the mattress so your head is resting on his warm fuzzy chest, his legs on either side of your restraints.
“Hello, my lord,” you greet him warmly, tilting your face up, hoping for a kiss.
“Hello, my girl; I think I might know just what you need to make this extra special,” he offers huskily and as he kisses you, his fingers snag around your nipples, pulling harshly as Benedict pushes back into your hole with a loud groan.
The feeling of your ass being so filled and your nipples aching has you crying out as Benedict starts a rocking rhythm into you. You pant both my lord and sir, part of you wanting to call their real names. Anthony’s fingers expertly twirl on your sensitive nubs, and you feel drunk on the sensation Benedict is giving you.
“Spank her again, brother,” Anthony calls over your shoulder.
Benedict obliges just as Anthony slides his fingers inside your achingly wet cunt. You scream at the feeling of having both of them inside you. Anthony’s fingers expertly locate the spot that drives you crazy and rapidly hit it with a robust and intense jab. You curse loudly and Benedict almost howls as you convulse strongly, transferring through your walls to grip around him. You groan again as Anthony’s fingers press harder, eliciting a carnal squelching noise from your core. You are powerless to stop him, having no leverage tied up as you are. Also, you don't want him to stop. Not in the slightest.
“I figure the least I can do is make her squirt for you, brother,” Anthony sniggers, almost fighting to be heard over your moaning that has become a constant noise as he rocks hard and fast onto your G-spot.
“My lord,” you sob, dangling again so soon to mindless while Benedict ploughs into you.
The pressure building is intense, and your restraints creak as you flex involuntarily at the strong clenching feelings you fight, your hands balling helplessly at your hips, fingernails sinking into the heel or your own palms. Anthony takes your body somewhere primitive and instinctual, where your mind switches off, and you are rooted only in the tide of sensation washing over you.
The pressure builds to a breaking point until you are open-mouthed screaming as you feel a massive, almost forbidden release. Your whole frame shudders as you feel yourself soaking the bed, your legs, Anthony’s hand and Benedict's thighs as Anthony makes victorious noises. Benedict curses, and with a few deep growling surges, you feel him coming deep in your bottom, a warmth blooming inside, not as sensitive as your pussy but a filling sensation nonetheless.
The three of you curse almost in unison. Your legs feel shaky and almost cramping as Anthony slides from under you and quickly unhooks your hands and feet from your restraints. You collapse face-first onto the mattress, Benedict still buried inside you. He grunts and follows you down, covering you, still recovering himself, withdrawing from your body gradually.
After a few moments, when they have gently cleansed your body and their own, you are lying on the bed with the boys on either side of you. They run delicate hands over your skin in soothing motions, lingering kisses on your neck as you recover from the intensity of the session.
“Same time tomorrow, boys?” you tease quietly, stifling a yawn. They both chuckle, nuzzling your neck as you feel the drowsiness hit you, and you drift off in their embrace. Today’s lesson proved a very enlightening one.
Tumblr media
Anthony & Benedict taglists: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @wysteria-clad @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @bridgertontess @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @queenofmean14
Tumblr media
533 notes · View notes
eoieopda · 1 year
Note
hi lovely! for the 2k drabblepalooza, could I get Jin and friends to lovers? I just 🫡 ( i feel like he'd be perfect for it <33)
lmao, i went to pinterest before i started writing because that’s where i get the photos i use for fic headers. i am not exaggerating that i got sidetracked and spent ehhhhhh an entire hour just smiling fondly at my phone like a fool
the one with seokjin and the marathon
ft. childhood bestie seokjin, a critical analysis of rupaul’s drag race, and someone’s penchant for rapping while they rant.
Tumblr media
It’s baffling, really, how you can be presented with the same circumstances — over and over — for two (2) decades and still not learn your lesson.
If you know anything at all, it’s that you should know better. You don’t, though, because all time seems to have done is weather down the ridges of your brain until experiences like this one slide right off.
Coincidentally, that’s precisely what happens to your tumbler full of coffee, which you’d had precariously balanced on top of your stack of books as you unlock your apartment. More specifically, when you unlock your apartment and find a half-slumped body on your couch.
Underscored by an unjustifiably startled gasp, your travel mug hits the hardwood floor with a dull clang and rolls somewhere unseen. Your saucer-wide eyes lock onto the unexpected head of black hair resting back against the cushion behind it, even though — realistically — you should expect this by now.
You gave him a key years ago, after all.
“Seokjin, you scared me,” you whine, but all you get is an absent-minded wave in response.
He’s too focused on whatever it is he’s watching to turn away from the laptop perched on your coffee table. From where you stand, you can’t see the screen — or the subtitles that would make sense of all the English flooding your ears.
“How long have you been here?”
It’s a mumble, he’s transfixed, but you think you hear him say, “Episode two.”
After accepting that vague reply, you shrug; then set your new — to you, anyway — used books onto the nearby console table. A quiet jingle rings out as you sling your keys over their designated hook. Then, once your hands are free, you wriggle free of the corduroy jacket and crossbody bag that weigh you down at your doorstep. With those quickly tucked into your hallway closet, you kneel down to unzip your boots.
Despite your thick, wool socks, the floor in your apparently heatless apartment is freezing. You hiss without meaning to, creep on tiptoe through your kitchen as if the floor is lava — or, more accurately, a lake not quite frozen enough to be trustworthy. You don’t stop until you find your runaway tumbler in its hiding place near the dishwasher. Thankfully, the absurd price proved itself worthwhile; your scorching hot coffee is still trapped where it belongs.
Your chilled hands cling to that warmth as you hop towards the rug splayed out over the adjoining living room floor. In a flash, you skirt around the coffee table, take up your usual spot on the couch, and promptly do what you do best: shove your frozen feet under the thighs of one shockingly patient Kim Seokjin. Relieved in an instant, you let go of a satisfied sigh.
He doesn’t react beyond a tiny smile, still staring intently ahead with thoughtfully narrowed eyes glued to the screen ahead. Too cold to wait, you take a hearty swig from your mug and immediately regret it. Your poor taste buds may be withering, but it’s a sudden realization that nearly makes you spit molten coffee out onto Seokjin’s lap.
For the record, you don’t.
“You’re watching RuPaul’s Drag Race?” You cough while blinking rapidly through forming tears. Seokjin, as if in a trance, lifts his hand and pats your back firmly — twice — to wordlessly assist you through your mild choking fit.
Still shocked by this development, you persist, “Without me?” Your brain is thoroughly scrambled, so you amend, “Without me making you?”
You’d blathered on about this show in particular for years. Adored it, avoided making plans if they would conflict with new episodes. And all the while, you nudged Seokjin, asked him repeatedly if he was ever going to give in and join you. Every time, he said he’d add it to the list.
Seokjin and that goddamn non-existent list.
It drove you absolutely nuts that Seokjin rarely watched anything new. No matter how much you’d rave about something or how many other people would tell him he’d love it, he’d watch the same, short list of shows and movies on a rotating basis. You’d nearly dropped dead when he’d watched an Oscar-nominated movie in the same year it was released — but that was 2008 and it was a Batman film.
You still maintain that this deviation from pattern doesn’t count.
Maybe it’s not necessary for you to see the screen any better, but something in your frazzled little lizard brain tells you to scoot closer. You don’t fight it; you untuck your thawed feet from under his lap, drape your legs over his lap, and lean in to rest your head on his shoulder. Seokjin doesn’t react, and this time, you can’t attribute that fact to his fixation on the lip sync performance.
For once, you can’t even pretend to be surprised.
None of this closeness was out of the ordinary. If you were telling the truth, it would be unsettling if you’d ever hung out with Seokjin without one or both of you hanging on to the other. You hope the day never comes where you find out what that feels like. Though you’re certainly not a doctor, your best guess is that it’d be a very rare kind of phantom limb pain.
You don’t bother to unpack why you feel that way, though. You simply nestle into the same comfort you’d always relied on and join him in watching two men in wigs spinning and kicking to Willow Smith’s “Whip My Hair.” Neither of you says a word.
It’s not until the performance is over that you realize Seokjin’s arm had, at some point, shifted from his lap. Now, it’s draped over your shoulder; and you’re closer than you were before. When did that happen?
“You’re already on season five?”
You don’t know why you’re whispering. Is it because you don’t want to interrupt Roxxxy Andrews’ tearful monologue about being left at a bus stop as a toddler, or because his face is right there?
The latter.
It’s the latter and oh, god, his cheek looks so soft. Your last brain cell is screaming at you to place your lips there, so you bite down on them instead.
Seokjin laughs as he continues to watch the drama unfold, like the answer is obvious. “Told you I’d add it to the list. I have to study up if I want Friday nights back.”
Something about this statement makes your heart flutter. The confirmation that the list is real and not some urban legend? The fact that he misses your unspoken yet semi-standing plans to do whatever? You feel another weird compulsion — this time, to cry — but you ignore it.
Instead, you timidly ask another question. “Do you like it so far?”
Maybe you shouldn’t have asked because you can’t say your prepared for how he might answer. Nothing is more nerve-wracking than offering up something you love for review by someone you love. Of course, it’s disappointing if they don’t end up liking it, but it’s soul-crushing if they have no reaction — and Seokjin hasn’t reacted.
You chew on your bottom lip and brace yourself for the worst.
“Don’t think I’ll ever understand,” he sounds something akin to annoyed and your high hopes crash-land in the pit of your stomach.
Jesus.
It was a gamble, asking your heterosexual, male friend to watch an absurd reality show — in a language neither of you speak — that centers around drag queens and their outlandish personalities. You knew this and you’d hoped that the only real barrier to him enjoying it was language.
When he tears his eyes away to look at you for the first time, your heart and brain both stop on a dime. There’s a pensive crease between his eyebrows, making you swallow in anticipation.
“If you’re going to do a wig reveal, why would you do it in the middle of a verse?”
You didn’t hear a starting whistle, but that doesn’t stop Seokjin from sprinting through his rant.
“No, seriously! If you’re lip-synching for — your — life, —” After emphasizing those three words with gentle yet impassioned pats on your shins, he sucks in a breath and lets the rest of his words fly out like machine gun fire.
“— against Alyssa Edwards, of all people — why wouldn’t you time your stunt with the music? Am I wrong? There was no crescendo! Not even a beat drop, just this very casual — oh, let me shrug off this first wig like I just got home from —”
Seokjin doesn’t get to finish what he started. Before you can even think once about it, you cradle his flushed cheeks in your hands and kiss him, hard. In the process, you shut him and that needy voice in your head right up.
When your own shock wears off, you expect him to pull away. You expect you to pull away. Wrong on both counts — yet again — you melt into him as his right hand shifts. Now anchored at the back of your neck instead of doodling mindless shapes over your cardigan, he presses himself closer to you until you can feel his pulse racing against your rib cage.
Experimentally, your tongue laves over the plush bottom lip you’d been staring at in wonder for years. Seokjin surprises you once again by opening up, groaning quietly into your mouth as you breach that perimeter and card your fingers through his hair.
You’re ready to throw yourself all the way into his lap — straddle him if you have to, just to kiss him deeper — but he pulls back, panting. You try very hard to swallow a whine. You fail miserably.
He stares at you like your answer might stop the world from spinning: “Does this mean you agree with me?”
“Seokjinie,” you snort as your laughter forces you to go limp in his lap. Your forehead bumps against his; it doesn’t hurt, but there are tears in your eyes, nonetheless. You wheeze, “It’s iconic!”
His eyes widen so much that you can see flecks of previously undiscovered amber within the deep brown. “It could be more iconic,” Seokjin rebuts, absolutely incredulous, “Think about it. If she had just —”
Flabbergasted, you interject with feigned offense and a gasp, “— You can’t show up ten entire years late to the party and start critiquing —”
“— I’ll do whatever I want, thank you very much,” he huffs, though a playful smirk is forming and causing his lip to twitch. He looks so pleased when you stop arguing and purse your lips.
You take the bait. Tilting your head slightly to the side, you hum, “Oh? Is that so, Kim Seokjin?”
It’s answer enough when he kisses you again.
204 notes · View notes
jokeringcutio · 20 days
Text
Abijah Fowler x (f) Assassin Reader Drabble [ Warnings: Smut]
AN: On popular demand, another Abijah Fowler x Reader. You are an assassin set out to kill Fowler. It doesn't go according to plan.
Tumblr media
Warnings: Non-con/dub-con content, SMUT (not as detailed as you're used from me, sorry, I'll give the prompt a retry in the future, possibly as a consensual forbidden love fic >D ), Not beta-read. Quick Drabble. ~~ Masterlist - Request Box - Ebooks&Website - Support me on Ko-Fi ~~
You watched him through the slats of the ceiling, your heart a drumbeat in the silence. Abijah Fowler, the man with the soul of a serpent, was seated at the head of a long, dark table. Such an outlandish habit. His fingers, stained with the ink of sin, traced the lines of a map that plots downfall and destruction. The other men, shadows in the dim light, nodded and murmured their assent to his vile plans — willing puppets dancing on his twisted strings.
Corrupted souls, all of them. But they weren’t your concern.
Your grip on the hilt of your dagger tightened. You had memorized the layout of this place, moved through the corridors like a ghost, unseen, unheard. Now you hovered above them, an angel of vengeance poised to strike. Your mission was clear: end Abijah Fowler.
He was explaining something, his voice a gravelly melody that carried tales of violence and power. His strong and broad shoulders moved, dipped backward as if he tried to loosen the muscles in them. His oddly colored hair captured your attention, thinking it had been a color akin to bronze or perhaps even gold once. But streaks of grey made him seem more like the other old men in this country. If it hadn’t been for his distinct facial features, the pale color of his skin, and the large shape of his bright-colored eyes.
An angel of death you saw in him. Anyone else called him a demon.
He regaled them with stories of conquests past, painting pictures with words dipped in blood. They laughed, a chorus of discordant notes, and you felt the bitterness rise in your throat.
"Of course," Fowler's voice sliced through the laughter, "it all depends on eliminating any... unexpected threats." His eyes, predator green, suddenly fixed on you, turned upward to the ceiling and straight at your hidden person. A cold smile curled his lips. "Isn't that right?"
The room fell silent. Every muscle in your body tensed, ready to spring, to fight. But you remained still, barely breathing. There was a chance this was all just a bluff, that he hadn’t seen you. But then you saw his unwavering gaze, saw the unnatural bright green eyes that rested firmly upon you, and you knew that you were exposed, the advantage lost. You cursed inwardly, waiting for his next move, knowing the game had changed.
"Come now, don't be shy," he coaxed, his tone mocking. "Join us."
You dropped down gracefully despite the hammering in your chest. Standing before them, outnumbered but unflinching, you refused to let them show any fear. Stoically, you faced them, thinking of all the lessons and all the training you had. The men stared, their gazes ravenous, but it was Fowler who held your attention. A dangerous dance awaited, everyone could feel it in the air. But you knew his moves, knew how he could react, knew you stood little chance in a hand-on-hand combat.
Especially if he brought his demon guns.
You needed a distraction, something that could increase your chances of survival. Your heart raced, a wild drumbeat in the cavern of your chest. Words, like poisoned arrows, flew from your lips as you stepped closer to Abijah Fowler.
"I've heard tales of your prowess," you murmured, voice a silken thread designed to ensnare. "They say no man can match you in the dark arts of war and pleasure."
Fowler's green eyes glinted, a predator basking in the glow of his prey's admiration. He let out a low chuckle, the sound rumbling through the tension-thick room. "Flattery will get you nowhere, my dear." His words were honey-laced with venom.
One step. Another. Close enough now that you could count the lines etched into his weathered face. You felt the heat emanating from his broad frame. Fowler's hand shot out, swift as a striking snake, clasping your wrist in an iron grip. The trap snapped shut.
"Gotcha," he whispered, a taunt wrapped in a victory.
Instinct took over. Your body remembered its training before your mind caught up. You twisted, a flash of movement, wrenching against his hold. The element of surprise was on your side, for a heartbeat or two.
"Feisty," Fowler observed, almost admiringly.
The dance of death began. A ballet of blows and blocks. You lunged, struck, kicked—each move a desperate plea for freedom. Fowler countered, effortlessly, his strength overwhelming. The other men watched, wolves observing their alpha.
"Should we help?" one ventured, doubt lacing his voice.
“No, he can take her, easily,” another one guffawed.
You hated him for the comment and wanted to punch his face in, but you knew he was right. Fowler was bigger than you, broader, heavier, and more skilled in combat. You were trained to be a silent creeper, someone who brought death without being seen, a shadow of mercy, or an anger of hell.
Another heroic block of his attack, but your underarm was smarting. Pain shot through you, your body feeling sore. When he finally landed a blow that sent you staggering back, you tasted the copper tang of defeat.
"Never send a child to do a killer's job," Fowler sneered, advancing on you, the space between you charged with the promise of pain and something darker still.
Breath short, chest heaving. His presence loomed, an oppressive shadow eclipsing your tumultuous thoughts. Abijah Fowler's green eyes glinted with a predatory gleam, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in a macabre grin that set your nerves on edge.
Was he studying you? The feeling that settled in the pit of your stomach was unsettling. Abijah Fowler was an attractive man, despite all his oddities. And hadn’t his character been so devilish, you might have fallen for his charm. But he was a demon. And in his eyes, you now saw demonic thoughts rise as he studied your features, eyes roaming your skin as if you were unclothed.
You felt the grip of his hands around your wrists, squeezing just a bit tighter. Felt the calloused skin of his thumb as it brushed gently past the mouse of your palm.
"Outside," he commanded, voice low and laden with dark promise. The men hesitated, exchanging leering glances that spoke volumes of their wretched character. "The lass and I need privacy."
"Seems Fowler's got himself a new plaything," one of the men chuckled, coarse laughter bubbling up from the others as they filed out, their intentions thick in the air like a miasma.
Your heart thrummed against your ribs, each beat a silent drum heralding doom. He was close now, too close; the heat from his body mingled with yours. You could kill him—if only you could reach your weapon. But he had smacked it out of your hand with the first blow, it had clunked to the wooden floor aimlessly. You couldn’t even tell where it was from where you stood. Your fingers twitched, betraying the urge.
"I'm not some doll for your amusement," you managed to say, words edged with a defiance you didn't feel.
"Oh, by the time I am done with you, you will wish I’d killed you sooner,” Fowler murmured. You could smell the odd sourness of his breath and wondered what had caused it. His grip on you tightened.
“Who sent you? And why would they send someone so young and unqualified," Fowler murmured, cruel satisfaction seeping through his tone. His breath caressed your ear, sending involuntary shivers down your spine.
The room cleared, the door clicking shut behind the last man. Silence fell heavy, punctuated only by your ragged breaths and the pounding of your pulse. Then, movement. Fowler's hands were upon you, guiding you with unwanted familiarity—a predator toying with its prey.
"Let's see what you've made of," he said, pressing you down forcefully over the table that dominated the center of the room. Your cheek met cold wood, and you flinched as the ink from the maps smeared beneath you, staining your skin with the blueprint of their vile machinations.
"Consider this a different kind of battle," Fowler whispered, his voice a serpent's hiss as he leaned over you, his weight an unspoken threat.
Fowler's hand slithered up your leg, rough fingers catching on the fabric of your clothes. A tug, a deliberate pull, and the material gave way to bare skin, your exposed calf a pale contrast against the darkness of his touch. His breath hitched ever so slightly, a sign of his burgeoning arousal not lost on you.
You struggled on instinct, but stilled when you felt the bulge against your thigh increase. This didn’t actually arouse him, did it?
"Fight me," he growled, a low rumble in his chest as you twisted beneath him, struggling for leverage. "I do love it when you struggle like that."
Your muscles coiled, ready to spring, but he was a slab of stone pinning you down. The heat of his body radiated through the thin barrier of your clothing, igniting a reluctant fire within. You hated how your body betrayed you, responding to his proximity despite the storm of loathing raging in your heart.
His hand wandered with more audacity, venturing into forbidden territory. A gasp tore from your lips, unsanctioned pleasure sparking along your nerves. Fowler chuckled, a sound laced with darkness, as if he relished in pulling these reactions from you.
"Good girl," he purred, his breath hot against your ear. "Let go, just for a moment."
You fought against the tide rising within, but the dam broke under his relentless pursuit, waves of reluctant ecstasy crashing over you. Your climax hit with the ferocity of a tempest, leaving you shuddering and vulnerable in its wake.
He wasted no time, freeing his aching long cock, the size and girth you had never seen before. A gasp tore from your lips as he sheathed himself inside of you, bottoming out with little mercy. He set a grueling pace, showing little care for your pleasure or well-being at this point. But your core was slippery, your walls fluttering around him with passion, and you had to bite your tongue to keep from moaning loudly with each and every deep thrust his foreign body gave you.
Was this how it had been for every lover he had ever taken, forced or otherwise?
A second orgasm wracked through your body. You’d find an excuse for this later on, if you were to survive this ordeal. You would find a way to condone the liquid that dripped from your core and onto the table below, the way the stained ink brushed past your nipples, the way your body pulsed with pleasure after Abijah Fowler found his release.
You felt a hot palm on your naked back, gently caressing the skin there, and heard the low hum that came from his lips. He sounded pensive, as if he were determining your fate. Your thoughts slid back to your weapons and the many ways to get your hands on them, but his body still kept you trapped underneath him.
As you lay there, trembling, Fowler's voice slithered in your ear once more. "There's a task I need done," he murmured, the words vibrating against your skin. "A certain individual who needs to be...taken care of."
His implication was clear, an order veiled as an offer. "Do this for me," he continued, "to my satisfaction, and I shall spare your life."
"My life..." you rasped, your voice laden with the weight of reality. There was no choice, only the illusion of one. You nodded, sealing a devil's pact, while inside, a lethal promise took root. Fowler had ignited a vengeful blaze, and from its ashes, you would rise—his destruction, your sole aim.
This was not the end. It was a twisted beginning, and you swore to yourself, to the silent gods of retribution, that you would have your revenge.
Abijah Fowler would pay.
~ AN: I want to do this character more justice (and the smut). But quite frankly, it is a bloody miracle I have been writing anything at all. Things don't go well health-wise, but we'll know more at the end of this month. I hope to feel good enough soon to write a better drabble for Abijah and Reader.
37 notes · View notes
fable-and-folly · 8 months
Text
fic recs
Novel length fics I love and wish were real books :)
The Curse of Anteros -- @danpuff-ao3 -- Snarry, 52k, E
When Harry is cursed, he seeks out Severus Snape. They have a long history behind them, after all, and they've always had so much between them. Who else would he go to?
Kept in Cages -- @sweet-s0rr0w -- Drarry, 76k, E
Deep in the heart of the Ministry lies the Beast Division: a hidden room where ancient beasts roam, and winged creatures soar, and grumpy giant ferrets eat all your biscuits unless you keep them well hidden. Draco Malfoy would know – he’s been working there for five years now, after all. Meanwhile, on Level One, ex-Golden Boy Harry Potter is stuck in another interminable policy meeting, completely unaware of the mysterious comings and goings just three floors below. But when a giant snake emergency requires the assistance of a Parselmouth, Harry finds himself thrust, unprepared, into Draco’s weird and wonderful world – and naturally, he can’t keep away…
A Lick and a Promise -- @tackytigerfic -- Drarry, 55k, E
Something sinister stirs in Hogwarts! When magical creatures and students at the school are hit with a debilitating blood curse, Minerva McGonagall approaches the Ministry for help. Star Auror Harry Potter seems to be the obvious choice to go undercover—as DADA Professor, naturally. He’s going to need the help of the Ministry’s foremost expert in blood magic to get to the bottom of the mystery, though, and he’s not entirely convinced that going back to Hogwarts with Draco Malfoy is a good idea. Things are complicated between them—what’s new?—but they know they have to learn to work together (and keep their hands off each other in the corridors) in order to solve this case. Luckily for them, Hogwarts itself wants to lend a hand. A tale of love, lessons, and learning to really live.
The Beauty of Thestrals and Other Unseen Things -- @writcraft -- Drarry, 63k, E
Harry has terrific friends, an amazing girlfriend and his job as Head Auror enables him to work on challenging cases and Ministry reform. He just wishes he could work out why he’s been so out of sorts. When Draco Malfoy is arrested for gross indecency, Harry’s comfortable life begins to unravel. He’s forced to decide if it’s worth risking everything for love in a world where following his heart is a criminal offence.
Nocturne -- @necromanticnoir -- Snarry, E, 54k
A Gothic Snarry version of ‘Beauty and the Beast’, inspired by the dark and sensual tale from the Czech film version, ‘Panna a Netvor’. I follow some of the plot, but then diverge and do my own thing. Got to make it even weirder, right? An eerie, erotic, brooding, bloody, batty, haunting fairytale. ‘Underneath my skin there’s a human. Buried deep within there’s a human. Despite everything, I’m still human.’ - ‘Human’ by Daughter
A Guide to the Morphology of Magic -- orphaned -- Drarry, 64k, E
When Draco Malfoy is hand picked to investigate a string of curses cropping up in Muggle communities in North America, the last person he wanted to be traveling with was Harry Potter. Still, duty calls, and the two set off on an adventure chasing down mysterious curses, sleeping in cramped hotel rooms, and trying to navigate their newly formed post-War selves as they make their way through small towns and long, dark stretches of highway.
Soup-pocalypse and the Great Curry Cataclysm -- SquadofCats -- Drarry, 104k, E
Eleven years after the war, Draco Malfoy leads a quiet, boring, and perfectly respectable life, thanks very much. Or, at least he does, until a sudden and very unexpected veela awakening causes him to throw soup all over Harry Potter in the middle of the Ministry cafeteria.
Star Quality -- who_la_hoop -- Drarry, 118k, E
Two years after the war, and Harry’s content with his life. OK, so it’s a little annoying that he keeps winning Witch Weekly’s Most Eligible Bachelor award, and he’s really not looking forward to the unveiling of an enormous gold statue of himself, but he loves his friends, and he loves being an Auror. And if he yearns for something more, something he can barely bring himself to think about, well, he’ll probably get over it. No one’s happy all the time, are they? But then everything changes, and Harry’s thrown into a new and dazzling world he’s not sure he can actually escape from. And as time goes on, he starts to wonder: does he actually want to?
By the Grace -- @letteredlettered -- Drarry, 139k, T
Harry is an Auror instructor. Malfoy wants to be an Auror.
On the Deficiency of Translation Spells -- @liladiurne -- Snarry, 41k, E
Divorced, single, and free, Harry lives a completely unapologetic life in Paris. Between casual hook-ups and an easy, comfortable job, he likes to think he is as close to happiness as he'll ever be. And when he gets offered a teaching job at the prestigious Académie Beauxbâtons, he thinks he may have found exactly what was missing. But Harry is thoroughly unprepared for what he finds there - a familiar face that's been haunting his dreams for six years.
Wild -- orphaned -- Drarry, 92k, E
“No,” Harry said, by way of greeting. Malfoy’s blonde head rose slowly, carelessly. “Get out.” “I feel as though we’ve already established this, Potter,” Malfoy responded. “And I feel that what we established was that you telling me to get out of places really doesn’t make me more likely to vacate them.”
Tapestry -- @kbrick -- Drarry, 91k, E
In 2017, Harry is on his way to Pansy and Luna's beach house. He’s a bit terrified of seeing Draco, to be honest. It’s been a while, and then there’s the little matter of Draco having married someone else in the interim. In 2001, Draco is drunk, wearing Pansy's mother's ermine coat, and afraid to walk into the Leaky because someone might throw a curse at him. So, of course, he runs into his ex-nemesis and hopeless crush, Harry Potter. This is a love story that isn't perfect, about two people whose timing is never quite right, and all the moments that come together to make something extraordinarily beautiful anyway.
The Secret of the Philosopher Stone -- @yletylyf -- Snoldemort, 115k, E
Voldemort gets the Philosopher's Stone, but finds himself trapped at Hogwarts and in need of rescue. Loyal Death Eater Severus Snape is on the job, but even he is not quite prepared for Lord Voldemort to return as Tom Riddle with a patched-up soul and no interest in war. And as for Tom? Well, it's not so easy to stop being a domestic terrorist.
The Left Words -- authoresswithoutwords -- Tomarrymort, 234k, E
Harry has some weird words on his left wrist. That must be one of those strange things that Aunt Petunia hates so much. But it's okay! He likes them. Then, it all turns even weirder. Hogwarts, magic, a Headmaster and a Dark Lord await Harry - he would prefer if they all just left him alone, thank you very much. But when has it ever mattered what Harry wants?
When the Rose and the Fire Are One -- @perverse-idyll -- Snarry, 81k, E
Harry's haunted by guilt. Snape's warded by roses. Each must free the other in order to free himself.
112 notes · View notes
baconcolacan · 11 months
Note
Lord do I need a sick fic between Tom and Tord, I just need one of them to ACTUALLY take car of the other,, even if they hate eachother or tease eachother they need to calm down
siiigghhhh
Stay AU, technically a sick fic lol but became more domestic Words: 5171
It’s hard to remember sometimes that his husband was always in some amount of physical pain.
Tord had always been good at hiding away what he felt, anything he deemed detrimental or unnecessary was always kept locked away in a little box he built in his head. After years of knowing him, Tom knew that it was all for his own safety, it was the only way his husband had ever learned to protect himself and people he loved. He had to be strong or else he got hurt, even worse if it was his loved ones, and to him that was essentially his fault for not being enough.
It was a lesson he learned too young, and something that Tom worked hard to dismantle when he could, lest his poor love work himself towards an early grave.
Tord’s proclivity of hiding his hurt became less of an issue as they got older. Sure his husband was once a stupid teen who always postured his machismo when they started dating, but the more they spent time together, thus leading to Tord trusting him bit by bit, the more Tord let him see his weaker moments well before it got any worse.
It took them a lot of yelling, fighting, tears, and heartbreak to get to where they were now, and Tom knew just how precious his husband’s trust was, how difficult it was for Tord to admit that he wasn’t as strong as he wanted to be.
So, he could never really fault him when he fell back into old habits. Especially during times when Tord felt genuinely afraid that his failure to live up to his own standards will endanger his family.
They were still working on it, and Tom was patient, he wished Tord would get his head out his arse sometimes, but at least his husband was making an effort.
It started when Tord came back from one of his tours abroad. During a late-night address to his troops, a failed assassination attempt had caused pieces of debris to fall on top of him, courtesy of a decrepit building that had been fixed to blow just as he had been setting up camp with his Company. Thankfully, Tord hadn’t been too scraped up, but there had been significant damage done to his leg- his bad leg- as a sizable chunk of the building had fallen on top of it, when he tried to avoid more perilous positions when the explosion rung out.
Though, to the eyes of the public and the RA, Tord was only mostly unscathed, thoroughly unbothered as he clawed his way out of the debris, still standing tall, as he demanded the heads of the would-be assassins, while a wave Red Sentries began flooding the area like the blood Tord’s enemies wished he had spilled.
Their public executions were swift and without trial, and Tord walked away from it spitting at their corpses.
But only Tom could see the way his husband’s steps had faltered. His eye twitched minutely, a flicker of pain, unseen by anyone else save for the man who loved him, watching closer than the entire world had done.
When Tord came home, back to their cabin in the woods- hidden away from prying eyes and loose tongues, their sequestered, treasured, moment in time, separated from all else- he had leant heavily against the door frame, with sheer misery on his face. His field operations uniform was scuffed, torn, and covered in dust. His skin had a deathly pallor to it, covered in the same grey ash his uniform had been in. His teeth were gritted, grinding so hard against each other Tom swore he could hear them creaking.
He wasted no time rushing to his husband’s side, his crutches held tight in his grip.
When Tord looked up at him, Tom could feel his heart breaking. Tord’s eye had a glassy sheen to it, unshed tears barely held back from escaping. His breaths sounded labored, but he tried his best to keep them quiet after he had seen the panicked look on Tom’s face.
Even still, his voice had betrayed him when he reached out to his husband with a shaking hand. “My love,” he said with a tremble as his face twisted into agony.
Tom nearly missed catching him when Tord collapsed forward, his right leg now unable to hold up his weight. He had to let go of the crutches in favor of supporting his husband himself. Small pained gasps escaped Tord, his hands curling tightly inwards as he held on to Tom’s shoulders, all his weight transferred over to his husband, but Tom didn’t mind it one bit as he gently helped him walk over to the couch.
“Fuck…it hurts….” Tord had gasped as he curled himself closer to Tom’s side. Seemingly trying to hide from the pain he was feeling.
“Shh shh, elskling, you’ll be alright. I already called Bing. I’m right here, okay?”
“It hurts so bad.”
Tom swallowed hard around the lump in his throat, his chest hurt at hearing Tord’s voice become so small, as he gently lowered him down into the couch, only hesitating when his husband let out a low whine and hard hiss as he stretched out his leg. Wordlessly, he offered him some painkillers and a glass of water, which Tord gratefully took.
“I know it hurts, love, but you’ll be okay, I promise.” He sat down next to his husband in an instant, holding him close as Tord buried his face in the juncture between his shoulder and his neck. Tom let out a shuddering breath as he felt a wet patch start to form on his shirt as Tord heaved in sobs. He offered his husband his hand to hold, which Tord had taken to squeezing tight every time the pain flared up too much for him to handle.
Tom could do nothing but offer him comfort as they waited for Bing.
Bing wasn’t exactly RA’s top medic, a title of which was reserved for Yanov, but he knew enough about biology to at least be decent enough to perform minor surgeries if needed. Larry of course was also quite adept at first aid, seeing as he had to be there to patch Bing up if ever he had a violent mishap at the labs. Plus, with him there, there was a less likely chance for Bing to muck up any medical procedures if his attention started to stray.
According to Bing, Tord had actually been pretty lucky. All in all, that chunk of building should have broken his leg beyond repair, but due to the presence of his modified leg brace- which Bing had said with a haughty amount of pride before Larry slapped him upside the head- most of the shock had been absorbed thus minimizing the damage that might have occurred.
Though, Larry suggested that Tord be put on bed rest for a while, or at least to not put as much strain on his right leg for the time being.
Tom promised that he’d keep Tord off his leg, even if his husband kept quiet during the whole exchange, only intermittently squeezing Tom’s hand when a spike of pain raced up his leg.
Bing and Larry bid them a good night.
--
Tom was prepared to get into petty squabbles with his husband for the next few days, as Tord vehemently refused to take any sick days even when he was feeling under the weather, more so if it involved his chronic pain. Usually, Tom would acquiesce somewhat as long as Tord wore his brace and took short breaks, or if Tord’s only intention was to sit and stay in his home office doing logistic work, but now that he had gotten into an accident, Tom knew he wasn’t going to compromise with his husband at all during his recovery time.
No matter what he did or said.
To his surprise though, the next morning after Bing and Larry’s visit, Tord was actually very cooperative.
…. Suspiciously cooperative…..
Tom had been hyping himself up when he first woke up that morning, ready to get into a row with his husband about needing to use his crutches the whole day at home instead of his leg brace, which Tord never really did even at home, preferring to only use the crutches at night when he had a day off to spend in the cabin.
It’s always been a petty little squabble of theirs, and he was sure Tord was never going to let it go.
Once he felt Tord shift beside him, along with the hand that snaked around his waist to pull him closer to the other man, he did all his mental preparations and arguments in a span of a second as Tord kissed him and greeted him with a sleepy: “Good morning, kjaere…”
“Morning, love.”
Tom greeted back as he fixed his position, so that he could hug Tord better while the other was still adjusting to the waking world. He ducked his head under Tord’s chin, breathing in his scent of pine trees and earth, a big improvement from the old smokey scent he had in his youth, after they both decided to cut down on their vices as they grew older (more so when AK came into their lives.)
He listened to his husband’s breathing for a moment, and the soft rumbling that came from his throat as he slowly woke up. He idly traced a scar on Tord’s back while the other moved his thumb up and down his hip as he yawned.
“Hey, remember what Larry said yesterday?” Tom said into the skin of Tord’s neck.
“Mmhm?”
“No leg brace today, or even the whole week, got that?”
“….”
At Tord’s silence, Tom readied himself for any of his complaints, but was surprised when Tord only sighed above him before he felt his lips press against the crown of his head in a whisper of a kiss.
“.....okay…..help me with my arm before we get up?”
Tom’s brows furrowed in slight confusion and worry, it wasn’t like his husband to kill the wind in his own sails like that, especially over something he didn’t like to do, but….he supposed he should see this as a good thing, at least it meant Tord was finally following a doctor’s (not really) order for once.
Still….he can’t help but worry, especially if this meant that Tord was in a lot more pain than he realized.
“Yeah…of course love, just give us a second alright?” Tom said as he moved back to lift his head up, he can’t really see anything at the moment without his home visor, but he knew for sure where Tord’s head should be, and anyway, his husband had brought his hand up to the side of his head to guide him, and he knew Tord was looking down at him at the moment.
Though, he really wished he could see the look on his husband’s face right now.
He heard Tord let out a small chuckle. “Don’t want to wake up yet?”
He offered him a smile he hoped was reassuring.
“I just…want to hold you right now, is that okay?”
He felt a thumb sweep across his cheek. Then lips over his own in a small sweet kiss.
“Always, my love.”
They spent half an hour in each other’s arms, with Tom just relishing the fact that, at least, even with the injuries, his husband could still come back home to him.
Once he was fully awake and had his home visor on- a thin little thing that looked more like one frame white glasses, something Tord teased him for, saying he looked like a tired old professor when he wore them- he happily assembled Tord’s robotic prosthetic while his husband hobbled off to the bathroom to go do his business.
Not without Tom fussing over him a little, even if he knew Tord could manage with just one arm and one crutch for now.
“You’re being silly, Thomas.”
“Shut up before I kick out the crutch from your hand, cripple.”
“Mean.”
“You married me.”
Once Tord came back around to the bed- which he fully collapsed into face first with a groan- Tom proceeded to help him attach his arm, doing most of the work while Tord just laid there with a dopey smile on his face.
“Remember when you dressed up for Halloween? That slutty nurs- OW!”
“Hmm? What was that, darling?”
Tom asked innocently when he connected his nerve endings with the arm’s wires. It was pretty quick, quicker than when Tord would do it on his own, so the pain was nothing more than a little shocking pinch, despite his husband whining and bitching about it on the bed.
Tom liked to bully him, but he didn’t like causing his husband any more unnecessary pain right now.
Besides, one little kiss, and his stupid Norwegian was done moaning about his horrible marriage to a horrible callous man, and back to asking him for just one more kiss Thomas! With the biggest puppy dog eyes he could muster.
He’s so lucky he’s a patient right now, because almost suffocating due to a clingy Norwegian was not the way Tom wanted to die.
Tord happily walked out of their bedroom, both of his crutches supporting him, with a happy hum while Tom tried to catch his breath on the bed, before angrily yelling “Tord Larsin!” after his husband, who only laughed as he made his way downstairs.
For a whole week, it was actually quite nice in the cabin. Tord let himself be treated without much of a fuss, not even fighting with Tom about the use of his crutches while he was on leave. In fact, he had actually gotten quite good at moving around with them, even playing ‘crutch tag’ with AK that had him zipping around the cabin after their squealing little boy.
Tom had laughed when he would hear “Im gonna get ya!” followed by violent, fast, tapping and AK’s excited little shrieks and hurried footsteps.
“Pappa’s too good at this game!” AK had complained to him one day while they were having tea by the patio. Tord’s leg had acted up somewhat that day, and so Tom relegated him to the couch with a cold compress, painkillers, his favorite snacks, and a re-run of Insane Zombie Pirates from Hell. Then he corralled their little monster away from his ailing father, because as much as Tord adored AK, he needed as much rest as he could get. Though that didn't stop him from shedding fake tears as his "cruel" husband took his little boy away from him. AK happily played along with sad little yowls as Tom dragged him out to the patio.
“Oh? How’s that, dove?”
“His stick feets are longer than my feets.” AK huffed with a pout that had Tom cooing at him with a pinch of his cheeks. His son whined and slapped at his hand before continuing, “He can tag me while I’m far! No fair!”
“Well, why not find a stick of your own so you can tag him back then run away again??”
AK’s face got a shine of realization as he took his father’s words in, before smiling up at him and hugging him tight, nearly causing Tom to spill his tea.
“Thank you, papa!”
“Ough! Ah, no problem dove.”
A day later, Tord had come into their bedroom- while Tom was enjoying a particularly good playlist on his visor- with a scowl and an accusatory glare.
“You betray me.”
“I hold no allegiances to you.”
“So you say,” He said as he put his crutches aside and crawled up to the bed, Tom could barely hold back his smile as Tord came closer, “But you forget, Thomas, that the ring you wear his proof enough of your promise to be devoted to me.”  He made a grab for his ankles, which Tom let out a high squeak at before kicking off his hands, only for Tord to jump forward and hold them tight. “And you betray me for a child with a stick!” He pulled him down towards him, “Come here traitor!”
“Waugh! Noooo!” Tom squealed as he was unceremoniously dragged down from his position on the bed and towards his grinning husband. He thrashed and squirmed in his hold but was unable to get too far before Tord was looming over him, he let out a warbled squeak mixed with a laugh as Tord dug two fingers at his sides in a bid to tickle him.
Tom made to scramble out from under Tord but was immediately pulled back down and dragged on his stomach before he could get off the bed.
“GOTCHA!”
Tord fell on top of him, causing him to wheeze as the air was knocked from his lungs. He shrieked when he felt Tord’s lips on the back of his neck as his arms wrapped around him in a secure hold.
“TO-HAHAHAHAHA! TO-HORD! T-HAHAHA- STO- TORD!!”
Tom squirmed and wriggled in his husband’s hold as Tord assaulted his neck, goddamn him! He knew how ticklish his neck was!
“Pay for your crimes miscreant!” Tord said as one of his hands strayed downwards to tase Tom at his side, causing his husband to buck and shriek underneath him as he let out yowling laughter. “I lost to a child! Me! Red Leader!” He grinned at his husband as he managed to turn around in his arms, making another attempt to wiggle free, only for Tord to descend upon him again, pressing playful bites and fluttering kisses along his throat that made Tom squirm and yell.
“Suffer the consequences, traitor!”
“OH MY GO-HAHAHAHA STOOOOP!! TOOOOOORD!!”
Somehow, Tom was able to free his hands from Tord’s grasp. He pressed them up against his husband’s mouth and pushed him away from his neck, only for Tord to lick at them.
“Oh AUGH! TORD!”
Tom shoved him by the shoulder, which caused his husband to laugh, but the sudden jostle made Tord accidentally put too much weight on his right leg and he winced with a hiss.
Tom stilled below him, looking up at him in concern.
“…Okay, I think that’s enough rough housing for tonight.”
Tord squinted down at him, he smiled, though it was obvious he was fighting back from the pain he was feeling. “Aw? I don’t really classify that as ‘rough housing’ Thomas, if you know what I’m saying...” He stuck his tongue out with a grin.
“Perv.” Tom said with a roll of his eyes and a smile as he moved to sit up, only for Tord to collapse back down on top of him, causing him to huff out a breath as the bed jumped below them. “Tord.”
“Can’t move. Ouchie.” Came his husband’s muffled reply from where he had his head face down on the bed just above Tom’s shoulder.
Tom let out a sigh and carded his fingers through Tord’s hair, earning him an appreciative hum and a tightened embrace. “So am I just going to be stuck here?”
“Mhm…”
“Are you going to fall asleep on me?”
“Yuh…..”
“Arsehole.”
“You married me.”
Tom huffed out a laugh at that.
“…Guess you don’t want that massage then….”
Tord paused, his whole body going still.
Tom smiled up at the ceiling.
Tord lifted his head to look his husband in the eye.
“….Massage?”
Tom lifted his eyebrows at him.
“In the bath, I had it prepared.”
Tord’s eye bulged out.
“..In the…huh?”
“It’s all romantic and shit,” Tom continued nonchalantly, tracing circles on his husband’s cheek. “I put in petals and candles and all that crap, even got Matt to let me borrow his essential oils.” He shrugged and wrapped his arms around his husband’s neck, tugging him back down. “But ooooh well, you’re tired, and so so sleepy, what kind of husband would I be to deny you your rest? Certainly not a loving one.”
“Buh- But- huh wait- bath??? Massage?? Bath massage???” Tord refused to be brought down as he looked at his husband with a wide eye.
Tom gave him a flat look.
Tord pouted, wobbling his lower lip. “Thomas…” He whined.
Tom stayed silent.
Tord continued pouting.
“….my leg hurts…” He tried.
Tom snorted, unable to keep a straight face, as he moved out from under Tord. “Fiiine….”
“Hooray for emotional manipulation!!” Tord cheered as Tom let out a guffaw, even surprising him as he moved over to his side to scoop him up in his arms, the action caused Tord to squeak and latch on to his husband’s neck as he was carried towards their bathroom, though once the surprise wore off he laughed, giddy, as he curled himself towards his husband. “I love you, Thomas.” He singsonged.
Tom scoffed and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Yeah, whatever sap.” Though his face did tinge a bit pink as he said those words.
Tord chuckled and pressed a kiss to the side of his neck just as he closed the door. Which of course, caused Tom to yelp and nearly drop him.
“Tord!”
--
It was inevitable that there would at least be one bad day.
Tom had woken up as usual, a little bit groggy but slowly coming back to the conscious world. He sighed as he stretched out, taking all the stiffness out from his joints with a satisfied pop. He breathed in deep as he sat up from the bed, yawning slowly as he blinked unseeing eyes.
He paused when he heard ragged breathing at his side.
Tom put a hand out in concern, careful not to hit anything.
“Tord? Elskling is that you? Are you awake?”
A small whimper and a rushed exhale replied to his question, just before he felt his husband’s hand weakly grasp at his own. Tom, hurriedly moved closer to his side, both of his hands coming up to hold Tord’s. His frown deepened as he felt how clammy his husband’s skin felt, paired with his shallow breaths and small whimpers.
“H…hurts….too much…” Came Tord’s strained voice, audibly shaking as he let out a pained breath.
Panicked, Tom made a series of clicking and chirruping sounds before finding his voice. “Ho-Hold on. Let me find the painkillers.” He let go of his husband’s hand, quickly turning around to where he knew his nightstand was, his hands grasped around the surface, frustration building as he couldn’t feel where his home visor was.
Tord whimpered behind him.
Tom gritted his teeth.
“AK! Arthur! Arthur!!” His voice took on an otherworldly sounding tremor, accompanied by small clicks and rumbles. He hated bringing their son into this, but he didn’t know what else to do at the moment.
It wasn’t long before tiny footsteps came running towards their room.
Their bedroom door opened and shut fast as Tom registered AK’s heat signature approaching him.
“Papa?? What’s wrong?? Why..What’s wrong with daddy?”
Tom reached out to his boy, AK stepped into his hands and let his father hold the sides of his face. Tom felt his son’s hands wrap around his wrists. “Honey, listen to me okay? Your daddy…he’s hurting a little right now.” He reached up and smoothed away the tufts of hair he could feel on his son’s face. Part of him was relieved he was blind, so he didn’t have to see the look in AK’s eyes, but part of him wished he didn’t have to call their son for help. “I need you to help me find his medicine, okay? They’re in my nightstand, red and white, look in the first drawer, okay guppy?”
“Okay papa!”
He felt his son slip out of his hold accompanied by the dragging rumble of a drawer being thrown open, he heard the crinkle and clatter of AK moving things around the drawer before he gasped out an: “AH!” As something was pressed into Tom’s hands.
“I found it papa! Red and white! Like you said!”
Tom smiled and leaned forward, AK knew what he was trying to do and moved closer to let his father kiss his cheek. “Thank you dove.” Tom said with a purr, earning a happy little chitter from his son.
He turned back to where his husband was, worried about how fast Tord’s shallow breathing had gotten, “Tord? Love, take the painkillers, I’ll go and get my work visor to check on your vitals just in case, okay?”
He heard the sound of AK’s footsteps running off to the other side of the room, probably to go fetch Tom’s work visor after hearing that it was needed. He sent a silent thank you his son’s way while he felt Tord make a shaking grab for the painkillers in his hand.
After a minute, Tord’s breathing began to even out.
AK came back with his work visor not long after, which Tom thanked him for before trying to send him back to his room.
AK stood still.
“Daddy will be okay, right?”
Tom looked down at his son, the visuals of his work visor gradually coming into focus. He bit back a frown at the wide eyed, terrified, look on AK’s face.
His visor registered his son’s heartbeat, it was faster than normal.
Tom blinked the information away.
“Hey,”
They both turned at the sound of Tord’s voice. The Norwegian was partly sitting up, though more so leaning against the pillows behind him, a sheen of sweat covered his brow, and his eye was drooping from exhaustion, but he smiled at his son nevertheless, despite the way his chest rose and fell with a bit of heavy breathing. Tom's visor gave him a read out of his vitals, while there was some inflammation in his leg, Tord was overall fine (enough). Still....seeing his husband in so much pain, yet hiding it for the sake of their son, made his heart clench painfully in his chest.
“I’m fine skatten min, I promise.” Tord reached out a hand as AK circled the bed, the child nearly jumped towards him but stopped himself before slowly sinking into Tord’s side, hugging him tight. Tord wrapped his arm around his son, pressing a long kiss to his forehead as he rubbed his hand up and down his back. “I’m just a little, ah, sick, okay? It’s not as bad as it looks!” At AK’s sniffle, Tord frowned and lifted his head up by his chin. “Oy, whats those tears for? Don’t cry my little sailor!” Tord pinched his nose with a grin, causing AK to giggle and wipe at his eyes. “This little pain won’t stop your pappa! I’m the Red Leader remember?? As if this will drag me down!”
Tord patted the space in front of him, letting AK crawl up the bed and sit on his good leg, carefully avoiding his right as he did. Tord smiled down at his son as he wrapped an arm around him in half of a hug- or a full hug in terms of what he was capable of at the moment. “Come now my little puffin! Don’t you remember how strong your pappa is? Did you forget huh? Did you??” He poked at AK’s side, causing his son to squeal and giggle as he squirmed in his hold.
“Daddyyyyy! Stop! I didn’t forget!!” AK said in between giggles.
“Oooh that’s right, you better not forget! Or I will eat your nose!”
“Waaa!” AK covered his nose with both of his hands, “Daddy not my noooose!!”
Tom laughed as he moved closer to his family, he wrapped his arms around his husband who leaned into his hold, even as he continued to terrorize their little boy as he made biting motions at him, a few of which AK would respond to with nipping of his own. Sometimes, when AK would kick out his legs or move his arm too far, Tom would pretend to lunge at them with playful little bites and low chittering sounds.
When AK took notice, he shrieked and curled up tight like a little ball in Tord’s arm.
“Daaaaaadddyyy!! Papaaaaaa!!” He whined, his voice taking a more higher pitch akin to a pup just learning how to howl.
“What do you say, kjaere?” Tord grinned at his husband who smiled back at him. “Shall we eat this little bird?”
“Anything for you, dear husband.” Tom said as he turned to look at his son, “After all, I’m nothing if not devoted.”
“Nooooooooo!!” AK yelled as he giggled and squirmed.
The two parents descended upon the hapless little boy, attacking at all sides. AK found himself partly shifted somewhere along the line, while his papa scurried around the room trying to catch him. His daddy on the other hand, stayed stationary on the bed, watching them run around with glee, though he was also a threat, as his papa would corral him towards his daddy when he wasn’t paying attention, and his daddy was good at catching him. AK would be subjected to tickles until he was able to break free, and the hunt was on yet again.
A little while later, the family of three were back together on the bed, with AK nestled happily between them, in the embrace of both his fathers. It didn’t take him long to start dozing off to sleep again, surrounded by love and safety as he was.
Tom looked up at his husband from over AK’s head, he smiled softly as he watched Tord smooth out their son’s hair, the look in his eyes so soft, fond, so full of love. A definite improvement to his tired, pained look when they had first woken up.
He couldn’t help but get lost in the grey of his eye, a colour that now reminded him of warm nights inside by a fire, a hand to hold during tougher times, a home that was all their own, a secret kept hidden from a world too cruel.
His love.
“Are you going to keep staring at me like a creep, Thomas?”
Tord’s smile never faltered from his face, but he kept his voice low as he continued to comb through their son’s hair. His eye moved up to Tom’s face, still soft and warm as when he was looking at AK.
“Do I need an excuse to look at my husband?”
Tom whispered back as he tilted his head with a smile mirroring Tord’s own. Though his husband’s smile widened a bit as he chuckled.
“Careful Thomas, people will think you’re in love with me.”
Tom felt his chest warm at Tord’s teasing tone, he wasn’t entirely sure why that was, but it wasn’t a bad feeling. He carefully moved over his son, Tord quickly caught on to his intent and raised himself up just slightly, as he tilted his head to give his husband a long, sweet, kiss. One he hoped conveyed that funny little warm feeling he had in his chest at the moment.
He hoped Tord liked that feeling too.
When he pulled back, settling down carefully beside their son once more, Tom smiled as he murmured:
“Let them think…”
For most of the day, the family spent their time in bed. AK brought his lego set into the room, while Tom decided that today might be a good day to indulge in old hobbies, and so brought his old bass in to sing his family a few songs he knew how to play.
A good day, overall, even if it did start out a little bad.
At least Tord was smiling.
That’s all he wanted really.
77 notes · View notes
remidyal · 3 months
Text
End of Year Game - Writer's Edition
Pick out five different passages you wrote this year that you really like and share them, saying as much or as little as you want about what you like about them. This is a chance to show off! You can reblog this or start your own post, up to you.
All mine are going to be from D20 fics - 1, 3, and 5 are FH fics, but 2 is ASO and 4 is Never After and both of those contain spoilers so watch out if you're not yet seen them.
First, from Twelve Hours, it's Aelwyn learning completely the wrong lesson from the experience:
Aelwyn looked over, tears in her eyes.  "...Aah.  Adaine.  It's fine.  I've learned.. I've learned a lot of really important things, these past few years.  About how important it is to have others helping you, and about how much I might have hurt.. you and others.  And I am sorry for that.  I do love you.  But most importantly, I've learned... I've learned from Arthur Aguefort that if you're a powerful enough wizard and you have enough wards on your house, you can get away with any number of crimes and the government can't really stop you."
Adaine made at least a half-hearted attempt at a counterspell of the Teleport that followed - none of the others had gotten that far in wizarding - but Aelwyn was ready with a counterspell back of her own, and maybe it really was for the best.  They had the information they needed, and they had Ostentatia's palimpsest, and if Aelwyn wanted to find somewhere to hide from Kalvaxus other than a jail cell, that did seem fair enough in exchange.
Next up, from Gallivant's End, the initial two paragraphs which I think do a really nice job of setting up the interior conflict the piece is about:
Being deep underwater and finding a current that leads you swiftly and perfectly to where you need to get to, Riva for short, did not even know the name of the ship they had hopped onto, nor the two before that since leaving the Wurst.  It was information that could easily be found, of course, plucked from the minds of any of those on the ship around them, but all they really wanted to know was whether they were headed in the right general direction to get to home eventually, and they were.
Gallivant had been lovely, of course, and by the end full of love, and in fact the only person of the crew that Riva could no longer be certain they fully loved was themself.
Third, from Locate Creatures, Riz and Penny interrogating a responsible adult, showing my usual level of respect for Gilear:
"I do not have your money, as I have...  Oh.  Riz.  It's you."  Gilear said, sitting up.  "Is there something that you require, or have I offended you in some way?"
"We need to know who this is and what their address is right now, and if anyone asks why you gave out an address you can say it was at gunpoint."  Riz said, Penny adding "And knifepoint!" from behind, holding the sketch out with one hand and her knife with the other.
"Aah.  Yes.  I do recognize this student.  I trust you have a good reason for this, Riz?  Do I need to talk to your mother again?"  Gilear said, and Riz shook his head.
"No, it's just a kidnapping case.  We'll have it resolved first thing in the morning, I promise.  Just get me the address." 
Four, from Glass, Cinderella preparing to do what she wants and doesn't want to do:
Unfortunately, they weren't as fast as they could have been.  A bare twenty seconds after they'd gotten started on the ritual, the doors behind them had opened, the six of Rosamund's group with their own seventh impossibly in the form of the Baba Yaga bursting through them, and Cinderella felt ill to the very core of her soul.  She had convinced herself that she would be able to do Rosamund the kindness of an ending she was unaware was coming, wherever the girl and her group had retreated to, and yet...
She raised a javelin in salute to her sister of the Crown, before shutting the visor of her armor that would render herself completely unseen.  She could put Sleeping Beauty to rest, one last time.
How much it hurt her to do would not matter.  The End drew near.  Cinderella would make certain of that.
Last, from Missing, a completely wild paragraph in a completely crazy stretch of choices from our protagonist Aelwyn:
Aelwyn swerved, scraping against a car with a horrifying sound, yanking the wheel to and froe and trying to save it, and there was an awful noise from the tires, and...  she definitely didn't have control, now, and the time had come to abandon this plan.
Moments before the police car plowed into the side of a building, Aelwyn Misty Stepped out of it and thirty feet away, dropping the Disguise Self as well - it was close to expiring anyway - and just hurrying along towards the docks on foot, trying to ignore the screaming and sirens behind her.  She couldn't do anything about those now; hopefully nobody was hurt, but the important thing was to not get caught.
7 notes · View notes
Note
Hi! Do you have any Criminal Minds AU Sterek/Steter crossovers?
I adore your blog and always come here for amazing fic recommendations. Thank you loves! 🥰
Thank you!
Tumblr media
Adjust by ScarsLikeVelvet
(1/1 I 1,010 I Explicit I Steter)
A lot of worldview adjusting is going on because people storm into the house and how people inside react to the people storming in and also for the people following the people storming in. It's honestly a mess.
Condemned by BornToFly02
(1/? I 1,105 I Not Rated i Sterek)
Stiles was sure he had escaped the horrors of his teen years after entering the FBI.
He was wrong.
I'll Blow This (open wide) by LadySlytherin
(1/1 I 12,595 I Teen I Sterek)
FBI intern Stiles Stilinski is beyond excited at the prospect of joining the elite Behavioral Analysis Team. The BAU seems happy to have him joining their number.
When a fellow-intern comes to the mistaken conclusion that Stiles Stilinski and Dr. Spencer Reid are both dating the same person, Stiles sees it as an opportunity to bond with his future-teammate. One should never underestimate the pranking ability of two geniuses with devious tendencies.
Two-For by 3rdgenderfromthesun
(9/9 I 14,608 I Mature I Sterek)
Stiles is searching for his mother while Cora and Isaac dance around each other. When Stiles finds his mother he must face her reasons for abandoning him. Cora must face what she fears most: people. Isaac just wants to be loved.
Criminal Hunters by LitGal
(11/11 I 35,182 I Mature I Steter)
The Hale pack is circling the wagons and preparing for a counterattack from the French Argents. Stiles just has to make sure that Derek has stepped up as the alpha before that happens, all while worrying about Peter who has insisted on remaining in Virginia as he either makes himself a target or schemes--or both. Stiles is fairly sure it's both. Meanwhile, the criminal investigation of the Argents brings new people to Beacon Hills, and new threats lurk just over the horizon. And this time, it's possible that none of Peter's scheming will be enough.
I Have Friends In Not So Heavenly Places by Corvu_ss
(17/? I 38,891 I Not Rated I Sterek)
When the FBI catches Danny trying to hack into their database, they take an interest in a small town in California. It just so happens that there's been a new sting of murders in town, and not the team and the pack must work together to find and stop the culprit. Also, did I mention that the Doc and the Spark are related?
The Shadow Master by A_Darker_Shade_of_Thought
(7/? I 48,710 I Mature I Sterek)
Stiles was still trying to wrap his head around the fact that he was a Spark, a mage with certain reality-bending talents. To complicate matters even further, he had inadvertently brought himself and his pack to the attention of the Supernatural Crime Taskforce headed by Aaron Hotchner, also the Unit Chief of the Behavioral Analysis Unit. At least he could be comforted by the fact that they needed his help. In exchange for lessons on how to control his growing power, Stiles (and Derek) would need to help the BAU with a series of gruesome murders that have been slowly winding their way west to San Francisco. The case is exceedingly strange, the victims chased down and ripped apart by some unseen predator. Yet Stiles can’t shake the notion that there is something bigger than just an invisible killer rampaging across the country. If only he could take his mind off Derek Hale long enough to figure it out.
I'll cross this country on a frequency by illusemywords
(18/18 I 53,541 I Mature I Sterek)
“Stiles, I need you to run a license plate for me.”
“Whatever you need, babe.”
“Don’t call me babe.”
“Stop being such a sourwolf, just tell me the numbers.”
or
The one where there's a serial killer on the loose, Stiles Stilinski has a stalker and Derek Hale doesn't know how to express his emotions.
isn't it obvious? I love you* by Alphanimpala92
(50/? I 87,708 I Explicit I Sterek)
Derek please don't do this." Derek stood in next to Stiles bedroom window, arms crossed over his chest. "Why don't you tell me why your here." "i was coming to make sure you were okay" "But why?" "because i was worried about you." "why are you so worried about me?" stiles just hung is head for a minute trying to hide the tears forming in his whiskey brown eyes. "Stiles?" "because isn't it obvious i love you" Derek was shocked, he replayed those 3 little words in his head i love you, over and over again..... but all he could do was think back to one the girl who he ever really showed his emotions too, the one who died because of him. "Complete silence i get it." was all stiles could say, with a swift swipe across his face wiping his falling tears away... he turned and walked out the door, leaving Derek lost and confused and not knowing if there would ever be any hope for them being together. he loved Stiles the feelings were there but he was just to scared to show them, to let Stiles in and break though the lock and chain on his heart....
96 notes · View notes
truthhoneyandashes · 20 days
Text
I was tagged by @makesometime - Thank you!
Tessa was seven years old on the day of the attack. An Arrangement (massive complicated TID arranged marriage AU)
Once upon a time, there was a little boy with hair as black as a raven’s wing and eyes like storm clouds. Briar - Dark Urge - Kick at the Darkness (Character building for my first durge)
Astarion studied the man sitting at Shadowheart’s feet. Dar - Dark Urge - Unknown (BG3 return of the dark and unpleasant Durge fic)
The unseen magic in the world warped and something deep in Tav’s chest twisted and slammed against her ribs. Octavia - Wild Magic Sorcerer - Worth the Trouble (BG3 Tav character building Tav/Astarion, this also isn’t actually the first line but it is very close)
Dar attended the public parties at the Szarr mansion and eventually, he got an invitation to the far more interesting private parties. Dar - Dark Urge - Unbroken (dark and unpleasant durge/Astarion BG fic)
The ship dropped anchor in the harbour as the sun sank towards the horizon in a riot of pink and gold. Empty Rooms (Big TID au set in a fantasy hospital setting)
"Did I love you?" he asked as he fussed over a pack of vegetables. Cooking Lessons (just fluff post BOTW Zelda fic)
The festival was in full swing outside and she’d cracked open the window to listen to the songs and hear the crackle of fireworks. Former Legends (big complicated Zelda fic that died very early despite me posting the first chapter, I still really like the premise but it's more concept than plot and I don't know that I'll come back to it)
The world was ending and it was ruining Alucard’s decade. Be Careful What It Takes (big complicated Castlevania time travel fic)
Adrian didn't usually flirt with girls in bars but this whole conversation had started as an argument. if I was something that you ever wanted (Castlevania smutty college au)
We do have to go back to 2022 to get 10 fics.
3 notes · View notes
gay-dorito-dust · 2 years
Text
What was once lost is now found
A/n: since everyone loved and practically demanded to know if our dear reader ever got found. Enjoy and thank you for liking my shit. (Also I’m skipping some bits cuz this fic is long enough.)
pt 1
Tumblr media
Summary: with Steven gone, Marc is left to uphold his promise, the problem was how could he when he didn’t know where to start? Luckily fate finally decided to take pity.
Warnings: self-deprication, angst, slight depression and not so nice thoughts and attempt of self harm. (Ie: digging nails into skin and such.)
Steven was gone. Perished. Nothing but his stone statue remains within the vast expanses of sand that laid long behind him as it did wide alongside of the countless other unfortunate souls who once believed they had the heart required for passage to the fabled Field of Reeds. The very same field that Marc now found himself utterly lost in with the heat beating down upon his back whilst he let his gaze search beyond the fields for a indication of his escape in attempt to conceal his lacklustre state of mind.
‘This is where the worthiest went?’ Marc thought to himself as flashes of Steven’s form slowly succumbing to the process as he fell to his knees, arm outstretched for Marc to take in a desperate cry for help followed by the mere whisper of his name before he become unmoving. An artistic standstill of Marc’s newest failure, made purely to mock him and his inability to save those who needed him most. Steven’s face was the first thing Marc’s mind could equate to the word worthy. As a matter of fact Marc never felt worthy. Not even a little, not when Harrow was still alive, not when Layla’s fate was undetermined, not when he had a promise to uphold to his alter in finding you and most certainly not when Steven sacrificed himself just for him to stand in a unwanted state of self reflection instead of finishing what he originally set off to do.
It wasn’t fair. He didn’t deserve this. Steven should be here basking in the light, not him! He should’ve been the one to turn to stone, not Steven. Yet fate has already played out as intended, not as one wanted. Seeing no reason to keep his walls up Marc allowed himself a moment of release as he sunk to his knees as tears pricked his eyes; the cries of his name from both Randall and Steven were sounding all too similar for his licking, taunting him with memories of how he failed them both, reminding him that being Marc Spector wasn’t in any sort of a blessing in disguise. Danger followed in his footsteps after all as flashes of Abdallah El Faouly’s corpse came to the forefront of his mind like a haunting reminder that despite his abilities to save people from similar fates, it wasn’t enough to erase the faces of those whom he wasn’t strong enough to protect. In fact they served as a lesson learnt in the most cruelest of ways. A lesson permanently seared into Marc’s mind of the fate he could lead someone down unwillingly if he were to allow himself to become comfortable with the company of others.
His mother’s cries of ‘THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT’ still dug daggers into his soul as he felt it break and fracture off into little splinters that while unseen to the human eye could cause just as much pain as any other inflicted injury. Marc was well aware that it was all his fault, he didn’t need to be reminded of such when he does it all by himself on a daily basis ever since leaving his family home as a teenage youth while also trying to come across as a well put together individual with a hardened exterior. His father, try as he might, was of no help at all. Did he truly expect Marc to withstand his mothers’ violent outbursts that only seemed to get worse as time went painfully by? Under the false pretence that she’d one day get better? His father had been spouting that same old shit for too long and in the end it become too much for Marc. It was obvious that she wasn’t going to get better and his father was too oblivious to see the damage caused by his optimism that had pushed Marc into doing what was best for him which was packing his bags and leaving in hopes of a somewhat better life elsewhere.
If only he knew what he knew now but even if he did would it change anything that has lead him this far or would he have taken a completely different route to prolong the inevitable. “Steven,” Marc cried, knowing that no matter how loud he’d scream Steven would never be able to hear him-nobody would- yet something within him told him to at least try, “I’m sorry, it’s all my fault you’re not here with me! I was too weak to protect myself never less protect you. I’m sorry for pushing the responsibilities onto you…please…I don’t know if I can do this on my own.” His voice cracked as his hands that laid in his lap gripped at his legs, his arms, his hair, anywhere that would cause him significant pain in a act of attempted self-harm. He just wanted to feel something then the crushing guilt he carried for so long sitting within his chest, getting heavier with each mistake made. It was too much for him to bear a majority of the time that when he was at his lowest he would even contemplate the importance of his existence when it caused so much pain; Marc didn’t think his existence as vital but yet would always find himself prioritising his duties rather then his own emotional and mental state. His thoughts and feelings were never taken into account when someone’s life was at stake for there was always more important issues at hand then his human emotions or how he felt about certain things. He didn’t allow himself that luxury so it caused Marc to begin neglecting his own feelings and instead focused on the unhealthy side of things that it took a heavy toll on all the relationships he’s built thanks to his lack of communication skills and tendency to keeping secrets.
Marc didn’t know you but after that memory he felt as though he was partly responsible for your disappearance. You play such a pivotal part in Steven’s life that once this was all resolved Marc would happily let you and Steven to live out a happier life together, the life he could never have yet it wasn’t going to be that simple. He of all people knew that it wouldn’t. For all he knew you could quite possibly be dead and that searching for you would be proven useless but he knew that Steven would never stop looking for you. He never has from what Marc could gather when he saw Steven’s face fall into one of melancholy when he saw your smiling face. Your disappearance was a breaking point for Steven as he was lost without your light to guide him and would blatantly disregard his health and well being if it meant getting you back because despite all that Steven is, he was brave and held no fear when the people he loved were in peril.
That was another reason why Steven should’ve been in the field of reeds instead of him. It pained Marc beyond belief being unable to save Steven, to feel as helpless as he did when he was forced to watch him become stone as everything within him screamed at him to save him, to reach out to him! It was almost as though he was being forced to watch his brother drown while he fought with all his might to keep himself alive that day in the cave. Helpless and powerless to prevent it from ever happening. Yet the thought of having one son safe from harm wasn’t enough for his mother. In fact it was probable to assume that she believed within her bouts of grief that the wrong son died and that had it been Marc instead she wouldn’t have batted an eye and moved on with life as though nothing tragic has occurred. Would life have been different had that happened? Would it be his brother standing where he stood instead or would he live a relatively normal life with mother and father like a normal family?
Some to think of it Steven was everything Marc wished he had. The semi-normal life, the illusions of a loving mother, a goldfish, everything. Steven was also Marc’s protector in his worst of times; defending him against anything that could cause him harm and in exchange Marc became Steven’s protector in situations where physical violence would be required. Marc did this because he wasn’t strong enough to protect Randall. Now that he’s lost Steven he couldn’t help but be reminded of that loss, that unwanted feeling of hopelessness and the feeling of being weak. He felt that day as illusions of water whooshing past his ears as though he was back there again but this time with Steven instead of Randall.
Whatever the case Marc knew he shouldn’t indulge too much into the past for he didn’t have the ability to do so freely. Inhaling deeply through his nose, Marc regained his bearings and gradually made his way back up to his feet, lifting a hand to wipe away the any of the fallen tears as his mind refocused on the time sensitive task at hand; to find a way out of the field of reeds and stop Harrow before it was too late. Yet he didn’t want to do this alone so before his mind could make itself up he was already running back into the sandy dunes of the Duat as fast as his legs could carry him through the muscle strain where he was confronted by Steven’s stone body half buried beneath the sand; staring straight at him with his hand outstretched still.
“Steven,” Marc drops to his knees before him, “looking pretty rough man.” He spoke through a tearful smile before uttering his next words, “I don’t know if you can hear me. From the moment you arrived, way back then, we were so young. You saved me. I survived because I knew I wasn’t alone anymore for you were always there, alive, full of hope and I tried to protect that and I failed. I couldn’t protect you.” His voice broke once more but Marc was more primarily focused on the cold sensation within his hardening arm, he looked down to see that he too was succumbing to the same fate as Steven and yet he wasn’t afraid, if anything he’s more at peace with becoming stone then he ever did with standing within the peaceful Field of Reeds. “You didn’t abandon me, you didn’t abandon me and although that field back there was looking…was looking pretty good. There was no way in hell m going to abandon you.” By the end of his speech Marc noticed that half of him was already stone when he tried with all his might to do the simple task of lifting his arm but couldn’t hold it for longer then a second as it plummeted back into the sand like a weight. Accepting his fate Marc said some final words, “you are the only real superpower I ever had.” With the remainder of his strength he brought his arm towards Steven’s so it would look like them were grasping hands together so he would be reminded that he wasn’t alone anymore, that he hasn’t been abandoned. They were together eternally entombed in stone. That wasn’t so bad of a fate. Marc thought as he let himself finally relax.
Stood away aways from them opened a door that streamed a warm light onto Marc and Steven and into their hands, freeing them from their imprisonment almost immediately as though by a miracle. Steven let himself gulp in air when he was freed from the stone as Marc followed afterwards doing the exact same thing as they stared at each other, smiles growing across their faces when realisation hit them both. “Marc.” Steven uttered, his throat inexplicably dry despite the short amount of time spent in stone though to Steven it felt a lot longer. “Steven.” Marc replied, happy to see him free and talking again as Steven hauled him up to his feet. “You came back? What the hells wrong with you?” Steven asked, smiling widely. Marc shrugged, “well I did do a whole little speech there.” Marc retorted as he tried to regain his bearings, “it wasn’t that little.” Steven chuckled before Marc brought him into a tighter embrace then their precious one after finding one another. Momentarily forgetting what was happening within the land of the living as they aloud themselves a little breather from everything so far.
“Besides I wouldn’t have wanted to find y/n without you. You deserve to see them again Steven and I’m not going to take that possibility from you. Not after everything we’ve been through.” Steven’s eyes widened in remembrance. You. In his last moments before becoming stone all he could think was about you. He didn’t know if your soul was amongst the many unfairly judged by Harrow. He hoped that wasn’t the case and that you were as far away as you possibly could be from harrow’s grasp. For he didn’t know what he would do if that bastard ever did get to you before him. His mind couldn’t fathom that reality and refused to even speculate that sort of thing ever happening. You had a soul as pure and as good as they come in his eyes when he remembered your vibrant smile aimed his way. He had no visual on what was happening but he only hoped that both you and Layla were unscathed. As though he was remembering what they were meant to be doing beforehand this sweet reunion Steven looked back at the gate, determined more then ever, “look Marc, the gates are open!” Marc looked to where Steven was looking with a smile. They were finally getting out of here for once and for all.
Meanwhile elsewhere you were trudging through the ash coloured ground leaving bloodied foot prints behind as you dragged on with aching and straining muscles that screamed for sleep. “Are we done here? Or are we done.” You asked the dark entity that stared back at you upon a dark throne that could only be preserved by blue candle light that were mounted upon the wall behind them casting a elongated shadow across the floor. The entity was clearly bored from their slouched posture and how they practically held the weight of their head upon their hand whilst they started you down with glowing eyes. “Oh we’re far from done my favourite little pawn.” They growled as they stood to their full height, making their way down from the obsidian steps until you could smell the smoke and death they emitted when they stopped in front of you. The entity in question had greying skin of that of a defying corpse; You still remember the amount of times where they made you pick up their jaw that fell loosely from their face that it might as well be a separate thing entirely, not to mention the sickening sound it would make when reattaching the damn thing. Their hair was greasy and black as the night itself yet held an elegance as it dropped pathetically past their shoulders and stopped mid back. Brushing that thing was like trying to brush water, it was unhealthy thin yet weighed just about as much as a dead fish did when moving aside to put their hair in their usual half up half down style. Their robes consisted of pale blues, blacks and grey that upon further inspection it looked as though they had faces within the clothing looking as though to be in inexplicable pain and torture.
“What do you mean by that?” You bite back, wanting nothing more then the slit their throat when they least expected if it meant getting back to Steven, back to where you belong. It’s been so long since you’ve last heard word of him from the crows that would do their masters bidding in adding them information from the realm of the living. You would be surprised if Steven even remembered you now cos seeing how well the entity made it seem that you disappeared when in actual fact it was the complete opposite. The entity chuckled as they walked past you, their shoulder badly touched you yet you couldn’t help but collapse to the ground at the cold sensation akin to only death as you attempt to grasp your bearings once more and control your breathing that came out in cold puffs of air. The entity stopped to look over their shoulder at you with the best attempt of a sickening smile as their rotting jaw looked about ready to detach from their face, “we’ve got your little lover boy to visit. I’m was certain that would make you happy so why the face I wonder?”
You growled, “touch Steven and I’ll fucking KILL YOU! Do anything to him and I’ll fucking burn your realm to the ground DO YOU HEAR ME!” The entity only chuckled at your threats as they walked back over to kneel before you as they grasp your face within their freezing hand, bringing you closer to their face as they sneered, “tough words form such a weak human, be grateful I took putty on you or else you would’ve died by now.” You couldn’t say anything in response as their cold skin all but bit and deep into your skin that it felt as though you were getting a brain freeze but only way worse. So instead you just glared at the entity as they let go of your face and began walking away once again. “Now get moving or else I shall make the next punishment make this one I had you go on look like a walk in the park.” There was nothing you could do to combat them at the moment but one day you would but then again you did give them your soul in exchange for life albeit forced though. So if you were ever to go through with that plan there was a high chance that they could just kill you then and there without so much of a sweat being broken. You must’ve been thinking too much for the entities likening as their yelling could be heard from afar, “ my pawn!” “Coming!” You yelled back as you managed to get yourself off the floor, dusting yourself down as you ran after the entity with regret. “Don’t worry Steven, I’m coming home, just not in the way you’d expect.”
-time skip-
Everything was back to some semblance of normality. Yes even the ankle restraint was now considered an aspect of normality for Steven as he awoke back in his apartment. Khonshu was no longer tethered to him any longer as far as he was aware and with Harrow away at some institution he could confidently say that there would be no more cults for Marc to hunt down anymore for the time being. Yet as he was removing the ankle restraint a knock came at the door which stopped Steven. He was certain he wasn’t expecting anyone, he wasn’t sure Marc was either seeing as Layla was busy elsewhere but made the journey towards the door either way albeit hesitantly. “Who is it?” He called out, waiting for an answer. “Steven.” That voice. It couldn’t could it? Steven had never dashed so quickly towards the door in his entire life as he removed the locks and pulled the door open so fast he almost rammed it into his nose at one point. There before him stood you as though you’ve never left, as though your apartment was bare of your belongings, as though you’ve been here the whole time eating for him to come home. “Y/n?” You looked at him with that same smile that you did way back when. “Hi Steven, long time no see.” Steven didn’t waste any time dragging you into his apartment so he could bring you into a tight embrace, burying his head into your neck and he felt your arms grasp at his back as though he would become sand beneath your touch. “How did you find me? I mean you know where my apartment is but what I means is where have you-“ “it’s a long story Steven.” You tried to wave off but Steven was notoriously persistent, “I’ve got all the time to hear it out on full.” He pulled away to look at your face before realising that something was wrong…very wrong.
There were scars littering your face and you were wearing a baggy beige overcoat, Steven knew you hated beige but peaking out from the overcoat looked to be a suit of sorts that when you took off the coat, coaxing him into not panicking beforehand, was a black robe that seemed to have faces in eternal torment melded within the fabric, almost moving in desperation of escaping that it made poor Steven’s blood go cold. “I don’t- I don’t understand.” He said as you dropped the coat across the back of a nearby chair. “This is what I didn’t want to tell you Steven,” you sad as you ran your hand through his hair and downwards until your hand was pressed against his check where he could feel every individual callouses, “I’m afraid of how you’d react if I told you but I’ve kept it too long and now I don’t know if I should in fear of loosing you.”
Steven saw feel conflict radiating off of you and brought his hand against your own yet his eyes can’t seem to look away from the faces embedded into your black and silver robes. They spoke of many words and yet none of which he could catch to make coherent sense of even if he tried. Yet he would always try for you. “Hey, look at me,” your eyes met his own where finally he could bring himself to look away from your haunting robes, “you could never loose me. After you left I tried looking for you but never could find any traces of you left for me to pick up on and even long after I’ve seen to lost all hope I never gave up wishing for your safe return or that where ever you were that you would be safe from harm.” His voice trailed off as his other hand traces the scars that littered your face, watching carefully and you flinched are some yet not at others indicating that some were fresh while others have been there for a while. “Now tell me what happened.”
You blinked back tears as you began opening your mouth to speak your truth when a painful sensation within your head refrained you from doing such but thankfully you managed to fought through it, having been suffering from them too long for your liking. “Steven I’m, I’m-“ unfortunately the strength and will power that lead you to his door have left you drained beyond belief and had your body aching for a rest that you hadn’t noticed that you had fell into a state of unconsciousness until you found yourself prepped up in a bed that must’ve been Steven’s considering the ankle restraint. “Steven?” You called out only to see him sat on a chair next to the bed looking at you worriedly.
“Y/n, what are you?” He asked but you couldn’t bring yourself to answer the question either because even you didn’t know who you were outside the possession that all you could do was stare at Steven as your eyes became like that of obsidian, as a pure black teardrop leaked from your eye and trailing down your cheek, leaving a streak behind it as it dropped from your chin and against the back of your hand where it crystallised. “I don’t know but I need your help Steven. They’re coming and I can’t stop them.” Your voice cracked as more black tears fell from your eyes and crystallised on your hands that Steven had never acted so fast in pulling you into his arms and brushing a hand against the back of your neck as he tried to calm you down from an inevitable panic. “Who’s coming darling, your obviously distraught about it.” It broke Steven’s heart to see you this scared so all he could do was hold you tightly until you decided it was time to speak. You’ve been separated once but never again would Steven let that happen, so he’d rather the thing come for you both because Steven wasn’t letting you go so easily this time. Not a chance in hell would that reality come to haunt him once more.
Tagged: @bibli0thecary
140 notes · View notes
halflingkima · 3 months
Note
i mean i GOTTA ask about 'handholding through hell' for the WIP meme!!
oh, you snatched the one truly active WIP! that's my "novelization" of my current dnd campaign. basically, i wanna write up all our notes in prose for posterity while also adding a little flair for reading enjoyment, and maybe fleshing out some RP scenes we felt we didn't get to chew on enough.
our dm had an idea for a campaign set in hell, so our hook during character creation was to include a reason our character would end up in hell, or at least believe they should be. We've got a goliath barbarian, a half-orc ex-bodyguard to the queen, a fleeing young drow noblewoman ranger, a tief-drow ex-cult roguelock, and the story is told primarily through the point of view of my tiefling celestial warlock.
it is so called because both tief-locks have Devil's Sight, and can inherently cast Darkness and see through it; additionally, it makes our gloomstalker ranger technically invisible. Thus, we can cast Darkness as an escape measure, but then must all hold hands to guide those blinded. Early artist rendition:
Tumblr media
Anyway, I plan to post this as dnd fic on both ao3 and my writing blog eventually. i've also got a tag for the campaign and my character in it.
a bit of an unexciting excerpt, as i don't wanna give all my secrets away just yet lol
The party followed the flow of traffic, peering down tunnels curving off to the side, trying to remain aware of their surroundings. After a few minutes of walking, Viper noticed goo on the cave wall.
Silently, she stopped to examine it, and the others paused to wait for her. She peered closely at the substance, then leaned to sniff it. She gingerly reached a finger up and prodded at it. Nothing happened for a beat. Viper promptly stuck her finger in her mouth, and nearly immediately doubled over gagging.
Hope ran to her side. “What’s wrong?” she asked, taking Viper’s weight. Viper just shook her head and retched again.
“I believe ‘don’t eat cave goo’ is the lesson we’ve learned today,” Aravand said.
“I don’t believe honest curiosity should be punished,” Hope chided him before whispering a comforting healing spell into Viper’s ear. The younger girl took on her own weight again, but her pallor didn’t improve.
“It’s alright,” Viper said. “I’m alright, thank you.”
“Are you sure?”
Viper nodded. “I can manage.”
They walked on, and soon Viper pointed at something on the wall. A viscous, ochre ooze of something dripped at eye level. “That,” she said. “Don’t touch that.”
“Thank you, Viper,” Aravand said, somewhat derisively, and they continued.
Near the front of the group, Jugg did a double take looking down one of the side passages, and came to a stop. “What –“ she started.
When the others reached her, they saw what had caught her attention. A series of weapons — a mace, a long sword, three daggers, several arrows, and a halberd — were floating in midair. Jugg lifted her torch aloft and stepped toward it, but Lythrana caught her wrist.
“Wait…” the drow said. The group watched for a few more moments, then the weapons, moving as one, slowly glided toward them.
“Invisible slime!” Aravand suddenly declared, tripping backwards. “Transparent ooze!”
With a sudden collective understanding that a giant ooze had consumed the weilders of the weapons and was advancing on them, the others stumbled after Aravand, hurrying away from the unseen monster.
2 notes · View notes
sotwk · 1 year
Text
Greenleaf's Day Out, Chapter 4: Secrets in the Stacks (young Legolas family fic)
Completed Work: Chapters [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6]
Summary: Legolas struggles with his reading lessons and finds help and encouragement from his scholarly brother, Prince Arvellas. (brief OC character profile in end notes).
Word Count: 3.2k
Content: G-rated, fluff, family, comedy
To Read on AOC: Link
Divider credit: @firefly-graphics
Tumblr media
Greenleaf's Day Out
Chapter 4 - Secrets in the Stacks
Third Age 250
The Woodland Realm, Greenwood the Great
Legolas yawned and pushed the heavy, leather-bound tome across the table away from him.  “I am bored,” he announced loudly. His complaint jarred the peace of the enormous and mostly deserted main hall of the palace library.
The elfling who sat on the opposite end of the long table raised her auburn head. “Well then,” she said crisply.  “Keep it to yourself and keep quiet. Those of us who are not bored are trying to work.”  She ducked her head once more and returned to the lengthy scroll unfurled before her, scratching furiously at it with a brown feather quill.
Legolas gaped at her for a moment, before the O-shape of his mouth twisted into a scowl. Screwing up his eyes, he stuck his tongue out as far as it could go and held it there, waiting for her to take notice.
 A reproving sigh came from a voice familiar but unseen. “Your Highness, you know well it is not proper to make faces, especially at young ladies.”
Hearing this, the she-elf bristled and raised her head. Legolas immediately relaxed his face into an expression of innocence. 
He had enjoyed barely an hour at the stables with Gelir when his morning of freedom was cut short. His mistake had been getting distracted and lingering in one place for too long. Word of his whereabouts passed on and on from mouth to ear until it eventually reached Ninniel’s attention. The next thing the princeling realized, he was seated behind a great oak desk in the palace library, with books and scrolls encircling him in stacks that rose above the top of his head.
“If that book is not to your taste, then perhaps we could find something better suited to your interests.” Belorfing was a palace tutor, and a member of the realm’s exclusive guild of academics and scholars. Legolas rather liked the nickname he’d heard palace residents use for them: “the Inkhands”, for the perpetual stains on their fingers from hours of spent copying texts. But this morning, Belorfing’s chief duty was to provide the young prince a helping of schooling for the day, upon the request of his wife Ninniel. She did not say it outright, but Legolas knew that being sent to study when he was supposed to be on holiday was a small punishment for his earlier acts of mischief. 
“This text simply drones on and on without end,” Legolas groaned, his head flopping down against his outstretched arm. “I cannot seem to care about it.” The truth was, he had been given the choice of whether to practice his writing, his oral recitations, or his reading, and the last option had seemed to be the least taxing…at least at the time they were presented to him.  
Tauriel’s head whipped up again, and she cast him a look heavy with incredulity and disdain. “That is the Valaquenta!” she sputtered, pointing at the rejected book. “How can you even think of calling the Valar boring?!”
“I did not say they were boring, I said this is!” Legolas retorted, slapping a hand on the closed book. “Whoever wrote it did not do a very good job, if they managed to make the likes of Ainur seem dull as rocks.” 
“Perhaps if you placed more focus on completing your reading assignments quickly, you would be able to move on to more exciting texts in our lesson plan,” said Tauriel, primly tossing her auburn braid across one shoulder. “While you dawdle on the Creation accounts, I am about to start on the War of the Jewels.” 
“You are not!” Legloas blurted out, his face suddenly flushing pink. It was a surprise to no one that Tauriel was ahead of him in their shared lessons, but realizing she was that far advanced struck him with shame. 
“I am!” She sniffed and went right back to scribbling. “And you could be too, if you stopped wasting hours in play."
Lost for words, Legolas fought the urge to make another rude face. Not for the first time, he wished Eru could have blessed him with a different birthmate, so he could spend his days with someone a little less aggravating and a little more fun. Despite her stubborn focus on their studies, Tauriel did not aspire to be an Inkhand herself; she declared loudly and often that she would someday be a healer, an even more exclusive profession in the kingdom.  Legolas didn’t understand how or why she was already thinking of such things. Not even his Ada has asked him to consider what he aspired to someday be, which was a relief since he hadn’t the slightest clue. 
“Speed is of no importance here.” Their tutor’s voice was kind but firm, and defused the brewing conflict. “Your progress is your own; it is not a competition.” He rested a hand on one of the tall stacks and gave Legolas an encouraging nod. “Because this is an informal session today, you may choose whatever text you wish to read. Anything on this table, or even the entire library.”
“Truly?” Legolas brightened. “Anything?”
“Go back and explore the stacks, but do not take too long. Leave enough time to finish a few chapters before luncheon.”
“Thank you!” The princeling pushed back his chair with a loud scrape that echoed in the library’s silence. He bounded off, pretending not to hear yet more of Tauriel’s irritated clucking. 
The library at Bâr Lasgalen, the Elvenking’s abode, held one of the largest archives of written work on the continent, second only to that of Osgiliath and even above that of Imladris, or so Belorfing boasted to Legolas. But the teacher also shared with him that it had not always been so. Belorfing, in his own youth, had been there during the first days of the great palace, and had since helped gradually build up the library and the collection it housed to its current grandeur. 
“Your father is the most voracious reader I had ever known in my life,” Belorfing once said to an eager princeling, who craved stories about his father more than any tale of Elven lore or legend, since so seldom did the King speak of himself.  “He has read perhaps every single book and scroll within these halls, some more than once, and can recite back passages from many of them to the letter.” 
Little Legolas had laughed at this, believing it to be a joke. “Ada? A reader?” In all his few years, he didn’t think he had seen his father hold a book even once. The Woodland King was not a scholar but a great warrior, like Mirion and Turhir, or so everyone he knew proclaimed.  
“His Majesty was born before Beren ever set eyes on Luthien Tinuviel,” Belorfing said, and then clarified further for the puzzled child, “He has been alive for many, many years. He has had much time to read to his heart’s content.”
The knowledge of his father’s passion for reading only made Legolas more determined to prove himself as well-versed as at least stodgy Tauriel. He stepped briskly among the high shelves, pausing every now and then to examine a title. But the choices were too many, and the young elf’s mind struggled with the burden of the decision to pick just one. 
Within minutes, he bore a heavy stack of books in his arms that reached up to his chin. Realizing he was coming back to the same dilemma he had started with, Legolas set the pile back on the ground in a frustrated huff. Think, think, he commanded himself. This should not be so difficult, if silly Tauriel manages it so well.
A pensive glance upward led to a sudden inspiration, as his eyes beheld the higher shelves that rose up to the circular roof, the narrow balcony accessible by a single staircase. He had never browsed the upper level of the stacks. All the material from his assigned readings were kept on the lower floor, easily accessible. He had always assumed the more onerous volumes, only suitable for the Inkhands and therefore of little interest to him, were stashed up there gathering dust.
All the more would reading one of those books show Tauriel and more importantly, impress his father!
Mindful of his time limit, Legolas raced up the stairs, his agile footsteps producing no noise even in his rush. He was not sure why, since the upper level was not off limits as far as he knew, but he felt like he would get into trouble just for setting foot in the area. 
He gazed back down and saw that Tauriel had not moved at all from her position, and that Belorfing was absorbed in his own reading at the farther corner of the room. He wondered how visible he would be from down there, when his head barely came above the balcony railing.
“ Focus,” he muttered, hearing echoes of Tauriel’s challenge in his mind. But the leather spines and covers in those shelves were even more confounding than the ones down below, and many of them bore no titles at all. 
Now desperate, he pulled out a fat black tome closest to his reach and tucked it under his arm. As he turned to head back towards the staircase however, an oddity caught his eye. A dull gleam in the empty space left behind where he’d taken the book. 
A keyhole. 
He quickly removed several more of the surrounding volumes and revealed the small door, barely two feet high and even less in width, built into the back of the shelf. The elfling grinned, reached out and stuck his finger against the keyhole. In the next half-second, he yelped and jerked backward in shock--not from the thing he’d touched, as it was just an ordinary keyhole, but because of the unexpected voice that suddenly called him by name. 
“Of course you of all people would uncover this little secret space in the vastness of this entire room.” His brother Arvellas crouched down, for the low shelf with the hidden door came up only to his waist. “Not that the discovery will do you any good, since only one key exists for this lock.”
“It is you, isn’t it?” Legolas grinned, standing on his toes gleefully as Arvellas started putting the books back on the shelf to conceal the door. “You have the key--this is your secret compartment!” 
“You give me too much credit, little brother,” Arvellas said with a chuckle. “If you believe I have the power, cleverness, or nerve to build a hidden door in the king’s library. Nay, this existed long before my time. I am merely borrowing it from Ada. In fact, he holds the only key so only by his leave can I retrieve or leave anything.”
“What do you store in there?” 
Arvellas stood straight and gave him a reproachful but gentle look. “It would not be a very good secret if I were to simply tell you, would it not?”
“I suppose.” Legolas frowned. “But if something wondrous actually dwells inside this library, I would just like to know what it is.”
“You need no secret door for that! Mysteries and treasures beyond the price of gold are all over these walls,” Arvellas said, with a sweeping gesture at the shelves around them. “If you think it tedious work to practice your letters for an hour or two a day, just imagine the labor it took from hundreds of scribes across many centuries to create all these.”
Legolas noted the black ink marks on the older prince’s fingers and palms, remembering that he was perhaps chief among those laborers in the Greenwood. Whereas his other brothers were rarely to be found inside the palace during the daylight hours, Arvellas was hardly seen outdoors while the sun was up. The only times Legolas could count on seeing him was when he went to the library for lessons, or at suppertime when their whole family dined together in the courtyard by the light of the stars. 
“Here…” Arvellas held out a book to him, bound in rich green leather with gold lettering on the cover. “You may keep it for as long as you wish, although it is my hope that it would not take you too long to finish.”
“The Powers of Arda,” Legolas lifted the cover to read the author page. “By Arvellas Thranduilion.” His eyes widened. “You wrote this?”
“That and a few others.” Arvellas laughed. “Judging by your tone, you thought all I do is study and make copies of texts, of the works of others?”
“No,” Legolas denied, flushing scarlett in his lie. That was indeed what he had assumed. In the elfling’s mind, record keeping was the task of elves at least his father’s age, or older. He did not equate any of his brothers with those regal, albeit stuffy, lords. 
“Belorfing told me you are struggling to finish the Valaquenta,” said Arvellas. “That account, however beautiful and true, was written in the Years of the Trees, its words from ages long past. Perhaps my version will be more to your liking. I have done my best to make a thorough narration, leaving none of the ancient knowledge out, but using language a bit more straightforward and, might I say, spirited."
Legolas hugged the book to his chest, his face awash with newfound admiration. “This sounds brilliant! I would like to read all of the books you’ve written.”
“Start with that one first and see how you fare.” Arvellas smiled and placed a guiding hand on the younger elf’s shoulder. “Come. Maybe a bit more quiet and privacy will help further your concentration.”
After relaying their plan to Belorfing, Arvellas escorted his brother through a door in the far-eastern corner of the library, a chamber that until then, Legolas had only managed to peer into, but never enter. It was the scribes’ workshop, or scriptorium, as Arvellas later explained. Only one other elf sat inside working steadily at his station. He glanced up, surprise registering momentarily over his face, but then he simply inclined his head to acknowledge the princes before returning to his task. He did not question the child’s presence. 
The silence in the chamber was even more profound than that of the main hall, but Legolas found he did not mind it. He settled into a cushioned armchair that Arvellas placed beside his own work station, and the two brothers worked side-by-side. Legolas took to the task of reading his new book, and though every so often his thoughts would drift away from the pages, something about Arvellas’s near presence took him back. The sounds the elder prince made--the rustle of parchment sheets, the dance of his quill upon paper, fluid and effortless (unlike Tauriel’s furious scratching), even the occasional, barely perceptible murmur of a thoughtful, “ Hmm ”--made a music of their own. 
Legolas lost awareness of how much time had passed until Belorfing finally came to fetch him, amazing the elfling with the announcement that study time was over. He had never managed to sit still and read for more than fifteen minutes before, much less a whole hour!  
“If all books were written like yours, then I would not struggle so much to read and learn my history,” Legolas declared, skipping upon the stone patterns on the floor while Arvellas walked alongside him as they exited the library. Much to the elfling’s delight, his brother offered to go and take lunch with him. Legolas usually ate luncheon with only his mother, and occasionally his father, but rarely did his brothers pause their daily business to include it in their schedule. 
“That is a kind compliment of my work, brother, but I am sure you exaggerate,” said Arvellas. “Countless authors and books exist in this world and as you grow and learn, you will find much to entertain and educate you.”
“Or perhaps the problem is with me,” Legolas said. He stopped and looked up at Arvellas with mournful eyes. “I think I simply hate reading,” he whispered, as though confessing a dreadful sin to Eru himself.
Arvellas’s laughter puzzled him. “Even if that were true, and you hate reading now, you have years ahead of you to change your mind,” he said. “It takes time for some. Ada once admitted to me that he read very little for the first thousand years of his life. His interest caught fire only after he met Ammë and found inspiration in their travels together.”
He smiled at the renewed hope in Legolas’s eyes and continued, “I myself refused to sit and read more than a few pages until I was twelve. Ammë found herself having to constantly reassure Ada that his son would not be illiterate.” He shrugged. “Like you, perhaps, I lacked interest in the work of others and desired to create accounts of my own.”
Legolas balked at the idea. “If you have seen my practice scrolls, you would find I am not much better at writing.”
“Then life as a scholar may not be for you, and that is all right. There are many other paths to choose from that are suitable for a prince of Greenwood,” concluded Arvellas.
Legolas looked relieved as he considered this, but then blurted out in genuine distress, “I just want to do well enough in my lessons so I can keep up with Tauriel! She thinks I am a halfwit!” 
“A halfwit ?” There was a hint of secret knowledge in Arvellas’s smile. “She told you so?”
“Not in those exact words,” Legolas admitted. “But the other things she says make it clear what her thoughts of me are. She is so… so… vexing .” 
“Then we must correct her perception of you,” said Arvellas. “I shall speak to Ammë on her return and make some arrangements--”  
He blinked, cut off and caught off-guard by his brother’s loud whoop. The excited Legolas promptly turned a somersault, flipped into a handstand, and proceeded in that position the rest of the way into the dining hall. Arvellas followed behind, amused by his brother’s joy and yet wondering what he might have gotten himself into.
Continue reading: Chapter 5 - Royal Welcome
Tumblr media
NOTES:
ARVELLAS THRANDUILION 3rd Prince of Mirkwood Year of Birth: Third Age 89 Most noteworthy skills: various degrees of literacy and fluency in many Middle-Earth tongues (eventually including limited understanding of Khuzdul and even of the Black Speech) Notable physical feature: light facial hair (mustache and beard, appearance varies in time) Hair Color: dark brown Eye Color: blue Etymology: "King's Leaf" (Sindarin)
BAR LASGALEN ("House of Greenleaves" - Sindarin) A grand palace and surrounding lands built by Thranduil in Second Age 2022, located north of Amon Lanc just east of the Gladden Fields. While only a prince at the time, Thranduil built the palace for his beloved, Lady Maereth, after she had refused his proposal of marriage. This gesture of his, among other deeds to prove his devotion, swayed her decision and they were married a few years after its completion. Upon the death of Oropher and the ascension of Thranduil to the throne in SA 3434, the lands of Bâr Lasgalen became the new capital of the Greenwood Realm and seat of the royal family. 
26 notes · View notes
fayes-fics · 1 year
Text
Endeavour
Double Bind Masterpost
PREV | NEXT
Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader
Summary: Follow on to Forbidden, Benedict makes his attempt to replace Anthony.
Tumblr media
Warnings: 18+ smut minors DNI, dom/sub relationship, dirty talk, hair pulling, bondage, biting, squirting, oral sex (m to f), slightly rough vaginal sex.
Word Count: 7.0k
Authors Note: This is a request fill for @eleanor-bradstreet to continue this series now known as Double Bind. I hope you enjoy my interpretation of your wonderful suggestion, my dear. Thank you for entrusting me with your thoughts on where this could go. There will be at least two more fics in the series after this one. Thanks to @colettebronte for giving this a check through. Enjoy <3
Tumblr media
Benedict’s scent lingers on your sheets the following morning, and he fills your thoughts. But you daren't invite him back to your bed under Anthony’s roof—once was daring enough. Besides, your sojourn at Aubrey Hall ends later that day, with you waving out of your carriage to both of them, each likely thinking your farewell is for them alone, standing as they do in almost a line, Benedict directly behind Anthony.
Two days later, at the first event back in London, the decadent Trowbridge Ball, Anthony is notably absent, not feeling well apparently. Still, the rest of the Bridgertons are in attendance. You slip Benedict a note via your trusted friend’s brother.
Meet me on the dark walk. 
You only include your initials; too risky to include your name in case it’s intercepted, but you hope it’s enough that he will know who it’s from. 
As you slip away into the cool night air, you take a deep breath and slink unseen into the shadow of the building. You take pains to avoid being seen, and he does the same; you see his furtive approach a few minutes later before he spies you.
“Benedict,” you breathe his name from a darkened alcove of vines, and he is on you. Sweeping you into his arms, into a warm, enveloping hug. He smells just as delicious as he did that night, citrus, woodsy, breath sweetened by brandy and smoky from cigars.
“My sweet girl,” his voice is honeyed and soothing by your ear. “I am so very happy to see you.”
“I… didn’t know how to contact you discreetly…,” you admit honestly, clinging to his jacket, not wanting to let go.
“I cannot stop thinking of our night together,” he cuts in, “have you given any thought to my proposal?”
You exhale heavily at his reference to his parting request at Aubrey Hall that you leave Anthony for him, and you step back from his embrace. “I cannot make such a decision at this moment. Anthony means a lot to me; we have a special arrangement. There are… things I need, things I crave, that he offers me,” you look him square in the eye. “I wonder if you can provide those things?” you muse bluntly.
“What sort of things? His voice is laced with intrigue as he reaches out a hand to hold your wrist.
“Domination. Punishment. Harsh treatment sometimes. An escape from this world to a place where I am mindless with need,” you answer, matter-of-fact.
He looks temporarily taken aback, and his grip slackens. “I know of such things,” he confesses quietly. “If that is what you need, what you want, I shall try it. An experiment, a new sensual endeavour, if you will.”
“Very well then,” you nod brusquely. “I shall attend your bachelor lodgings on the pretence of an art lesson. My friend can be my chaperone for propriety's sake. I assume you have a back exit to your home through which she can slip away unseen?”
He looks impressed with your forethought and ingenuity. “Certainly,” he assures, drawing closer, eyes piercing yours.
“Wonderful. Then it is just the matter of which day,” you opine, allowing his hands to twine around your waist again.
“Tomorrow?” He suggests, a bit breathless, his lips skating your temple.
“Such enthusiasm,” you mutter coyly against his jaw. “Tomorrow works for me. I look forward to seeing your darker side, Mr Bridgerton,” you wink salaciously as you pull back slightly. 
It’s like a storm rolls in across his face. A hand clamps around your throat, and his eyes look uncharacteristically flinty. “It’s sir to you,” he growls, his fingers sinking into the column of your neck as he steps into the role as if he was born to play it. 
Your body is suddenly awake, a live wire, your breath shallow. “Y.. yes, sir,” you stutter.
Then, with a wink and a breathtaking smile, his hand falls away, and he is gone.
Oh, that definitely works for you.
——
The next afternoon you and your best friend bustle through the busy streets of Mayfair towards Benedict’s home.
“Are you certain of this?” she asks. “This seems like you are playing with fire, to be courting the brother of your paramour….”
“The Viscount is not my paramour,” you argue, “he is someone with whom I share a special, albeit unconventional, arrangement. To the outside world, yes, it appears we are courting, but that is a veil under which we must meet clandestinely. But we have no agreement of exclusivity, and I do not wish to be bound by the restrictive rules of society. I wish to be free to pursue my interests, which, as of now, includes Mr Bridgerton.” you shrug.
You can see your friend wanting to be supportive and empathetic, to understand your wishes, but it is clear she does not understand the dynamics of how your, or indeed any, intimate relations work.
“All I ask is that you keep this secret for me. For the purpose of the rest of the world, I am receiving art lessons from the brother of the man courting me. And you are my chaperone for the day. You are free to leave via the rear courtyard once we are in the house. And thank you again for doing this.”
She nods as you pull up to his door, and a friendly-looking older man, presumably Benedict's valet, answers. Without waiting for an introduction, your friend bids you goodbye as soon as the door is closed to the outside world. She squeezes your hand and nods to the valet, who obviously knows of this plan, leading her to the back door.
As you watch her retreating figure, you sense a pair of eyes on you. You turn and find Benedict leaning in the doorway to what you assume is his drawing room, a playful smile writ large across his face.
“Y/n,” the way it drips off his tongue, decadent and low, sets the fire in your belly.
“Mr Bridgerton…” you return in as seductive of a voice as you know how. Then you squeal in delight as he lunges for you, effortlessly picking you up bridal style, his body flexing against yours as he athletically bounds up the staircase to his bedroom.
It’s when he lets you down to your feet and turns to lock the door that the butterflies truly erupt. Just the two of you now, no interruptions or distractions—no chance of Anthony listening at the door this time. This is your chance to know the measure of the man. To see how he compares to his brother in the matters of your intimate needs, crude as it is to say.
He draws you into his solid frame and tilts your head up with a hand on your jaw. And it's just like it was at Aubrey Hall. His kiss is passionate and plundering, and you melt into him. Feeling all those things you did before. That you would let him steal you away from everything and everyone you know as long as he just keeps kissing you like this—like you are the very air that he needs to breathe.
“I hope I can be everything you need, that you desire today, my girl,” he begins as he finally breaks the kiss, spidering a finger up your arm, a crooked smile tugging at his handsome features.
“I am looking forward to it...sir.” The last word is pointed, and you roll it in your mouth like a tasty morsel.
He inhales sharply, and you are captivated by how his pupils rapidly dilate. His tongue peaks out the left corner of his mouth and swipes across his bottom lip as if he is tasting the charged atmosphere between you.
“Take off your dress,” he orders, and his voice is suddenly gruff. 
You smirk wordlessly in challenge, wanting to see how he will react to your pushback. See if he can tame you the way Anthony does so effortlessly.
His eyebrow raises at your audacity. “Are you suddenly deaf, my dear girl, or are you asking for a spanking?”
There it is.
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” you needle, smirking wider.
That large hand is back at your throat as it was the day before. He crowds into you. “You had better choose a word that tells me to desist right now, should you wish to continue to defy me like this,” he warns, and his rumbling voice slides over your skin like wildfire, your heartbeat racing. 
“Red will do,” you snark back as his grip tightens, the heel of his palm at your windpipe.
“Mmm, red it is,” he murmurs, his lips on your cheek. “Now do as you are told, or I will do it for you. But I will tear your frock to shreds, and then you must leave my house naked.” 
He releases his grip looking at you expectantly.
You are positively vibrating with how thrilling this is already. You hold his gaze challengingly as you undo the buttons to loosen your dress, intentionally choosing one that doesn't need a lady’s maid to remove. Confidently pushing it off your shoulders, you raise an eyebrow as you stand in your stockings and chemise.  Your stomach fizzes with anticipation that he will soon find out you chose to forgo underwear today to incite him.
“Lose this too,” he clips, tugging on your chemise. As you disrobe from it, his gaze falls heavily to your bare breasts, and he sucks in air loudly through his teeth.
“Where are your stays?” He scolds.
You shrug, and suddenly there’s a hand in your hair, pulling.
“Answer me!” he growls.
You hiss as he pulls your hair tighter, a slight burn on your roots.
“Easier access for you, sir,” you reply through gritted teeth.
“Good girl,” his mouth twisting into an approving smirk as his hand twines around your hair. 
The blunt fingernails of his other hand trail over your breasts so light it almost tickles, and your skin erupts into goosebumps, your nipples pebbling diamond hard. You suck in a deep breath and watch him through heavy lids.
 “And what about your underwear?” low and deadly. Those same fingers spider down your abdomen, over your belly and into the thatch of hair at the apex of your thighs.
“Same, sir,” you answer, practically panting in anticipation. 
“Mmmm, you are lucky; I like that you are so wanton,” he murmurs low, his breath hot on your cheek, fingers swirling teasingly in your pubic hair but not dipping low enough to touch where you are aching. “Now tell me, what are your favourite colours?”
You frown at the rather strange question to the point that you just answer honestly. “Green and blue.”
“Excellent,” he nods, pulling you closer by your hair until he whispers in your ear. “Go and lay on the middle of the bed, stretch your arms above your head and keep them there.”
He releases you and walks away to what appears to be his dressing room. Still slightly confused, you do as told and go lay on his bed. As you settle back into the pillows, you notice they smell like him, like yours did after that night at Aubrey Hall. You turn your head and inhale deeply. The scent memories come flooding back—his face between your legs, making you scream as Anthony sat outside the locked door. It’s so visceral, and you are already so aroused that you begin writhing slightly. Desperate to get some friction on your rapidly swelling clit, trying to rub it between your thighs, not wanting to be caught disobeying the requirement to keep your hands above your head.
“What are you doing?” the tone is intrigued. Benedict is back in the room. 
“Your smell,” you answer honestly, “it's all over your bed.”
“My scent makes you writhe like a little vixen in heat?” he mutters, almost disbelieving, stalking towards you predator-like.
“Yes sir,” you affirm, shooting him your best coquettish look, your movements a little more performative now, just for him.
“And you called me the dangerous one,” he tuts with a shake of his head as he mounts the bed gracefully, cat-like. “Well, maybe these will help you stay still, my naughty girl,” and in his hands, he shows you three cravats, one in navy blue and two in green - one mint, one teal.
“What are you planning to do with those?” you query as he crawls over your prone body.
“I'm going to tie you to this bed until you learn to stop defying me,” he warns.
“I’ll never stop,” you goad with a twisted pout, hands already grabbing the headboard, eager to be tied to it.
He pushes a knee high between your thighs, the wool of his trousers tickling your slit. “Then I’ll just have to tie you face-down and spank you; maybe then you will learn how to behave,” he states almost casually, pulling the cravats taut between his hands, so the heavy silk makes a snapping sound. 
“You wouldn't,” you challenge, wanting what he suggests more than anything. 
His stare turns at once both flinty and flirtatious. “Turn over right now,” he commands, lifting away slightly.
You raise an eyebrow but do as you are told, flipping over underneath him. As you settle on your tummy, he brackets your thighs with his knees so your legs are pressed together, then leans over you. His cock slides along the cleft of your buttocks, making your eyes widen. You have never seen it, but it feels sizable and hot pressing through the fabric of his trousers. It appears certain things do run in the family.
His body is warm over your back as he moves your left hand out wide at a diagonal, looping one end of the mint cravat around your wrist and the other around the bedpost. Then he does the same with the teal cravat on your right hand. Your arms are stretched out above your head but not uncomfortably so. There is enough slack to move but not get up—just the perfect light, restrictive hold.
On instinct, you try to push up and back into him, a little rebellion.
“Stop squirming, or I won't let you come,” he declares gruffly. 
Instantly you still. But you can't help mewling as he teasingly surges his cock over you again, covering your whole back as he lays over you. 
“What if I did this all night, just thrust my clothed cock between your delicious bottom cheeks and came that way? Not touching you where you need it most? Would that make you behave?” his mouth near your ear, his tone dripping with an entirely arousing threat.
“No sir, please don't sir,” you beg quickly, unable to bear the thought of being turned on but having no chance of relief.
“Mmm, not so insolent now, are you, my girl?” he crows. “Maybe we have found a way to make you obedient, hmmm? Will you do what I tell you now?”
“Yes sir, please let me come too,” you whine into the pillow as he thrusts again and groans.
“Trouble is my girl; your bottom is so shapely I can't seem to stop myself rutting over you,” he grunts and slides again; you feel your skin turning red with the chafe of the wool.
“Please take your trousers off; I want your skin on me,” you implore.
“If you are a very good girl, maybe,” he chimes.
You were uncertain that Benedict had it in him to tame your wild streak, to combat your willful behaviour. But he is doing wonderfully, with just the right balance of dominance and teasing. In fact, it's more playful than Anthony is, and you are finding the dynamic entirely, well, charming.
“How am I doing?” He whispers keenly, breaking character as if he can intuit where your thoughts have gone.
“Wonderful," you murmur over your shoulder, and he looks so pleased that a little warmth blooms in your chest. He is so keen to fulfil your needs; it's very sweet.
“Are you sure you are comfortable?” he checks.
“Very,” you assure. “Now tame me, Mr Bridgerton,” you challenge, and like a switch, he is back and snarls in response.
“I’ll tie your legs open, too, if you don't behave. I have a wardrobe full of cravats and all the time in the world, my girl,” he warns steelily.
“Promises, promises, sir,” you provoke.
There is a sudden, stinging slap to your left buttock, and you squeak loudly.
“Behave,” he admonishes.
You just giggle and wiggle your bottom at him in defiance.
“I have a riding crop to bring my steed into line. Are you asking for the same, my girl?”
A frisson runs down your spine; even Anthony hasn’t done that yet. You bite your lip, considering it.
“No answer to that, hmmm?” he hums with a tinge of victory.
You twist your head and allow one eye to catch his gaze, it’s a heated staredown, and the flash in his pale eyes makes you shiver under him. It’s amazing how he can seem so utterly sweet in one moment and so utterly authoritative the next.
“Just your hands are fine, sir,” you retort with a pout, and he guffaws at that.
“Not really in a position to negotiate, though, my girl, are you?” he points out. “It's funny. You say you want domination and punishment. But I think you really relish challenge and surrender,” he skewers you so accurately that you almost break out of the scene. “And my brother is too focused on the physical to realise that you want someone to spar with you with words as well. Does he talk to you?”
“Of course,” you frown.
“No, I mean, does he talk to you? Does he tell you every little thing in his head when he has you like this? Under his control?”
“I….” you pause, “I suppose not.”
“Hmm, that's his first mistake, isn't it? You don't want just the physical act. You crave to know the intangible too. You want to know what someone is thinking. The intellectual puzzle of it all,” he continues, his voice bringing you under his spell even as he barely touches you. “You know how I know this?”
“How?” you breathe.
“Because of that night, in that corridor. You were an unsatisfied woman, and you told me it was what you asked for. You asked my brother to fuck you without pleasure and send you away? If you were into the dynamic for purely physical pleasure, you would never ask for that.” His monologue is murmured against your naked back as he runs his lips and tongue over your spine and ribs, contouring every line. “You are chasing experiences, something to make you think. Something to push your boundaries. And luckily for me, you found out one other thing that night.” 
“What?” you whisper, enrapt in what he has to say as he glides lower and his teeth graze the globe of your bottom.
“I will make you come, even if you don't ask for it, particularly when you don't ask for it, as that means you probably need it even more. Same as I will decide if my hands are enough. Not you. When we are playing like this, it's my job to intuit what you need before you even know it yourself. I can see what your body tells me, even when your mouth is arguing. And if Anthony had just seen that himself and pleasured you, despite what you claimed to want, you would not have ended up with my tongue between your legs, desperate to scream my name, not his.”
You are actually panting by the time he pulls your legs apart roughly and licks a hot stripe up the inside of your thigh, making you gasp loudly, lapping up the trickle of moisture there. He groans at your taste, but it doesn't stop him from talking.
“Just as I know you are dripping down your thighs right now because of what I just said as much as what I just did,” he argues, his tone muffled as he sucks hard on your inner thigh, biting down, but you barely feel it, the endorphin high blotting your mind. 
You had no idea he was capable of this. It’s more mental than physical. He is talking you into submission—filthy words winding you into a state of panting, needy arousal.
“Fuck me,” you exhale shakily.
“Not yet,” he responds, and you actually whimper, exasperated. “There's something else you should know about me.”
“What?” it's just a needy breath.
“I won't fuck you until you are begging for my cock. I’ll never be mean to you. Im not that sort of man. But I will control you, bring you into line. If I don’t touch your little weeping cunt I can make you so mindless you’ll properly surrender, do anything I told you to. You would crawl naked on your hands and knees to me in front of strangers.”
The mental image makes you startle. Every single thing you have done with Anthony has been in private. The title of Viscount means he must maintain public decorum; he prefers to keep personal affairs private. You have certainly never done anything in public. Now Benedict is suggesting you submit to him in front of people, and the shocking thing is… you just might. 
“Now, did you forget about the third cravat?” he laughs, climbing back over your body. You had, but you don't admit it. “Hmm, your silence suggests so. Well, this one is for your eyes.” 
His voice is suddenly back at your ear as the navy silk wraps around your face. There is a tug as he secures the cravat with a knot, the world blacking out. Butterflies roar in your tummy as you realise you are now tied down and blindfolded—giving him your trust willingly.
“Bring your hips up high but keep your head on the pillow,” you can practically hear the smirk on his face as he gives the order.
You do as commanded, shuffling as best you can without your hands and sight until your hips are high off the bed.
“Excellent,” he compliments, his warm hands rubbing delicately on your bottom. “Now tell me, does Anthony spank you?”
“Yes, sir.” 
“And I assume you enjoy it?”
“Very much so,” you confirm, flexing your hips slightly, hoping he will get the hint.
A large hand spanks your left cheek. You squeak and instantly know his technique is different to Anthony’s. He keeps his hand there, grabbing your flesh, fingers pulling at and digging into your skin, elongating the sensation, like he enjoys the heat radiated from the sting he just created. “How’s that, my girl?”
“Very good sir,” you moan tacitly.
He spanks your right cheek just the same. Both hands are now grasping your flesh.
“More, sir,” you mumble, your face burrowing, his scent there sharper now you cannot see, pushing back into his hands.
He chuckles richly, and you hear him shift slightly. 
“What else does Anthony do to you that you enjoy?” he questions, pulling your cheeks apart further and sliding his clothed cock there again.
“He fucks me roughly, sir,” you answer, hoping it will finally goad him into doing the same.
“Hmmm, I will need more detail than that, my girl.”
“He takes me from behind, just how you are now, sir, and leaves handprints on my body,” you expound. “Sometimes he gags me if Im being particularly willful.”
“Are you ever not willful?” he banters, and you just know he has a cocked eyebrow.
You twist your face over your shoulder even though you can't see him. “Not often,” you volley back with a twisted pout. His responding bark of a laugh makes you giggle.
“You are just delightful,” he opines and then spanks both cheeks in quick succession, making your head drop and groan. “I would happily go and get another cravat to gag you if you wish, but I so enjoy your insolent tongue; and all your wonderful noises, it seems almost a shame.” he ponders bemused, smacking both cheeks again so hard the sound echoes up the walls.
Your curse is muttered under your breath. Benedict certainly takes his time more than Anthony does—it seems he wants to luxuriate in the experience. By now, his brother would be inside you, telling you to shut up.
“I could do this all damn night,” he confesses, as if reading your mind, his tone like velvet. 
“Just fuck me already, sir,” you whine, frustrated.
“You do know that the more you demand, the less inclined I am, you brazen little nymph,” he intones, and a hand strikes yet again. 
Your bottom is now burning. He hasn't varied hand position like Anthony, who covers your entire cheek with a tingle. Benedict is hitting the same fleshy spot repeatedly until it’s so intense, a direct line to a throb in your clit. Which he hasn't even so much as nudged yet. When he does, you will be so hyper-sensitive you know it will be a jolt you’ll feel everywhere - you relish and dread it in equal measure. 
“Begging, however, is encouraged,” he adds, interrupting your thoughts.
“Please, sir, please, please fuck me,” you change tack and realise this is what he said would happen.
“Mmmm, now that is something I love to hear,” he hums low, his voice taking on a rough edge as he surges his cock against your tailbone yet again. You hear sounds of clothing rustling and realise he is undressing slightly—somehow, it feels like a victory. He leans over your back, and warm, smooth flesh brushes your shoulder blades.
“There you go, my girl; I removed my shirt,” he compliments. “Keep it up, and I might just get naked for you.” To punctuate the end of his sentence, he pulls back upright and spanks you again.
You know you are moaning and even drooling a touch, dampening your cheek. His technique is definitely more languid and deliberate; the drawn-out tease is beguiling.
“Please, please, please fuck me, sir,” you try again, hoping it will get him to take off his remaining clothing.
Sure enough, his wrist grazes your sore bottom cheeks, working open his trousers roughly.
“Yessssss, sir, please,” you add, going all out for the performance of it all, revelling in the theatricality of the moment.
“You sound so beautiful when you beg,” he rumbles. You scream as two fingers suddenly plunge into your cunt entirely without warning. “Good christ, you are soaked.” 
You can hear the squelching noise of your body as he rocks those long fingers into you, and you keen loudly. Clit throbbing even harder as the blunt round of his fingernail scrapes along your inner walls.
“Please, sir, oh god, give me more. Give me more fingers, your cock, anything,” you babble.
With his other hand, he grabs your hair, pulling your head up like a puppet as you hiss at the prickle on your scalp.
“You will take what I give you, do you hear me?” he growls and everything in your body pulses at the utterly commanding tone.
“Yes sir, of course, sir,” you moan, those fingers inside you curling harder now, and you cry out as he finds that spot inside that makes you crazed.
“There it is. Let's see you soak this bed like the little wild thing you are,” he snarls and suddenly, the languidness of the moment is gone. His hands are urgent and rough, your hair being pulled so tight, his fingers pushing inside your cunt.
You yell, cry out and curse.
“Yes, that's it,” he urges, breathing heavily.
The whiplash moment catches you unawares, and you can't fight what your body is doing; you don't even want to. It's a dizzying sensation as he pushes you fast towards a crescendo. It's not the usual climax; he’s still not as much as touched your clit. It's different, pressure building up inside you that feels almost frightening to let go of. Your wrists tug in your bindings, and you thrash slightly, resisting the tide rising in your body.
“Don't you dare hold back,” he demands, “let it go, don't fight it, give it to me,” he sounds so on a knife edge as his fingers plunder your body that you can't do anything but obey. Your whole body shakes as you cry out, and the pressure erupts—something gushing from inside you, soaking his arm, the bed, and the back of your legs.
“Fuck that's it, yes, yes, yes,” he cries victorious as you squeal and shake and want to collapse, but he grabs your hips, so you stay upright.
You are still quaking all over when he surprised you, releasing your hair, and as your head slumps back onto the pillow, he pulls your ass cheeks wide apart and leans down to plough his tongue between your folds from behind, stubbled chin pressing your clit.
You call out loudly, feeling it in your throat.
“That’s it. Cry for me, my girl,” his tone muffled into your slit, drinking up the fluid leaking there as your body still quivers.
The most obscene noises fill the room as he laps at your body. You moan and writhe under his tongue, already overwrought, the high morphing into something else. He’s taking your body to another different high, stabbing at your clit with long, pointed tongue strokes.
“I want you to come too,” he orders, the heat of his breath making your clit pulse.
“Sirrrr,” your muted protest sound drunken, and that’s how you feel, like every bone in your body is liquid, like you can't possibly come so soon after the intense experience you just had.
“What?” his chuckle has a flinty edge to it.
“I…I can’t,” you groan.
“Don't defy me, girl,” he warns, and a hand reigns down on the back of your thigh, where it meets your bottom, and you jump, pushing your knees wider. He takes advantage of the new stance, tilts your pelvis further so your back is arched low and sinks his whole face into your slit.
You breathe out a curse at just how pressed into your body he is. Your hands tied, unable to do anything but writhe, your lashes flutter heavily against the soft silk tied over your face. Again he is right; you want challenge and surrender, and this is the moment you surrender; with a shaky breath, you bury your face and let him take you somewhere primal and instinctual. Where you are rooted in your body but also somehow floating in a haze of exhilaration.
Your clit pulses, almost painful, as he sucks it between his lips and bites down gently over and over until your thighs twitch and a white-hot burn all around where his mouth holds you captive.
He can feel the ripples emanating from your channel on his face, and he utters encouragements into your soaked flesh. You start to fracture as his whole mouth, nose, and chin engage with your body, taking you over an edge that has you gripping the headboard until your knuckles are sore from gripping and your throat feels hoarse from all the sounds he is wringing from you.
Suddenly his mouth is gone, and you want to yell in frustration that you are not yet done; you want to ride out more when he straights and, with no warning, he thrusts his cock into your palpitating channel. The invasion is almost too much—like you are being split open. The hot hits stretch of him feels so different to Anthony in a way you can't describe, but it’s everything you need at that precise moment. 
You scream. Scream so loud he probably wishes he had gagged you after all. But he doesn't seem to care, doesn't reprimand you for being so very loud, not that you could stop even if you wanted to.
“Fuckk, your cunt is so very juicy and swollen,” he grunts through gritted teeth when you quieten to just panting. He holds still buried deep inside you. “No wonder Anthony cannot resist you. You feel exceptional, my girl.”
His filthy words just make you want more; you drag your cheek groaning a litany of noises, flexing your hips, asking for movement. But he doesn't move. He just stays still, fingers banded around the crest of your hips, the hair of his thighs tickling the back of yours.
“Please move, sir,” you lament.
“Beg for it,” he instructs.
He is doing quite an exceptional job in a different way to Anthony, making you surrender to his will, turning you supplicant, pleading, frantic. He was right—you want to do this. 
“Please, sir,” you gust through gritted teeth, “please fuck me; I need to feel you moving inside me,” you state loudly, clearly, unashamed.
“Good girl,” he compliments and withdraws slowly. Then ploughs back in fast, making your breath catch, your whole body rolling to the point you grab the headboard and push back.
“Yes, that’s it; show me how much you want it,” he growls, and you yearn to please him. To be exactly what he wants.
“Give it to me, sir,” your voice jagged, needy.
“What do you want?” His tone imperious.
“You. Your cock, sir. Fuck me rough,” you breathe.
And that’s all he needs—the green light. Fingers grip hard as he sets a punishing pace. Spearing deep into your body. So far, your lungs feel squeezed as you curl and roll at the force he takes you with.
Your moan is resonant and sounds almost foreign, like it didn’t come from inside you but from some other wild, untamed place. 
He hisses his approval at your noises. He seems to like you loud and vocal, whereas Anthony often tells you to stay quiet and take it, where you have to whimper and drool around his makeshift gags. Benedict doesn’t appear to care who may hear you; it seems he is almost taking pride in the sounds he can wring from you. Hell, he wants you in public; that exhibitionist streak intrigues. Everyone in his household surely knows what is transpiring in his bedroom on this sunny late afternoon.
“Sirrrrr,” you slur as your whole body moves under his rough treatment, your knees scrabbling on the bedding, your hands gripping the headboard, your cheek pressed so deep into the bedding, you know you have crease patterns on your face.
“If you want something, girl, tell me,” he pants each word as he thrusts hard, those fingers a vice-like grip on the crest of your hipbone, leaving marks, jerking you back onto his cock as he presses forward, driving so deep.
“You are so far inside me, sir,” you comment, the feeling of being so drilled into almost blooming into an ache. But an ache that pulls on a string inside, making your eyes roll back, and your mouth fall open, chasing more, wanting it. To feel so viscerally invaded to the point it hurts, him slamming into you, hips snapping, snarling as he does so.
“Yes, I am,” he preens, “and don’t you take all of me so well,” he flatters, leaning down over your back, his skin dewy from the exertion smearing dampness onto your spine. “This is what you need, to be fucked so hard you don’t answer back, isn't it?” he snarls hot into your ear.
“Yes sir,” you answer when he clearly expects a response.
“My little defiant one is finally submissive and taking it like a good girl,” the tone is entirely smug.
You groan as he grabs the knot on the back of your blindfold, pulling you suddenly upright. The slack binding on your wrists snapping taunt, the knots tightening to the point of a faint tingle in your fingertip, your arms suspended in the air in front of you.
He shuffles forward, buried inside you, manhandling you, so you sit on his lap facing away, your legs on either side of his.
“Ride me,” he commands, “take hold of the headboard and fuck me, my girl. Show me what you can do.”
You do as told, rising off his cock, sinking back down, revelling in the new angle you can hit, the steely plunge inside that makes your eyelids flutter.
“Faster,” his orders clipped.
Your thighs begin to protest. Riding him hard as he breathes so loud right by your ear. Then a hand snakes between your legs, and fingers snag your clit. You bite your lip and moan loudly, every muscle ache worth it.
“Are you going to come for me again?” He asks, but it’s not a question. He knows the answer. He can feel the pull of your cunt inside, rippling as he strums your pulsing clit.
Suddenly there is a glancing blow on your breast from his other hand, a light finger spank that catches your nipple and makes you howl. It doesn't hurt, but it makes your nipple throb. 
“Answer me.” His voice a gravelly menace.
“Yes. Yes, sir, I'm going to come for you,” you rush out, smarting from the tingle. You crave he does the same on your other breast, but he doesn’t, his hand too preoccupied between your legs.
Leaning forward slightly, you use the headboard for leverage, and he complements as you speed up. Every fibre on your body pulling taunt as you chase that breaking point. Almost using his body and hands with little thought to his pleasure, mindlessly pursuing your own as he ordered.
He swaps hands, and that’s when you break the renewed vigour of movement too much for you to take. You slump deep onto his cock and scream his name, not the title of sir, his actual name; as you fracture, one of his arms bands around your waist, so you are held in place, the other around your neck, fingers tight over your throat.
“Yes,” he growls in your ear, sounding more animal than human, grunting as he tilts his hips to piston into your convulsing cunt twice more, then suddenly withdrawing, painting your lower back with his warm release as he traps his cock between your bodies.
There is nothing but panting breaths for a few seconds, and then a gentle touch pulls your blindfold up and away. Warm, soft lips on your neck as he reaches for the binding on your wrists and releases them. You flex your hands on instinct, rotating your wrists.
“Was my binding too tight?” His ask is meek, fingertips tracing the redness there.
“No, it was merely silk; this will fade within the hour,” you murmur, twisting to give a quick smile of assurance. 
He pulls you into him and shuffles until you can lay together, limbs entwined, recovering slowly. 
“Was that everything you wanted?” his ask is so endearing you can't help but settle into his arms a little.
“Mmm, it was wonderful,” you assure.
“So, will you be with me?” he whispers, his lips brushing your temple with a sweet kiss, the tone so hopeful.
“I can't answer you yet, Benedict,” you respond honestly, pushing up onto your elbows to touch his jaw affectionately. “I have something special with your brother; I will see him tomorrow and see where I stand. I will not make you any promises, but please know tonight was wonderful, and I wish to be with you again.” 
He looks so pleased you are satisfied and nods, seeming to accept your reasoning. You lay in his arms momentarily, then rise to get dressed.
“Will you not be spending the evening or night with me?” he inquires, his voice almost small.
“No,” you shake your head, “I never do so with Anthony either,” you add to reassure. 
He gets up from the bed, throwing on some clothing himself, his shirt open to the waist, britches held up by braces, and, in a gentlemanly manner, sees you down the stairs and to the back of his home.
“I hope to see you again soon,” he murmurs as he opens the door for you.
Stealing a glance around to see there are no witnesses from nearby windows, you press a brief kiss to his lips. But he spins you and crowds you into the doorframe, turning it into a lingering passionate moment. Opening his lips and stealing into your mouth, the taste of your arousal strong on his tongue.
“You will see me, anon; I promise,” you whisper into his cheek after you break apart. 
Before his fervent kisses can change your mind, you quickly steal down the steps without a look back, slipping unseen into the small alley behind his home and out to the street to hail a hack as the sun sets. You can sense his eyes watching you go. 
You are in a quandary. You don't know if you can pick between them now. Benedict stepped up and was exactly what you needed. But with a different edge, his approach was more mental, to Anthony’s passionate physicality. They are so different, and yet both so beguiling. It's entirely possible you need both brothers fulfilling different needs as they do. The problem is, would they ever accept that? Benedict knows about Anthony but wants you all to himself. And Anthony has no clue. You can’t conceive of how you would broach the subject with him. His penchant for jealousy can be a problem, but the possessiveness it brings out in him is undeniably attractive. Part of you hopes you can delay making a decision, greedily taking from both what you want.
This dilemma will rear its head much quicker than expected. Unbeknownst to you, Benedict's teeth have left a little mark high on your inner thigh—it's not even something you feel. But it certainly doesn't go unnoticed by a certain someone the very next day.
Tumblr media
Benedict taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @bridgertontess @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @angels17324 @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84
Tumblr media
362 notes · View notes